Waiting and Waiting

After New Year’s of 1966 I started working for my father. He was a real estate appraiser and the only MAI (Member of the Appraisal Institute) between San Francisco and Portland, Oregon. That was a big deal; some defined the designation as a doctorate degree in commercial real estate. I was paid $100 per week; however, Dad reminded me that he was not charging me for living and eating at home.

Working for my father was somewhat new. Growing up I had a series of chores, the primary one was mowing the front and backyard lawns most every weekend. I did great lawn, even better when Dad bought a power mower.

Step 1: Weeding and removing leaves and litter such as dog poop.

Step 2: Mowing the lawn the long way.

Step 3: Mowing the lawn the short way across the long way.

Step 4: Edging the lawn with clippers — that entailed crawling around the lawn.

Step 5: Bagging the clippings and putting the bags next the garbage cans.

Step 6: Setting the sprinklers and eating lunch.

Step 7: Putting the sprinklers away and heading to the seasonal pick-up game.

When I left for college, Ed, my younger brother, was promoted to lawn keeper. When Ed left for prep school, my father hired a Japanese gardener to do the lawn and the heavy lifting for my mother’s gardening projects. While my father knew a great deal about mowing lawns, I cannot remember seeing him actually mow a lawn.

Working for my father was different — a lot different than mowing the lawn or being his son. At work he was polite, crisp, and efficient; in short I was treated as an adult employee. I in turn tried to be polite, crisp and efficient. On most days, I was given the directions to the property he was involved with; I was to photograph the property from all angles. Then I was to describe the property and the buildings on a tape recorder; I would give the tape to Dad’s secretary for typing. I spent a great deal of time in the East Bay where the old Navy yards were being sold off; the Department of the Navy and potential buyers wanted full-blown and accurate appraisals. I was doing good work that kept me busy; but my draft status was unclear.

I dropped into the draft board and asked the lady I had spoken to before my pre-induction physical. She was matronly and reminded me of someone I couldn’t place. I told her that my file went missing at the Oakland Army Terminal; the examining doctor told me he would send her a letter advising her of that. I asked if she had received his letter.

“Yeah, we got it along with your file that had been misfiled,” she said. “We’re figuring out what to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re thinking of sending you back to Oakland for another physical. We’ll let you know when we’ve made up our minds.”

“When will that be?”

“When we get around to it,” she said and returned to her office.

Two things came to mind: Franz Kafka’s stories about the Hapsburg bureaucrats in Prague and an aunt of mine in Boston whom I disliked and avoided to the extent possible.

My father’s friend, Frank Jameson, owned several horses and enjoyed riding them around the Soda Canyon area on the northeast side of the Napa Valley. I rode well, and Mr. Jameson enjoyed the company as we explored the hills that would become vineyards for the burgeoning wine consumption that begun taking place in the late ’60s and early ‘70s.

One morning we were riding down a steep and rocky hill when my horse stumbled and threw me. Somehow I twisted in mid-air and landed on my back. I was bruised and cut in several places. Uncomfortable, but in time with a generous applications of iodine, I would be as good as new. However, a few days later, my lower back began to bother me. As time passed, the pain began radiating down my left leg. My father noticed that I was limping slightly; I described what had happened, and he insisted that I see a doctor who specialized in orthopedic problems. There was one orthopedic doctor in Napa, Dr. Bailey; as with older people back then, I would never know his first name.

The Army had paid for Dr. Bailey’s specialization as an orthopedic surgeon, and his first posting was at West Point where he played tennis with William Westmoreland, who would later command the Army troops during Vietnam. After giving me several tests, Dr. Bailey said, “One or two of your lower back discs appear to be herniated or slipped. Here’s the bad news; I need to perform a myelogram to determine the extent of the damage and figure out a treatment plan.”

“During a physical for Navy OCS, the doctor determined that I had a lower back problem and at some point would need a myelogram to determine the damage done. I forgot the exact term the Navy doctor used to describe a myelogram; however, it sounded really unpleasant.”

He drummed his fingers on the examining table before saying, “Well the Navy doctor was right. The procedure itself is, well, it’s…” More finger drumming, “It’s uncomfortable. Afterwards most people have severe headaches.”

“Because the fluids in the spine and around the brain have been changed during the procedure?”

“That’s right, I’ll prescribe some pills for the pain,” he said. “Make sure that someone drives you home afterwards.”

“That bad?”

“In some cases, yes,” he said. “I’m trying to be as frank as possible. Give my secretary a call to arrange a date for the myelogram. I would suggest taking the following day off as well.”

The myelogram was scheduled for a week later late in the afternoon, and my mother agreed to drive me to and from the hospital. Entering the examining room, I was asked to disrobe and lay down on the stainless steel table. As was always the case with males, the nurse was cute; with females in the same situation, the doctor was always cute.

The cute nurse said, “Please assume the fetal position, knees up as far as possible and cross your arms.” I did so; said, “So your back is really bothering you?”

“It seems to get worse every day,” I said. I thought of asking her out for a date, but asking for a date when stark naked didn’t seem appropriate.

Anyway, Dr. Bailey walked in and asked me to assume the fetal position once again. As the Navy doctor and Dr. Bailey had said, the procedure was unpleasant and the headache was nauseating. Afterwards, I got dressed and went into the doctor’s waiting room. I promptly fell asleep. My mother woke me and said, “Steve, you look terrible. I was speaking to Dr. Bailey. I’ll give you the details later when you feel better.”