Tales from the Emergency Room by FAAAAI MD William E. Hermance Page A
Authors: FAAAAI MD William E. Hermance
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this second trip via the Staten Island Ferry. She suddenly disappeared from my side. I found her on the other side of the ferry peering intently at the Statue of Liberty. I was hardly able to believe that she had never before seen the Statue in person since she grew up just a few miles away in New Rochelle, NY. That was indeed the case, bearing out the idea that one tends to ignore the “local” sights.
The Pentagon Calling
In my second year of residency, I was all ready to go to my assignment at The Medical Center for Federal Prisoners in Springfield, Missouri, when Peggy announced to me one day at home that the Pentagon was calling. She thought this was hysterical, but I thought there might be a problem. The caller asked if I would be interested in putting off my departure to Springfield for a year at which time I would be assigned to the Federal Prison in Atlanta as Chief of Medicine. I allowed that this was a fine offer (I had no idea about rank at the time) but that I had no money and I had to go into the service right away in order to feed the family. The caller was quite sympathetic and did not press the issue, thankfully.
So, I missed out on that offer, but, soon after I arrived at the hospital in Springfield, my Colonel called me into his office, handed me his own oak leaf clusters from the top drawer of his desk and announced that I was now a Major. It seems that I had been made Chief of Medicine at the Medical Center and that, in order to become a department chief I had to be a Major. So, I was promoted on the spot and, of most interest to me, began earning more money. The irony of the promotion in view of the earlier offer was not lost on anyone!
Missouri Move
When the van driver showed up to load our meager belongings for the move from New Rochelle, NY to Springfield, MO, where I would be putting in my military time, he commented on how glad he was to be going to the Midwest since in all likelihood he would not have to cart furniture up stairs. (This was true in our case.) He left on Thursday afternoon, July 1 st . We left the next morning with two babies and another on the way. We crossed the Mississippi River in St. Louis on Route 66 in mid-afternoon on Sunday. It was terribly hot and there was no air conditioning in the car and practically no one else on the road. The highway around St. Louis was very wide. We were stopped at a red light when I noticed my wife talking to someone out of her window. And there he was, our van driver. Peggy said that she guessed that he would not have to call us in the morning before unloading for us, but rules were rules and he would have to call. Of course, had we planned this rendezvous it never would have happened. Later that day, we all piled into our motel on the side of a hill overlooking the highway. The kids got out to the pool as fast as they could just in time to wave at the passing moving van. The driver tooted as he flew by on the road.
On Monday, July 4 th , we had just settled down in bed after an exhausting day finishing moving with two kids when were treated to a loud “Mooo” from the field behind us. We both burst out laughing, deciding that we suburbanites were truly in the country now.
The Stop Sign
When we arrived in Springfield, having driven down Route 66, my car was very dirty. I knew that I would need to obtain Missouri license plates within a short time after my arrival. On my route to the prison there was a stop sign that I negotiated every day. I was always in uniform. It occurred to me that whoever saw me with my New York MD license plates and dirty car would assume I had just come off the highway and would not think that I was a Missouri resident. So, I reasoned, I would just leave the car dirty and I could thereby avoid the license plate hassle. One day, after I had come to a full stop and was proceeding on I saw a police car with lights flashing behind me. Clearly I was the object of pursuit. I pulled over knowing that I had not run the
The Pentagon Calling
In my second year of residency, I was all ready to go to my assignment at The Medical Center for Federal Prisoners in Springfield, Missouri, when Peggy announced to me one day at home that the Pentagon was calling. She thought this was hysterical, but I thought there might be a problem. The caller asked if I would be interested in putting off my departure to Springfield for a year at which time I would be assigned to the Federal Prison in Atlanta as Chief of Medicine. I allowed that this was a fine offer (I had no idea about rank at the time) but that I had no money and I had to go into the service right away in order to feed the family. The caller was quite sympathetic and did not press the issue, thankfully.
So, I missed out on that offer, but, soon after I arrived at the hospital in Springfield, my Colonel called me into his office, handed me his own oak leaf clusters from the top drawer of his desk and announced that I was now a Major. It seems that I had been made Chief of Medicine at the Medical Center and that, in order to become a department chief I had to be a Major. So, I was promoted on the spot and, of most interest to me, began earning more money. The irony of the promotion in view of the earlier offer was not lost on anyone!
Missouri Move
When the van driver showed up to load our meager belongings for the move from New Rochelle, NY to Springfield, MO, where I would be putting in my military time, he commented on how glad he was to be going to the Midwest since in all likelihood he would not have to cart furniture up stairs. (This was true in our case.) He left on Thursday afternoon, July 1 st . We left the next morning with two babies and another on the way. We crossed the Mississippi River in St. Louis on Route 66 in mid-afternoon on Sunday. It was terribly hot and there was no air conditioning in the car and practically no one else on the road. The highway around St. Louis was very wide. We were stopped at a red light when I noticed my wife talking to someone out of her window. And there he was, our van driver. Peggy said that she guessed that he would not have to call us in the morning before unloading for us, but rules were rules and he would have to call. Of course, had we planned this rendezvous it never would have happened. Later that day, we all piled into our motel on the side of a hill overlooking the highway. The kids got out to the pool as fast as they could just in time to wave at the passing moving van. The driver tooted as he flew by on the road.
On Monday, July 4 th , we had just settled down in bed after an exhausting day finishing moving with two kids when were treated to a loud “Mooo” from the field behind us. We both burst out laughing, deciding that we suburbanites were truly in the country now.
The Stop Sign
When we arrived in Springfield, having driven down Route 66, my car was very dirty. I knew that I would need to obtain Missouri license plates within a short time after my arrival. On my route to the prison there was a stop sign that I negotiated every day. I was always in uniform. It occurred to me that whoever saw me with my New York MD license plates and dirty car would assume I had just come off the highway and would not think that I was a Missouri resident. So, I reasoned, I would just leave the car dirty and I could thereby avoid the license plate hassle. One day, after I had come to a full stop and was proceeding on I saw a police car with lights flashing behind me. Clearly I was the object of pursuit. I pulled over knowing that I had not run the
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