Borrowed Time
In 1987, I was a member of a Marine force that was sent to mainland Japan from Okinawa to provide aggressor units for training of the JDF (Japanese Defense Forces). The base at which we stayed was called Camp Fuji. There were several variations of the story about how the base was named, but the fact that it was located about 20 miles from the base of Mt Fuji, (called Fuji-san by the local Japanese), and that you could see the massive, cone-shaped, volcano from any point on the base, took much of the guess work out of choosing which story was true .
Walking around every day and seeing the highest mountain in the country looming ominously above gives many people strange urges. I had heard the Japanese adage that “A wise man climbs to the top of Fuji, A fool climbs Fuji twice.” I signed up for the opportunity to climb the mountain mainly for the privilege to say that I did it. I did not know that this journey would teach me more about myself than I had been aware that there was to know. The climb up taught me that I had a stronger character than I ever imagined. The view from the top gave me an appreciation for natural beauty that I have had the pleasure of accessing numerous times since.
After a particularly long field exercise, some friends and I decided to use our upcoming 92 hour pass to do some sightseeing and to let down the small amount of hair that the military had allowed us to keep. The friends that I made these plans with were members of the Navy Medical Corps. I always tried to have one friend that was a Navy Corpsman because I knew that there was no telling what trouble a young, 21 year old Marine with a full wallet, could get into.
After scouring all the sweat and grime that had accumulated on our bodies during the preceding five day field exercise, we went to the Duty Office, next to the camp gate, received our passes, stepped outside the gate, and spent the next 20 minutes trying to decide what we would do with our newly acquired freedom. One of my friends asked me if my linen shirt, jeans and tennis shoes were going to be warm enough for November. Rather than taking the question as the hint that it was intended to be, I responded with all the bravado that is expected from a 21 year old Marine, “Sure, we’ll be in bars most of the time anyway.” If anyone cares to keep track, this would be “bone-headed decision” number one of a night of “bone-headed” decision making.
The three of us decided to ride a bus to Yokota, which is about an hour and a half North-West of Camp Fuji. After spending fifteen minutes trying to find someone that spoke enough English to tell us what bus we would take to Yokota, we boarded the bus and embarked on an uneventful ride to our destination.
When we arrived at Yokota, the first thing we did was find the Post Exchange (P.X.) because, though we were all smokers at the time, none of us had thought to bring cigarettes with us. We had thought of buying some Japanese Cigarettes, but the thought of having the inside of our throats and lungs scoured by the wire brush like abrasiveness of the harsh Japanese cigarette smoke produced in us the patience of Job, and we waited until we arrived in Yokota. As we left the P.X., we all commented on our prospects for the cosmos, based on the notion that we had to spend ten whole dollars for a carton of cigarettes.
As we sat outside the P.X., we discussed our prospects for the evening, and what we should do for the four hours until the Enlisted Club (E-Club) opened. We decided to investigate the town outside of the gates and do some souvenir shopping. This we did and ended up back at the base just as it was getting dark. We made our way to the E-Club, ordered our drinks, and waited for the Friday night activities to begin.
After a couple of hours, my friends and I, began to realize that the only women entering the Club had male accompaniment, which, to three bachelors, was an early dampener to an already uneventful and time consuming evening. One of my friends made the suggestion that we go to Yokosuka Naval Base, which had a much larger E-club and a much larger population. We talked about how we would get there, as none of us were in any hurry to ride on another bus, and an hour taxi ride would bankrupt all three of us. We decided on taking the train since it was faster, cheaper, and we had heard that it was less crowded. With all the decision making done and each of us with cigarettes strategically placed on our persons, we proceeded to the nearest train station about a half mile away.
As we walked, I began to get chilled and started coughing a lot. My friends asked if I was alright during one particularly deep, chest rattling cough, but I shrugged it off as too much alcohol and too many cigarettes, as I lit another Marlboro. About half way through the hour long train ride, I began to feel extremely tired and felt as though I had to fight the atmosphere for every shallow breath I took. By the time we reached Yokosuka, my friends were having a hard enough time keeping me awake, let alone getting me to walk.
As it was already near midnight, and I was severely incapacitated, my friends decided to rent a room in the base Hostess House. Since I was, by this time, in a semi-conscious state, I had to be told later what had happened that night. By the time we were in the room, I was completely incoherent, and my friends, being the medical personnel that they were, recognized my symptoms as being Pneumonia and began to get worried. They took turns staying up with me and palpitating my chest and back in order to loosen the fluid that was building up in my lungs. These actions were what, in my opinion. Kept me alive through that night and long enough for them to transport me to the Naval Hospital Emergency Room.
Once there, I was aroused enough to be able to climb onto a gurney where I was connected to an EKG to monitor my heartbeat. I was told later that when I arrived at the E.R., I was taking sixty breaths a minute and was pale faced and blue lipped. As they were placing the EKG leads to my chest. I can remember looking at the monitor to see two blips indicating heart beats and then a flat green line and a high pitched tone.
The next memory I have is of being bathed in light that was pure white, but not painfully so. I felt no need to squint and felt an overwhelming sense of comfort. I also realized that I was not cold anymore. My chills had stopped, which added to my sense of comfort. I was unaware of any clothing and did not care if I wearing any or not. I remember feeling as if I would not object to staying there for an extended period of time. I had no sense of standing up or laying down, no sense of up or down, or of in front or behind. The only sense I had was of being, and who, what, where and when seemed irrelevant.
As I was becoming comfortable in my new state of being, I became aware of another presence near me, although I could not “see” anyone else. I felt, rather than heard, a voice that was very familiar to me. The voice was that of my grandmother, who had been instrumental in my childhood, and with whom I had developed a very close relationship with on many levels. She taught me to read at four years old, took me on trips to other parts of the country, and brought me to her school where she taught mentally challenged children. My grandmother had been my teacher, second mother, and best friend for most of my life, and now it was her voice that I heard in this strange and marvelous place that I found myself in, and her voice said two words, “not yet.”
Immediately after hearing those words, I felt a burning, crunching, popping pain on the right side of my chest. I remember waking up to see an NFL Linebacker, dressed in a doctor’s white coat, straddling my waist, and desperately trying to push my sternum through my spine. I found out later that the pain I had felt were three of my ribs breaking during these efforts.
I was told that I woke up, cursed the Doctor, asked for a cigarette, and passed out again. I woke up, two days later because I heard a strange noise next to me that sounded like an extremely slow working pump. I looked over to my left to see a machine that I was to find out was doing my breathing for me. A nurse came into my room and asked how I was doing and if my urine bag needed to be emptied. I tried to answer but discovered that I had two, half inch diameter, plastic pipes entering my mouth and extended into my lungs, the other end attached to the annoying pump next to my bed. The Nurse picked up the empty urine bag and said, “Guess we need to wait a bit,” and hung it back on my bed. She then turned away to write something down and looked again at the, now full, urine bag and said, “that’s more like it,” and proceeded to empty the bag that I had no idea I had filled.
After five days on the respirator, it was decided that it was not needed anymore. The doctor came in, smiling, and asked, “Would you like to have those tubes removed?”
I nodded emphatically and he and the nurses prepared to remove the tubes. The doctor looked at me, “Ok, once we take out the tubes I want you to say ‘EEEEEEE,’ alright?”
I nodded energetically again, thinking to myself, “I’ll sing ‘Flight of the Valkyries,’ Doc, just get these damn tubes out of me”
“Ok, I’ll pull on three…..one….two……”
I almost grabbed the doctor’s arm to stop him because it felt as if the tube was attached to my lung and I was afraid that every internal organ from my belly button up was going to come spilling out with these tubes and I was pretty sure I would need some of those to stay where they were.
When the tubes cleared my mouth, I tried desperately to say “EEEEEEE” but all that came out at first was a rush of air. Eventually, my vocal chords began to relax to their original shape before they were held open for five days by plastic tubes, and I was able to say “EEEEEE.” At first my throat was very sore and my voice sounded like a buzz saw with a dull blade, but it eventually healed though I had lost my ability to imitate Mickey Mouse.
After the tubes were removed I was taken out of the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) and put into a regular Hospital room. That night, I was told that I had been clinically dead for five minutes and had contracted Double Walking Pneumonia. The Doctor also told me that I had been breathing on one quarter of one lung and showed me X-rays of my chest with my lungs completely full of fluid. Later that same night, I was told that I had a phone call, I went to the floor lounge and answered the phone. It was my Mother, and after making sure that I was still alive, and sitting down, told me that my Grandmother had passed away, from an Aneurism in her brain, on the same day that I had been in the E.R. We did the math and realized that we had both been dead at the same time, she stayed and I returned.
After learning of my grandmother’s passing, I did everything I could to get healthy again so that I would be able to return home to visit my grandmother’s grave. Many doctors thought that it was very rare for someone that had been clinically dead to be walking ten days later, and even rarer for them to be discharged from the Hospital. I was sent back to my unit at Camp Fuji, but was only given enough time to pack my belongings before I was shuttled to a plane to be taken back to Okinawa and out of the cold weather. When I returned to Okinawa and my unit, I made a request to take leave and go to my home of Minnesota. This leave was denied on the grounds that the climate in Minnesota, in November, would be detrimental to my health. I was further told that I would be allowed to take my leave on Okinawa, and drink and smoke all I wanted as that would be healthier for me. I tried to explain that I would not be staying in an igloo and that the technology for central heating had made its way to Minnesota several years earlier, but to no avail.
The reasoning for this decision did not make sense to me, and caused me to have a mildly rebellious attitude. I did, ultimately take leave, and spent it on Okinawa, and it was during this time that I met the young lady that would eventually become my wife, as well as the mother of my four sons.
Since then, I have had several people question, and sometimes criticize my faith, but I know what I believe, and I know what I have experienced. I believe that there is a purpose for everything that happens in life, and even though we may not like, or enjoy what happens, the reason is beyond our understanding or comprehension. I also believe that sometimes the hardest part about faith is not getting it, but keeping it.
