Pain in the Ass

Pain in the Ass

Last week I broke another New Jersey Transit bus. Not really, but the bus would have been just fine if they hadn’t stopped to pick me up. The driver, who has successfully picked me up many times, extended the wheelchair lift, lowered it to the ground, and then tried to cause it to ascend to load me into the bus. It would not rise, with or without me on the lift. This bus was now disabled (see what I did there?).

Being rush hour, buses are apt to arrive at the stop every 10 minutes or so. By NJ Transit rules they seem to need to get me on the next bus if their first attempt fails. With everyone rushing off this bus to the one pulling up behind it, I held back to wait for the following bus. I take up six seats, and the driver would have been forced to expel people from an already packed vehicle.

As one of the passengers hurried past me from the bus I broke to the bus he hoped to take, he muttered under his breath, “Pain in the ass.”

I could have charitably assumed that he meant the situation, and not me in particular. However, I am not one of the 36 tzadikim (think Mother Teresa), nor could I get any of you to buy the concept that the remark was not directed at me. With no other real options, I just lamely shouted “Thank You” at his receding back. Then, thinking it through, I realized he was right.

I am not offended. Many people actively participate in our new national pastime—being offended, either as a member of some ostensibly oppressed group, or in support of someone with such a claim. I prefer baseball (go Mets). However, I won’t apologize for being a “pain in the ass.” Deal with it.

The Libertarian in me is no fan of overreaching government regulation, but I unashamedly (if hypocritically) applaud the Americans with Disabilities Act. It provides a consistent universal set of guidelines that force you to put up with small “pain in the ass” inconveniences (reserved parking spaces, access ramps, special restroom accommodations, short delays on your commute) to allow me to enjoy enhanced access to the world you enjoy every day. Not only are most of you delighted to do this, but it makes you feel good that we, as a society, have made this a priority.

So, thank you all for “dealing” with this unapologetic “pain in the ass.” Thank you for holding the door, and thank you for offering to help, even if neither of us can think of how that might be accomplished. And to the “gentleman” whose commute I so rudely delayed, I hope you have a better commute tomorrow. Not everyone can contribute to the thin veneer of civilized behavior the rest of us struggle to maintain.

Kelly Takasch's Birthday Event

Kelly Takasch has used her birthday as an MS fundraiser for the last seven years, raising over $35,000 for NMSS. She gets a surprising array donations of goods and services to raffle. This year she had beer tastings from two local distributors, and participation from NJ Paranormal. Entertainment included a guitar player/singer, karaoke, and me giving a talk on MS. She's really quite something.

Text of my presentation:

_____________________________________

Good evening. My name is Aaron Cohen, and I was diagnosed with MS somewhere between 1976 and 1978. Aaron, you ask why don't you have a precise date for when you were diagnosed? Things were done differently back then, but we'll get to that in a moment.

First, I'd like to thank Kelly for inviting me to speak this evening, and I'd like to congratulate all of you for coming out to support her and all of us with MS. Now, we always need to start out a presentation with a joke. I took a presentations seminar back in my AT&T days, and the instructor demonstrated this by telling a joke that’s absolutely not appropriate for tonight. If you want to hear that joke, see me later.

A man rushes into the veterinarian’s office, holding and obviously dead parakeet. “Doctor doctor, please help my Petey. I found him lying perfectly still in the bottom of his cage. The doctor replied, “I’m sorry sir, but your parakeet is obviously dead and there is nothing I can do.” Well, that didn’t satisfy the grieving pet owner, and after much begging and pleading the doctor agreed to take another look. He laid the parakeet down on the examination table, and brought out a big black Labrador retriever from the kennel. The dog walked over to the examination table, sniffed at the bird and walked away. “The dog says the bird is dead.” Having still not convinced the pet owner the vet brought in a Siamese cat that walked back and forth across the table several times before jumping down and running back to the kennel. The doctor said, “the cat agrees that your parakeet is dead.” Finally convinced the man asks the vet what he owes. The vet says, “that will be $1000.” “A thousand dollars protests the man, that’s an awful lot to charge for telling me that my parakeet is dead.” “Well, says the vet, the office visit was $100, and the other $900 was for the CAT scan and the lab test.”

What do you know about MS? You probably know more than I knew when I was diagnosed. When you leave here this evening I hope you know a lot more, and have a better appreciation for why we must cure MS now. I could give you a lot of facts and figures about MS and a long list of symptoms that characterize the disease. I could tell you how the National Multiple Sclerosis Society was formed 70 years ago in March 1946 by Sylvia Lowery and 20 leading research physicians with the goal of understanding MS and finding a cure. I could tell you how it took 47 years before  Betaseron – – the first definitive therapy for MS reached the streets. We could talk about the progress since 1993, or the fact that between 1946 and 1993 another 3 1/2 million people contracted the disease. But your eyes would soon roll back into your heads, your minds would wander, and even I would be bored. Instead, I will tell you a few stories.

In the early 60s, I must've been about nine years old, I had my first exposure to multiple sclerosis. My parent's good friend, Sy Zinderman had contracted MS. Uncle Sy was in his late 30s, father of three young children, World War II veteran with a promising career ahead of him. We were visiting, children playing in the living room and adults sitting around the table in the kitchen drinking coffee. I observed uncle Sy battle a full arm spasm while the other adults watched with growing concern. It seemed like his arm and just taken complete control. I was horrified. No one actually talked about MS. It just wasn't something that was spoken about. A few short years later Sy could no longer live at home, and was admitted to the VA hospital for care. In 1971 he died, completely bedridden and unable to take care of himself for several years. During those years my parents visited. My father was always agitated when he returned from those visits although he tried to hide it. When I was a teenager he said to me that being confined to your bed unable to take care of your basic bodily functions was no way to live. He was sure that his friend Sy regretted having not taking his own life while he still had the physical ability to do so.

That was the sum of everything I knew about MS when I was diagnosed. MS was listed by the insurance companies as a fatal disease, and doctors did very little to dispel the specter that diagnosis with MS was an eventual death sentence. Doctors, you see were scared of MS. They didn't understand it, couldn't predict its course or outcome and had nothing to offer the MS patients except possibly a course of steroids during an exacerbation. As a direct result of the efforts of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society, we know more now, that knowledge is deeply embedded in our medical education system, and there are a plethora of treatments available especially for the newly diagnosed. BUT THERE STILL IS NO CURE.

Every year my wife Laura asks permission from friends and acquaintances with MS to include their name on a list of people for whom her team walks on the team web page and letter to sponsors. This year I asked her to add Sy Zinderman’s name to the list

My own diagnosis spanned several years, and was handled much differently than it would be today. It took several years because even if the doctors I saw for various reasons were informed enough to suspect MS, no one wanted to be the one to actually utter those words. It didn't really matter they figured, there was nothing to be done anyway. They temporized by telling me nothing, and hoping I would go away before it needed to be confronted. My timeline went something like:

·    1974 - tingling in my left arm and hand - University Health Services had no wisdom for me. "Let us know if it gets worse.".

·    1975 - Optic neuritis (small blind spots in my field of vision). The ophthalmologist Health Services sent me to opined that it would probably go away over 6 months, but it might not. Nothing much to do for it if it did not get worse. Today, optic neuritis gets you an instant referral to a neurologist, and an MRI. MRIs were not used to diagnose until the mid 1980s (first one in 1981)

·    1976 - referred to a neurologist who did a lumbar puncture (spinal tap). He found white blood cells in my spinal fluid, and suspected MS. I was not told. I was 23 years old and married. My parents interceded and decided that Laura and I didn't need to be burdened with this information. It was tentative, devastating, and there was no treatment. My symptoms eventually went away. I was willfully clueless, and just happy that the headache from the spinal tap went away.

·    1979 - I had some gait problems. Limping on my right side. My internist had done graduate work in neurology and sent me in to his mentor at Columbia Presbyterian for what was going to be several days of testing and evaluation. By the time I had checked into the hospital my limp had mostly resolved. The doctor sent me home. He told me before I left:

o   If the symptoms had gone away there was nothing to treat. If they came back we could treat it with a round of steroids.

o   I had MS. There was no telling if I would ever get symptoms again, but his years of experience told him that it was MS. (Now my parents tell me that it had been suspected).

o   It was not necessary to inform anyone, especially at work. Some insurance providers were pretty aggressive about striking people with MS from their rolls.

o   Get plenty of rest. Avoid stress. Cut back on my extracurricular activities. Conserve my energy.

I did as directed. Following the last bit of advice thankfully only lasted a few months.

A few years later my doctor sent me for a CAT scan. I had to go to NYC. When I got there the scanner was down. I went back three weeks later. My head wouldn't fit in the machine--never got a CAT scan.

Keep in mind that the reasons this is handled so differently today is the direct result of money given the NMSS over the years, and used by them to sponsor:

·    public education demystifying MS

·    education of medical professionals 

·    and especially—basic research. Grants for basic research from the National Multiple Sclerosis Society come with the stipulation that all research must be shared in order to expedite the creation of knowledge in the race to find a cure.

I am a very lucky man. Despite the obvious disabilities MS remains mostly an annoyance. A royal pain in the ass to be sure. I’m not looking for your sympathy; sympathy in more than a small quantity is not empowering. I am however looking for your help and participation. Just by being here you are helping spread awareness about MS. Every dollar counts, and more importantly, every person who donates even a single dollar is now someone who “gets it.” If everyone here could ask just three other people to make a small donation, the impact would be tremendous. Think about it.

Let me tell you why I say I am a very lucky man.

·    My wife of 41 years continues to stand by me. I worry her constantly, but her steadfast help makes many things possible that I couldn’t conceive of doing alone. This is very important. The divorce rate is especially high for people with MS

·    For every deficit, I have a strategy.

·    When my oldest daughter was born, my only goal was to live long enough to see her bat mitzvah. I now have three married children, and four grandchildren.

·    I’ve never missed a day of work because of MS. My scooter and I take New Jersey transit bus to New York City twice a week to one of my clients

·    I have had an active volunteer life (so much for resting at home), participating in community organizations and leadership.

·    I have suffered no cognitive deficits, and everyone is very understanding if I fall asleep in an after-lunch meeting

·    I work out at the gym twice a week, once with a trainer and once alone.

·    My wife and I enjoy long walks and bike rides with me riding on my hand powered tricycle.

The thing that bothers me most about having MS is the amount of time I must spend thinking about things that other people take for granted. From always knowing where all the restrooms are, to strategizing on how to get the cup of tea from the counter to my easy chair without making a mess.

I’d like to conclude by thanking each and every one of you for participating in this great fundraising event. Both your participation and your contribution helped the National Multiple Sclerosis Society in its efforts to support, educate, and most of all find a cure for MS. Please talk your friends about the fun you had and what you learned at this event. Post about it on Facebook; tweet about it. Help us push back against ignorance, and work toward a world free from MS.

Public Transportation

The adventures of the gimpy traveller have continued apace since my last posting; I have just been delinquent in writing up some of our trips. I owe this blog some insights from our family Mediterranean cruise. But today's blog is from Monday's excursion into New York City using public transportation.

Brushing aside my dear wife's misgivings, I decided that an experimental foray was called for because my twice a week car trip under the Hudson was beginning to wear way too thin. I thought the train would be a good first shot. I like trains, and the Westfield train station is only a little over a mile from where I live. The Garwood train station is much closer, but the platform is not handicapped friendly. I left the house around 6 AM bound for the 6:25 express train to Newark Penn Station. It took about 20 minutes to ride my travel scooter down North Avenue to Westfield. This included the usual diversions around crappy sidewalks; the traffic is not yet heavy enough at that hour to prevent the careful crossing of route 28 to find the smoothest going.

At the train station there are two elevators and a tunnel that take you from street level on the north side of the tracks to track level on the south - New York bound - side. The train was on time, and the conductor quickly found the metal plate that bridges the gap between the platform and the train so I could easily board with my scooter. The ticket to New York City was only $4 – the special gimp rate that applies even during rush-hour. In a few stops we were in Newark, and reversed the procedure with the boarding plate, two elevators to switch tracks, and board the train from Newark to New York's Penn Station. The conductors on all the trains were helpful and attentive to my needs to move quickly on and off each train.

New York's Penn Station required a quick elevator ride from the track to the station, and then a little confusion finding the seventh Avenue exit with an elevator. As with anything else, there were plenty of instances along the way where first trip confusion will lead to second trip efficiencies. From Penn Station I headed crosstown to Fifth Avenue, then uptown to 59th St. It was pretty uneventful. I have to be careful because my scooter speed is faster than the ambient walking traffic, and there were a few diversions. Twice I ran into corners with no curb cut causing me to backtrack and cross the street, and once construction diverted walkers into the street, also without a curb cut. That trip on the scooter took about half an hour. All in all it was a two hour trip door-to-door, that can be done somewhat quicker now that I know where I'm going.

Once in the office I consulted with my colleague Joe who is a Westfield resident and veteran commuter. He told me that in the mornings he usually takes the express bus into Port Authority from a bus stop right across the street from where I live. It turns out that all the New Jersey transit buses have wheelchair lifts. He usually takes the train home at night. Gee, I thought wouldn't it have been smart to have talked to Joe BEFORE attempting this little joy ride. But where's the excitement and adventure in that? I decided to take the 113 SX bus home.

Leaving the office at 5:15 PM I was at Port Authority by 5:40. Port Authority – wow what an operation. There are several buildings, and of course I was in the wrong one. I was directed next door and the woman at the information kiosk directed me to Windows 1 through 10, and suggested that they should send me to a special gate for loading. The ticket agent sold me the ticket, and at my suggestion radioed some operations control center and I was directed to a gate with handicapped access. There was some confusion when they sent the 115 bus instead of a 113 bus, but an extra 10 minutes of discussion between two supervisors got the designation on my bus changed. All this time, a steady stream of buses kept driving down the ramp (one of many) to loading gates.

Perhaps my Spidey sense should have tingled a bit as a supervisor used loading me into the bus with the wheelchair lift as an impromptu training session for the driver. But, loaded safely on the bus, we rolled down the ramp to the gate. We evidently were jumped ahead of another 113 bus waiting to pick up passengers so they wouldn't have to send us out onto the road to New Jersey with just the driver and me on board. Passengers who were looking for the express bus toward Rahway quickly got on the bus and we finally debarked for New Jersey. It was about 6:25. This part of the trip could definitely have been shorter, but not completely under my control.

Rolling down a ramp directly into the Lincoln Tunnel seems a minor miracle to someone who has waited in traffic for the privilege of crossing under the Hudson. Tunnel, Turnpike, route 24, Garden State Parkway, exit 137, first stop Cranford train station. I signaled to get off the bus at Chestnut Street, along with one other passenger. The driver stopped in front of Creme Berre (yet another frozen yogurt store), and the driver began the process of activating the wheelchair lift. After several attempts she re-boarded the bus and reported that the apparatus was jammed. I suspect that she attempted to open the door before the lift was fully in place, but it was hard to tell from the inside. From the look on her face it was obvious that there was no plan B.

My plan B was to assure her that with a few volunteers we could disassemble the scooter, reassemble it outside the bus, and with a little help I could walk off the bus. Cheerful, willing and enthusiastic volunteers were quickly assembled and the scooter disassembled. They had it assembled again on the sidewalk well before I made my way down the steps of the bus. My thanks to the friendly riders of New Jersey transit. I'm sure the bus driver was greatly relieved that she didn't have to drive around New Jersey with a grumpy gimp in the back of the bus. Even with all the drama, this trip was also two hours door-to-door. It can definitely be done more quickly.

Tomorrow I'm going to attempt to take the 113 SX bus from Garwood into New York City. We'll see how well trained the driver is. I've heard rumors that untrained drivers tend to bypass gimps at bus stops. I can't wait.

Roller Coaster

It is not just gimps who have found ourselves, at times, firmly in the grip of the medical establishment. As much research as we might do, we eventually have to put ourselves in the hands of a trusted team of professionals, and follow an established or experimental treatment protocol.

The following story is a mash-up of excursions into the medical establishment, but all based on a real incident on a real roller coaster.

A very short story. Enjoy.

Roller Coaster

Aaron Cohen 11-1-14

Clackety clackety clackety . . .

The roller coaster car grabs the chain and starts the long climb to the apex of the twisting track that will yield two minutes of terror-laced thrill on our tortured route back to the starting point. We are committed now. No escape until the car brakes to a stop.

Clackety clackety clackety . . .

The echoes of that long-ago ride bounce off the insides of my skull. I’m sitting on the table. The doctor has just left the examining room, and invited me to get dressed. Everything has been explained. Tomorrow’s procedure. The treatments over the next few months. The ancillary and follow-up therapies. The side effects. The odds (or potential outcomes based on others’ experiences). The progress checkpoints and tests along the way.

Clackety clackety clackety . . .

This is no thrill ride, nor will it be over in two minutes, but the path is set and the car is proceeding inexorably up the highly superior US medical infrastructure.

Many years ago, when the children were quite small, we took a short vacation trip to Colonial Williamsburg, Jamestown and Busch Gardens.  My wife does not like roller coasters, and the children were too small, but they indulged my need to ride the big coaster at Busch Gardens. It was beautiful. The first drop was a steep dive right over the water of the lake. I waited in line for more than 20 minutes, and as luck would have it ended up in the front seat of the car. My seatmate was a pretty young woman several years my junior who seemed to be there with a group of friends.

Clackety clackety clackety

As we approached the release point high over the lake she turned to me and said, “It really helps if you scream.”

She was right!

Elul Project - Laura

Introducing guest blogger Laura Abrahams Cohen, who also contributed an essay about thankfulness and walking to our synagogue's Elul Project (see previous entry for my contribution). Enjoy - Aaron

Elul 2014-5775

                                   

I am thankful for the blessing of good health at the start of the New Year!  My adventure started over a year ago with some hip pain. Not quite ignoring the discomfort, I began Zumba exercise dance classes in September 2013.  After all, my outdoor pool had just closed on Labor Day and one DOES need to exercise.  Surprising myself, I liked the music, which I’ll admit is different from classic rock’n’roll and the Grateful Dead which form the sound track for my life.  Soon I needed to see the orthopedic doctor again because the pain began to become alarming.

We needed to pin down the real problem which involved navigating the healthcare system. I am thankful to have health insurance through my employer.  By November of 2014 I got the official word on the results from the MRI—hip arthritis.  It had progressed rather rapidly from a year earlier when the x-ray showed not much of anything.

By this point I was looking for solutions to the mounting discomfort.  Temporary help came from a cortisone injection into the joint which provided exactly five weeks of relief.  No repeats of that relief were possible.  By early February the words “hip replacement surgery” were spoken. Oh my, this would take some getting used to. Zumba went on hold for a while.

The months from February to May 2014 brought acute pain and real disability.  Driving my car resulted in my not being able to stand up and walk when stepping out of the car. My leg from knee to hip completely cramped up (to protect the deteriorating hip joint).  I resorted to keeping a hard folding chair in the back of my car.  I would hobble to the back of the car, take out the chair, sit down and shift around in an effort to be able to stand up again and walk.  Usually it worked, but sometimes it did not. My colleagues at work began to see me have trouble walking and sympathetically asked if I was OK.

By late February I scheduled the surgery.  I probably should have scheduled it for sooner but we had three happy occasions coming up in April and May which I didn’t want to miss. The date was set for June 3 so that we could celebrate at a cousin’s wedding in Austin; travel again to my uncle’s 90^th birthday in Ottawa-- at which he surprised everyone present including his children by turning the already happy occasion into his wedding to his long-time girlfriend; and celebrate with our son Jonathan and his fiancée Alyssa at their engagement party.

At WalkMS in April, the fundraising and awareness project of my team the Mitzvah Squad for the benefit of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society there would be NO WAY I could walk the three mile route. I borrowed a scooter from Aaron to cover the course.

I was worried about the upcoming surgery—no joke.  I tend to be easygoing-- taking things as they come.  I’m a veteran of three c-sections and gall bladder removal.  But this was BIG, and it involved rehabilitation and physical therapy as well as the time off from work to accomplish these things.  On the morning of my total hip replacement surgery I couldn't walk and had to ask for a wheelchair half way down a long hallway.

My surgeon promised me that when I stood up from the surgery I would not have the pain that plagued me for months leading up to the repair.  He is right. The recovery is amazing and miraculous. He and his staff were helpful as were the physical therapists in getting me through the adventure.

Prior to about 40 years ago, hip replacement was somewhat experimental. Since the 1970s the techniques that are now in use were developed and are quite successful.  The first U.S. hip replacements began only in 1940.

I got advice and encouragement from growing list of friends who have either had joint replacement surgery or are close to someone who has had it.  Everyone spoke of the terrific results and said they wished that they had done it sooner!

How fortunate I am to be living in 2014/5775 and to have access to this repair. I often think about the devastating pain that all the humans who have had the same problem as I suffered from in the history of humanity until just 40 or so years ago. I think of the majority of humanity today with no access to our amazing first world medical system. 

Especially at this time of the New Year I do not take this blessing for granted.  I’m working on my rehab with daily walking, swimming and physical therapy exercises.  I am hugely grateful to have recovered from this problem. I am thankful for my new beginning with my pain-free leg. I’m even glad to return to my work and my regular routine after a well-timed early-summer outdoor-pool-season rehab.  I’m looking forward to returning to those noisy fun Zumba classes.

Laura Cohen

Elul Project - Walking - A Memory of My Dad

For the past several years my Rabbi (Ben Goldstein - Temple Beth-El Mekor Chayim) has asked congregants to contribute essays to an Elul Project as a way of preparing for the High Holy Days. A booklet is compiled, and shared with the congregation on Rosh Hashanah. I finally broke down and wrote one this year. My resolution is to not let it be another year before I contribute to this blog again.

Elul Project 2014

Aaron Cohen

September 4, 2014

Walking.

Walking to synagogue on the High Holidays.

Walking to synagogue on the High Holidays, with my daddy.

I must have been three and a half. My baby brother had been born in March and would come to synagogue later with Mom, but Dad would leave earlier and walk the three tenths of a mile to Temple Israel Center in White Plains, NY. I was deemed “big” enough to walk with him, and sit with him in services until babysitting started.

After breakfast Mom dressed me in my shul clothes. It had to be after breakfast because we didn’t want to spill on new clothes. I don’t remember much about the outfit except that the good gray wool pants seemed terribly scratchy, and I got to wear a clip-on tie. Then we walked up to Old Mamaroneck Road, and over to the Temple. We passed houses, and woods that would become houses in later years.

When we got to the Temple we entered through the doors by the chapel, and went up a half flight of stairs to a landing where Dad picked up a small envelope from a table with hundreds of seemingly identical small envelopes. This envelope contained two tickets on the center aisle in row HH. Then up another half flight to the sanctuary. Dad sat on the aisle—the same seat he would occupy on the high holidays for the next 39 years. I sat in my Mom’s seat, and politely said hello to the people in the neighboring seats who had held that real estate for many years. I don’t actually remember being polite, but I know that Dad would have it no other way.

Grandma Madeline showed up shortly after we got there. She had the next two seats in the aisle. One for her, and one that Grandpa Ben used to sit in, but would go unoccupied for the first time this year. I’m pretty sure Grandma Sadye sat there on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. She was a member of the Hebrew Institute on Greenridge Avenue, but her son and grandchildren were here.

When Mom and Larry arrived I went to babysitting. It was comfortable and familiar; held in the room where I went to nursery school, but different because Mrs. Marish wasn’t there.

Three times a year for the next ten years I walked to shul with my daddy on the high holidays. We then moved too far away to walk, something that I didn’t think about at the time.

I miss it.

Walking.

Walking to synagogue on the high holidays.

Walking to synagogue on the high holidays, holding my daddy’s hand.

Maybe he carried me part of the way. Maybe he still does.

Mel Cohen in the Navy, Part 1

Wow, I have been away from this blog far too long.It's not that we haven't traveled and had some interesting experiences, it's just that I haven't had the desire to write. Now that I have that desire again, maybe I'll write about that as well. In the meantime, here are some stories that I remember my dad telling us from his time in the Navy during World War II.

Mel Cohen in the Navy, Part 1

Like most young men in the early 1940s my father, Melvin Cohen, enlisted in the armed forces for World War II. He ended up in the Navy and graduated as a midshipman, 90 day wonder, after attending the Navy’s Officer candidate training school that was held at Union College in Schenectady New York.

While sitting around the dining room table after a holiday meal or family gathering we could sometimes get him to talk about his days in the Navy. Sometimes it took some cajoling; he was often reluctant to talk about it. He was a good storyteller. I only hope that I can re-create accurately some of the stories he told us.

Dad’s assignment in the Navy after graduation as an Ensign was as second in command on a Landing Craft Tank (LCT). He earned a field promotion to first Lieutenant and became the captain of the LCT several days before D-Day when his commanding officer was sidelined with acute appendicitis and had to be evacuated. More about that later.

One of his favorite stories was about a gunnery mate on his ship who never had to touch a gun. In his civilian life this man was a pastry chef. Working miracles in the galley with sparse supplies, shortage of many staples, and the supposedly nutritious but quite boring realities of the Navy mess at sea was all that was necessary to keep this treasured soul ensconced within his natural element. Dad told us that the creampuffs his gunnery mate with able to create without access to real eggs or sugar not only earned accolades around the fleet, but were the linchpin of many barter transactions dad engaged in as part of the normal business of day-to-day survival in the Navy at sea.

Not all the stories were about pastry; some of it was pretty harrowing. The role of an LCT was to bring heavy equipment ashore, and as such had a pivotal role to play in the D-Day invasion. Dad participated in the first wave ashore at Omaha Beach. As a very green ship commander his survival and the survival of his crew depended on both his skill and ability, and a lot of good luck. Five LCTs were part of his group deploying heavy equipment onto Omaha Beach. Five went in, and only one came out. On his next trip into the beach, five LCTs went in and two came out – his ship, and the disabled LCT he was towing. During one of the sorties he was up in a crow’s nest trying to get a better handle on what was going on and where he should be going. Shortly after he came down from the crow’s nest he happened to look up to where he had been and saw that the crow’s nest had been destroyed by enemy fire.

I’m sure that there are details about the events of D-Day that dad rarely thought about, and never spoke about, certainly to us. Needless to say, close calls were the norm rather than the exception.

The full import of some events didn’t become obvious for many years. Dad told us about one loading or unloading exercise during which a large block and tackle swung out of control hitting him in the back and knocking him to the ground. He was examined by the Navy doctors who poked and prodded and banged on his spine with rubber hammers. They declared him fit to return to duty and he shrugged off the pain and discomfort as young men are wont to do. Roll forward 25 years. Dad is bereft of commuting by train due to a transit strike. He is suffering long hours in a carpool and the loss of income from his twice daily card games on the train. He develops terrible back pain, so bad he goes to see the doctor who sends him to a specialist. The specialist takes x-rays and asks dad when he fractured his spine. After showing dad the x-ray, and convincing him that one of his vertebrae really had been fractured at some point, the only incident that he could come up with where that might have happened was the incident with the block and tackle during his days in the Navy. Luckily, the end of the transit strike put an end to the worst of his pain. It turns out that in time of war, Navy medicine could be as spotty as the Navy food.

One of my favorite stories also had consequences beyond dad’s time in the Navy. A call went out to the fleet that three men on the flagship required a fourth for a game of bridge. Dad was always an eager and ardent card player, and never one to turn down the opportunity to play a hand of bridge. He sent word to the flagship that he was available, and a launch was sent to bring him over to the game. When he walked into the room and was introduced to the other players he was a bit intimidated by the quantity of ribbons, braids and scrambled egg on their uniforms. Suspecting a fairly high-stakes game he told them that he did not have a lot of cash with him. They told him not to worry about that. They really needed him as a fourth to allow them to play. They played round-robin. That means that dad played a rubber with each of the other players as his partner. As luck (and in his mind skill) would have it, he won with each of the other players with whom he partnered. When they totaled up the points he was far and away the big winner for the day. It turns out that they were playing for a dollar a point – very high stakes for a junior officer. He walked away from that game with a large roll of cash. Knowing himself, and knowing that if he kept the cash he would find some way of spending it, at the next opportunity he took the money and purchased a diamond. He sent that diamond home to his mother for safekeeping. Several years later that diamond was to become the centerpiece of my mother’s engagement ring.

That’s all for now. There are other stories. Some stories have a lot of detail attached, others not so much. There’s the story of getting lost in Paris during the blackout. He told us why he won’t eat Brussels sprouts. We know about a girlfriend, or fiancée, in France, but know very few of the details of that story. I’m sure the stories are not unique. Thousands of men in the greatest generation participated in World War II and there are many stories for each of them. But these were our dad’s stories and they gave us some insight into his early life and experiences that made him the man we loved as our dad.

Aaron Cohen

Garwood, NJ

28 September 2013