Reflections from the Fire

   A conversation on Sunday caused me to reflect upon my volunteer service hours in my early days of Pre-Med. I was a newly declared Biology major, (or maybe it was Physics or Architecture, as it changed often) that was most excited to tell everyone that I was going to be a doctor. Having never graduated High School, and being insecure of myself, there was an underlying arrogance each time somebody would ask me what I was doing in school.    Planning and preparing to get accepted into medical school starts long before the application. In addition to top notch grades, and excellent community participation, you must also meet a certain number of volunteer service hours. Being interested in helping kids, I made my mind up that I would volunteer at Primary Children's Hospital. I saw myself as a noble knight on a white horse who was going to be a doctor and save kids.    When I inquired about volunteer opportunities, I was directed to the Volun...

WARNING – GRAPHIC CONTENT! This is not suitable for anyone under 18.     Several years ago, I found myself working for a Juvenile Rehabilitation Center. That’s the politically correct way of classifying a place like this. The truth is, it was a last-chance saloon for boys who had exhausted the justice system in their own state and were at their final stop before prison. All of the boys within this facility were from out of state. Most hailed from Philadelphia, some from Nevada, several from Chicago, and a handful from the Dakotas. They ranged in age from 12-21 years old. They varied in size as short as four and half feet tall and about 90 pounds, all the way up to our tallest boy at six foot seven inches tall and maybe 320 pounds.     The facility smelled of sterilizing Lysol masking the underlying odor of pubescent boys. Imagine 100 teenage boys with poor hygiene all cooped up inside one building. The smell of stinky socks and u...

   I was terrified. We had talked for years about having kids, only to face continued disappointments. When the idea of adoption was discussed as a couple, it sounded like a good idea. But there I was, standing in the delivery room as another woman was about to give birth to a child. Would I love her as my own? Would I feel that connection that so many parents talk about? I knew my wife would love her. But I don't have that motherly instinct. I'm awkward around kids. My nieces and nephews were all scared of me when they were little. So, when the doctor told our birth mom to push, I asked myself, "Will she really be mine?"    When Sheila and I first met, I took her to a bar and pool hall for our first date. It was dark and musty, and smelled of cigarette smoke. The floor had sticky spots from spilled beers that squeaked under my shoes as I walked around the pool table lining up my next shot. We didn't drink. We didn't smoke. I really didn't even...