Slinging Mud

I spent one summer during college working as a roughneck on an oil rig. Please suspend your disbelief as it is completely true.

At that time, all students pursuing Chemical Engineering degrees were strongly encouraged to engage in hands-on research before graduating. During the summer before my Junior year, I stumbled upon a fantastic opportunity to work for one of the leading oil research companies at that time, Dresser Magcobar.

I spent those three months on a rig wielding 36-inch wrenches alongside full-time roughnecks in sweltering Texas heat, within spitting distance of Astroworld, while conducting mud flow studies for a prototype drill bit. It was extremely demanding work.

Most of the time ….. well, at least occasionally.

Our main responsibility as summer interns was to babysit the rig and flow apparatus during the studies. My research partner and I – mutlitaskers before the term had ever been coined – spent most of our time on the rig ably manning all the controls while simultaneously mining more sun (and money) than actual data. It wasn’t that we were lazy so much as the studies were slow and tedious; any given flow study took several days to produce usable data. If the cynic thinks less of the imprimatur of “roughneck” as it applied to our work, let it be written that we were at least always at the ready with our 36-inch wrenches. For myself, I also took the opportunity to read a lot of books.

By July, the workaday roughnecks with high tattoo to teeth ratios finally came to accept the two “college boys.” We eventually would routinely gather in one of the air conditioned offices during protracted lunch breaks to eat, rest, and generally “shoot the breeze.” It was during one of these sessions that I was first made fully aware of “tabloids” and the genuine sway they hold over thousands of readers.

Putting down my copy of Plato’s “Republic,” I was amazed to learn that many people actually read the tabloids so as to glean day to day information just as others might depend on the NY Times or The Wall Street Journal. My only prior exposure to tabloids had been while passing through grocery store lines, the copies replete with cover stories of aliens and soon-to-be-divorced celebrities. While I will admit to being lured to pick one up occasionally as a result of some salacious headline, our time together always ended abruptly so as to avoid anyone actually seeing me with the offending item in hand. My notion was that these “rags” were produced for the amusement of someone – haughtily, someone NOT me. Treading lightly given I was a mere guest for the summer, I distinctly remember listening raptly as two of these weathered roughnecks relayed the truths contained in the tabloids.

Skipping to the present, I still love to read. I am currently making the supreme effort to get through more of what someone has deemed to be the classics, but my tastes generally lean toward history, historical biographies, and some fiction. At any given time, I generally have two or three books at the ready, reading each of them in piecemeal fashion; I get bored.

Over the past few years I have added yet another category of books to my list of favorites: Current Events. This grouping of literature seems to center mainly on current political intrigue; I am not certain of the requisite timeline so as to be labeled “current,” but assume most of these eventually find a final resting place among the myriad tomes of history. What I truly love about this genre of books is that reading them affords me, a true political junkie, the opportunity to belatedly insert myself into their world; every page is a backstage pass to conversations, strategies, personalities, conventions, and – frankly – the intrigue which the political process engenders. Additionally, these books very often address unanswered questions which tend to vex me during and long after the election cycles end.

Game Change; Obama and the Clintons, McCain and Palin, and the Race of a Lifetime

The book covers the Democratic and Republican primary and general electoral seasons which culminated in the election of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States. (Just in case you didn’t know.)

The book presents a well constructed, understandable outline of the process each of the candidates slogged through on the way to victory and/or defeat. In the end, the two authors offered their version of the events thus providing me with yet another perspective of the main actors, their strategies, and the political timeline in general.

All told, it was a very good read.

BUT, (as in, however):

The first thought that crosses my mind on finishing the book is the old adage, “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

Not intending to make an indictment of the book, its credibility, or even the authors, but “Game Change” is heavily laden with page after page, chapter after chapter of prurient, gossipy re-enactments of private and not-so-private conversations, tantrums and tirades between all the candidates, their spouses, and members of their individual staffs.

And, I couldn’t put it down!

Throughout the book, there were also numerous accounts of all the candidates spewing epitaphs in every direction to one degree or another; a particularly crazed vignette has a respected candidate doubly flipping his own wife the bird(s) while letting loose with a fusillade of the F-word invective that – if redacted – would have closely resembled the Nixon Oval Office “Expletive Deleted” transcripts of old.

I am not naïve about politicians; I had the opportunity to witness, first hand, the impeachment proceedings against Bill Clinton. Most vivid to me was the day when the articles of impeachment were approved. Sitting in the public gallery, I was mesmerized by Democrats and Republicans performing for the C-Span cameras. Hour after hour, I watched as staunch allies came in succession to the defense of the President during two minute rebukes of particular members of the opposition. And, almost without fail, once the speaker was finished and out of camera range, the two foes would engage in conversation or even an embrace. It was pure theater.

All politicians are human – for good or for ill. The obvious may read as insipid, but I had to learn this on my own during the fall of the impeachment proceedings and the lesson is reinforced every time I immerse myself in the elections or read one of these books. There is, most certainly, a part of me that still would like to hold elected officials to a higher standard but life and reality seem to always get in the way.

On finishing the book early this morning, I went to bed and fell asleep only to be awakened shortly by my own voice uttering a clearly audible and sibilant “it.”

As I had drifted off to sleep, I remember reflecting on my carnal fascination with the various permutations of crazed political behavior manifested by every one of these political masters in the book. I was forced to ask myself if my interest is prurient in nature or if I read these books seeking a better understanding of the psyche of these immensely complex – if not, egomaniacal – people?

As I awoke with a start at my own utterance, I suddenly realized that my thoughts had turned to memories of my roughneck buddies and their insatiable appetite for the tabloids.

It then dawned on me that none of us had ever truly been as different as I may have originally thought.

If completely honest, there exists within most of us some fundamental appetite for – well, a little gossip or “dirt” from time to time. There has hardly ever been a day during my professional life within a given operating room or ICU when someone hasn’t stopped to pass along some “juicy” tidbit about one person or another. I am not sure what this says about us as people; I would assume it may very well be an inextricable component of our natures.

John Edward’s staffer, Andrew Young’s new book concerning his former boss’ tawdry affair is being pushed into the market early this Saturday as a result of the events of the past week. While a copy of the hardbound book will probably cost $30 or so, you can bet my old friends from the rig probably paid only a couple bucks for the same information and learned most of the details months or even years ago after passing through a grocery store line.

Go figure.

WhirlyBall; Saturday, December 26, 2009

Medicine -- Undergrad (Part 1)

In addition to a general dislike for anything relating to physicians, there was little in my background that would have pointed to a career in medicine. As my youngest brother approaches his graduation from medical school, I started thinking of what led me to practice medicine.

This is my story ... Undergrad (Part 1)

I walked out of Moore Hill that first day to a brisk, sunny January morning not at all certain what the future would hold. By the time I had walked a mere fifty yards or so past Gregory, I began to feel at home.

I made my way along strange sidewalks to register for classes. Every corner and turn took me one step closer to familiarity with the campus that would prove beneficial in the months and years ahead. I had arrived at The University.

Given it was my declared intention to eventually be accepted into medical school, one might assume I would first make my way to the Pre-Med office to get the run down of classes required for admission. Not I.

No, I had decided to go in an entirely different direction; instead, I made my way to the Robert Lee Moore Building and the Department of Chemical Engineering.

I still wonder how it is most undergrads come to decide on a major when entering college. Some choices seem obvious: the artist might decide on architecture; a talented French horn player may elect to teach high school music. And I am forever in awe of those who simply seem to "know" what life has in store for them. I am writing about the rest of us; what happens along the way which helps to devine our future?

High School anatomy had granted me an education from Mrs. Whipple and the "cat." This practicum eventually bestowed an arrogant, ignorant notion that simply because I had successfully endured the stench of phenol as well as commendably memorizing copious details, I must surely be suited for a career in medicine.

But, was that enough?

Well, I had also grown to love Chemistry and gained a better than average facility with Math.

Good. It turns out these skills are also prerequisites for success in being accepted into medical school. So why didn't I just make a left turn past the Welch Chemistry building and walk up the hill to the Pre-med office that January morning?

Because I had been warned to avoid registering for classes as a "Pre-Med" student.

I am guessing Pre-Med students had been much-maligned for years; while only an assumption, I honestly didn't know for certain if it was a well-earned generalization or not. However respectful friends may have been of my career choice, many wasted little time advising me to, "grow an extra set of eyes in the back of my head," when dealing with "Pre-Med people."

So, it was that when considering the totality of (dis-)information I had gleaned, as well as an assessment of my academic strengths and weaknesses, I enrolled as a Chemical Engineering student who also intended to one day attend med school. While undoubtedly making the road more "interesting," my logic seemed sound: By earning a degree in Chemical Engineering, I would have an alternative career choice if med school never materialized.

Survey Classes, Gunners, and Grades

There is nothing quite like walking into a room ~ no, an auditorium ~ with 500 or so other students vying for top honors in a class like General Chemistry, notorious for being a "weed out" course. Chemistry marks the beginning of the end for many students; as a result, enrollment has the potential to bring out the best and worst in people.

I was soon introduced to the term "gunner." I came to hear the whispered phrase, "Oh, so and so is a gunner," and it certainly didn't strike me as praise. I don't recall if anyone ever sat down and explained its meaning to me; eventually everyone figured it out for themselves. To my way of thinking, a gunner was someone who would stoop to any level to get a good grade.

I initially felt many were being a bit hypocritical; after all, wasn't everyone then ~ at minimum ~ a "closet" gunner given we each had the same goal of doing our best while simultaneously outperforming fellow classmates? But I came to learn that to walk in the shoes of a gunner, one must be willing to visit a darker side of human nature; a gunner would screw a fellow student, step over the bloodied corpse and continue climbing the proverbial "food chain" with nary a moment's hesitation.

I unfortunately have distinct memories of a few of these students. They each seemed to be universally held in contempt as they really made no effort to conceal their intentions. On one occasion, I heard the brother of a now famous mogul intentionally mislead a fellow classmate regarding the date for a test. He then cavalierly admitted what he had done, all the while laughing hysterically. It was through my experiences with gunners that I came to better understand why many people held Pre-Med students in disfavor.

I soon learned there are other, less invidious, ways to find yourself in dutch with classmates enrolled in Pre-Med survey classes. I learned this lesson the hard way.

When eventually enrolling in Organic Chemistry, I was truly fortunate to land in the class taught by Taylor B. Jones, PhD, one of the rare professors who could teach anyone to love this touchy subject. But for all the praise I have for Dr. Jones and his acumen as a professor, his enthusiasm for students and their success held the potential for mildly adverse consequences.

I distinctly remember everyone nervously settling into seats the morning we were due to receive marks following our first exam. Dr. Jones entered the room, approached the podium and immediately asked if "Rob Marvin" was present. I hesitated then raised my hand with no small amount of trepidation; I had seen the "Paper Chase."

After acknowledging my attendance, he proceeded to go over the stats for the test and then went on to announce that I had earned the highest marks on the exam.

Was I happy? Of course. Dumbfounded is another word. Organic Chemistry may rank highest among those classes which destroy the hopes of many a potential physician.

I was also not blind. I quickly learned that singular notoriety has consequences especially among the ranks of gunners. With a few laudatory words of praise from Dr. Jones, the gunners turned and glared, telegraphing concern that this Marvin guy might actually inch his way past them and potentially stand in the way of them realizing their goal. Gunners are not in the habit of looking at the backside of anyone; they pride themselves in always having a clear path.

While a great moment for any college student, I understood my invisible position in the class had changed:

Not only was I now targeted by the gunners, I was also labeled one by others. It also marked the day I officially became engaged in Pre-Med warfare. By enrolling in an entirely different college, I had hoped to be beyond the scope of these dynamics; like it or not, however, I was now directly in competition for a valued seat in some distant med school class.

My perch at the top of that Organic Chemistry class didn't last ~ it seldom does for most of us. Thankful for my moment in the sun, I was equally grateful eventually having the onus placed on someone else's broad shoulders.

I eventually came to understand; up until that day in Dr. Jones' class I had not truly been engaged in the pursuit of my goal. Sure, I had gone through the motions: attended classes and labs; studied well into the night; had taken and passed exams. By calling me out, however, he forced me to come to terms with the fact that competition in college, and life, is an essential component to success. People who actively pursue a vaunted position must compete against great odds all the while potentially risking being vilified unfairly along the way.

Despite my enrollment in the College of Engineering, I officially became a Pre-Med student that day.

It isn't Pre-Med students people should hold in contempt.

No, I would say to keep your eyes open and on the lookout for the Gunners.

Medicine -- High School Years

In addition to a general dislike for anything relating to physicians, there was little in my background that would have pointed to a career in medicine. As my youngest brother approaches his graduation from medical school, I started thinking of what led me to practice medicine.

This is my story ... the High School Years.

"Been there, done that." "No way in hell." These are the common answers people offer when asked,

"If given a chance, would you revisit your high school years?"

With one caveat, my response would be, "In a heartbeat."

I absolutely loved high school and never willingly missed a single day.

High school was an insular environment in many ways. We were all first segregated by age and class rank which afforded an inherent sense of belonging; twenty years down the road ~ popular or not ~ one would always be a "member of the class of ~ what have you." As a student you were further encouraged to integrate into the various social and athletic constructs. While I was a proud member of the Conference and District championship swimming teams, I doubt this qualified me for the revered "jock" status reserved for football and basketball. Regardless of where one ultimately settled into the mix, we were a "family" of sorts. This provided a good deal of comfort to me.

Education was the means to an end.

To be certain, each of us was enrolled in school to get an education. But studies often seemed to be more the price of admission we each had to pay in order to reap the benefits of an even greater wealth of fun and entertainment. The first bell at every hour would have everyone searching the halls for this friend or that. The final bell and simultaneous closing of all the doors would then have every student safely ensconced within a room of thirty different friends or acquaintances all of whom were fodder for another fifty minutes of mutual entertainment ~ and education.

Looking back, I still have difficulty imagining my friends being forward-thinking enough to actually plot a course of study for the next four years while a freshman. I had initially assumed all of us would take the same compulsory courses weaving our way through high school in goose-step fashion. I had no idea we were going to be asked to make choices. It was only after our freshman year was well underway that I realized just how poor my choices had been.

Erudition aside, words are a passion of mine.

Imagine, then, the horror ~ two to three weeks into the school term ~ when I suddenly found myself lost during conversations with friends as they discussed the esoterica of Biology and French ~ courses I had opted not to take. In short order, I had summarily exempted myself from participation, impotent as I sat listening to friends speaking in "languages" I didn't understand. For someone who thrives on conversation, this drove me to distraction.

I would guess there is nary a person who has endured high school who wouldn't admit to wanting to "belong" rather than setting themselves apart. Yet, through a lack of foresight or guidance, I had single-handedly managed to accomplish this by signing up for a less than prodigious workload. Not immune to the crazed need to fit in, in addition to an overarching drive to not be isolated from conversation with friends, I made the conscious decision to correct my mistake.

My best friend, Kevin, had taken Biology 1. I took Biology 1 the following year.

My good friend, Julie, had signed up for French 1. I took French 1 the following year.

Thus, the story of my high school academics became a game of "catch up." It was embarrassing.

As we eventually approached our senior year, all the "cool" guys were signing up to take a course called, "Bachelor Living." There was a concerted move afoot to assure that the men of tomorrow would at least know the rudiments of cooking and sewing. Whether or not I truly wore the imprimatur of "cool" is debatable, doubtful, OK, so I wasn't, but I signed up for the course nonetheless; I suppose I may have hoped it might wear off on me by association.

While I truly enjoyed the semester of cooking, I had absolutely no intention of spending five months sewing a shirt. I had other plans.

Having discovered a true passion for Biology in the three years since the embarrassment of my freshman year, I had ravenously consumed every course offered by Ms. Redden and Mrs. Whipple ~ the much revered and dread Biology teacher of lore. Still paying a price for that freshman mistake, the most coveted course she offered still seemed out of my reach. Senior Anatomy and Physiology was offered only to those students who had completed every prerequisite course -- I was currently enrolled in the one course which would have assured my admission.

There was also the little problem that this course was held during the same hour as my "sewing" class.

Don't ask how I managed; I honestly do not remember. But, with the inexplicable agreement of Mrs. Hoax, the easy going Bachelor Living teacher, I was allowed to "skip" the entire semester of sewing all the while (somehow) inserting myself into the Anatomy and Physiology class.

I had arrived during the vaunted semester of "the cat."

Over the years as people invariably come to ask how it is I decided to pursue a career in medicine, I generally begin by speaking of "the cat." While the sacrifice of that cat certainly played a role, there are many others who were also central to the decision.

Mrs. Hoax, Ms. Redden, Mrs. Whipple, Mr. & Mrs. Bucker, "Mimi" & George Stewart, Mr. Glidden, Mr. Earnhardt, Kevin, and Julie ~ they and countless others ~ played some integral role in paving the road to my future. It is a shame I have never before sat and pondered this until now. I am convinced people are generally unaware the impact they have on others in ways great and small. What I wouldn't give to have the opportunity to let each of them know how grateful I am simply for having had the opportunity to spend those four precious years alongside them. To let each of them know how they unwittingly helped to guide me to an uncertain future.

"If given the chance, would you revisit your high school years?"

In a heartbeat, but only if I was allowed to bring all the lessons I have learned along the way.

(Including Mrs. Hoax's tried and true method for a kick ass omelet!)

Liquid Gold

I have a problem

It never fails.

Once finished, taking a firm grasp, I shake and shake and shake it ~ just as my father taught me years ago. Despite all of my best efforts, however, I never manage to keep the last drop from falling at my feet.

I am glad to discover I am apparently not the only inept person in the world. I watch.

I have seen plenty of other men ~ and women ~ struggle as well.

It is on my mind every time I am pumping gas:

"Will I be able to come up with some new maneuver that will allow me to win the game of preventing that last drop from hitting the ground?"

And, just how much gas and money is wasted every year by the needless loss of these lowly droplets?

Let's just say the average number of drops that fall to the ground per fill-up is "five." (While I can proudly state I never lose more than one or two, I am going by the stats collected by a much smarter and obsessive man than I.)

The volume per drop is roughly 0.05cc or 1.32086026 x 10-5 US gallons. In 2005, he contends there was an estimated 180,000 million gallons of gas pumped in the United States by the likes of you and me. After calculating a rough estimate of the volume of fuel lost to the ground, he went on to perform some admittedly "voodoo" mathematics so as to estimate the cost of these drops. He elected to use a $4 per gallon cost estimated during the fall of 2008, during the period of hyper-inflated prices (presumable in his area).

Regardless of the crude calculations or debatable methodology, his results seem impressive:

1,182,830.36 gallons of lost fuel in drops which fall to the concrete as we finish at the pumps, with an estimated collective cost of $4,731,321.45 per year.

As Labor Day approaches, as well as an all-too-predictable bump in "demand," we will all be party to yet another cycle of inflated fuel prices.

This gives me pause for reflection:

Surely, there is some innovative person out there who has already developed a ridiculously simple and inexpensive solution to this problem; "some clever piece of plastic" that would stave off the loss of these precious drops?

And I should also not be forced into the embarrassing position of appearing as though I am thrown into a fit of convulsions as I try to come up with new maneuvers to beat the drop at it's own game. I do own the drop, after all.

How could I possibly have known I had money "falling at my feet" every few days?

No less, at the pumps of my local gas station!

Go figure.

November Looms

Emma: I want you to tell them it ain't so tragic! People do get better!
Patsy: What do you want me to do?
Emma: Tell them it's OK to talk about the cancer!

from the book, "Terms of Endearment"

During the phone call, a family member was struck by the fact I had not informed everyone. She wanted to know how my complete circle of friends and acquaintances could not be told.

I had my reasons.

I was also free to change my mind.

For the past couple of years I have been under treatment for cancer.

It all began as a nagging point of tenderness in my chest ~ just where my sternum meets with one of my ribs. With one finger, I could isolate the pain and "rub" it away. It went on this way for another couple of months or more ~ no better and no worse. It was tolerable.

Until the night I was awakened by a breath-robbing pain elicited by simply turning onto my side. This was definitely not normal by any stretch. I chose to ignore it anyway.

It did not take long, however, for me to realize I could no longer fool myself into believing the pain might be inconsequential.

I enjoyed a momentary reprieve, however, after talking with some of my colleagues, all of whom were certain the totality of my symptoms pointed to a nerve root compression injury from working out. "We are tired of watching you rub your chest ~ go order a damned MRI and get the problem fixed."

It was not a nerve root compression injury.

The MRI isolated a golf ball-sized mass encroaching on the neurovascular bundle under one of my ribs.

Following an extensive evaluation, a diagnosis was returned: In oncology-speak, the mass represented a high-grade, 3BE Anaplastic Large Cell Lymphoma.

This past March I drove to the cancer center to undergo yet another round of RCHOP21; my second complete course of chemotherapy (due to failure of initial treatment or relapse). As I sat in the waiting room of the lab, I heard my name being called. The woman shouting my name was clearly not one of the lab technicians; she was either a physician or a nurse.

She came forward and introduced herself to me, asked a few probing questions and then left the room. She repeated this process another two or three times before finally explaining that, "the head of the BMT Department would like to speak with (me)." Huh?

I was then ushered into a nearby conference room where a physician (I had never met) was seated at a table reviewing my treatment records. What?

Without wasting a breath, the stranger proceeded to inform me that, as a specialist, he was not confident I would be able to, "see (my) way to a cure without a transplant."

I felt dizzy. "What kind of transplant?" (A stupid question but I was in shock.)

Seeming to appreciate my confused state, the physician hesitated and then smiled as he replied, "A bone marrow transplant, Dr. Marvin."

I am currently biding my time as I await another diagnostic biopsy this November. My transplant future will depend on the outcome of this test.

So, going back to my relative's initial concern. Why haven't I told everyone about the cancer?

Simply put: I enjoy normal conversations with family and friends.

"How are you doing?"

Sure, it is a simple question. But this most common of questions takes on considerable heft when tainted with the knowledge of someone's treatment for cancer. You soon realize every answer is incomplete until you have again addressed the "cancer."

Please don't misunderstand. I appreciate the care, concern, and compassion extended by all my family, friends, and strangers alike. The prayer groups and support I have enjoyed have been a source of great comfort.

After a period of time, however, this patient wanted to be asked that simple question from someone ~ anyone ~ who wasn't aware of my medical condition. I craved normal conversations with people who were only interested in knowing, "what kind of great stuff has been going on in your life?"

This begs another logical question: If this is truly how you feel, why write about the cancer now?

As much as I would like to believe I am living a normal life, I am not. At least for the time being.

I am tired of keeping separate the mental lists of those, "who know," from those, "who don't know."

I am tired of circumventing questions and responding with "half-answers."

And, I am tired of hurting those who, once they have discovered my situation, are slighted by my apparent inability to trust them with the information.

This IS my life. For better or for worse.

I feel great at the moment. I am not now nor have I ever sought anyone's sympathy. I hope anyone who may feel slighted would accept my apology. Your understanding and support wouldn't hurt, either.

In a few months, I will know what my future holds; I remain an eternal optimist.

And, I honestly don't mind if family and friends continue to feel compelled to ask about the "cancer." But do me a favor ~ balance those concerns by also asking,

"What kind of craziness have you been up to lately?"

Lost And Found

Clare Boothe Luce was an amazing human being. She is famous for a highly successful, multi-faceted career which included stints as editor, playwright, politician, journalist, and diplomat. With the possible exception of a few classic plays, I would guess she is mostly forgotten by many who are not of her generation.

I am willing to put up cold-hard cash for an almost certain bet: Most everyone has, at one time or another, heard or uttered one of her most famously cited quotations; specifically,

"No good deed goes unpunished."

Today was my day.

I found a lost cellphone and then tried to return it.

In hindsight, I probably should have kicked it into the nearest sewer.

After a little quick research, I came up with some startling results regarding the annual loss of cell phones worldwide. One study in the United States claims, "10% of the cellphone-using population will lose at least one phone per year." Other research claims the hard numbers range from 6 to 12 million cellphones per year. I would venture all cellphone companies incorporate these data into their annual earnings forecasts.

Other research indicates that theft accounts for a large percentage of cellphone losses. In the United Kingdom, some 700,000 "mobiles" are reportedly "lifted" every year. Other noteworthy factors include: 400,000 phones dropped into alcoholic beverages; 600,000 deposited into the "loo"; and some 200,000 inadvertently put through the gentle cycle of their washing machines. One is left to assume there are quite a few imbibing, loo-using, thieving "sods" who mistakenly do laundry (while drunk) in Great Britain? (Illiteration vs Alliteration)

This lost phone could not have met a more ignoble fate; it was found on a fractured slab of concrete sidewalk in front of a nondescript, smelly Oriental grocery store (I had once gone into this store only to find a woman buried chest-deep -- feet in the air -- inside a deep freeze presumably "fishing" for rotten, stinking scrod). Even while fearing I might drop dead from the stench surrounding that store, "Bobby-Do-Good" had to stop and pick up the damnable phone.

In a recent poll, 89% of those surveyed indicated it was, "definitely worth a shot," to return a lost-then-found cell phone; the other 11% were divided equally among the "snooze, loose" and "it depends" camps. On reading these data, I truly felt vindicated; 9 out of 10 Americans agreed that making an attempt to return the phone was a good idea. The reader may be my judge.

I am no technological wizard. For this reason, I don't know how to work any device not my own; after picking up the lost cellphone, I decided the best course of action would be to first wait for someone to call "me." I would then inform the caller that I had found the phone and would be more than happy, with their help, to assure it's return to the rightful owner. It took no more than three minutes to ring; I somehow managed to answer it the second time around:

CALLER: Hello?

RDMMD: Hi. Are you, by chance, the owner of this phone?

CALLER: Oh, thank you so much! No, the girl who owns the phone is right here. She was hoping to get through to someone who may have found the phone. Here she is ... and, thank you, again.

RDMMD: (My chest swelling) Oh, no problem, ma'am!

LOSER: (As in "person who lost the phone") ..... hey.

RDMMD: Hey, I found your phone and would like to know how I might get it back to you?

(LOSER now will embarrass me with gratitude)

LOSER: What the hell do you mean -- you got my phone? Where the f*** you get my phone?

RDMMD: (chest deflating) What? What do you mean, "Where did I get your phone?" I found it on the street!

LOSERETTE: (now an official female "loser") Well ..... I need my phone! I need it now! When the you gonna bring me my phone?

RDMMD: (getting testier by the second) Where are you, ma'am?

LOSERETTE: What do YOU mean, "Where am I?" I'm at work! I'm at the Sonic ..... Mother F*****(MF)!

(She went on to relay the address which was, by this time, only a five minute drive)

RDMMD: (What can I say? Something snapped) I am heading to the hospital (no, I wasn't); I have an emergency (no, I didn't).

LOSERETTE: Where that be? (Could not make that up)

RDMMD: Oh, I am already across the river; I am at least twenty minutes away (in fairness, I WAS heading in that direction). May I bring the phone by your company later today or tomorrow?

LOSERETTE: I need that phone now! You shouldn' have picked up the phone in the first place! I didn' lose my phone -- I misplaced it! I need my phone, MF!

RDMMD: Fine. I am heading to a hospital (picked at random on my originally planned route) about twenty minutes or so from your location; I will leave it at the volunteer's desk for you to pick up.

LOSERETTE: SumBitchMF! (She eats with that thing!) Who are you? I need to know who am I talkin' to!

RDMMD: Oh, my name is Bill Esry (a former patient and past CEO of Sprint -- her carrier)!

LOSERETTE: mumbling ......

BILL ESRY: You are welcome ! Have a nice day!

LOSERETTE: EXPLETIVES DELETED ...... click

Do I feel good about how I handled this situation? Probably, not. If given the same set of circumstances, would I do it again? Hell, yes. Had she bothered to accord me even the slightest bit of appreciation, I would have gladly returned the phone on the spot.

Clare Boothe Luce was correct when she wrote, "No good deed goes unpunished."

Ask my new "friend" what she thinks.

I believe I do deserve to get credit for the good deed of returning the phone. She, at least to my way of thinking, well, she got "spanked."