23 cents for breakfast 

23 cents it cost me, and I got a bum deal. 

Let’s set the stage.  It all took place over 47 years ago when I was in the US Army at an army hospital in the back blocks of West Germany about an hours drive from where I was stationed.  I was to have the main varicose veins stripped from both of my legs.  The operation was scheduled for about 0800 hours, and I had stayed in the hospital over-night for prepping etc. 

The cost of breakfast if eating in an army mess was 23 cents, and because of the operation, I was charged even though I wasn’t allowed to eat it.  

Following the 4 hour operation, and as I was coming out of the anesthetic, it was lunchtime.  The noon meal was the most expensive at 45 cents, and there was no way they’d keep me from it.  I wasn’t about to be diddled twice in the same day.

I was nearing the end of my 3-year tour of duty with the army, and there would be no cost to me for the operation.  So, I decided to get it done there instead of back in civilian life at a questionable cost and rehabilitation time.

Varicose vein stripping is a gruesome operation, but fortunately I didn’t have to watch.  Picture this.  For each leg, at the ankle and the groin, incisions are made to locate the ends of the main blood vein.  The doctors shove a wire up inside each vein starting at the ankle and tie off the severed end at the groin.   Then the wire is withdrawn, physically ripping the tied off vein out of the leg.  To do so, the vein is passing inside of itself during removal.

Following the 45-cent lunch, I was instructed, “stay in bed, and here’s a bed pan to relieve yourself when you are ready.”  Well, the pain in my bladder was building up, the bedpan remained empty, and I was damned if I was going to get a catheter shoved up my you know what to get the flow going.  So, I carefully eased myself out of bed, and hoped no snooty nurse would catch me standing up.  I got the job done with the bedpan almost overflowing.   I stayed on in the hospital for several days and as I was the senior officer on the ward, and when I was authorized to safely standup, I’d carefully shuffle my way up and down to ‘cheer up the troops.’  I was the only patient with a varicose vein stripping, while the rest were all in for hernia operations. 

Home I went, but complications set in with severe swelling in one leg, so, back to the hospital.   I had to pull rank on the nurse in order to see the doctor, who on examination threw me back in the hospital for a couple weeks with my legs up to dissolve the infected clot that had formed where the former vein had been prior to ‘physical extraction.’  It used to irritate me when the 3 responsible surgeons would arrive, have a look at my leg, and have a quiet conference just out of earshot.  Of course I was to learn later from my nurse mother the big concern was if a bit of the infected clot had broken loose and lodged in my brain or heart – ball game over!   Meanwhile, it was a rather boring existence, but was quite a social time after hours with lights out, and mates visiting – who as standards dictated - also brought along a few ‘unauthorized’ cold beers.   Usually, the single and cute young nurses joined in, as some of my beer-toting mates were also young single officers.  Even my Battalion Commander, came to visit, but he didn’t bring any beers.

Because I was the Intelligence Officer In charge of the newly implemented nuclear weapons program for our 155 mm field artillery battalion, I was anxious to get back to the battalion headquarters instead of recuperating in my quarters.  I had been instructed to keep my legs elevated using the corner of my desk to avoid further complications, and maintain better circulation.   In any army when a senior officer comes to visit it is SOP (standard operating procedure) for more junior officers and enlisted men to stand-up at attention.   Here was an exception, because my Battalion Commander was visiting my office several times a day, and I’d simply sit there with my legs up while he stood there – not at attention - conducting his business with me.  He was a Lieutenant Colonel while I was a First Lieutenant.  Considerable difference in ranks between us, but it worked out ok.

So, there I was with a varicose vein operation, effectively costing me 23 cents.  To put that 23 cents into perspective, 2 gallons (7.5 litres) of petrol cost 1 cent less and a pound of butter was 1 cent more.   Army salaries were not very expansive in those days, so we counted our pennies.

The ironic thing is that all the pain and misery associated with the grisly operation turned out to be a waste of time.   While the main individual vein close to the surface in each leg had been removed, others still in my legs simply took their place, so my bulging veins are still there, but in slightly different positions.  Where I used to suffer a bit when walking around playing 18 holes of golf, I have given up golf, but can handle running sports like tennis and arm bending with a cold beer. 

My varicose veins were passed along in the DNA I inherited from my mother, and I passed them to my younger, but not my older son.    Even with varicose veins, the three generations, from my mother to myself to my sons, can be thankful for otherwise excellent health providing great longevity, because older generations back to my grandparents and great-grandparents lived into their late 80’s and 90’s.  

One-time flowers for Julie – must preserve that memory!

One border of our South African farm was a cliff-like steep and rocky 1000-meters high.  There, the South African (Afrikaner) word is ‘kranz,’ and in our case was accessible only by foot or dirt motorbike.

One day I was inspecting our 425-acre farm on board my motorbike.  I had cruised down into one of our farm’s three major valleys, crossed the dam, and headed up the kranz.   It was a difficult climb that would have been impossible with our 4-wheel drive due to the inability of turning around without rolling over and over down that long steep slope. 

I was working up the steepest and most inaccessible part of the farm as fast and practically as I could in order to maintain my forward inertia.  The back wheel was occasionally spinning and churned out loose stones and dirt as I dodged and wove between numerous rocky outcrops.  Staying upright was only possible by extending both feet far out from the pedals, and maintaining a tight grip on the handles with elbows tensed and bent to avoid sliding off the back of the bike. 

Up and up I went, and was perhaps 70% of the way.  It was quite a bit further than I had ever ventured in the past.  When I dared move my eyes away from the difficult steep track I started noticing wild native South African protea flowers growing in small clumps within the sparse thin patches of soil. 

The proteas were very attractive in their natural environment.   

As they belonged to us, I stopped and picked some with plans to present them to Julie.  First, I needed to carefully work my way down using the lowest gear and minimum front wheel hand braking to avoid skidding.  Both of my feet were projected out from the pedals to achieve balance, so there was no braking possible for the rear wheel.   It was a pretty fast and scary decent down the kranz.

That day after returning from the most difficult part of our farm’s topography Julie was about to receive some flowers from me for the very first time. 

We’d probably been married about 10 years.   It’s now over 27 years later, and I haven’t given her any flowers since.  

Must preserve that memory - mustn’t I?