Barrett Dorko
10-02-2006, 04:25 PM
It’s been a quiet week in Cuyahoga Falls…
On the day that one of Andy’s men died we were gathered together in Seattle watching the Super Bowl pre-game festivities; Kathy, Melissa and me.
The night before, Melissa, as always, placed a telephone on either side of her in bed, making sure she doesn’t miss it if he manages a call.
That day, Alex planned for the safety of his men. They tell him how they appreciate that he “thinks like an enlisted man” and I know this makes him smile. I can see it.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died, I sat down behind some coffee, calculated the time in Baquba and begin to type another letter. As always, the warmth of the coffee and the comfort of the room receded from my awareness as I imagined what it must be like for him.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died I was reading The River of Doubt by Candice Millard and found I couldn’t put it down. In 1913 ex-President Theodore Roosevelt was given the opportunity to explore for the first time a tributary of the Amazon. Named for its enigmatic nature, The River of Doubt wound down a steep descent from a high plateau in Brazil into the heart of a forest that had adapted to the environment in ways these men barely understood. They knew the jungle was teeming with life yet found it amazingly quiet and still. In the midst of phenomenally abundant plant life they nearly starved to death and discovered that their attempts to manipulate their surroundings for their own comfort were rebuffed in a variety of insidious and often painful ways. Throughout the course of their two month journey they were watched continuously by natives who were fiercely territorial and aggressive. Roosevelt’s party never saw them at all.
Often I stand before a group of about 40 therapists with an accumulated clinical experience of at least 200 years. I ask, “What do you do with the common finding of isometric activity in the cervical region?” In response there is total silence. In fact, I can sense the cessation of breathing in several seated in the front row. The bodily stillness evident in many is worthy of a professional poker player.
Andy and Alex arrived at Fort Lewis near Seattle last summer, both of them Second Lieutenants. They were deployed to Iraq at the same time and Andy’s wife roomed with Melissa for a while afterward. Andy leads a platoon in Mosul, inspecting a stretch of road each day with the latest in detection equipment and armor. Like Alex, now in Baquba, he’s looking for bombs recently placed by those who in this region are aggressive and territorial. They don’t have the sophisticated technology he possesses, but their stealth and willingness to wait quietly are enough. On the day I sat watching the Super Bowl and eating too much Melissa got a phone call from another woman on the call chain for the Fourteenth Engineers. All we were told was that “an unmarried soldier” had been killed. It was one of Andy’s men, and he had to identify the body.
Candice Millard points out that in an environment full of predators only those species that are able to effectively hide will survive. They do this in a variety of ways including mimicry and coloration, silence and stillness. Without question, natural selection favors those who can’t be easily seen. As I read this I began to think about how well so many of us do this, how we are literally born with a fear of public speaking, and, if not, are often encouraged by our elders to develop it. I don’t personally possess this fear and now I think I know why my classes look at me as if I was strange. As it turns out, I am strange. By contrast, the therapists around me when given the opportunity to expose themselves shrink from the task. Now this makes sense to me – it’s part of their genetic inheritance.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died my son was hidden in his armored vehicle wearing camouflage. He knows better than to step outside, and since hearing of the death in Mosul has reminded his own men of this. But he’s a leader, and born to that. I know that often those who wish our soldiers harm will see him first. Oh yes, he’s not afraid to speak in public either. He got that from me.
I speak to my classes about something our patients are hiding just beneath their surface. This is a motion that will help them but at the same time makes them conspicuous. If they are hesitant to express it maybe we need to understand that this is not only because of the way our culture looks upon it but also that evolutionary forces have driven them to hide it. In my experience, therapists aren’t any less affected by this, and when I ask them to speak aloud before others they typically become as still as a tree sloth in the Amazon. There’s survival in this, but I rather doubt there’s much health.
I know that while they watch me move about in front of others verbally challenging the very foundations of our profession many therapists wonder if I have any of the fears that haunt them, perhaps some fear that makes me immobile and silent.
I do. I never speak of Alex’s patrols while I teach. I never even mention where he is. I can’t begin to without breaking down. I hide this very well.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died, I was reminded why.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died we were gathered together in Seattle watching the Super Bowl pre-game festivities; Kathy, Melissa and me.
The night before, Melissa, as always, placed a telephone on either side of her in bed, making sure she doesn’t miss it if he manages a call.
That day, Alex planned for the safety of his men. They tell him how they appreciate that he “thinks like an enlisted man” and I know this makes him smile. I can see it.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died, I sat down behind some coffee, calculated the time in Baquba and begin to type another letter. As always, the warmth of the coffee and the comfort of the room receded from my awareness as I imagined what it must be like for him.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died I was reading The River of Doubt by Candice Millard and found I couldn’t put it down. In 1913 ex-President Theodore Roosevelt was given the opportunity to explore for the first time a tributary of the Amazon. Named for its enigmatic nature, The River of Doubt wound down a steep descent from a high plateau in Brazil into the heart of a forest that had adapted to the environment in ways these men barely understood. They knew the jungle was teeming with life yet found it amazingly quiet and still. In the midst of phenomenally abundant plant life they nearly starved to death and discovered that their attempts to manipulate their surroundings for their own comfort were rebuffed in a variety of insidious and often painful ways. Throughout the course of their two month journey they were watched continuously by natives who were fiercely territorial and aggressive. Roosevelt’s party never saw them at all.
Often I stand before a group of about 40 therapists with an accumulated clinical experience of at least 200 years. I ask, “What do you do with the common finding of isometric activity in the cervical region?” In response there is total silence. In fact, I can sense the cessation of breathing in several seated in the front row. The bodily stillness evident in many is worthy of a professional poker player.
Andy and Alex arrived at Fort Lewis near Seattle last summer, both of them Second Lieutenants. They were deployed to Iraq at the same time and Andy’s wife roomed with Melissa for a while afterward. Andy leads a platoon in Mosul, inspecting a stretch of road each day with the latest in detection equipment and armor. Like Alex, now in Baquba, he’s looking for bombs recently placed by those who in this region are aggressive and territorial. They don’t have the sophisticated technology he possesses, but their stealth and willingness to wait quietly are enough. On the day I sat watching the Super Bowl and eating too much Melissa got a phone call from another woman on the call chain for the Fourteenth Engineers. All we were told was that “an unmarried soldier” had been killed. It was one of Andy’s men, and he had to identify the body.
Candice Millard points out that in an environment full of predators only those species that are able to effectively hide will survive. They do this in a variety of ways including mimicry and coloration, silence and stillness. Without question, natural selection favors those who can’t be easily seen. As I read this I began to think about how well so many of us do this, how we are literally born with a fear of public speaking, and, if not, are often encouraged by our elders to develop it. I don’t personally possess this fear and now I think I know why my classes look at me as if I was strange. As it turns out, I am strange. By contrast, the therapists around me when given the opportunity to expose themselves shrink from the task. Now this makes sense to me – it’s part of their genetic inheritance.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died my son was hidden in his armored vehicle wearing camouflage. He knows better than to step outside, and since hearing of the death in Mosul has reminded his own men of this. But he’s a leader, and born to that. I know that often those who wish our soldiers harm will see him first. Oh yes, he’s not afraid to speak in public either. He got that from me.
I speak to my classes about something our patients are hiding just beneath their surface. This is a motion that will help them but at the same time makes them conspicuous. If they are hesitant to express it maybe we need to understand that this is not only because of the way our culture looks upon it but also that evolutionary forces have driven them to hide it. In my experience, therapists aren’t any less affected by this, and when I ask them to speak aloud before others they typically become as still as a tree sloth in the Amazon. There’s survival in this, but I rather doubt there’s much health.
I know that while they watch me move about in front of others verbally challenging the very foundations of our profession many therapists wonder if I have any of the fears that haunt them, perhaps some fear that makes me immobile and silent.
I do. I never speak of Alex’s patrols while I teach. I never even mention where he is. I can’t begin to without breaking down. I hide this very well.
On the day that one of Andy’s men died, I was reminded why.