Imagine That…(3) - Medical Turf Wars and Angels of Mercy Revisited

By Carl “J.C.” Pantejo, Copyright May 2008





Author “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor,” Copyright August 2007. Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing.





*The following story is incorporated in “My Friend Yu – the Prosperity Mentor: Book II,” Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing. Release Date: 2008.





“[Life] Amazing! Isn’t it?...”





- Medical Turf Wars -





“So, am I gon’na live?”





“Chief, I don’t know how you guys do it. I took a double-take on your birthday ‘cause your “biological” age and your “chronological” age just don’t match! What kind of veggies or vitamins are you taking? I haven’t seen a 28” waist since High School! I still lift (weights) regularly and am an amateur bodybuilder. What’s your bodyfat percentage?” He said.





Trying to get on his good side, I said, “I don’t know. Four months ago, the Aviation Medical Technician doing the prelims for one of my physical exams said it was ‘too low to be healthy’, I think. Whatever that means?”





He was the DMO (Diving Medical Officer), a lieutenant (Officer Grade 3 in the Navy), and in his mid-thirties (my age at the time). He was already beginning to bald, and slightly paunchy. He still had the big arms and barrel chest of a Navy Diver, but probably hadn’t seen a six-pack on his body for years.





“So, what’s your secret? My wife would go totally ga-ga if I could get my college body back.”





I didn’t want to tell him that the simple answer was to get rid of his wife. Single men tended to be more “hungry” and had less extraneous obligations.





And it took a very understanding spouse to put up with the lifestyle of “an athlete in uniform.” The hours of training were just too long for even the most loving wife.





I knew. I was on my second wife and the marriage’s prognosis looked very bleak.





Grinning at the doctor I said, “Amazing, isn’t it? I attribute my girlish figure to celibacy and pure thoughts.”





(In reality, I PT’d [physically trained] for at least 3 hours a day, ate like a pig all day, then drank beer and chased women at night.)





The rest of the time I wasted on frivolous things (like work).





We both laughed.





Then I asked, “Sir, when can I leave?”





“If it was up to me, I’d let you go now. But as you know, you need to be cleared by the ‘other guys’ too,” the DMO said.





“I can’t be medically disqualified right now. I got some important orders,” I desperately whined.





The truth was that I was to do some “exchange student” exercises with a few of my counterparts from foreign military units (e.g., Republic of Korea, British, Australian, and Thailand teams) in the next few weeks.





“Cobra Gold” was the official name of the annual joint military exercises held on and around the Pattaya Beach area of Thailand.





I looked forward to this yearly “Work Hard, Play Hard” event.





I especially loved the beautiful women. They’re always amazed that: 1) I am American, not Thai (I’m a mix of everything Asian) and 2) in spite of being “gaa” (Thai: old), like a Tantric Sex Master, I can go on for hours in the bedroom.





Similar to Jack LaLane on his birthday (who?), I added more “degrees of difficulty” (meaning, participants) to my personal exploits every year.





“Chill out. I’m sure you’ll be discharged in time to go to Cobra Gold. Jeez! I love that place! Anyway, I’ve arranged for my most responsible Corpsman to keep you company. Just don’t corrupt her too much” he said, smiling like the devil.





These “Medical Turf Wars” were a hassle for people like me.





Instead of periodic physical examinations by one doctor, I had to be cleared by several different doctors (e.g., Med/Specwar guy, Diving Doc, Flight Surgeon, PTSD Psychiatrist, etc.).





This meant having at least three, instead of one, rectal exam every year!





I never got used to that.





One year, after getting past the point of being pissed off, I invited all the nurses to witness my rectal exams.





Since all Military Hospitals double as learning institutions, there was never a shortage of an audience (mostly interns, new Corpsman, and fresh Nursing school graduates).





Laying prone on the examination table and my bare ass in the air, I proclaimed to the giggling group of students, “Have your way with me. My ass is your ass!”





The responses (and phone numbers afterwards) were well worth it.





But when I saw who was going to be my companion during her Duty Day, I didn’t mind that I’d be here (on a Submarine Tender Medical Ward) overnight.





“Thanks Doc!” I shouted as the DMO bade his farewell.





- Those Medical Slackers -





Looking down at the cute Filipina Corpsman at the foot of my bed, I asked, “Are you sure you want to hear this?”





“Yes, of course. I’ve read about it, but I’ve never met anyone who has actually experienced it,” she said, momentarily breaking her gaze away from my powerful erection to smile a little, naughty smile.





Did she just lick her lips?





Then, silently, she stood up, walked to the “wrong” side of the patient bed, reached across my body, and checked the I.V. bag and drip chamber hanging on a metal hook on the other side of the bed.





“Accidentally” smothering me with her chest, she whispered, “Oops. Sorry.”





“No problem, no problem at all, HN (Hospitalman, E-3 paygrade) Marisol.”





During my short stay in her Sickbay/Ward, we had already established a close, informal rapport. I teased her by addressing her by the appropriate military title “HN,” but then finished it with the totally inappropriate, overly friendly use of her first name (Marisol) instead of her last name.





I could usually tell when to cross the line or not.





Medical personnel (officer and enlisted alike) were notorious for employing lax military standards and sloppy decorum.





Line Officers called them “Slackers, referring to their apparent lack of military bearing. I couldn’t blame them (the medical personnel). In fact, initially, when I first joined the service, I was just like them.





You see, most military medical personnel were just biding their time, simply repaying the military back for their medical training. After one hitch (tour of duty), they usually left active duty to pursue a more lucrative, civilian medical career. This applied to the majority of doctors, nurses, and Corpsmen within all branches of the U.S. Military Services (Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps).





The U.S. Marine Corps had no indigenous medical personnel. That was why I, a Navy Independent Duty Corpsman, was technically a sailor, but, for all practical purposes, was a Marine at heart. Except for my mandatory stints at Navy Hospitals and “Tin Cans” (small ships), I spent the bulk of my career deployed with Marines (specifically, the Diver/Jumper types).