During my third and fourth years in medical school, Robin taught elementary school on 117th Street in Spanish Harlem. She’d often ask me what the new expressions meant that she heard the children utter. Back then it would be perfectly acceptable to have students visit our apartment and even travel to Long Island to visit Robin’s family. She almost blew an FBI investigation across the street from the school by pointing out and complaining of strange men in the boy’s bathroom and interference on the TV monitor. Kimberly Ann Kappler was born on May 15, 1965, just before my graduation. I felt sorry for Robin’s OB GYN for he was favored by most of the pregnant noninsuredmedical-student wives. God bless Dr. Davis. We did gift him a small Steuben-cut glass piece.
UNCHARTED WATERS
I was accepted at MCV, and we embarked on an adventure, which tested our reserve and humanity. We packed all our possessions into a small U-Haul trailer that I attached to the back bumper of our car. We then departed for Richmond. After a month of easy living at the Westover Hills condominiums and pool, I began my surgical internship and residency, which my dear friend Deming Payne now refers to as child abuse for adults. Robin had no idea I had to stay at the hospital when I was on call. She would be alone for the first time in her life and responsible for an infant’s welfare.
Robin cared for Kim and eventually began teaching English in Richmond’s Welfare Incentive Program to women wishing to improve their lives. When Chris, our son, was born in 1970, the LPN (licensed practical nurse) who brought him to her had been one of her students. The ladies loved her so much they referred to me through her. One afternoon when I was almost a chief resident, a group of us were making rounds in the surgical ward. A junior resident had presented a female patient’s case and I was critiquing her care. I bent over to palpate her incision when she exclaimed, “You’s Mrs. Kappler’s husband, I’s got your picture right here.”
The group erupted in laughter, and from that point on, I was referred to as Mrs. Kappler’s husband. I remember two stories about her students who lived in Richmond’s sixties black culture. Their beliefs were new to her.
First of all, if they wished to have their husbands become more attentive, they added a portion of their urine to his Kool Aid. They also believed that the cadavers dissected in the medical school were still obtained by nefarious men pithing the unsuspecting citizen and selling the body to MCV. Her income far exceeded mine, which was $250 a month.
The hours were long, the challenges were at times overwhelming, sleep deprivation was the standard, and the learning curve required superhuman attention and effort. In the sixties, there were no defined working hours; one stayed at the hospital until all work was completed and the chief resident dismissed you. I remained at MCV every other night and weekend. The weekend was from Saturday morning to Monday evening. Almost nothing was left in reserve to be a suitable husband and father. After our five-year MCV sojourn, only two of the original twelve married couples were still together. However, we surgical residents did become damn good clinicians and surgeons, but with naiveté of youth that convinced us we could accomplish anything in the surgical arena. That misconception was certainly challenged and redefined as over time I discovered reality.
There was no draft lottery in 1965, and regardless of age, marital status, number of children, and even disabilities, all surgeons were drafted at the onset of the internship. Even non-US citizens with green cards, who were participating in a US residency, were drafted. I was lucky to be granted a deferment to complete my training: the Berry Plan. That was great ’cause Vietnam would surely be over by 1970. Wrong!
Now, if I were not deferred, I would have been activated after my internship as a GMO (general medical officer). That designation would have possibly assigned me in 1966 into the field with the fighting troops. Not a safe place. The fact was that with the minimal medical resources in the field, an experienced corpsman could accomplish the same level of treatment as a newly minted doc. Eventually, the army abandoned the practice of sending physicians afield.
One of my fellow interns was activated, arrived in Vietnam as a GMO, was assigned to a firebase, and proceeded, in addition to his other responsibilities to practice preventive medicine. The troops for which he was responsible were experiencing a high rate of clinically significant VD (venereal disease):gonorrhea. This “clap” was at times disabling enough to reduce the number of troops fit for the field. So Jack, a Harvard man, visited the local Vietnamese villages, identified the “working girls,” treated their disease, created ID cards, and regularly re-examined and retreated the ladies. The VD rate plummeted, the troops were happy, and command had their fighting men back. One trooper was so overwhelmed with gratitude he wrote home reporting the successful safety measures. His mother notified the appropriate state senator, and soon, a directive arrived in the Vietnam jungle to cease and desist Jack’s preventive measures. Gonorrhea would be king again.
LIFE-ALTERING PLANS
My son, Christopher Jon Kappler, was born on February 4, 1970, in an MCV delivery room. He weighed nine and one-half pounds when he was delivered around 8:00 a.m. after a prolonged labor due to an abnormal presentation. I was a chief resident at the Veterans Administration Hospital (VA) and had a Whipple operation for cancer of the pancreas scheduled for that hour. The VA was a twenty-minute drive from MCV. Dr. Ware, who also would not be compensated by medical insurance, saved me from having to decide to forego a rare surgical opportunity or desert my wife when he used Keelan forceps to bring Chris into the world and give me time to make it to the VA for the surgery.
We knew I was going to Vietnam that year. The planning had begun years before.
Robin was instrumental in organizing at MCV the Sally Tompkins Chapter of WASAMA, the Women’s Auxiliary to the Student American Medical Association. Sally, a nurse, was a commissioned officer in the confederate army. We visited her home and gravesite in Manasses, Virginia.
The auxiliary, as a group, aided the wives of medical students, interns, and residents in the trials and tribulations of their everyday lives being married to medical students and house staff physicians: residents in training. Robin campaigned for and was elected the national president of WASAMA to occupy her for the year I was away in Vietnam. She would travel to any and all chapters in the United States at their invitation and expense. Both children usually traveled with her. Controlling the entourage could be a daunting challenge at airports. Robin’s solution was to place Kim, five, in a wheelchair and Chris, one, on her lap qualifying for early boarding.
One highlight of her travels was the embarrassment of calling in the hogs as she stood on the steps of the state capitol in Little Rock, Arkansas. There she was being honored and encouraged to emit animal noises by her hosts. How could she refuse; Sooey, Sooey, Sooey …
We would sell the cottage in Richmond, also the sporty Sprite, rent a home near her father, Frank, and his wife, Alice, in Lake Panamoka, New York, and secure her a teaching position in Middle Island, New York. While Robin was teaching, Kim was in school, and Robin’s sister Muffin watched Chris. Both towns were on eastern Long Island, New York.
One day, she substituted in senior class music at Middle Island School. Kids always gave the substitutes a difficult time. This was 1970. She had taught elementary kids in 1962 in this same district. Then the kids sat on your lap, rubbed your arm, and stroked your stockings. She especially loved Bo.
As the seniors filed in, the kids began to act up, and Robin was waiting for Bo. A big, handsome, swarthy young man made his appearance. He was their leader. Robin had written her married name on the black board, i.e., Mrs. Kappler, not Ms. Viverito. Then she said, “Bo, come here.” He froze at hearing her voice. His face brightened, and he asked, “Is that really you?” Needless to say, the class remained totally under control by his direction.
BASIC
