The Busiest 24 Hours Of My Life

“You know, the last time I did this was in Ranger School,” I remarked to one of my fellow chaplains. We were all standing in line, waiting (something we do quite well, along with hurrying up) to go up the rappel tower. “That was 16 years ago, and I felt too old then.” After a (polite, perhaps) chuckle, I just had to add, “Oh well, what could possibly happen?” 24 hours later, I was coming to after emergency surgery. My first words to the nurse were, “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather.”

It all started at about 1530 (3:30 pm) on Monday, 22 September. I hooked up to the line, found the ledge over the side and leaned back, away from the platform of Victory Tower. I thought I might be a bit apprehensive, having been so long since my last rappel. But Victory Tower is only 40 feet, not exactly the most intimidating structure from which to rappel. Plus, I loved every second of it. I loved hooking up, then leaning back with legs straight, until I got that “perfect L-shape” and the instructor’s okay to jump. I pushed off vigorously, throwing out my right hand for the slack to play through, and then braking by pressing my right fist into the small of my back. I did okay on that bound, but it was nothing to write home about. (Mental note: brush up on meaningless clichés and euphemisms.) The second bound was much better. The only sound was the rope, zzzzznnnnnnnggging through the clip. A hard brake, and the wall came toward me. Feet out, I touched down with the balls of my feet, ready to push off again.

But when I hit the wall, it was as if my ankle exploded. I could feel the tendons behind my heel stretching, straining, shuddering. I later described it as if you were to grasp a glass rod tightly and squeege your fingers down its length. I was most of the way down the tower, and I pushed out with my good foot, easing down as best I could.

Back at the holding area I took my boot off. If the Achilles tendon was torn, I expected that there would be bruising immediately, and also disfiguration. A couple of the cadre stopped by and took a look as well. I have to admit, it was remarkably unremarkable. There was very slight swelling, and perhaps the faintest tinge of brown (or was that just dirt? Sorry, mom). But I expected that if the Achilles was torn, as opposed to just strained a bit, it would be black and blue, swollen and hurt like the dickens. It did neither. Aside from the initial wince of pain, it only hurt when I walked on the ball of my left foot. As long as I splayed that foot out to the side, I was able to hobble around nicely.

I rode in a vehicle, while the class marched back to our formation area. There are 77 chaplains and chaplain candidates in the class, broken down into four platoons. The previous weekend I think there might have been a little resentment about some extra training I felt was needed, as the platoon leader. Now only a few days removed, the only thing expressed was concern. They laid hands on me and prayed for my healing. Now, THAT is something I have never encountered in another Army school. Praise God!

At about 1800, I went to the Urgent Care Clinic, seeing the doctor about 2000. He diagnosed it as a possible tear, gave me Percocet, scheduled an MRI and suggested I follow up with TMC (Troop Medical Clinic, or sick call) in the morning. While I was waiting for Urgent Care, Lori called to tell me Jeri was in labor. I don’t know if I was as excited when any of our three boys were born. I was so happy. By the time I got back to the dorm, it was time for bed. Somehow, I didn’t see the text message that her water broke at 11 pm. I’m sure Lori appreciated my 0500 wake up call (she had been up several times during the night with updates) but I needed to know. I met the platoon for formation at 0600 and announced to them that I was a grandfather, as of ninety minutes ago. We didn’t do cigars because, well, because we are in Initial Entry Training (boot camp … loosely speaking) and not allowed to use tobacco. Besides, how many chaplains smoke cigars? At 6 in the morning anyway?

After the class marched off to another training area, I reported to TMC. By the time I was referred to Physical Therapy, it was close to 0900. The PT doc had me lay face down, and prodded. “Ow!” I yelled.

“That hurt?”

“No, sir. I’m just practicing.”

Then the doc called over two others, both for confirmation and also to tutor the intern about how to tell if the Achilles is severed, and how severely. There were lots of “Ooo”s and “Mmm”s. Interestingly, the only real pain was a little soreness in my calf.

“Completely severed. Just a little of the sheath left, perhaps.”

"Oh, is that bad,” I asked. Duh.

The whole medical record is electronic now, which is a HUGE improvement, in my book. Besides that, the doctor always looked off into space as he prodded around my ankle—as if he was viewing my x-ray on an invisible teleprompter or something. “Okay, I want you to go right away to Ortho, on the seventh floor. They’ll be waiting for you.”

Just as this was sinking in, he said, “Have you had breakfast?” (For the benefit of any readers who have enjoyed such healthy lives that you might be unaware, this is asked before surgery, as a person under general anesthesia will sometimes vomit.)

I walked in the door to Ortho at about 0945 or so, and went to the sign-in counter. “I’m Chaplain Peppers, and –”

“Captain Peppers? I’ll take him. Right this way, sir! You eat breakfast this morning?” An all-business sergeant first class materialized and escorted me back to a gurney. “We’ll be with you in a few, sir.”

About an hour later (well, that’s a few … quite a few, but they were busy. Really busy. If the ortho clinic was a wings and beer joint, they’d be opening another franchise next week.), the sergeant and the doc came by. The doc spent about one minute with me, and I was fine with that. He had a calm confidence, like this is something he has seen hundreds of times before, but my case was still special enough to warrant his undivided attention. He initialed my left (hurt) ankle, and then drew on the other heel to show where the incision was going to be. Any questions? Okay, seeya when you come to.

Jeri sent me a picture message of little Nathan Thomas Peppers, about the time I walked in to ortho. But everyone who passed by my gurney seemed on a life-or-death mission, so I didn’t get to show it to anyone. He looked just like Justin, when he was a newborn.

The last time I saw a clock it was about 1130. I guess they figured enough time passed since I ate breakfast. And then came the pain. Such an incredible, sharp burning torture. But I knew I must withstand, and be strong. Endure like a man. Face set against the tyrannical pain, with steely resolve I stood up to the agony. “There! All done. See, now all we have to do when you need meds or fluids is just to hook it up to this little catheter. We call this an IV block. Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Speak for yourself, fella.

Another half dozen people asked if I had anything to eat today. I think maybe they had a pool going on whether I would heave or not. I thought maybe I should try to get in on it. Then they wheeled me in to a cold, all-tile room. Floor, walls, ceiling, I think even the vents were made of tile. It seemed eerily and strikingly similar to the cold, all-tile room they brought me to at Fort Gordon, before my back surgery. I met the anesthesiologist again. He was quite … zzzzzzzzzz.

It was 1530 when I came to in my room. “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather,” I boasted groggily.

“Well, congratulations. Haven’t you had a busy day.”

She had no idea.