MIKE ECHO - THE LEGACY LIVES ON
In January 1998 I signed up for the Leukemia Society of America’s Team In Training to ride in America’s Most Beautiful Bike Ride – Lake Tahoe in June. Due to a prior commitment, I asked the Tri-County Chapter president for permission to ride in the 111-mile El Tour de Tucson in November instead. My request was granted.
I was assigned an honored patient. His name was John. He was an 11-year-old.
My life was changed forever.
Live Long and Prosper
I first met John and his parents, Ben and Tina, in early February 1998, at their apartment in Tustin. Ben was a sergeant in the Marine Corps and was an avionics technician. Tina worked part-time at a local department store. John’s goal in life was to become an Eagle Scout and to become a Marine just like his father.
After conversing for about one hour, John grabbed my arm and led me to his room. Ben and Tina followed.
“Close your eyes.” I was led into his room. “Okay, now open them.”
His room was nothing but wall-to-wall electronic gadgetry. I thought I was in Radio Shack – stereos, scanners, oscilloscope, amplifiers, tuners, computer, speakers. You name it, he had it. I was in complete awe. His room was neat and orderly. My room never looked like his when I was his age.
“Nice shop you have here, John. Where do you sleep?”
“Over there,” as he pointed to a corner of the room by the window where his bed built upon a set of speakers.
I turned to Ben and Tina and remarked, “I bet you have one heck of an electric bill.”
“We do, but it comes out of his allowance.” We all laughed.
“As long as he keeps his room clean, he gets a bonus every week.”
“Oh really? What’s that?” I asked.
“He gets to go to the store with his mom and get repair parts for his equipment. If he fixes them, it’s easier on our pocketbooks. All this equipment was given to John by a nurse’s friend.”
I quipped, “Well, where’s the transporter room?” as I gazed at all of the gadgets that adorned his wall.
Then, I came across an autographed picture of Leonard Nimoy with his Vulcan hand salute. “Live long and prosper. Leonard Nimoy.”
“Well, I’ll be. You’re a Trekkie.”
“I’m a Trekker!” snapped John.
“Trekker. Trekkie. What’s the difference?”
“A Trekker is a fan of the show. A Trekkie fantasizes about being in the show. John is a Trekker,” was the explanation I got from Tina.
Electronic Savant
John was an electronic savant – electronics was his hobby. He was a hybrid of Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, and Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek. Electronics was his forte and Star Trek gave him visions. Ben and Tina recalled when they first noticed John’s peculiar interest in electronics.
On Christmas Day 1996, Ben and Tina gave John a portable CD player for Christmas. Instead of traipsing about the house listening to CDs and playing with his new toys, John went into his room. Wondering why John was in his room for about an hour and not playing with all of his new Christmas toys, Ben went to John’s room and was shocked to see the CD player on John’s bed in “a million pieces.”
Ben admonished John, “How could you do such a thing?!”
John’s answer was, “It’s okay, Dad, I will put it back together.”
“Yes, you will young man! And it better be working in time for dinner or you will not eat until you do!”
Before Ben closed the door behind him, he noticed John had this mischievous smile on his face.
Right before dinner, John emerged from his room with the CD player in hand. Ben was not convinced that it was working and grabbed it from John, put in a CD, and hit the play button. It was working.
“I thought it was a practical joke played by John and Nana,” recalled Ben. “I asked John if he had gotten another CD player from Nana that me and Tina didn’t know about. Nana shook her head no and John shook his head no with that mischievous little smile of his. I had this feeling that whenever John smiled like that, everything was going to be okay.”
Walkie-Talkie Wonder
When John was diagnosed with leukemia and was admitted to the hospital, a nurse asked John if there was anything she could get him. John replied, “I wish I had a walkie-talkie set!”
The nurse looked at Ben and Tina and looked back at John and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
The nurse made a phone call to a friend whose husband was the regional sales manager for a major electronics company. The nurse mentioned John’s request to her friend, who then mentioned it to her husband.
The next day, the nurse walked into John’s room and presented him the walkie-talkies and a few other electronic goodies. Ben and Tina were amazed on how happy John looked. For one moment, all of the pain John had endured seemed to vanish.
John thanked the nurse with his mischievous smile and gave her a big hug. The nurse winked, smiled and left the room.
“Honey, daddy and I will be right back,” said Tina as she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Little did anyone know that John was going to do his “million pieces routine” again, and this time the nurse was going to experience the unbelievable.
About a half hour later, the nurse returned to see the walkie-talkies in a million pieces on his bed. She just shook her head in disbelief.
Another half hour later, the same nurse walked into John’s room and was handed a walkie-talkie.
“Wait a minute! Is this the same walkie-talkie?” queried the nurse.
“Yes, it is!” boasted John.
“Is this ‘America’s Most Funniest Home Videos’?”
John shook his head no with that mischievous smile. “I think I may have increased the range. Can you help me test it out by going into the main lobby?”
The nurse hesitantly obliged his request and proceeded to the main lobby, probably thinking that this walkie-talkie would never work. It did.
“Better than my cell phone,” she recalled as she complimented John’s electronic prowess.
Tina said from that day on, whatever John wanted, John got. There in his room on his bed he would disassemble and reassemble the gadgets without schematic diagrams or pictures. Tina remembered what John said one day, “I like being sick, mommy, the people here are so nice.”
NED is Born
Tina also remembers one of the unique ways John dealt with the painful treatments was to visualize in his mind an electronic gadget and build it. “Like transcendental meditation,” as she put it.
One day, Tina gave John some crayons and notebook paper to take his mind off the treatment process. John started drawing a schematic diagram. “What’s that you got there, John?” asked Ben.
“It’s a solar-powered, communication system, Dad!”
“Yeah, right.”
Little did they realize that this simple drawing from notebook paper and crayons was the birth of “NED” – what would become John’s Boy Scout project to earn merit badges in computers, communications, and electronics.
NED comes from a shortened military acronym – NEDIS (Nobody Ever Drowned In Sweat). It was a mobile, 10-pound, solar-powered, two-way communication system. Built from mail order kits and pieces of other components, it consisted of a helmet camera, microphone headset, telemetry system, and global positioning system. With this system, John was able to monitor everything from location to heart rate. Photoelectric cells were mounted on specially designed handlebar racks and rear racks. NED had no auxiliary power of any kind. No sun, no run.
Angel on my Shoulders vs. Guinea Pig
This is where I come into the scheme of things.
NED would allow John to be an “angel on my shoulders.” More like a real pain – a headache.
“You are also going to be my guinea pig.”
“Oh really?! Why don’t you just get a hamster?”
“NED weighs too much. I need a bigger specimen.”
“Well, why don’t you ride and I sit and run this contraption!”
“I can’t because I am too weak and you can’t because you are a guinea pig!”
It was evident that I wasn’t going to win this battle. I remarked sarcastically, “Great, at least I can help you earn your animal science merit badge.”
“Really? You’ll help me earn that, too?” John had that mischievous smile on his face. My first encounter with that smile.
Surprisingly, John asked me, “Gary, can my mom and dad and me be with you in Tucson?”
“I will buy you and your parents the airline tickets, if you promise not to bring up the guinea pig thing and harass me the entire 111 miles.”
“I promise.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?” I couldn’t believe I said that. I stuck my foot in my mouth.
“I’ll cross my heart, and I hope to get better.”
“I am sorry I said that.”
“It’s okay, Guinea Pig.” Again that mischievous smile. Everything was okay.
“Mike Echo”
Tests were conducted three months before the ride. John set up the monitoring station on the patio as I strapped on the equipment.
“Which way do you want me to go, John?”
“Why don’t you go that way!” as he pointed west towards Newport Beach.
“That sounds good to me.”
“But before you go, take this walkie-talkie as a backup.” I was later told that this was the “million pieces” walkie-talkie.
I rode out on the river trail to the junction of Jamboree Road and the back bay. “Can you hear me, Gary?”
“Loud and clear, John. Can you hear me?” I was astounded by the signal clarity – as if he were on my shoulders.
“Yeah, but you’re breaking up, but I think I know what the problem is.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“I have a weak guinea pig.”
“Thanks.”
John radioed, “Okay, look to your left. See that road over there? Yeah, that one! I want you to ride to Newport Dunes and I will do another check.”
The road he chose was Jamboree Road with its steep ascent. He couldn’t choose Back Bay Drive instead. “Why you little…”
“I heard that!”
So, I rode up and over Jamboree Road until I reached Newport Dunes. The signals were still loud and clear.
“Okay, you can come back now.”
I mumbled, “Munchkin Einstein” as I shook my head thinking why did I get involved with this.
“Stop shaking your head and I am not a munchkin!”
I had forgotten he could hear me.
“Okay, Mike Echo!”
“My gecko? I’m not a salamander either!”
From then on, his new moniker was “Mike Echo” – military phonetic for the “M” in “Munchkin and the “E” in “Einstein.” He thought I called him “My Gecko” in retaliation for calling me a “guinea pig.” I could just see him with that “what-the?” look on his face every time I said “Mike Echo.” He never asked me and I never told him. Quid pro quo.
“Mike Echo, can I come home now?”
“Okay, my guinea pig, suppertime.”
Munch
More photoelectric cells were added to provide more power and improve range. More peripherals were added to the monitoring station. More tests.
“Where do we go from here, John?”
“Let’s go that way!”
“Okay, that’s good enough for me!” and off I rode.
The ride was now two months away. John was anxious – he couldn’t to be with his folks and me in Tucson to launch his project.
He presented me with a stuffed, toy animal to mount on my handlebars as I rode through and around Tucson. “Meet Munch, your mascot! He’s a guinea pig.”
“It looks like a Tribble with a bad hair day!”
“He is a guinea pig. Guinea pigs are used for research. You are my guinea pig!”
I had a feeling I was going to have to tolerate John harassing me the entire 111 miles, even though he promised he wouldn’t. I almost went out and bought a plastic gecko to put on his monitoring station. I didn’t.
I secured Munch onto my handlebars. But as soon I was out of John’s sight, I put Munch in my Camelbak with his head sticking out. I had to be careful though, because John could monitor my actions through the camera and see what I was up to. Whenever I stopped, I disconnected the video line feed. I didn’t want John to see what I was doing.
“Anything wrong?”
“No. Munch is casting his shadow on the cells. So I put him in my pack.” Actually, I wouldn’t be caught dead with a Tribble with a bad hair day on my handlebars.
Serendipitous Training
All those little treks throughout Irvine, Tustin, Newport Beach, and Orange didn’t bother me. It didn’t matter to me where I rode or how far. I looked forward to riding and helping John perfect NED. Whenever I asked which way do I go and he would point in any direction, I always waited for that mischievous smile of his. His smile was a subtle signal to let me know everything was going to be all right.
The tests allowed me to bond with John – I wanted him to get those merit badges. He spent a lot of time and energy to get NED in perfect working condition. Everything depended on me and I wasn’t going to let him down.
Ben and Tina appreciated me sacrificing my personal time. “You were like my big brother when I was John’s age,” complimented Ben one late Saturday afternoon while we were drinking beer on the patio, while Tina and John were away to get more electronic parts. “I’m sure Tucson will be a blast for all of us. Tina and I are looking forward to the trip. John already has his bags packed.”
Although I never heard him said it, I knew he was grateful for letting me help him with his project. If the little things I did made him smile and forget about his chemotherapy, then it was worth it – every mile of it. John would ask me how I felt after riding in the sweltering heat. I would always reply, “Nobody ever drowned in sweat, John, nobody ever drowned in sweat.”
“Maybe one day we can ride in Tucson together.”
“Mike Echo, I will be honored to ride beside you the entire way.
He made me feel better; I made him feel better. We complemented each other. We were a team. Yes, we were.
I logged over 300 miles. I never had to use that walkie-talkie.
Merit Badges
On Sunday, October 18, John was readmitted to the hospital. The prognosis was very grim. The chemotherapy was not working.
That Monday, I went to John’s scoutmaster and told him the bad news. I brought NED with me and demonstrated it to him. He was impressed. The scoutmaster said he would get the paperwork started right away.
“If there is anything else I can do to help, Gary, you just let me know.”
That night I went to the hospital. In hoping to bolster his spirits, I told John that his scoutmaster was very impressed with NED.
On early Saturday afternoon, November 7, John’s scoutmaster called me and said the merit badges were on the way. “Yes!” was my triumphant response.
On Sunday night, November 8, I told John the news that his merit badges were approved and would be awarded to him on the pediatric oncology ward. John squeezed my hand, smiled with that mischievous smile of his, and mumbled, “Tucson here we come!”
Unanswered Questions
On Tuesday, November 10 at 3:30 a.m., the phone rang. It was Ben. John passed away at 1:30 a.m. My heart sank. I cried a river of tears.
I went out for a long walk. I walked to a nearby field, sat down, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed.
“Why, God, why?” I never received an answer.
As the sun began to rise over Saddleback Mountain, I got back up and returned home.
I called in sick to work and went for a nice long ride. “Do it for John. Do it for yourself. You will be glad you did,” was this voice inside my head.
I rode to Whiting Ranch searching for answers. I never found any.
November 10, 1998 was the Marine Corps’ 223rd birthday. Just the night before, I told Ben and Tina that I was going to Claim Jumper in Santa Ana to celebrate with some of my former Marine friends and they could join us if they wanted. Instead, I helped Ben and Tina with the funeral arrangements. Not exactly the way we wanted our day to be.
During the wake, I stopped and reached into the paper bag I was carrying and pulled out one of the “million pieces” walkie-talkies. I placed it in John’s hand. “Just in case you need it for backup, Mike Echo.” I kept the other.
I didn’t see that mischievous smile, but everything was going to be okay. I was going to make sure of it.
Tears
John was interred on Saturday, November 14, with full military honors. I was the officer-in-charge of the detail. In attendance was the Commanding General of the Third Marine Aircraft Wing, Ben’s commanding officer, Ben’s fellow Marines from his unit, Tina’s co-workers from the department store, the Leukemia Society of America’s Tri-County president and staff, John’s Boy Scout troop, his schoolmates, his friends.
I presented the flag that draped John’s casket to Ben and Tina. Ben, in his dress blues and with tears in his eyes, rose up, saluted me. “Thank you, sir.”
I returned his salute. Ben tried to shake my hand, but I put my arms around him and hugged him. Ben sobbed on my shoulder.
Tina, with tears as well, stood up to console Ben and me and whispered to me, “You made John so happy.”
The tears gushed as I rendered a salute during the three-round volley, “Taps,” and “Amazing Grace.” I never cried so much in my life.
After the funeral, I walked over to the casket and took out Munch and the walkie-talkie from the brown paper bag that I had brought. When no one was looking, I transmitted in a quivering voice, “Mike Echo, if you can hear me, you better be in Tucson!”
D-Day
Ben, Tina, and their folks met me at Tucson Airport the day before the event. We gathered my luggage and went to the hotel room to prepare my bike.
We gave NED a final check. I jokingly requested into the mouthpiece, “Hey, Mike Echo! Put in a good word with The Old Man and request permission for sunny skies!” We laughed, but I prayed that night for those sunny skies.
November 21, 1998. Saturday. Ride day. Clear skies. Brisk morning. Temperatures in the low 40s. The ride was to start at 7 a.m. in downtown Tucson. It was 6 a.m.
I secured Munch onto the handlebars and donned NED. To psyche myself up for the ride, I popped in an Ozzy Osbourne CD into the player and played the song “Never Know Why.” The CD player was the same one that was once in a million pieces on Christmas Day 1996.
After the song, it was time to go. “We better start heading towards the starting line. You know me, I don’t like being late.”
“Gary, we thank you for all you have done for us, and especially for our John. We wish you God’s speed. John wishes you the same, too, because he is with Him. We will see you at the finish line.”
We all hugged each other and proceeded towards the starting line.
At the starting line staging area, some of the riders around me were curious as to what the equipment was on my mountain bike. “It’s my honored patient’s animal science project. I’m his guinea pig.” They all laughed. I smiled.
I am not a very religious person, but with Ben, Tina, and their families present, it didn’t hurt to ask for Divine Intervention.
“Good luck, Gary, and Semper Fi,” said Ben.
After a few more hugs and handshakes and pictures, they went off to the side to prepare the monitoring station at the top of the small knoll next to the Tucson Convention Center.
I was now alone in a sea of riders, a sea of strangers. I was anxious. This is where I really sought Divine Intervention.
“Where do we go from here, John? Okay, that’s good enough for me!”
The announcer counted down, “Three, two, one.” I looked to my right and gave my entourage a wave and a thumbs up.
One hundred eleven miles to go.
Oops
Twenty miles into the ride and with the sun well above the Santa Catalina and Rincon Mountains, NED was fired up. “Mike Echo Base, Mike Echo Mobile.” Dead silence.
“Mike Echo Base, Mike Echo Mobile.”
Nothing.
I stopped alongside Tangerine Road. I checked all of the connections and re-checked. Nothing. I was taking off my windbreaker when I noticed I had forgotten to plug in the headset into the transmitter unit.
“Mike Echo Base, Mike Echo Mobile.”
“Mike Echo Mobile, Mike Echo Base. Loud and clear. Visuals good. See everything. We noticed you fixed the problem. Over.”
“Roger. I guess I better turn this thing off when I go to the bathroom! Now, how about a little Metallica!”
Freeman Road vs. Guinea Pig
The toughest part of the ride was Freeman Road, a 4-mile stretch of road with its undulating series of long ascents and short descents. Brutal vertical gain especially when the wind is against you. At this point, it was about 75 miles into the ride. As I turned onto Freeman Road, I received the weather report from base. “Mike Echo Mobile. Weather report. 25-35 mile per hour wind gusts possible. From southwest. Until 6 p.m. Over.” It was a little after 1 p.m. That meant riding into a severe headwind for the final 25 miles of the ride.
At the start of Freeman Road, you cannot see the final hill. After cresting the first hill, there was another one to ascend. Then another. Still another. After the fourth, I could see the final one, which was still two more hills and a mile and a half away.
But I kept going in the lowest gear. My legs were pumping, but it felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere. Foot by foot, inch by inch. By now I was struggling to breathe. Agony. I swayed from side to side on the bike to get as much as I could from my legs. Agony. Sweat dripped from my forehead trickled into my eye. Agony. I never stopped.
“Hang in there, Gary, you’re almost there!”
I finally reached the summit of the last hill. Winded and exhausted, I stopped. I looked back, smiled, heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “Thank you, John. Guinea Pig did it.”
“John says, ‘You’re welcome, Gary!’”
“Way to go, Guinea Pig!” transmitted Ben.
“Mike Echo Base, can someone turn off this desert fan?”
“Roger, Mike Echo Mobile, we dispatched a message to Sky Six. Keep riding, Guinea Pig! Out.”
Little did I know that after turning onto Escalante Road, it was practically downhill from there. The wind meant nothing. I was going to finish. I, Guinea Pig had won.
Fait Accompli
About three miles from the finish line, Ben played the musical score from the movie “Patton,” followed by “The Marine Corps Hymn.” “Thought you might like some inspirational music!“
They couldn’t have played it at a better time.
I crossed the finish line in 9 hours, 10 minutes and 11 seconds. Ben, Tina, and the gang were there. “We did it!” was my exalted victory cry. We hugged, we cried, we kneeled, we prayed. We were overwhelmed with joy. I wanted to finish in less than 9 hours to get the silver medal, but I was happy with the bronze. I was content with finishing.
John would have been proud of NED, Munch, his parents, and me. I am sure he saw it all from his vantage point.
Goodbye, NED
That evening there was a fete at Marriott University Park. You couldn’t tell that 3,000 TNT riders had just ridden 111 miles. Emotions were high at the table where we were sitting. They were good emotions – a sense of closure. I proposed a toast to John, NED, and Munch, “Without them, I wouldn’t be here.”
On stage, there was a singer with his karaoke. I walked up to him and requested three songs – “Impossible Dream,” “Imagine” by John Lennon, and “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” by U2. He granted my request and sang angelically. We were moved.
It was around 9 p.m. and it was time for me to return to my hotel to pack up and get some well-deserved rest. Before I left, I handed Munch to Ben and Tina. “May Munch watch over you as he did me.”
As for NED, I disassembled it, walked to the dumpster in the back, and threw in all of the components. A week before John became ill, we agreed that after the ride, no matter what the outcome, NED would have served its purpose and would be destroyed and discarded without any fanfare or special ceremony. I was reluctant at first, thinking NED could be used for other rides, other adventures. Being true to my word, I did what I had to do. “Good-bye, NED, and thank you.”
Now, I was alone.
The only thing I had left of John’s was that walkie-talkie.
Crossword
The next day it was time to fly back to Los Angeles. After listening to the flight attendant routine, I reached into the seat pocket in front of me hoping there was a “fresh” crossword puzzle. All three issues were partially filled in. I chose the one with the fewest fill-ins.
My eyes scanned the puzzle towards the lower right hand corner. There was a six-letter word “across” with the first, third, and last letters filled in because of the other “down” answers. The letters were “L,” “G,” and “Y.”
I looked at the clue – “Family hand-me-down.”
L-E-G-A-C-Y. The answer hit me like a slap in the face. I had found my answer.
God put people on this earth for a reason. God takes away people for a reason. We never ask why a child is born, but sometimes we ask why the child was taken away from us at such an early, tender age. What we do between the day we are born until the day we die is all that matters. If you can touch the lives of others considering the pains, the challenges, and the obstacles you are up against, give it all you got, never complain, smile through it all, and leave a lasting impression with the lives you have touched, then you have served your purpose well and it is time to move on.
John epitomized all this. Carpe diem. He seized every moment of every day. John did not die, he just moved on. John left a legacy. John was truly indeed an angel.
Happy Birthday, John
On December 18, on what would have been John’s 12th birthday, the Boy Scouts posthumously awarded John his three merit badges. Tina made a miniature merit badge sash for Munch. After the three merit badges were pinned onto the sash, I walked towards Munch, reached into the brown paper bag I had brought, pulled out that walkie-talkie, and placed it alongside Munch.
Then, I reached into my shirt pocket, pulled out an animal science merit badge, and pinned it to Munch’s sash. “There, Mike Echo, you earned this one, too. Happy Birthday, John.”
The holidays came and went. Ben and Tina visited their relatives on the East Coast. It was good for them to do so. Ben was going to be discharged from the Marines in May, so he went job hunting. In February, he got a lucrative job offer from an electronics firm. He and Tina decided it was time to move on with their lives – pick up the pieces and start over again.
It was hard to say the goodbyes at John Wayne Airport. I didn’t know what to say. As the boarding call was announced, we hugged and wished each other well. Before Ben went through the gate, he turned around and had this mischievous smile on his face. I had seen that smile before. Everything was going to be okay.
I stood on top of the parking structure as I saw the plane take off and vanish into the early afternoon sky. I got choked up a little bit and shed a little tear. Ben and Tina endured a lot this past year. They are strong, courageous people. They will leave a legacy.
Meanwhile, there I was on top of the parking structure. No John, no Ben, no Tina, no Munch, no NED. They will always be in my heart. I will never be alone.
Epilogue
I never heard John lament. I never heard him complain. I never saw him give up. I never saw him cry. All I saw him do was beam that mischievous smile of his as he built something or made something better or made you feel better. I think John wished he could make himself better with that mischievous smile.
Since that ride and before I begin any ride, whether commuting or riding 100 miles, I bow my head in silent prayer, close with a question, and accept a challenge – “Where do we go from here, John? Okay, that’s good enough for me!”
John is God’s electronic “angel on His shoulders” now. If God has a mountain bike, I am sure that John has built some electronic gizmo of some kind.
Whatever You do, God, don’t call him Munchkin!
Ben and Tina are doing well. Ben and Tina are actively involved with the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. They have a new addition to the family – Albert Garrick , age 1½.
They recently ran in the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. Both of them raised over $10,000 for LLS and crossed the finish line together along with A.G., who rode “1st Class” in his “Sport Utility” stroller and Munch, who rode ”Coach” in their backpacks.
Ben said they gave A.G. that walkie-talkie to play with during the marathon. I asked Ben, “What was he doing with it?”
Ben replied, “I don’t know. It was still in one piece, but A.G. had this mischievous little smile.”
Legacy.
I was assigned an honored patient. His name was John. He was an 11-year-old.
My life was changed forever.
Live Long and Prosper
I first met John and his parents, Ben and Tina, in early February 1998, at their apartment in Tustin. Ben was a sergeant in the Marine Corps and was an avionics technician. Tina worked part-time at a local department store. John’s goal in life was to become an Eagle Scout and to become a Marine just like his father.
After conversing for about one hour, John grabbed my arm and led me to his room. Ben and Tina followed.
“Close your eyes.” I was led into his room. “Okay, now open them.”
His room was nothing but wall-to-wall electronic gadgetry. I thought I was in Radio Shack – stereos, scanners, oscilloscope, amplifiers, tuners, computer, speakers. You name it, he had it. I was in complete awe. His room was neat and orderly. My room never looked like his when I was his age.
“Nice shop you have here, John. Where do you sleep?”
“Over there,” as he pointed to a corner of the room by the window where his bed built upon a set of speakers.
I turned to Ben and Tina and remarked, “I bet you have one heck of an electric bill.”
“We do, but it comes out of his allowance.” We all laughed.
“As long as he keeps his room clean, he gets a bonus every week.”
“Oh really? What’s that?” I asked.
“He gets to go to the store with his mom and get repair parts for his equipment. If he fixes them, it’s easier on our pocketbooks. All this equipment was given to John by a nurse’s friend.”
I quipped, “Well, where’s the transporter room?” as I gazed at all of the gadgets that adorned his wall.
Then, I came across an autographed picture of Leonard Nimoy with his Vulcan hand salute. “Live long and prosper. Leonard Nimoy.”
“Well, I’ll be. You’re a Trekkie.”
“I’m a Trekker!” snapped John.
“Trekker. Trekkie. What’s the difference?”
“A Trekker is a fan of the show. A Trekkie fantasizes about being in the show. John is a Trekker,” was the explanation I got from Tina.
Electronic Savant
John was an electronic savant – electronics was his hobby. He was a hybrid of Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, and Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek. Electronics was his forte and Star Trek gave him visions. Ben and Tina recalled when they first noticed John’s peculiar interest in electronics.
On Christmas Day 1996, Ben and Tina gave John a portable CD player for Christmas. Instead of traipsing about the house listening to CDs and playing with his new toys, John went into his room. Wondering why John was in his room for about an hour and not playing with all of his new Christmas toys, Ben went to John’s room and was shocked to see the CD player on John’s bed in “a million pieces.”
Ben admonished John, “How could you do such a thing?!”
John’s answer was, “It’s okay, Dad, I will put it back together.”
“Yes, you will young man! And it better be working in time for dinner or you will not eat until you do!”
Before Ben closed the door behind him, he noticed John had this mischievous smile on his face.
Right before dinner, John emerged from his room with the CD player in hand. Ben was not convinced that it was working and grabbed it from John, put in a CD, and hit the play button. It was working.
“I thought it was a practical joke played by John and Nana,” recalled Ben. “I asked John if he had gotten another CD player from Nana that me and Tina didn’t know about. Nana shook her head no and John shook his head no with that mischievous little smile of his. I had this feeling that whenever John smiled like that, everything was going to be okay.”
Walkie-Talkie Wonder
When John was diagnosed with leukemia and was admitted to the hospital, a nurse asked John if there was anything she could get him. John replied, “I wish I had a walkie-talkie set!”
The nurse looked at Ben and Tina and looked back at John and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
The nurse made a phone call to a friend whose husband was the regional sales manager for a major electronics company. The nurse mentioned John’s request to her friend, who then mentioned it to her husband.
The next day, the nurse walked into John’s room and presented him the walkie-talkies and a few other electronic goodies. Ben and Tina were amazed on how happy John looked. For one moment, all of the pain John had endured seemed to vanish.
John thanked the nurse with his mischievous smile and gave her a big hug. The nurse winked, smiled and left the room.
“Honey, daddy and I will be right back,” said Tina as she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Little did anyone know that John was going to do his “million pieces routine” again, and this time the nurse was going to experience the unbelievable.
About a half hour later, the nurse returned to see the walkie-talkies in a million pieces on his bed. She just shook her head in disbelief.
Another half hour later, the same nurse walked into John’s room and was handed a walkie-talkie.
“Wait a minute! Is this the same walkie-talkie?” queried the nurse.
“Yes, it is!” boasted John.
“Is this ‘America’s Most Funniest Home Videos’?”
John shook his head no with that mischievous smile. “I think I may have increased the range. Can you help me test it out by going into the main lobby?”
The nurse hesitantly obliged his request and proceeded to the main lobby, probably thinking that this walkie-talkie would never work. It did.
“Better than my cell phone,” she recalled as she complimented John’s electronic prowess.
Tina said from that day on, whatever John wanted, John got. There in his room on his bed he would disassemble and reassemble the gadgets without schematic diagrams or pictures. Tina remembered what John said one day, “I like being sick, mommy, the people here are so nice.”
NED is Born
Tina also remembers one of the unique ways John dealt with the painful treatments was to visualize in his mind an electronic gadget and build it. “Like transcendental meditation,” as she put it.
One day, Tina gave John some crayons and notebook paper to take his mind off the treatment process. John started drawing a schematic diagram. “What’s that you got there, John?” asked Ben.
“It’s a solar-powered, communication system, Dad!”
“Yeah, right.”
Little did they realize that this simple drawing from notebook paper and crayons was the birth of “NED” – what would become John’s Boy Scout project to earn merit badges in computers, communications, and electronics.
NED comes from a shortened military acronym – NEDIS (Nobody Ever Drowned In Sweat). It was a mobile, 10-pound, solar-powered, two-way communication system. Built from mail order kits and pieces of other components, it consisted of a helmet camera, microphone headset, telemetry system, and global positioning system. With this system, John was able to monitor everything from location to heart rate. Photoelectric cells were mounted on specially designed handlebar racks and rear racks. NED had no auxiliary power of any kind. No sun, no run.
Angel on my Shoulders vs. Guinea Pig
This is where I come into the scheme of things.
NED would allow John to be an “angel on my shoulders.” More like a real pain – a headache.
“You are also going to be my guinea pig.”
“Oh really?! Why don’t you just get a hamster?”
“NED weighs too much. I need a bigger specimen.”
“Well, why don’t you ride and I sit and run this contraption!”
“I can’t because I am too weak and you can’t because you are a guinea pig!”
It was evident that I wasn’t going to win this battle. I remarked sarcastically, “Great, at least I can help you earn your animal science merit badge.”
“Really? You’ll help me earn that, too?” John had that mischievous smile on his face. My first encounter with that smile.
Surprisingly, John asked me, “Gary, can my mom and dad and me be with you in Tucson?”
“I will buy you and your parents the airline tickets, if you promise not to bring up the guinea pig thing and harass me the entire 111 miles.”
“I promise.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?” I couldn’t believe I said that. I stuck my foot in my mouth.
“I’ll cross my heart, and I hope to get better.”
“I am sorry I said that.”
“It’s okay, Guinea Pig.” Again that mischievous smile. Everything was okay.
“Mike Echo”
Tests were conducted three months before the ride. John set up the monitoring station on the patio as I strapped on the equipment.
“Which way do you want me to go, John?”
“Why don’t you go that way!” as he pointed west towards Newport Beach.
“That sounds good to me.”
“But before you go, take this walkie-talkie as a backup.” I was later told that this was the “million pieces” walkie-talkie.
I rode out on the river trail to the junction of Jamboree Road and the back bay. “Can you hear me, Gary?”
“Loud and clear, John. Can you hear me?” I was astounded by the signal clarity – as if he were on my shoulders.
“Yeah, but you’re breaking up, but I think I know what the problem is.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“I have a weak guinea pig.”
“Thanks.”
John radioed, “Okay, look to your left. See that road over there? Yeah, that one! I want you to ride to Newport Dunes and I will do another check.”
The road he chose was Jamboree Road with its steep ascent. He couldn’t choose Back Bay Drive instead. “Why you little…”
“I heard that!”
So, I rode up and over Jamboree Road until I reached Newport Dunes. The signals were still loud and clear.
“Okay, you can come back now.”
I mumbled, “Munchkin Einstein” as I shook my head thinking why did I get involved with this.
“Stop shaking your head and I am not a munchkin!”
I had forgotten he could hear me.
“Okay, Mike Echo!”
“My gecko? I’m not a salamander either!”
From then on, his new moniker was “Mike Echo” – military phonetic for the “M” in “Munchkin and the “E” in “Einstein.” He thought I called him “My Gecko” in retaliation for calling me a “guinea pig.” I could just see him with that “what-the?” look on his face every time I said “Mike Echo.” He never asked me and I never told him. Quid pro quo.
“Mike Echo, can I come home now?”
“Okay, my guinea pig, suppertime.”
Munch
More photoelectric cells were added to provide more power and improve range. More peripherals were added to the monitoring station. More tests.
“Where do we go from here, John?”
“Let’s go that way!”
“Okay, that’s good enough for me!” and off I rode.
The ride was now two months away. John was anxious – he couldn’t to be with his folks and me in Tucson to launch his project.
He presented me with a stuffed, toy animal to mount on my handlebars as I rode through and around Tucson. “Meet Munch, your mascot! He’s a guinea pig.”
“It looks like a Tribble with a bad hair day!”
“He is a guinea pig. Guinea pigs are used for research. You are my guinea pig!”
I had a feeling I was going to have to tolerate John harassing me the entire 111 miles, even though he promised he wouldn’t. I almost went out and bought a plastic gecko to put on his monitoring station. I didn’t.
I secured Munch onto my handlebars. But as soon I was out of John’s sight, I put Munch in my Camelbak with his head sticking out. I had to be careful though, because John could monitor my actions through the camera and see what I was up to. Whenever I stopped, I disconnected the video line feed. I didn’t want John to see what I was doing.
“Anything wrong?”
“No. Munch is casting his shadow on the cells. So I put him in my pack.” Actually, I wouldn’t be caught dead with a Tribble with a bad hair day on my handlebars.
Serendipitous Training
All those little treks throughout Irvine, Tustin, Newport Beach, and Orange didn’t bother me. It didn’t matter to me where I rode or how far. I looked forward to riding and helping John perfect NED. Whenever I asked which way do I go and he would point in any direction, I always waited for that mischievous smile of his. His smile was a subtle signal to let me know everything was going to be all right.
The tests allowed me to bond with John – I wanted him to get those merit badges. He spent a lot of time and energy to get NED in perfect working condition. Everything depended on me and I wasn’t going to let him down.
Ben and Tina appreciated me sacrificing my personal time. “You were like my big brother when I was John’s age,” complimented Ben one late Saturday afternoon while we were drinking beer on the patio, while Tina and John were away to get more electronic parts. “I’m sure Tucson will be a blast for all of us. Tina and I are looking forward to the trip. John already has his bags packed.”
Although I never heard him said it, I knew he was grateful for letting me help him with his project. If the little things I did made him smile and forget about his chemotherapy, then it was worth it – every mile of it. John would ask me how I felt after riding in the sweltering heat. I would always reply, “Nobody ever drowned in sweat, John, nobody ever drowned in sweat.”
“Maybe one day we can ride in Tucson together.”
“Mike Echo, I will be honored to ride beside you the entire way.
He made me feel better; I made him feel better. We complemented each other. We were a team. Yes, we were.
I logged over 300 miles. I never had to use that walkie-talkie.
Merit Badges
On Sunday, October 18, John was readmitted to the hospital. The prognosis was very grim. The chemotherapy was not working.
That Monday, I went to John’s scoutmaster and told him the bad news. I brought NED with me and demonstrated it to him. He was impressed. The scoutmaster said he would get the paperwork started right away.
“If there is anything else I can do to help, Gary, you just let me know.”
That night I went to the hospital. In hoping to bolster his spirits, I told John that his scoutmaster was very impressed with NED.
On early Saturday afternoon, November 7, John’s scoutmaster called me and said the merit badges were on the way. “Yes!” was my triumphant response.
On Sunday night, November 8, I told John the news that his merit badges were approved and would be awarded to him on the pediatric oncology ward. John squeezed my hand, smiled with that mischievous smile of his, and mumbled, “Tucson here we come!”
Unanswered Questions
On Tuesday, November 10 at 3:30 a.m., the phone rang. It was Ben. John passed away at 1:30 a.m. My heart sank. I cried a river of tears.
I went out for a long walk. I walked to a nearby field, sat down, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed.
“Why, God, why?” I never received an answer.
As the sun began to rise over Saddleback Mountain, I got back up and returned home.
I called in sick to work and went for a nice long ride. “Do it for John. Do it for yourself. You will be glad you did,” was this voice inside my head.
I rode to Whiting Ranch searching for answers. I never found any.
November 10, 1998 was the Marine Corps’ 223rd birthday. Just the night before, I told Ben and Tina that I was going to Claim Jumper in Santa Ana to celebrate with some of my former Marine friends and they could join us if they wanted. Instead, I helped Ben and Tina with the funeral arrangements. Not exactly the way we wanted our day to be.
During the wake, I stopped and reached into the paper bag I was carrying and pulled out one of the “million pieces” walkie-talkies. I placed it in John’s hand. “Just in case you need it for backup, Mike Echo.” I kept the other.
I didn’t see that mischievous smile, but everything was going to be okay. I was going to make sure of it.
Tears
John was interred on Saturday, November 14, with full military honors. I was the officer-in-charge of the detail. In attendance was the Commanding General of the Third Marine Aircraft Wing, Ben’s commanding officer, Ben’s fellow Marines from his unit, Tina’s co-workers from the department store, the Leukemia Society of America’s Tri-County president and staff, John’s Boy Scout troop, his schoolmates, his friends.
I presented the flag that draped John’s casket to Ben and Tina. Ben, in his dress blues and with tears in his eyes, rose up, saluted me. “Thank you, sir.”
I returned his salute. Ben tried to shake my hand, but I put my arms around him and hugged him. Ben sobbed on my shoulder.
Tina, with tears as well, stood up to console Ben and me and whispered to me, “You made John so happy.”
The tears gushed as I rendered a salute during the three-round volley, “Taps,” and “Amazing Grace.” I never cried so much in my life.
After the funeral, I walked over to the casket and took out Munch and the walkie-talkie from the brown paper bag that I had brought. When no one was looking, I transmitted in a quivering voice, “Mike Echo, if you can hear me, you better be in Tucson!”
D-Day
Ben, Tina, and their folks met me at Tucson Airport the day before the event. We gathered my luggage and went to the hotel room to prepare my bike.
We gave NED a final check. I jokingly requested into the mouthpiece, “Hey, Mike Echo! Put in a good word with The Old Man and request permission for sunny skies!” We laughed, but I prayed that night for those sunny skies.
November 21, 1998. Saturday. Ride day. Clear skies. Brisk morning. Temperatures in the low 40s. The ride was to start at 7 a.m. in downtown Tucson. It was 6 a.m.
I secured Munch onto the handlebars and donned NED. To psyche myself up for the ride, I popped in an Ozzy Osbourne CD into the player and played the song “Never Know Why.” The CD player was the same one that was once in a million pieces on Christmas Day 1996.
After the song, it was time to go. “We better start heading towards the starting line. You know me, I don’t like being late.”
“Gary, we thank you for all you have done for us, and especially for our John. We wish you God’s speed. John wishes you the same, too, because he is with Him. We will see you at the finish line.”
We all hugged each other and proceeded towards the starting line.
At the starting line staging area, some of the riders around me were curious as to what the equipment was on my mountain bike. “It’s my honored patient’s animal science project. I’m his guinea pig.” They all laughed. I smiled.
I am not a very religious person, but with Ben, Tina, and their families present, it didn’t hurt to ask for Divine Intervention.
“Good luck, Gary, and Semper Fi,” said Ben.
After a few more hugs and handshakes and pictures, they went off to the side to prepare the monitoring station at the top of the small knoll next to the Tucson Convention Center.
I was now alone in a sea of riders, a sea of strangers. I was anxious. This is where I really sought Divine Intervention.
“Where do we go from here, John? Okay, that’s good enough for me!”
The announcer counted down, “Three, two, one.” I looked to my right and gave my entourage a wave and a thumbs up.
One hundred eleven miles to go.
Oops
Twenty miles into the ride and with the sun well above the Santa Catalina and Rincon Mountains, NED was fired up. “Mike Echo Base, Mike Echo Mobile.” Dead silence.
“Mike Echo Base, Mike Echo Mobile.”
Nothing.
I stopped alongside Tangerine Road. I checked all of the connections and re-checked. Nothing. I was taking off my windbreaker when I noticed I had forgotten to plug in the headset into the transmitter unit.
“Mike Echo Base, Mike Echo Mobile.”
“Mike Echo Mobile, Mike Echo Base. Loud and clear. Visuals good. See everything. We noticed you fixed the problem. Over.”
“Roger. I guess I better turn this thing off when I go to the bathroom! Now, how about a little Metallica!”
Freeman Road vs. Guinea Pig
The toughest part of the ride was Freeman Road, a 4-mile stretch of road with its undulating series of long ascents and short descents. Brutal vertical gain especially when the wind is against you. At this point, it was about 75 miles into the ride. As I turned onto Freeman Road, I received the weather report from base. “Mike Echo Mobile. Weather report. 25-35 mile per hour wind gusts possible. From southwest. Until 6 p.m. Over.” It was a little after 1 p.m. That meant riding into a severe headwind for the final 25 miles of the ride.
At the start of Freeman Road, you cannot see the final hill. After cresting the first hill, there was another one to ascend. Then another. Still another. After the fourth, I could see the final one, which was still two more hills and a mile and a half away.
But I kept going in the lowest gear. My legs were pumping, but it felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere. Foot by foot, inch by inch. By now I was struggling to breathe. Agony. I swayed from side to side on the bike to get as much as I could from my legs. Agony. Sweat dripped from my forehead trickled into my eye. Agony. I never stopped.
“Hang in there, Gary, you’re almost there!”
I finally reached the summit of the last hill. Winded and exhausted, I stopped. I looked back, smiled, heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “Thank you, John. Guinea Pig did it.”
“John says, ‘You’re welcome, Gary!’”
“Way to go, Guinea Pig!” transmitted Ben.
“Mike Echo Base, can someone turn off this desert fan?”
“Roger, Mike Echo Mobile, we dispatched a message to Sky Six. Keep riding, Guinea Pig! Out.”
Little did I know that after turning onto Escalante Road, it was practically downhill from there. The wind meant nothing. I was going to finish. I, Guinea Pig had won.
Fait Accompli
About three miles from the finish line, Ben played the musical score from the movie “Patton,” followed by “The Marine Corps Hymn.” “Thought you might like some inspirational music!“
They couldn’t have played it at a better time.
I crossed the finish line in 9 hours, 10 minutes and 11 seconds. Ben, Tina, and the gang were there. “We did it!” was my exalted victory cry. We hugged, we cried, we kneeled, we prayed. We were overwhelmed with joy. I wanted to finish in less than 9 hours to get the silver medal, but I was happy with the bronze. I was content with finishing.
John would have been proud of NED, Munch, his parents, and me. I am sure he saw it all from his vantage point.
Goodbye, NED
That evening there was a fete at Marriott University Park. You couldn’t tell that 3,000 TNT riders had just ridden 111 miles. Emotions were high at the table where we were sitting. They were good emotions – a sense of closure. I proposed a toast to John, NED, and Munch, “Without them, I wouldn’t be here.”
On stage, there was a singer with his karaoke. I walked up to him and requested three songs – “Impossible Dream,” “Imagine” by John Lennon, and “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” by U2. He granted my request and sang angelically. We were moved.
It was around 9 p.m. and it was time for me to return to my hotel to pack up and get some well-deserved rest. Before I left, I handed Munch to Ben and Tina. “May Munch watch over you as he did me.”
As for NED, I disassembled it, walked to the dumpster in the back, and threw in all of the components. A week before John became ill, we agreed that after the ride, no matter what the outcome, NED would have served its purpose and would be destroyed and discarded without any fanfare or special ceremony. I was reluctant at first, thinking NED could be used for other rides, other adventures. Being true to my word, I did what I had to do. “Good-bye, NED, and thank you.”
Now, I was alone.
The only thing I had left of John’s was that walkie-talkie.
Crossword
The next day it was time to fly back to Los Angeles. After listening to the flight attendant routine, I reached into the seat pocket in front of me hoping there was a “fresh” crossword puzzle. All three issues were partially filled in. I chose the one with the fewest fill-ins.
My eyes scanned the puzzle towards the lower right hand corner. There was a six-letter word “across” with the first, third, and last letters filled in because of the other “down” answers. The letters were “L,” “G,” and “Y.”
I looked at the clue – “Family hand-me-down.”
L-E-G-A-C-Y. The answer hit me like a slap in the face. I had found my answer.
God put people on this earth for a reason. God takes away people for a reason. We never ask why a child is born, but sometimes we ask why the child was taken away from us at such an early, tender age. What we do between the day we are born until the day we die is all that matters. If you can touch the lives of others considering the pains, the challenges, and the obstacles you are up against, give it all you got, never complain, smile through it all, and leave a lasting impression with the lives you have touched, then you have served your purpose well and it is time to move on.
John epitomized all this. Carpe diem. He seized every moment of every day. John did not die, he just moved on. John left a legacy. John was truly indeed an angel.
Happy Birthday, John
On December 18, on what would have been John’s 12th birthday, the Boy Scouts posthumously awarded John his three merit badges. Tina made a miniature merit badge sash for Munch. After the three merit badges were pinned onto the sash, I walked towards Munch, reached into the brown paper bag I had brought, pulled out that walkie-talkie, and placed it alongside Munch.
Then, I reached into my shirt pocket, pulled out an animal science merit badge, and pinned it to Munch’s sash. “There, Mike Echo, you earned this one, too. Happy Birthday, John.”
The holidays came and went. Ben and Tina visited their relatives on the East Coast. It was good for them to do so. Ben was going to be discharged from the Marines in May, so he went job hunting. In February, he got a lucrative job offer from an electronics firm. He and Tina decided it was time to move on with their lives – pick up the pieces and start over again.
It was hard to say the goodbyes at John Wayne Airport. I didn’t know what to say. As the boarding call was announced, we hugged and wished each other well. Before Ben went through the gate, he turned around and had this mischievous smile on his face. I had seen that smile before. Everything was going to be okay.
I stood on top of the parking structure as I saw the plane take off and vanish into the early afternoon sky. I got choked up a little bit and shed a little tear. Ben and Tina endured a lot this past year. They are strong, courageous people. They will leave a legacy.
Meanwhile, there I was on top of the parking structure. No John, no Ben, no Tina, no Munch, no NED. They will always be in my heart. I will never be alone.
Epilogue
I never heard John lament. I never heard him complain. I never saw him give up. I never saw him cry. All I saw him do was beam that mischievous smile of his as he built something or made something better or made you feel better. I think John wished he could make himself better with that mischievous smile.
Since that ride and before I begin any ride, whether commuting or riding 100 miles, I bow my head in silent prayer, close with a question, and accept a challenge – “Where do we go from here, John? Okay, that’s good enough for me!”
John is God’s electronic “angel on His shoulders” now. If God has a mountain bike, I am sure that John has built some electronic gizmo of some kind.
Whatever You do, God, don’t call him Munchkin!
Ben and Tina are doing well. Ben and Tina are actively involved with the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. They have a new addition to the family – Albert Garrick , age 1½.
They recently ran in the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. Both of them raised over $10,000 for LLS and crossed the finish line together along with A.G., who rode “1st Class” in his “Sport Utility” stroller and Munch, who rode ”Coach” in their backpacks.
Ben said they gave A.G. that walkie-talkie to play with during the marathon. I asked Ben, “What was he doing with it?”
Ben replied, “I don’t know. It was still in one piece, but A.G. had this mischievous little smile.”
Legacy.
posted by Kuma and Yo70pAm at 07:31
0 comments
