The Four Horsemen 1908 - Albuquerque, New Mexico

Dr. P.G. Cornish Senior in the picture below was my Great-Great Grandfather.

1900 - Circa Great-Great Grandfather Senator George Coffin & Great Uncle Dr. P.G. Cornish

My Great-Great Grandfather Senator George Coffin & Great Uncle Dr. P.G. Cornish Circa 1900

244 Walter Albuquerque, New Mexico

Our Day In Hell Part 1

India was born 1998 in New Mexico. She was born a healthy little girl, all her fingers and toes. India had lots of hair and beautiful eyes. She took almost 24 hours to come into this world and when she did, she was greeted with lots of love.

I never expected to have children so this was a very remarkable day for me. I was married and had a child; I was a new person. 

The day we took her home was beautiful, warm, with no clouds in the sky. We were nervous and overly cautious as we put our precious baby girl into the car, double-checked everything, and then checked again. I noticed some nurses watching us with big smiles on their faces. I’m sure that this scene was played out daily as new parents prepared for the first journey home with their new addition.

Home was different with India there; it was brighter. We had a steady stream of visitors who wanted to meet this new little person. This was a nice time that brought people together, not to mention the truckloads of good food that were delivered to us.

After a few days, I went back to work.  I was ready and very eager.  I worked for a commercial real estate firm; I was newly in the business and doing my best to absorb everything.  

During the 3^rd week India was home, my wife came to me with concerns about our daughter’s temperature.  She told me it was just a little high but she wanted to check with the doctor to be safe.  I wasn’t worried at all, India’s temperature was only a couple degrees above normal, and she was happy, alert, and active.  I also wasn’t very concerned because my wife was a hypochondriac as well as   an obsessive diagnoser of medical conditions.  I’d gotten used to her doing this all the time so I’d learned to ignore and even laugh at it.

When Veruca got off the phone with the doctor, she said that he’d instructed to take India to the hospital emergency room.  Not because it was an emergency but because it was a weekend—no doctors’ offices were open and the emergency room was the only place we could go.  I knew that the doctor also was telling us to bring India to the hospital instead of telling us to bring her to see him Monday morning because of liability issues.  If he told us to wait until Monday and something did go wrong, he was afraid he’d be sued.  

I questioned the logic of taking India to a hospital emergency room for such a minor reason but my wife insisted.  We loaded up the car and headed to the hospital, the same hospital where India had just been born.  Little did we know that we were about to endure the most gut- wrenchingly painful time of our life.  Nothing would ever be the same after this day.

When we got to the hospital a doctor started examining my baby girl.  She did what seemed to be normal and routine checks.  The mood was light and I was sure we’d be sent home shortly–until the doctor said she was going to perform a spinal tap on India to test the fluids for any sort of infection.  I remember asking why we needed to do such an invasive procedure; my little girl only had a very mild fever.  The doctor told me it wasn’t invasive and would only take a minute or two, it was standard procedure, and we’d be on our way before we knew it.

The doctor and a nurse prepped my baby for the spinal tap.  It was a very intense sight, my tiny girl, only three weeks old, sitting on a table, slightly hunched over with blue surgical cloth on her back for the exception of the area the needle was to be inserted into her spine.  Happily making beautiful baby sounds, she had no idea what was about to happen.  I was already having a rough time, just knowing that my little girl was about to be in very serious pain.  I was also terribly torn between the instinct to respect a doctor who was supposedly a professional and my instinct that this procedure was completely unnecessary. 

The procedure was heartbreaking.  India immediately winced in pain and began to whimper.  Her whimper rolled into sobbing, then screaming.  She’d never made that noise before and every atom in my body was hurting with her.  But it didn’t stop.  This procedure that was supposed to take just a minute kept dragging on and on.  I could see and hear the nurse starting to look concerned.  The doctor said, “No, I’ve never done this on an infant before.”  I was stunned and I could see and feel the nurse tense up.  India was trembling, screaming, bleeding gruesomely as the doctor started on her fourth attempt to puncture my daughters’ spine.  I told the doctor and nurse to stop but the nurse spun around and told me to leave the room. 

My mother-in-law took me outside into the hallway with my wife.  I was frantic and had no idea what to do.  It was a horrifically helpless feeling that I’d not wish on anybody.  A few minutes later, the nurse and doctor came out and said they were done.  The doctor didn’t look me in the eye and she couldn’t get away from us fast enough.  The nurse had India in an infant cradle. her small, pale face was swollen. 

After the doctor and nurses cleaned up the blood and the tools used for the procedure, they sat us down to tell us that they felt it was in our daughter’s best interest to stay in the hospital for the night so that they could monitor her.  By now I was furious with myself.  I hadn’t had the guts to tell Veruca “no” when she wanted to go to the hospital for such a minor thing.   I hadn’t had the balls to tell Veruca to put her mania for diagnosis in check and I’d hadn’t had the sense to tell the doctor “no” to the procedure.  I’d never been in this position before and I didn’t know better.  I’ll forever blame myself for my failures and the consequences thereof to my baby girl. It was this terribly blotched and unnecessary procedure that crippled my child.

They put us in a standard hospital room.  They said that they’d come in every couple of hours to check on India.  I was emotionally and physically exhausted,, and I fell asleep immediately on a small cot .  It like only minutes later that Veruca woke me up.  She thought India was having a seizure.  I was sick of Veruca and the position she’d put us in.  I told her not to worry and that I’m sure India was fine.  Just a minute later, Veruca said in a higher pitched voice, “It’s happening again!”  I jumped up and saw  that my baby’s arm was erratically and she wouldn’t wake up.

We buzzed for the nurses over and over.  They kept saying they’d be right in but no one came.  I finally ran down the hall and yelled at the nurses—who were sitting at their station talking—to get their fucking asses into my room. They sprinted down the hall to find Veruca crying and India having a major seizure with her vitals crashing.  

All hell broke loose. A code was called and a team rushed in with a crash cart.  India was spiraling down.  The nurses grabbed a gurney, put India on it, told us to follow them, and ran full stride towards the elevator. A doctor joined our group and started checking India’s vitals. In the elevator it was chaos.  The ride up to the pediatric intensive care unit was terrifying.  Everyone was so frantic doing this and that but no one noticed when India stopped breathing.  I said, “She’s not breathing.” Nobody listened to me.  I said a second time, louder, “My baby’s not breathing!”  The doctor looked, saw that India wasn’t breathing, and started shouting orders to everybody.  The nurse was trying to administer the anti seizure medicine so the doctor turned to me and told me to start pumping air into her lungs with a hand held CPR device. I was in shock. 

I was looking down at my little girl, who just a few hours before was smiling at me and making the most beautiful noises.  Now, she wasn’t breathing and I could hear the nurse say that she could barely get a pulse.  I was in an elevator helping to keep her alive and it couldn’t have felt more like a terrible dream.

When the elevator doors opened to the pediatric intensive care unit, we were met by a pack of nurses.  I found myself following them as they pushed my baby into a room and begin frantically working on her.  I don’t remember how long they worked to revive India but it was quite a while.  When India was stabilized and the doctors and nurses left, I sat down next to my daughter.  I held her little hand; I gently touched her cheeks and then tried to make sense of everything that had happened.  I cried a deeply, until I couldn't cry anymore.

As the sun was rising, India’s vitals were good and none of the rhythmic seizing movement in her arms was happening. I can clearly remember taking a deep breath and feeling like the nightmare was over; it was a new day.  I felt so fortunate to have my baby with me; she was alive.  The nurse came in to explain what had happened and what they were going to do.   I barely understood most of what she was saying—I was traumatized, exhausted, and had never heard most of the medical terminology she was using. 

The nurse left and I sat down and absorbed what I’d just heard.  I did understand the nurse to have said that India’s seizures were under control and everything should be fine now.  My head was in my hands and I felt like my body was going to fail me from exhaustion.  I looked up to see how Veruca was doing but what I saw paralyzed me.  India had one arm perfectly straight and off to the side, the other was curled up, her head was turned to the side, and her eyes were open and staring off into space.  The rhythmic movement was back and much worse than before. Once again she was seizing terribly.

My Insane Family - The Swedish Delight

Before I was born, my family lived on 13^th Street in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  This is a great neighborhood; dozens of families with lots of children.  One of our families’ closest friends, the Striblings, lived directly across the street.  Both families had a herd of children and all these children had a serious propensity towards shenanigans’. 

Mr. Stribling was an incredible man.  I remember him well and always enjoyed my time with him.  Mr. Stribling was a gentle, well mannered, kind man. He had an incredible reputation and was well loved throughout the community. 

One day my mother decided to play a prank on Mr. Stribling.  She was 9 years old at the time.  She waited until my grandparents were out of the house to begin the preparation of what would forever be known as the “Swedish Delight”. 

My grandfather always had the family, all 6 of them, scrape their plates into a large metal bowl after every meal.  At some point, this smorgasbord of food would become a treat for my grandfathers’ beloved Labrador Retrievers but never before the bowl was full which took several days.  My mother took the contents of the bowl, which were already ripe and began her preparations.  She worked the awful pile of leftovers until they were soggy enough to place into an old food mold of my grandmothers.  When my mother’s delicacy was finished forming in the antique mold, she carefully popped it out onto a gold leaf china serving dish. 

Now you need to know that about that time, my mother’s grandmother Dora Wilson, had been traveling throughout Europe.  This included a visit to Sweden which Mr. Stribling knew about.  He also knew that Dora Wilson had just returned home from her travels.

Mom waited for Mr. Stribling to get home from work.  Shortly after he arrived home, she ran across the street to give him the carefully prepared European cuisine.  Mr. Stribling was sitting in his living room relaxing when my mother walked in.  She went straight up to him, handed over the gift and said “my grandmother asked me to give this to you; it’s from her travels in Europe”.   Mr. Stribling asked, “What is it?”  My mother quickly replied “it’s called ‘Swedish Delight’”.  Mr. Stribling graciously thanked my mom and told her to thank Dora for thinking of him.  My mother .promised to convey his message and left.

When my mother left the room, she didn’t leave the house, instead she sprinted around the corner into Mr. and Mrs. Striblings bedroom, slowly opened the door, which led into the living room where Mr. Stribling was sitting, lay on the floor and proceeded to watch the grand feast take place.

Mr. Stribling picked up the fork that my mother delivered with the meal and began to eat the greasy, days’ old pile of horribleness.  After a few bites, Mrs. Stribling walked into the room.  She is equally as wonderful a person as Mr. Stribling but that day, much wiser and alert.  When she saw what he was eating, she loudly exclaimed “Tom Stribling, what are you eating!”  Mr. Stribling replied, “Why I’m eating this Swedish Delight that Dora Wilson brought to me from Europe”.  Mrs. Stribling then shouted “Tom, those are dog scraps from the Wilson’s kitchen!  Mr. Stribling froze in mid bite and slowly looked up at Mrs. Stribling who was standing over him; he had been had and he knew it

My mother lay in the doorway, with her hands cupped over her mouth, trembling with laughter.  She almost gave herself away but luckily was able to suppress her laughter and slip out the back door.

This was only the beginning of my mother’s alternative culinary career; there was much more to come.

Booze, Guns, Vietnam Vet and Mayhem in Mexico Part 1.

After high school, I rented an absolute dump on the west mesa of Albuquerque with two friends.  This shack was smack in the middle of some serious gang-ville and we were the only gringos stupid enough to live there.

One night, I was drinking with two good friends, Ray and Damon.  Ray decided that he wanted to go up to the mountains to shoot guns.  Being young and drunk, we agreed that it was a great idea.  We started loading up Ray's old turquoise Ford Bronco with booze and guns.  Just as we were getting ready to leave, my next door neighbor, who I'd never met came out and asked us what we were doing.  He was an old guy with scraggly long white hair and a beard that covered almost his entire face down to his chest.  We told him what we were up to and he quickly invited himself along.  The old guy ran into his house, grabbed a 357 magnum, gallon of vodka then jumped in the front seat of Ray's Bronco to join our late night adventure.

As we got onto the highway, the old guy started telling us about himself.  He was a decorated Vietnam Vet who was on lifetime disability from injuries he received in the war.  I could see some of the damage to his face that he'd received when a phosphorous grenade exploded next to his head while he was in a tunnel chasing Vietcong soldiers.  His stories were amazing and absolutely terrifying, it was a miracle he was alive.  

All went well on the drive to the mountain, that is until we came onto a portion of highway in Albuquerque called "the Big I".  The old guy started asking us why we were going shooting in the mountains.  At first, I didn't understand why he was asking this because we'd already told him, he was in the truck, with his weapon.  Then things went horrifically wrong.

In order to correctly convey the entire picture of what was happening, I have to go back to less than a year earlier.  My old friend Ray, who was driving the vehicle and sitting right next to the old guy, had been shot several times in a robbery.  He was working at a convenience store at night when 2 robbers came into the store and robbed him at gunpoint.  After Ray gave them everything they wanted, they made him lie on the floor where they commenced to shoot him multiple times.  Ray was shot in the back, hand and face.  He survived but was still nursing his injuries the night we took to the road for some target shooting in the mountains.

As I said above, we reached the Big I and things went horrifically wrong.  The old man started repeating over and over, “why we were going shooting in the mountains”.  He then hit a high octave as he was saying "you mother-fuckers aren't going to kill me".  Next thing I knew, he had pulled out his 357 magnum and put it in my face.  I was stunned.  It was not the first time I'd had a gun pointed at me and I'd already been shot at several times.  But this was bad, seriously bad.  We were barreling down the highway at 90 miles per hour, crammed in a small Ford Bronco, with an armed man who we now knew was very very sick in the head.  

I was frozen with terror.  It's a feeling that's really hard to describe to somebody who's not experienced it.  I believe it's like the stories you hear from solders who've been in close proximity battles and had to kill others.  I could hear Ray, almost as a distant faint voice, begging for my life.  His voice sounded hysterical and almost resigned to what was about to happen to me.  I couldn't look away from the old man's face, not because it was an inch above the pistols barrel or because the barrel was pushed against my face. It also wasn't because of some horseshit Hollywood machismo nonsense.  It was because in moment, I felt that my only hope was to connect with this guy in some way.  Everything got really quiet as i watched him put his finger on the trigger.  I could see his knuckle whiten as he started to pull the trigger.  In reality, things were not quiet.  I could see Ray's mouth moving, pleading with him.  I could see Damien doing the best he could as well.  Then he removed his finger from the trigger.  Everybody stopped talking.  I was hoping that this ordeal was over, but I was very wrong.

The old man began his crazy talk again but this time, he focused his rage on Ray.  He shoved his pistol deep into Ray's temple, and then cocked the gun.  Now I found that Ray and I had switched places, he on the verge of a horrible death and me pleading for his life.  As I was saying every word that came to mind to calm the situation down, all I could think about was how sorry I felt for Ray.  He'd already experienced the horror of being shot less than a year before.  He knew the confusion, terror and pain of such a violent event.  For the rest of my life, I'll never forget the look on his face and how his body reacted to the gun cocking; it was surreal.  

I started trying to convince the old guy to let Ray stop the car and let him out; nobody needed to be hurt.  I told him that we didn't want to hurt anybody and we should all just go home.  I know much more was said but it's really a blur.  You have to remember, this all happened in less than a minutes time, plus or minus, but it felt like hours.  There were tears, everybody was sweating.  I remember saliva flying from Ray's mouth as he pleaded for my life.  I also remember smelling urine, I don't remember if it was mine, Damon or Ray's.  Then, all of a sudden, with the gun cocked and now pushed into Ray's right cheek, so hard that Ray could not close his mouth, the old guy instructed Ray to pull over.  Looking back, I should have felt some sort of relief but there was none.  My first thought was how quickly could Ray slow down the old Ford going at 90 miles per hour before the old guy changed his mind.  Then I began to realize that he was telling Ray to pull over because he couldn't shoot any of us while the vehicle was moving without risking his own life.  This revelation was almost as terrifying as his putting a gun against my face.

I was spot on with my fear; he did intend to get the car stopped then shoot us.  Almost the moment the old guy told Ray to pull over, Ray had hit the brakes as hard as he could.  We were in the fast lane so Ray had to merge across 2 other lanes to get to the side of the road.  He did this so fast and with so much velocity that he almost rolled his vehicle.  Ray jumped the truck over the curb and onto the embankment and slid sideways to a stop.  The old guy opened his door and as he was getting out of the vehicle, he started to turn back towards us, cocking the gun as he raised it to shoot us.  Luckily, Ray popped the clutch and floored the gas.  The jerk was enough to pull the old guy off balance because his free hand was holding the door handle still.  I can't say how many times the old guy shot at us as we sped away but we were very lucky that he didn’t hit one of us.  As ray sped away, he violently pulled back onto the interstate highway.  He caused numerous vehicles to slam on their brakes and swerve to miss is.  I believe this is part of the reason the old guy didn't get the chance to get off a couple accurate shots.  He was first distracted by Ray jerking him off balance, then distracted by the numerous vehicles swerving, honking and screeching on the highway right next to him.

We got away unharmed.  We literally got a second chance at life.  Ray drove about a mile up the road before he pulled over.  We all got out and sat down on the ground.  It was all I could do to keep from vomiting as we sat there.  I remember looking at Ray and seeing his hands tremble as he smoked a cigarette.  I was again thinking about how horrible this must have been for him being the second time in a year that he almost lost his life to a gun.  Damon sat with his hands in his head saying “fuck, fuck, fuck” over and over.  It was a nightmare that I hoped to never re-live again in my life.  As fate would have it, our journey had just begun and we’d see more violence in the days to come.  

Ray is alive and well and has not been shot at, gun pointed at or threatened by somebody with a gun since 1987.  He has enjoyed a very successful career in the avionics industry and remains one of my oldest and dearest friends to this day.

Damon was killed in a tragic auto accident not long after this story took place.  The accident was more than 10 miles east of the spot where we dropped off the old guy, on the very same highway.  I think of Damon often and still miss him very much.