I Didn’t Plan It, It Just Happened

We tend to think that the plans we make allow our lives to proceed in a linear manner. Go to school, get married, raise a family, etc. With the gift of hindsight, let me show how little of what we plan really matters. What seems to matter is that we remember to be kind to others because it will come home in ways that we could never anticipate. My tale goes like this…

“Marburg 2? Who do you know to get in Marburg 2? That’s where VIPs go for recovery.” So said Fran, a friend, a kidney transplant recipient, and now a volunteer at Johns Hopkins Hospital, when she ran into Mrs. Commish in the corridors of the hospital in late November 2011.

This was my second encounter with the famed institution.

Some 60 years before, my mother was told by Dr. Arnold Lavenstein, her pediatrician, that he didn’t know why her infant son was having convulsions. What he was sure of, though, was that someone he knew at Hopkins could figure it out.

That was my first experience at Hopkins.

In the intervening six decades a remarkable “Butterfly Effect” of coincidences and choices made and not made wove the tapestry that became my life. Now I can see how so many seemingly random and unassociated events put me in a place to be saved from a feared sentence of leukemia as a child (it turned out to be a “simple” ascorbic acid deficiency) and from the very real incidence of prostate cancer as I approached my retirement years.

I have always been dog person, a “Big Dog” person to be precise. No yappy little barkers for me. In fact Chow Chows were the smallest dogs I ever had and then in June of 1969 I bought a Persian kitten. It wasn’t for me, of course; she was a surprise wedding gift for my lovely bride-to-be. Despite the fact that “Misty” peed on my tuxedo going from the church to the reception hall, she turned out to be the perfect gift.

Misty was the first “butterfly” in this saga.

The second butterfly was borne out of tragedy. Mrs. Commish wanted to have kittens and, like so many foolish young people, we bred our pet Persian to another pet Persian we had acquired in Rochester, N.Y. and anxiously awaited the kittens’ arrival. A botched C-section by a “dog vet” left a dead mother cat and us with five newborns. We found a cat breeder that said she would try to help us but that there was little chance for the kittens to survive. This was how we met Louise Otto of Chatalain Cattery. To this day neither of us can remember how we found Louise; but even with her assistance all of the kittens died.

From this sad experience we became life-long friends with the Otto’s and learned how to be serious cat breeders. For the next 30 years, long after Louise had passed away, we bred and showed many Best in Show Persians with more than our share of Regional and National winners and Grand Champions.


Wanting better facilities for our cattery, we moved from Baltimore City to build a new home in Sparks, Maryland in 1978. North of Hunt Valley, Sparks was country. No neighbors, just woods and the occasional moo of a distant cow. From here we were able to create our own bloodlines and a distinct “look” for our show cats. When you are breeding for top show animals there are also many terrific pets that need to have homes also. One of the nicest couples we ever sold a kitten to was the McCullochs, Duncan and Kitty. Since we seldom advertised, it was less than a 1 in 100 chance that we would have an ad in the Sunday paper but this one particular Sunday we had placed an ad and that particular Sunday Kitty was bereft because her long-time pet had died. She saw our ad, we lived close by, and later that day she and Duncan came to our home and purchased the only 2 kittens we had.

They were to become the next “butterfly” in this tale. Throw in a legendary gambler and railroad tycoon, gourmand, and philanthropist from the roaring nineties (that’s 1890’s folks) and all of the pieces were finally in place for this last butterfly to save my life some twenty-five years later.

Kitty and Duncan loved the two Persian boys they bought that day and invited us to visit “Rusty and Buffy” and have dinner with them. This happened many times over the next few years and I later learned this was out of character for Kitty since she was a very private person but they treated us not just as friends but as if we were family. Anyway, the directions to their home took us through the campus of Oldfields School (a boarding school for girls). We knew exactly where they were because we sent our daughter, Gwaltney, to a pre-school program that Oldfields had recently opened. When she was 5 years old she left Oldfields pre-school and went to Montessori for a few years before going to public school for 3rd grade. Gwaltney had gone to Oldfields because it was close and convenient. She went to Montessori because a good friend of ours (and a fellow cat breeder) taught French there and loved the school. She went to public school because the schools in the Hereford Zone were excellent and they cost thousands less than what we had been paying.

Duncan, a good Scotsman, showed me how single malts are the only way to enjoy Scots whiskey and how to concoct “Kilt Lifters,” the only acceptable way to adulterate scotch. We enjoyed solving the world’s problems over a wee dram or two; and then, way too soon, he became a widower as Kitty became ill and died. Several years later he remarried and we got to know Beth, his second wife. In the ensuing 15 plus years, Beth has become as close to Mrs. Commish as a sister.

Beth was not a country girl and to acclimate herself to the area she began having Duncan entertain more. As she learned about the area she also learned about the McCulloch family and their history in the area. When we would go to a cookout at their home, more often than not there would be teachers and staff from Oldfields. I didn’t think anything of this since it was necessary to go through the campus to get to their home. We later found out that Beth had been instrumental in getting Duncan and the rest of the McCullochs once again involved in the school that they had founded just after the Civil War. In fact, Duncan’s father had been the headmaster when Duncan had been a youngster. Beth was also key to getting Duncan re-involved with Immanuel Episcopal Church, the little church we attended that was just across the street from the school. From this we also found out that Duncan’s Grandfather had been the second Rector of the church.

For over a decade Duncan and I had discussed politics, sports, religion, etc. and never once did any of his personal history come out. There is more too, like the precedent-setting Supreme Court ruling of McCulloch vs. Maryland and all of the historic homes he had lived in like Filston, Clynmalira, and other “Carroll” family connections but the Oldfields connection leading to his involvement with Immanuel Church is my butterfly effect.

 Not long after 9/11, Duncan led an adult education course at the church. Since it was going to be more of an historical look at the first millennium rather than a “doctrine” class, I decided to attend. It was a free-ranging class and we had great discussions not only amongst the 8 or 10 regulars but also with guests such as the head of Baltimore’s Islamic Center. Through these discussions I was introduced to a couple I had seen at some of Beth and Duncan’s cookouts but really had never spoken to, Drs. Alex and Emily Haller. They went to the same church I did (admittedly I didn’t go very regularly) but I didn’t know it because they liked to go to the early service and when I did go it was always to a later service. Anyway, Alex was an extremely brilliant fellow but humble and as soft spoken as he could be. Even though I immediately liked him, if I hadn’t gone to these sessions we probably would not have known each other except to occasionally wave when we passed on the road.

Now to wrap this all up…

After a biopsy in October 2011 I learned that I had prostate cancer. Not knowing anything about it, I thought I should get a second opinion since I was not really comfortable with the surgeon, but where to go? Mrs. Commish was worried and talked with Beth McCulloch who told her not to let me do anything until she spoke with Alex Haller. Alex said he would talk with his friend at The Brady Urological Institute at Hopkins, Patrick Walsh, and get me a second opinion. Dr. Walsh was no longer taking patients but put Alex in touch with his associate, Dr. Jacek Mostwin and I got an appointment for a second opinion. Since Alex had recommended Dr. Mostwin and Mrs. Commish and I were comfortable with him, when he recommended surgery we scheduled it for as soon as possible, about 2 weeks later.

After a biopsy in October 2011 I learned that I had prostate cancer. Not knowing anything about it, I thought I should get a second opinion since I was not really comfortable with the surgeon, but where to go? Mrs. Commish was worried and talked with Beth McCulloch who told her not to let me do anything until she spoke with Alex Haller. Alex said he would talk with his friend at The Brady Urological Institute at Hopkins, Patrick Walsh, and get me a second opinion. Dr. Walsh was no longer taking patients but put Alex in touch with his associate, Dr. Jacek Mostwin and I got an appointment for a second opinion. Since Alex had recommended Dr. Mostwin and Mrs. Commish and I were comfortable with him, when he recommended surgery we scheduled it for as soon as possible, about 2 weeks later.

Another one of our good friends from the cat fancy is a nurse at Hopkins. In the 20 years we have been friends I never knew what unit she was on but it turned out that she was one of the head nurses on Marburg 2. She did scold me for not letting her know in advance so she could have gotten me the best care but after she found out who my surgeon had been she calmed down and said, “He is the best. Period. But I still could have gotten you a better room!”

Well, it seems that Dr. Mostwin is not only Professor of Urology and Director of the Division of Neurological and Reconstructive Urology at Hopkins but in 1982 along with Dr. Walsh they had pioneered this particular surgery (radical prostatectomy) and are the world’s foremost experts. Not a bad recommendation, do you think? Thanks again to the Hallers.

Speaking of the Hallers, I was talking with my mother about the surgery and mentioned that a friend from church, Alex Haller, had called Dr. Mostwin and set up our meeting with him. She asked me if Alex Haller been a doctor at Hopkins.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Was his wife also a doctor? Were they both pediatricians?”

Again I told her, “Yes, why?”

It turns out that Alex Haller was the Hopkins pediatrician that Dr. Lavenstein had sent me to when I was having convulsions as an infant. I had been Dr. Haller’s patient some 60 years prior and neither of us knew it, but, once again, he was instrumental in my return to good health.

One last thing to wrap up. Remember I was in the James Buchanan Brady Urological Institute at Johns Hopkins? I thought that Brady was some great doctor that they named the hospital’s urologic division after but I was wrong. My pastor from Immanuel came to visit me just before surgery on the day before Thanksgiving (he was there for a checkup himself) and he asked me that same question. The answer is that James Buchanan Brady was a famous gambler better known as “Diamond Jim.” Diamond Jim Brady was cured by Hopkins doctors of some undisclosed condition (syphillis?) that was preventing him from eating the prodigious amounts of food that he loved to consume. He was so grateful for the cure that he funded the creation of the urologic institute that is named after him.

In essence I owe my entire good fortune to a gluttonous gambler with intestinal problems and a kitten that peed on me many years ago. From that little kitten forward, friends and people who love me in spite of myself have created a series of events that put me where I needed to be at the time I needed to be there.

And the ripples don’t just end with me. Some 10 years after leaving the Oldfields pre-school program, Gwaltney suddenly said that she had always wanted to go back there for her schooling. With her persistence and the McCullochs assistance she was able to attend this remarkable school for her high school years. The extent of those ripples are still yet to be determined.

We may never know how our actions affect others but be sure that “the Butterfly Effect” is not an illusion. It is real, only it can’t be seen except by hindsight. With this in mind a little selflessness will go farther than you can ever imagine. You just might not be aware of who it helps down the road.

Thank you, everyone.

Walk Ons and "Pago Pa"

(We heard from "Sushi" in Japan. Click here to see her remarks.)

Walking on at a golf course can be one of the more stomach-wrenching things we can do. Think of that first tee shot of a normal round and then ramp up your nerves 10-fold. Here you are meeting up with three strangers and they have nothing better to do at that moment than to watch your tee shot on #1 and judge you, your athleticism, the state of your game, and whether or not you have any "ticks," those peculiar waggles and movements that drive others crazy. (Ticks: think of Sergio Garcia and his regripping problem or Jim Furyk and his peculiar habit of starting to putt and then backing away.) All of this aside, some of my most lasting memories involve either walking on or having someone else join us for a round.

One time in the late '90's I walked on at Longview Golf Course. By this time I was used to doing it and didn't feel any particular nerves or inner fears. After making the perfunctory disclaimers that I would try not to play too badly for their sake the round started. What was a little different about this round was that the three gentlemen I was playing with were Oriental. Were they Japanese or Korean, that was my thought. Why, you ask. Well, it's simple, sort of.

This was a week or so before Christmas and we had a foreign student staying with us. Mrs. Commish and I have one child, a daughter (who never practices her golf game but when she plays she has this beautiful natural feather draw that I would die for, but that's another story) who was a 10th grader at Oldfields School, a wonderful little school in northern Baltimore County that has students from all over the country and world. One of the girls, Suna Jo, was my daughter's "little sister." This meant that she would take Suna under her wing and help her to acclimate to living in America away from her family. Suna was Korean but her family lived in Japan. Mrs. Commish's mother, Buzzy (short for "Old Buzzard"), was getting up in years and was living with us at the time, also. Buzzy had a hard time remembering Suna's name and called her Sushi, a nickname which stuck with her for the rest of her Oldfields days.

Sushi was a boarding student and had gone to Texas to spend the holidays with one of her friends. Something happened with that family and Sushi had cut short her visit and return to the school. Oldfields asked if she could spend time with our family because there would not be any other kids in residence over the holidays. We said, "Of course," and with that a golfing memory began.

At the time Sushi was a little shy. Her English was fine but she was uncomfortable with it so she generally spoke only when spoken to. My daughter and Sushi, being kids, had a fine time and you could hear lots of laughing and such noise as high school kids make but I felt a little awkward because I didn't think Sushi was comfortable with us because of the language barrier.

Sunday morning came and I woke up to walk-on at the local municipal course. Did you remember, this story is about walking on at the golf course? Anyway here I was teamed up with three Oriental golfers and having a Korean girl staying with us that I wanted to make feel more at home. For the first 5 holes I wondered how to ask them if they were Korean. Would it be an insult if they were Japanese? Would I be thought of as just another "ugly American," an insensitive white guy, etc., etc. We talked small talk but nothing to remember until I finally thought, "What the hell, if I'm thought of as insensitive, so be it 'cause I'm trying to help my daughter's friend feel better." On the sixth tee I asked the most loquacious of the bunch if they were Japanese.

He laughed and told his friends what I had said (in his language) and they all laughed and told me they were Korean, couldn't I tell? After all, they said, Koreans have a more rounded head than Japanese and they are much more handsome. I said that it was great that they were Korean because... and I went on with the story of how Sushi was staying with us. I told them that I wanted to try to make her feel more at home and they helped me memorize a couple of phrases in Korean. The next 12 holes were some of the most fun golfing I have ever had. The joking between all of us picked up and by the end of the round we were good buddies and hoped to play together again some time. Before I left I had to repeat the phrases 2 more times, just to be sure.

I got back to my hacienda around 10:30 in the morning with lox, bagels and cream cheese for breakfast. Entering the family room I saw Mrs. Commish in the kitchen but the kids were still upstairs. I yelled several of the phrases up the steps and Sushi came out smiling and saying, "What?" I repeated, "Pago pa? (Are you hungry?)" and the smile across her face was beautiful. She started to speak in Korean and I had to stop her because I was done after the 3 short phrases, but Sushi felt, finally, at home.

The rest of the phrases are gone from my memory bank now but I still smile every time I recall "Pago pa." If it hadn't been for the friendliness of other golfers I would have missed this memory and have been that much the poorer.