Engineering physics was indeed difficult, but not "too" difficult for me. I graduated in 1969 and continued in graduate school with the goal of obtaining a doctorate in physics. After two years of graduate studies in the department of physics, the first inkling of metaphysics (the branch of philosophy that examines the nature of reality, including the connection between mind and matter, substance and attribute, fact and value) appeared in the form of a book entitled The Sleeping Prophet. This was the first of many books, which would significantly affect the course of my life. It was about Edgar Cayce, a man of average intelligence and little formal education, but having a particular gift: He could place himself in a trance state and extract information concerning illness, medical treatments and a plethora of other subjects from an unseen dimension and for the most part, unknown place in time and space. This was a fascinating book, in fact, so engaging that it soon led me directly into the office of the curriculum advisor of the physics department.

"Thank you for seeing me Dr. Kasai," I said as I took a seat in the chair adjacent to his desk. Dr. Kasai was seated in a large brown leather recliner. Behind him was a large bookcase that spanned the length of the wall, save for a large portrait of Sir. Isaac Newton, which occupied the center section. On his desk sat an orrery, a mechanical model of the solar system and a few sundry items such as a slide rule, a magnifying glass and a pocket watch.

"You are most welcome my boy," he replied, while searching his desk top for a match to light his large meerschaum pipe. I provided a lighter from my pocket and offered it to him. "Thank you," he said, and after a moment he had his pipe properly lit and after returning my lighter he sat back in his chair, cleared his throat and said, "What can I do for you Mr. Turner?"

"I want to inform you that I will be dropping out of the physics program. I have developed an interest in metaphysics and traditional common-place physics has become boring to me."

Dr. Kasai put his pipe into an ashtray and folded his hands upon his lap, clearing his throat in the process. "Excuse me, I cannot say I exactly understand what you are saying," he said. "Physics is boring?"

I related the story of the book on Edgar Cayce and how he established communication with an unseen and for the most part unknown dimension. His cure rate with a variety of medical conditions had been an astonishing eighty-five percent. His remedies consisted of natural herbs and the correction of karmic discordance. What had been striking to me was that all of his recommendations were culled from invisible worlds while in a trance of some sort.

"Now this is exciting to me doctor," I said. "I appreciate what you and Dr. Rao, who had agreed to supervise my thesis work in spectroscopy, have done for me, but I feel I am being summoned to meet a destiny that is somewhat greater than physics."

He did not seem to share my enthusiasm as he shifted uneasily in his chair. After a moment he stood and said, "I will not pretend to understand exactly what you're talking about Mr. Turner. You are indeed a good student and a member of our honor society, but you must do what your inner voices are telling you to do." He smiled warmly and extended his hand to me. We shook hands cordially. Dr. Kasai struck a concordant note with the bit about the inner voices. Yes, I needed to heed the call.

"We will miss you," he said. "If you change your mind, we would love to have you back in our physics family. Have you informed Dr. Rao?"

I told him that I had come from Dr. Rao's office and that the professor had understood my sudden and dramatic change in plans.

"I have just one question," remarked Dr. Kasai, "I'm curious about how you plan to study metaphysics?"

"I will begin with medical school," I replied. "Then metaphysics will find me." These words just popped out without thinking. He smiled politely and wished me luck. I promised to let him know how things turned out and, after collecting my belongings from the office, I left the stately and prestigious redbrick physics building for the last time.

During the previous years of graduate school, I was employed as an academic advisor to freshman engineering students. This part-time job afforded me the ability to pay tuition and to continue with my academic pursuits. I had one significant problem to solve: How would I go about getting into medical school? I had performed at a B+ level in undergraduate school, but in the graduate level courses, I had mostly top grades. I had been inducted into the physics honor society Sigma Pi Sigma, and had secured a private office in the "Professor's Row" on the second floor of the physics building. I had been accepted for a research position in molecular spectroscopy under the tutelage of Dr. Rao. Now, after one reading of the book about Edgar Cayce, I was suddenly academically unemployed. I began to think quickly. I decided to place a phone call to the Dean of the College of Medicine as a starting point.

"Good morning," was the sound of a pleasant feminine voice.

"Good morning to you," I replied. "My name is John Turner. Could you connect me with the Dean's Office please?"

"Where are you calling from?" was the reply.

"I'm calling from the College of Engineering. I am an academic advisor."

"Please hold on, I will connect you now," she responded.

I waited a few minutes, drumming my fingers on the desk and looking out the window on to the large oval, a gigantic area in the center of the campus with crisscrossing walkways interconnecting the many buildings of the large institution that sat around its periphery. Students crossing the oval with their armfuls of books looked like small ants as they quickly scurried to-and-fro between classes.

"Hello, this is Dean Morley's secretary, may I help you?" said the voice on the phone.

"Yes you may," I said. "My name is John Turner and I would like to make an appointment to speak privately with Dean Morley. I am currently working as an academic advisor to freshman engineering students and I would like some information about application to medical school. Also, I want to know if there is any type of a scholarship or loan program that is designed for minority students."

"Why, ah, yes, I think that can be arranged Mr. Turner, could you please hold on a second?" There was a brief wait this time and she promptly returned to the line. "Would next Monday at two in the afternoon be acceptable?"

"Perfectly acceptable," I replied. "Thank you very much and I will see you then."

I had accomplished the first step, a connection with the key person. He would be able to instruct me in the proper procedure for applying to medical school, and how to apply for any available scholarships. I would probably have to find a part-time job in addition; I had no savings other than a few hundred dollars tucked away for emergencies. I had been married for four years and my wife Barbara, also a student, made a moderate amount of money working as a part-time secretary. We were making it, but just barely. I would take a transcript of my grades, wear my most business-like suit and see what the Dean would recommend.

At two PM Monday, I was seated in Dean Morley's outer office. His receptionist, Mrs. Cowan, offered me a cup of coffee that I gratefully accepted. She was extremely pleasant. Well, I thought, this is the start of what may turn out to be an excellent day.

I was leafing through various journals of medicine when Dean Morley's private office door opened. Into the waiting room walked Dr. Morley, a slightly overweight man in his early sixties, I guessed. He wore an expensive looking blue three-piece suit and his Phi Beta Kappa key was chained at his waist as an indication that he was an accomplished scholar.

 

 

"Mr. Turner," he said, a broad smile on his face. "We are so glad you could make it today." He shook my hand vigorously and put his other hand on my shoulder. "Did you have coffee or tea?" he asked. Before I could answer, he turned to Mrs. Cowan and said, "Did you offer Mr. Turner some refreshment?" I answered for her.

"Yes Dean Morley, she was very kind to see that I was comfortable. I have a cup of coffee," and I took the cup from the table.

"Come with me then," said the Dean and with a fatherly arm around my shoulder, he escorted me into his office. "Please have a seat Mr. Turner," he said, motioning to a large over-stuffed chair located directly across from his desk. "This is Dr. Whittaker, Director of the Office of Minority Affairs." He nodded in the direction of a tall thin black gentleman who stood to shake my hand. "And over here," continued Dean Morley, "is Dr. Peter Katayama of the student financial aids office. So now," he said as he tucked his thumbs into his waistband, "let's sit down and see what we can do for you."

I had not expected such a warm welcome; dealing with the medical profession was certainly very different from the stuff-shirted engineers and physicists who seemingly preferred cold indifference to warm congeniality. These medical men were relaxed as they sipped from their cups of coffee and smiled warmly at me. Well, it was up to me now, so I pulled the transcript from my coat pocket and handed it to Dean Morley.

"This covers my seven years of schooling at the university," I said. "As you can see, my first year's performance before joining the Navy was average. However, after that, I improved to a great degree. I have decided not to pursue a Ph.D. in physics, but instead to obtain a medical degree as my interest is no longer physics, but metaphysics."

Their smiling faces slowly turned to looks of puzzlement and they stared at one another in apparent confusion. It became intensely quiet in the room. I thought of the saying "So quiet you could hear a pin drop." I remained silent, waiting. Dr. Morley puckered his forehead thoughtfully. He has placed his knitted fingers under his chin and supported his head, his elbows resting on his desk. He stared at me for a few moments, his eyes fixated upon my face.

"Ahem," Morley said softly, clearing his throat. He briefly looked at his appointment sheet, his gaze stopping near the middle. "Are you not John Turner, advisor at the College of Engineering?" he asked.

"Yes, that's me," I replied. "I would like some information regarding how I can enroll in medical school."

Now the skeptical and confused looks on their faces turned to smiles and they began to quietly chuckle. "Why," said Dean Morley, "we thought you wanted to discuss minority applications to the college of medicine. That's why I invited Dr. Whittaker as he is intimately involved with projects to increase our enrollment of black students and," he added, "other students of color. We had no idea that you personally wanted to enroll. Gentlemen," he said to the others, "I guess Mr. Turner and I can continue from here. Thank you for stopping by." Whittaker and Katayama seemed to be somewhat relieved that they would not be discussing a delicate issue. They each shook my hand before leaving the office in a hurried and somewhat embarrassed manner.

In 1971, minority recruitment was a delicate issue indeed. There had been many riots at academic institutions across the country in the late 1960s and recently, on the Ohio State campus, tear gas from the riot police had filled the commons that was at one time, a peaceful twenty-acre oval of grass, benches and asphalt walkways at the campus' center. State and government grants were critical to survival of the university and the College of Medicine was no exception. It was vying for a substantial piece of the monetary pie. A big push was on to increase minority enrollment in all colleges of the university. It appeared that my phone call directly to the Dean of the Medical School stating that I was an advisor calling from the College of Engineering, was responsible for their assumption that I was a black student councilor who might demand that minority medical school enrollment be increased to a suitable proportions, and that scholarship programs be established specifically for such students. Yes, that must be the answer. They had probably placed a call or two and found out that I was a militant black guy with a big Afro hairdo. That was true enough. However, they were caught off guard when they realized that this visit was for a personal matter.

"I am sorry for any mix-up Dr. Morley," I said calmly, "but I am here, you might say, on a reconnaissance mission to gather information. You can review my academic background in the transcript. Can you kindly tell me exactly what will I have to do to get into medical school?"

"Well," he said, as he thumbed through my transcript, "it is not a matter of your grades, you have done well. I see you have taken a pretty stiff load in mathematics and physics." He smiled as he looked up at me over his horn-rimmed glasses.

"My major was engineering physics," I replied. "It entails a great deal of math in addition to the physics."

"Well, it appears like you lack a zoology course or two, and a year of organic chemistry," he said as he returned the transcripts to me. From his file cabinet he produced a package of documents. "This will fill you in on our exact requirements," he said.

After pocketing the papers, I stood and extended my hand. We shook hands firmly. "I will be back in one year Dr. Morley. Thank you very much for your time and for your advice."

"Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you have any more questions?" he asked as I was leaving.

"No sir," I said, looking back at him over my shoulder. "If this is what I have to do, I will take care of it and see you again in exactly one year."

In the outer office, I thanked his receptionist for the coffee and over her objections; I made an appointment for exactly one year hence. In the elevator, I began to think about the chemistry. That could be a problem. I completed the first year of inorganic chemistry; the ordinary stuff which is a continuation of high-school chemistry, but that was over ten years ago. Then there had been the four years in the Navy when the furthest though from my mind was chemistry. How would I now fare with younger students just out of their first-year college chemistry courses? Would I be able to remember the basic principles of atomic and molecular systems? I would just have to "bite the bullet" and do it. I had taken the first step and there was a long road ahead. There would be no turning back. I had not the slightest inkling that this road would turn out to be a path less traveled, but one leading to perfect understanding. My journey would be filled with many pleasant and equally many not-so-pleasant experiences.

 

Medical school is another story. But how did neurosurgery present itself? At the start of my general surgery rotation, I had just finished scrubbing in on a cholecystectomy (removal of the gall bladder) with the general surgery resident and the staff surgeon Dr. Mellon. I was seated in the surgeon's lounge with Mellon, a somewhat

boisterous general surgeon who was well known for his skill and for his rough treatment of residents. Somehow and for some inexplicable reason Mellon had taken a liking to me and often would sit down and "talk story" with me. This expression was a common one among those in the medical profession and simply meant that he liked joking around and discussing a variety of topics. I told him a story that day, and the timing could not have been more opportune for me to head into unknown waters.

"Dr. Mellon," I said. "Why do I hear that there are too many neurosurgeons, an excess?" At that exact moment, Dr. William E. Hunt, Chief of Neurosurgery pushed open the door to the doctor's lounge. He was dressed in an operating gown and gloves, and he had come in for a smoke break. He pulled out a package of filtered cigarettes from his locker.

"Hell," said Mellon." Here's the guy you want to ask."

Dr. Hunt turned to us and smiled.

"Hell," again said Dr. Mellon. "Ask the "silver fox," he should know."

I decided against addressing this distinguished professor as the "silver fox," an appellation given to him by the medical staff because of his wavy gray hair and his Cary Grant looks. Instead, I said, "Dr. Hunt why are there too many neurosurgeons?"

He fumbled around a moment for his matches, and after finding them in his coat pocket; he slowly lit his cigarette, stared out of the window for a moment then exhaled a slow stream of blue-grey smoke from his nostrils. He sat down across from us, crossed his legs and said, "What's that again?"

"Why are there to many neurosurgeons? I hear about this problem and it seems very strange to me," I said.

"I may be able to address your question," he replied. "There are many training programs and many hospitals, but as far as the number of neurosurgeons is concerned, I'm not sure that the modifier "too many" would be an accurate assessment."

"Oh but it is," I replied. "The New York Times had an article about it this morning, and the numbers they listed show that most areas of the country are inundated with neurosurgeons."

Dr. Hunt took a long draw on his cigarette. "Do you happen to have that article son?" he said, blowing a stream of blue smoke in my direction.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I replied, and opening my locker, I produced the morning paper and handed it to Dr. Hunt who studied it carefully.

"Yes I saw this," he said. "I do not agree with their conclusions."

I did not think he had known about the article, but I was going to keep my trap shut. He continued to ramble for a moment about how difficult the training was and how neurosurgery was a "jealous mistress."

"Dr. Hunt," spoke the voice from the overhead speaker. "We're ready for you sir, room eight."

"Well, I've got to run gentlemen," he said, and he stood to leave. As he stepped through the door, he turned to look at me. "Very interesting," he said. And with that, he disappeared into the hallway.

"You seemed to have freaked him out," said Mellon. "Not too often have I seen the fox at a loss for words. Well I gotta go too," he said, and with a slap on my back and a smile and firm handshake, he left to return to his operating room. I sat alone in the lounge watching the rays of the early-morning sun to streak through the window. I time to enjoy the view. Above the rooftops was a beautiful rainbow.

The next day I was making rounds on my assigned patients when Eric, the neurosurgical junior resident that had scrubbed in with Dr. Vise and me on Mr. Spencer's case, approached. "Hey Jack," he said. "You really spooked old Hunt yesterday in the surgeon's lounge."

"Spooked?" I reiterated.

"Yeah whatever you said spooked him all right. He wants to see you in his office."

"Why?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Eric. "Maybe he wants to offer you a spot in the program?" He winked. "Go see him and find out. I'm kind of curious myself."

I did just that. I immediately went to Dr. Hunt's office on the hospital's ninth floor. We chatted for quite some time. By the end of our discussion, I had accepted his offer for a spot in the neurosurgical training program. After completing one more year of medical school and a year of general surgical internship, I would be ready to begin neurosurgical training with the famous Dr. William Hunt, otherwise known as the Silver Fox.

I completed medical school and residency training over the next eight years. This involved a transfer at the mid point to The Cleveland Clinic Foundation, but that is another story. After completing neurosurgical training, I accepted a job on the Big Island of Hawaii. My feet were now planted firmly on the path. Unbeknownst to me, I was being given the chance to become involved with metaphysics and to reach enlightenment.