National Date Nut Bread Day, and the Complications of Memory

Got one of those annoying cheery little pop-ups on my phone this morning, announcing that December 22 is National Date Nut Bread Day.

I love date nut bread.

I was first introduced to it by a co-worker I’ll call John (not his real name), in 1987 or so.  The large hospital system I was working for in Pittsburgh had just purchased a medical school on the eastern side of the state.  The logistics of the union were awkward and spanned over 300 miles, making its attempt to cobble together a network of hospitals and medical schools to rival Western PA’s undisputed healthcare leader, the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center (UPMC), quite difficult.

The medical school in Philadelphia was a bit of a wreck.  And its IT department led the way in terms of disarray.  “John” was the sole employee with responsibility for the newly-emerging field of end-user (PC/Network) support.  He was quite competent, but his own support, from management and administration, left almost everything to be desired.

Nevertheless, suddenly, he found himself reporting to me, a girl he’d never met, on the other side of the state, working for an organization he’d had no truck with until about five minutes ago.

All this was around the time of a surreal employment experience for me in which–after an overnight, inexplicable, and unwelcome change in my own management structure, the defenestration of a boss I loved, and the introduction of a team of suddenly-out-of-work consultants from one of what were then known as the “Big Eight” accounting firms–these particular ones had long-term personal ties to my hospital’s CEO–I found myself flying three or four times a week on the hospital’s private jet (!!!) between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, with an (announced) view to sorting out and cleaning up whatever was going on over there.

Talk about a third wheel.  There was the CEO, his senior sidekick, and me.  And I sat there like a wallflower, on trip after trip, listening to the two of them talking about what seemed–even to me–rather shady stuff.

(I first learned about something which I later came to understand as a “shell game” from a “magic” trick Dad taught me when I was about five.  Flashbacks, again.)

Crimenutely.  I was not wrong. I so remember a meeting, shortly after these [redacted] took charge, in which the highest of the muckety-mucks said that we were going to put the hospital system on the map, and that we’d all be on the cover of Time Magazine.  Not sure he made it quite there, but the fallout (largest bankruptcy in US healthcare history) was spectacular.)

Now, back on point.

John and I got on quite well.  We chatted over lunches in the park, in which he introduced me to the homemade date nut bread sandwiches his wife prepared for him. (Stuffed with cream cheese!! They were delicious!!)  And we traded family stories and family recipes.  I learned that he was a Vietnam veteran.  That he’d had a tough time upon ‘reentry,’ but that he’d found a good woman, gone back to school, settled down, and made a good life for his wife and children.  He seemed happy, and to have put the past behind him. He learned that I’d had my struggles too, but that Mr. She and I were making a life and succeeding against a few odds.

All seemed good in those days, as (I thought) we made some progress towards our professional and necessary goals.

Not too much later, I’d been a bit overset by news that my aunt–who’d been visiting her son, my cousin, in the Western US–had suddenly dropped dead from heart failure, and I called my (despised) boss to give him the news and let him know that–worst case–I might have to take a few emergency days off to assist with the family crisis.

“Haven’t you heard the news about John?”  he asked.  “No,” I said.  “I don’t follow the Philadelphia news.”

My friend John, Vietnam veteran, who’d been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for over two decades without telling anyone about it, had gone into that same park where we shared his date nut bread sandwiches, set himself on fire, and died in agony, in public view.

I’ve never been able to eat date nut bread since.

God bless, dear friend.  You were never the national disgrace.  That award belongs to others. Your name isn’t on the monument.  But perhaps it should be.

Rest in peace.