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AN INVESTMENT
LIKE NO OTHER
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"I’m off to work," I said to my wife last
week as I headed out the door for the airport, suitcase in hand. "I’ll
see you in a few days."
"I’m so proud of you," she replied, kissing
me hungrily. "I know you’ll take great care of our San Diego
investment."
"That’s my job, and I will not fail," I said
proudly. "The $22,000 we spent for our 18 year old son’s first
semester at the University of San Diego will not be lost."
She kissed me again, throwing her arms around me and
hugging me tightly. "Save us," she cried. "Get that boy to
class."
It wasn’t going to be simple. The 18 year old had made
it all the way through high school with an unstable piece of bone in his
knee, playing baseball, tennis and water polo with the knowledge it could
break off at any time.
Three weeks into his first semester at USD and he chases a girl
down the hall in his dorm and, sure enough, the piece breaks off. Who won
the race and whether there was any tackling involved is still under
investigation.
Regardless, surgery was required to remove the piece of bone
that was now floating around his knee joint and repair the divot it left at
the bottom of his femur. He would be as good as new, after six weeks of
keeping all weight off the joint.
There was some discussion about pulling him out of school and
bringing him home for the operation. That lasted about six seconds.
Instead, I found a nice doctor in San Diego (no one was
available in Tijuana) who performed the operation, and then I flew down
south last week and got to work figuring out how to get him to class so I
could protect my investment.
There was some resistance, even after most of his pain
dissipated over the weekend. But I dragged him out of bed on Monday morning,
strapped on his hip to ankle knee brace, handed him his crutches, and helped
him into the car.
"I can’t go to class," he whined as I drove to the
USD campus from the hotel room where we were staying. "I can’t even
bend my leg. How am I supposed to sit?"
"That’s funny," I replied. "You certainly made
it through dinner at the restaurant last night with minimal
discomfort."
"Can’t I just miss a few days?" he asked.
We figured it out together. He had 17 hours of class time per
week for a 10 week semester. That’s 170 hours divided into the $22,000 I
was paying, which came to approximately $130 per hour of learning. No way he
was missing any hours, let alone any days.
I parked in the handicapped space outside his first class,
using the temporary handicapped placard he had acquired for his car. I
helped him out of his seat and strapped on his backpack, just like I did
when he went to kindergarten.
"This sucks," he said. "Everybody is going to be
staring at me."
The San Diego wildfires had just ended. "Tell them a tree
fell on you while you were saving a family of five from their burning house.
That will shut them up."
"Besides," I added, "chicks dig crutches. You
can work the sympathy angle."
That perked him up, but not much. He looked pretty miserable as
he limped into the building. But at least he was making $130 per hour, which
isn’t bad for an 18 year old.
I got him a bagel and juice, and waited patiently in the car,
just like a puppy dog, for his class to end. $130 later, he hobbled out the
door and I helped him into the car.
"How was it," I asked, hoping he wasn’t going to
kill me.
"Painful," he replied.
"Did you learn anything?
"No."
It was a good start. He survived. I handed him the bagel and
off we went to the next building and a 2 hour class, or a whopping $260.
By Thursday, he had it down. He could take a shower on his own,
get in and out of the car on his own, and even got permission from the
doctor to drive himself. The complaining subsided. It was time to move him
back to the dorm, where his friends were eagerly waiting to help get him
food and make sure he got to class.
My job was done. Our investment was safe, at least until the
grades come in.
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