The Planning Fallacy

We were assigned to read the article, "Intuitive Prediction: Biases and Corrective Procedures," by Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky for my Federal Acquisitions class this week (one of seven!! articles, each about 45 pages long...woe is me! Thank goodness for 10 pages of endnotes/references.). Their premise is that forecasting is most often fallacious in two predictable manners: an over-reliance on intuition, rather than regressive analysis; and overconfidence with precision of estimates. Quotes from the article are in italics.

"Our  view of  forecasting rests on  the  following  notions. First,  that  most  predictions and  forecasts  contain  an irreducible  intuitive  component.  Second,  that  the  intuitive predictions of  knowledgeable  individuals contain much  useful information.  Third,  that  these  intuitive  judgments  are  often biased  in  a  predictable manner.  Hence,  the  problem is  not whether  to  accept  intuitive  predictions at  face  value or  to reject  them, but  rather  how  they can  be  debiased and  improved."

Usually as I read stuff, especially conceptual stuff, I try to relate it to something with which I am familiar. The article did a good job of providing understandable examples, but for me, what resonated was trying to predict how long something, particularly engineering-related, will take to repair. When something breaks--and it's inevitable that something *will,* every operational planner knows that there's "real estimate" and "engineering estimate" for repairs.

Real time is what it actually takes to fix whatever is broken, and is never actually known until the piece of equipment is fixed. Engineering time is the EO/EPOs best estimate for how long it's going to take.

"...the  element of  uncertainty  is  typically  underestimated in  risky decisions.  The  elimination of  overconfidence  is therefore an  important  objective  in  an attempt  to  improve  the quality of  the  intuitive  judgments  that  serve decision making."

Under extreme duress and lots of nagging on my part, a first-rate, highly skilled, extremely talented EO shared with me his engineering time algorithm: 2*estimated repair time + 20 percent. So if he thought it would actually take an hour to say, fix the fuel leak on the small boat, he'd tell me that the small boat would be FMC in about two and a half hours, give or take. That way he and his engineers looked like rock stars when it was done in an hour and a half, and they still had plenty of time to thwart the annoying gremlin trickery that is inherent to engineering repairs.

Of course, I always tried to reverse engineer his engineering time to get the real time...usually only ended up annoying the hell out of both of us.

"A probability distribution  that  is  conditioned on  restrictive  assumptions  reflects  only  part of  the  existing uncertainty regarding  the  quantity,  and  is  therefore  likely to  yield too many  surprises."

Somehow, though, I was never able to effectively apply the same theory to predicting how long it would take to launch the small boat. Like, *never.* I would always underestimate it, and we'd be late (guaranteed to aggravate me), or overestimate it, and the boat crew would have to haul a mile, usually upswell, to get to the boarding target, arriving thoroughly soaked and more tired than they needed to be (and I always knew it was my fault). I think my "restrictive assumption" was that it would either take 15 minutes to launch the small boat, or 30 minutes (mostly because my brain thinks most easily in quarter-hour increments), when actually it takes, on average, 22 minutes to get the boat in the water and boat crew and boarding team loaded. It's really hard to take the Plan of the Day seriously when it says, "0938 - Set Boat Lowering Detail," for a 1000 arrival time.

"In many  problems of prediction  and estimation, available  information  is  limited, incomplete,  and  unreliable.  If  people  derive almost  as much confidence  from poor  data  as  from good  data, they  are  likely to produce overly narrow confidence  intervals  when  their information  is  of  inferior quality."

I guess my point is that I like what the authors did with the article in trying to break down the nature of uncertainty in planning. I'm poking gentle fun at it because they take it so seriously, and turn it all scientific and statistical. But, in the end, they're right...the important thing about predictions is honestly recognizing where they are weak, and trying, despite ourselves, to compensate for those weaknesses.

Reflection Paper #1

BACKGROUND: I'm taking a class titled "Managing Differences: Resolving Conflict & Negotiating Agreements." We met for the first time this past Monday, and went through an oil pricing exercise. The class was divided into small groups, and then paired up with another group. Each small group represented an oil-exporting country in direct competition with our partner group for exporting oil to a (third) neighboring country. We had to decide how to price our exported oil based on a given matrix for profits, with the goal of maximizing our country's profits. We couldn't talk with the other group initially, but then after a couple rounds, we were able to attend a "summit" with them.

The first couple of rounds, we were able to maintain prices at their, relatively profitable initial level. When we attended the summit, we negotiated a price increase with the other country that would benefit both of us. 

We got *totally* ** PUNKED!** The other group undercut us and made a huge profit for themselves, but *completely* destroyed the future potential for continued friendly relations between the group. 

Our homework assignment from the exercise was to write a short paper, reflecting on our reaction to the events. Here's mine:

PAPER: I tend to think that most everyone shares my perspective that the world would be a better place if we could all at least consider others’ needs along with our own. Unfortunately, my experience in the oil pricing exercise definitively illustrated that this is not the case. Our Alban (the other country) counterparts went into the negotiations with a clearly stated objective of luring us into a trusting relationship solely to take eventual advantage of the situation. I was also disappointed that they saw the exercise as a win-lose environment instead of one in which both parties could fully optimize their circumstances. The situation made me feel naïve and upset that my trust was used against my pursuit of a potentially mutually beneficial goal. 

For the last 12 years, my professional (and a great deal of my personal) life has been dedicated to being underway on Coast Guard cutters. It has been a very team-oriented existence. Not much happens on a ship that involves a single person; nearly everything requires the significant effort of many people working together. Trust is quickly built…or nothing gets done. The bridge watch has to trust the engine watch to keep machinery running within parameters, and the rest of the crew has to trust the bridge watch to, well, not run into anything and to navigate the ship safely. With this background, trust comes easily to me.

As the Commanding Officer, I worked hard to diligently and conscientiously build trust and camaraderie among my crews through shared missions, clearly communicated expectations and sincere respect of individuals’ talents and abilities. It is a source of personal pride to me that those crews--my guys--trusted me to be their Captain and lead them during difficult and dangerous situations. So, while trust comes easily to me, I also take it very personally. 

During the exercise, when our Alban counterparts nefariously lured us into believing that they would also raise their price to $30/barrel in the fourth month, I took it personally that they blatantly lied to us. It meant that I hadn’t done as good a job as I could have communicating the benefits of a long-term commitment to increased prices. It meant that they were only hearing what they wanted to hear, rather than what we were saying. It meant that we didn’t have common goals. It meant that our trust in them was unfounded. It might even have meant that they were bad people.

The major insight I gleaned from this exercise is that other people’s motivations are not my personal burden. As long as I make my best effort to clearly state relevant concerns and opinions, I am not responsible for their independent actions. If their goals are different, it does not make them bad people. Even if they are deceitful, I have no place to either judge them or take on their "salvation" on as my own cause.

There is a balance required between getting so personally involved that I lose my objectivity and am emotionally hurt by people with less honorable intentions and being so detached to not care one way or the other about the outcome. The balance point will likely change with each circumstance. But maintaining an awareness of my tendency towards emotional involvement may help to find that point at which I can be passionately committed to achieving my own objectives, which usually include some consideration of the Other’s situation with the ultimate goal of making the world a better place.

ON ANOTHER NOTE: I got a call from my Assignment Officer today, which is not an insignificant occurrence, especially when I'm waiting (somewhat breathlessly) to find out what office I'll be working in for the next few years. He had a "short-fused" assignment opportunity he wanted to talk to me about. 

We talked yesterday; I tried to reiterate to him exactly which office I want to work in (which just happens to be open, and wanting an off-season transfer). He didn't commit to anything, but definitely indicated I was in the running for my top two choices.

This morning he told me he had reviewed my record again last night and thought that I would be a good candidate for a *VERY* high profile, like ridiculously prestigious, assignment within the Executive Branch. Would I consider applying for it?

Um...WOW!! Holy crap!! Lil' ole' me?!? Hunh-uh, you're joking, right? Ok, deep breath, calm down, and...say no.

I thanked him first for deciding that my record of performance indicated that I might be competitive for this particular assignment; it's a huge honor to even be briefly considered for it. He asked me why I said no.

I told him I didn't think I'd be a good fit for it, that there is likely someone much better suited to that kind of highly visible job, and that, truthfully, I just don't have the social skills necessary to be good at a job like that. He thanked me for my honesty, and told me I was still in the running for the jobs I had asked for. We quickly finished our conversation.

I stood at the dining room window for a moment, looking out into my yard, breathing a little shallowly, at the thought that I had just turned down the opportunity probably of a lifetime. I'm still a bit shaken by it. I *know* I wouldn't be good at it. I'm awkward in social situations, prone to saying stupid things, don't think especially quickly on my feet. But...did I really turn it down just because I'm scared of all those things? Or am I scared of being potentially successful and influential far beyond my wildest dreams? Or am I using that as an excuse (lack of advanced social skills) to avoid something I don't want to do?

I like to think that I'm pretty good at taking on challenges, stretching my capabilities, testing myself. But this...I'm just not sure that I *want* to be good at the things I think this job would require. I don't want to be able to know at a glance who is the most powerful person in the room, and the entire pecking order on the way down from there. I don't want to be good at politics. I like the fact that I'm oblivious to a lot of that stuff. I like the fact that I say what's on my mind, with very little self-preservationist-censorship. I like the fact that I'm kinda rough around the edges and not always fit for polite company. 

In the end, I think I made the right choice. Someone else *wants* that job, would be better at it, and wouldn't embarrass the Coast Guard just by being called for an interview (as I likely would). 

But it's pretty freaking cool that the AO thought, even for a small second, that I might be the right person for that job!

An Indelible Commitment

I started writing this while I was still officially taking a break from blogging, so it's a little out of order. But still relevant.

9 Aug

I’m getting more artwork done on my right arm today. The plan is to finish out my lower arm so I’ll have a full sleeve. Jimmy McMahon at Jimmy Mack Designs in Haleiwa started the sleeve the summer of 2009, a few weeks after I got back home from Bahrain. I gave him a general idea of what I wanted…something with magnolia blossoms, irises and snap dragons. He filled in the rest, and I’ve gotten endless compliments on how beautiful the tattoo is.

So now I’m going back in and he’s gonna draw down to my wrist. This time I asked him to use the same design concept as the upper arm, but instead of wind lines, I want waves, with some fish and birds peeking out. I have no doubt that it’s going to be gorgeous. (9 Sep update: it's about 80 percent done. I tapped out after four hours on the day I left (fourth sitting). Still have a large stripe of teal/turquoise water to fill in; probably another four or five hours, including touch-ups. Jimmy left it so that it doesn't look totally weird, and you can get a sense of how it will look completed. I'll get it finished when I head back to Hawaii in December after graduation. Pictures to follow upon completion.)

I got my first tattoo when I was 21, a cute little chain of daisies around my upper left arm. Bodean, a big-bellied, bearded biker in Richmond, KY gave it to me. I thought I was pretty bad ass. I think I got it right around the time I graduated from college. It took me two years before my mother saw it. She didn’t approve. After that, I got the thistle on my right foot (quote from the guy in Raleigh, NC who drew it, “that’s the weirdest f'king tattoo I’ve ever given.” I think he might have been exaggerating a little). I got that one after attending a strategic planning conference at my alma mater, Berea College…the small stipend they paid me as a guest speaker covered the cost of the tattoo. And then I got the weird black lines around my daisies just before going to OCS at some random shop in Cherry Point, NC. There’s something about doing something responsible that makes me get tattoos, I guess.

After that I went on about a six year hiatus from getting tattoos…and was able to give blood again on a regular basis.

But then I found myself in another position of responsibility and not a little bit of stress, and I went back to my tattooing ways. One of the warrant officers onboard HAMILTON found an artist in Vasco de Nunez, Panama that we all ended up going to. Jimmy (don’t know what it is about tattoo artists named Jimmy) had been tattooing since he was 14 years old, and by the time we all met him, he had over 40 years’ experience. I started with the slightly absurd skull and trident on the back of my upper right arm, just before going to two months of Tactical Action Officer (TAO) school in Newport, RI. Then I got the first two swallows on my belly, and the last tattoo I got from Panama Jimmy was the Leo sign on my right wrist…figured it was fair warning to anyone who met me.

Being in Bahrain didn’t stop the tattoo plans. MAUI had a tattoo party. We kept three tattoo artists busy for more than eight hours, giving eleven crewmembers tattoos. I got my third swallow…in desert camo colors this time. I’ve got a master plan for all those swallows, but can’t really go forward with it until I’m done with getting underway.

When I got back to the states, KISKA was in drydock…I've told that story here before. But it was a hard time for me, coming home, but not having a home; dealing with the ship and the shipyard; readjusting to stateside operations. I wanted something good going on. And that’s when I met Jimmy Mack. I wanted magnolia blossoms, irises and sweet peas because my grandparents had them in their yard when I was a kid. My grandfather had a *huge* garden, and did some hobby-breeding of roses and irises. And in their front yard was a big, beautiful magnolia tree that I always loved. Being a half-sleeve, that one took quite a while and got me through a good part of my 14-month tour on KISKA, what with healing time and touch ups and such.

Right before my change of command I got another swallow, this time from Jess at Habitat Tattoo in Hilo. A couple of the guys on the boat had gotten work from her that I liked. And I knew I wanted a swallow from the Big Island. Her bird is cheeky and flirty and colorful…right over my heart (so very, very cheesy, I know). But it was tough leaving Hilo. And KISKA.

Now, this summer, I’m back in Waialua, taking care of my terminally ill mom. I love Hawaii, and one of the hardest parts of this whole experience for me is wishing I wasn’t here, having to deal with my mom’s cancer…her incremental decline, the narrowing of her world, her discomfort and inability to do much physically for herself.  Let’s just say it sucks, and leave it at that for now. But looking back over my history of tattoos, I realize that I get them when I need something good and quintessentially *me* in my life. I think the thought actually crossed my mind recently, if I get my full sleeve this summer, at least something good will have come out of the time…which is a little more grim and grumpy that my usual attitude. I must have been having a bad day.

Somehow I find myself a little nervous about getting this one done though. It’s kinda a huge commitment and a very visible statement of individuality. The commitment part doesn’t bother me so much. I’ve pretty much gotten used to having tattoos to the point that I don’t even really notice them on my skin anymore. Most people I’ve talked to that have extensive bodywork recognize that level of commitment I’m talking about. It’s a little different than the decision to get that nice, but small piece of artwork that can be easily covered by a t-shirt or long pants…you know, the one on the shoulder, or the tramp stamp, or the ankle tattoo. There’s a time commitment to getting it done, a definite financial commitment, but also, I think a commitment to knowing yourself well enough to go through the process and then live with that decision.

But I’ve also gotten used to being judged by other people because of them. I think the worst experience was at the airport in Bahrain one evening. I had gone to pick up someone probably coming back from Kuwait. But as I was standing there at the gathering spot, an older gentleman in a traditional headscarf took notice of me. He would look at my foot, look at my face, look at my foot and then stare daggers off into the distance. In retrospect, I appreciate his restraint for not being more aggressive or vocal with his denunciation of me. I kinda got the point regardless.

Maybe the commitment I’m nervous about making is the commitment to long-sleeved uniforms. Every day. Year round. Even in summer. I’ve done some preliminary math. I’m good from November 1 to March 31 with the Winter Dress Blue uniform. So it’s really only seven months of the year I have to worry about. And of that seven months, I should be able to wear ODUs (with the sleeves rolled down, of course) about 90 percent of the time, depending on what HQ office I go to. And for that other ten percent, SDBs might be appropriate about five out of ten occasions. If I’m in a meeting in the HQ building where trops are required, there’s always the woolly-pully. In the end, there might be two times a year that I have to wear plain ol’ trops. Umm, personnel inspections, in trops—yeah, kinda nervous about those. Maybe I'll just take leave those days...and make sure I ask for feedback from my supervisor on my professional appearance to ensure s/he is satisfied with my uniform presentation.

Now, all of my tattoos are well within the written Coast Guard regulations on what is allowable…nothing below the wrist, nothing explicit or offensive. I did my homework. I looked at COMDTINST M1020.6F (Uniform Regulations Manual) which says in section 2.A.1, “Appearance in uniform is a key element for how the public perceives the men and women of the Coast Guard, and how the Coast Guard men and women honor their country and the service. Coast Guard personnel are responsible for maintaining their personal appearance and their uniforms to reflect the long and proud history and traditions of the Coast Guard.” If there’s anything that positively influences my decision, it’s that little quote, “long and proud history and traditions of the Coast Guard.” I mean, really, what’s more traditional than sailors getting tattoos?!? 

I looked at COMDTINST 1000.1B (Tattoo, Body Marking, Body Piercing and Mutilation Policy), which says in paragraph 4,  “The ultimate goal of this instruction is to ensure our workforce presents a sharp, professional military appearance to the public we serve while also allowing individual expression through authorized body art that is consistent with the Coast Guard’s core values.” Check. 

And I even reread the Commandant’s Guidance to PY12 Officer Selection Boards and Panels, you know, just to be sure that I wasn’t doing anything to blatantly disregard a focus on professional appearance for officers. It really doesn’t go into appearance much at all; it’s much more focused on performance.

So, am I safe? Do I really think there will be no professional repercussions for having a tattoo that is visible in trops? How much do I care? I guess I care only as much as the tattoo impacts one thing: my ability to be effective at my job. Now in my mind, I’ll do the same job if I’ve got my entire face covered with tattoos or nary a speck of ink on me. I'll give my best effort at any job because that's what I believe in. It's not like the tattoo ink physiologically interacts with my body chemistry to negatively impact my brain capacity. Jimmy and I joked about this...he said, oh wait, I'm using this new ink, it's called Moron Ink (and then we went on to talk about how he mixes his own inks, using a natural preservative as a base so that the inks will last longer if he doesn't use that particular color for a while).

The one thing about tattoos that may impact my ability to do my job is how other people react to them. Hence the long-sleeved uniforms, long-sleeved shirts to and from the office, and long-sleeved shirts during unit-sponsored events including workouts. I don't think that will completely make the tattoo invisible and totally keep coworkers, supervisors and other professional acquaintances from seeing it, but it is a recognition of how tattoos can distract from whatever might be the actual task-at-hand. 

Life is...a daring adventure or nothing.

The Hardest Thing

When My Mother Died

When my mother died,
She was in a little house with doors open
To the sounds of children burbling, and windchimes,
With sunshine colored walls and a bed with leaf-green sheets
That smelled of trade winds.
There were growing things,
And -- really -- a rainbow.

She had homemade tomato soup, and...a popsicle?
Sure, why not a popsicle.
There was a little autumn cat who snored amiably from the closet,
And, it seemed like, not too much pain until the last day.

There were daughters who gave hugs
When they handed her something she wanted.
Sisters together
Until it was done.

There were neighbors, who came right away.

If I could have all this, I think I'd feel like
It would not matter if dying was too slow
Or too fast.

I could live with it.
--Victoria Mundy Bhavsar


My last post was a celebration of and a memorial to my Mom's life. This post is a reflection on the process of her dying. My sister and I agreed that we were not particularly traumatized by Mom's actual passing. We had years to prepare ourselves for it mentally and emotionally. But that passing was not a singular event...it was a long series of events.

And more than most posts, this one is written entirely for me. It's long, boring, has a sad ending with not many points of cheeriness along the way. But somehow, I get the sense that I've got to tell this part of the story. Whether anybody reads it (especially all the way through)...well, that's less important once it's been told.

I came out to Hawaii this summer to help out my Mom. I didn't really explain the situation here at the time because she was such a private person that I knew she'd be royally pissed at me if I publicly announced her condition in this forum. But I'm kinda getting ahead of the story, I think. It really started, for me, on Friday, 13 January, 2006.

That winter had already been a winter of changes. I had sold my house and moved into a new house on Oahu's North Shore, just been back to the East Coast for a whirl-wind visit with family, high school and college friends, and submitted my e-resume asking to short tour from the D14 Command Center to go to any one of three ships (CO on KISKA or ASSATEAGUE (forgetting it was changing homeport to Guam), and for some wild-hair reason, OPS on HAMILTON). The changes weren't over.

Mom called that Friday morning. I think I had just gotten off the night shift at the Command Center that morning, so I must have napped for a little while before the phone rang. She had been to the doctor, and had confirmation that she had cancer. She told me the type of cancer, and I still, to this day, after an entire summer of living with it, can't remember the technical name for it. Some intimidating and evil sounding name that basically translated into a cancer of the fatty and connective tissues in her torso. A type of lipo-sarcoma. She was going in for surgery the following week. After the surgery, the doctors would reevaluate and determine the best course of action, chemo or radiation or both. She asked me not to tell anyone in the family before she got to talk to them, meaning her brother and sister. She had already told my sister, and was calling my brother next. We made arrangements for me to fly out to Virginia the week after her surgery, once she was back home from the hospital to help with her recovery.

Ok, very calm on the phone, able to ask the right questions (even if I choked up a little on some of them), able to think about future plans and what needed to be done next and most immediately. Once we hung up, though, I lost it for a few minutes. My boyfriend Rickey, had overheard enough of my end of the conversation to know that something momentous had happened, but I had to much repeat most of the details, probably more for myself than to actually tell him what was going on. He let me blather on for a few minutes, then cry and be upset for another minute or two, before he got tired of the histrionics, and told me to calm down, just because she had cancer didn't mean she was going to die right away, that she could beat it, that there was nothing I could do right then, that being upset about it wasn't going to help...all that pacifying bullshit that bounced right off the shock of the intrusion of the big C into our lives.

Mom had her surgery. The doctors removed a nine pound tumor from her belly. Let me say that again...a NINE POUND TUMOR!! Jeez, the woman wasn't any bigger than I am. Where the hell did she fit nine pounds of cancer in her gut? I mean, my sister and I each only weight seven pounds and some odd ounces at birth. The growth had swallowed one of her kidneys and had been wrapped so tightly around her spinal cord that the doctors damaged the nerves to her left leg a little bit trying to scrape it all off. Their initial evaluation was that she would have to drink a lot more water with only one kidney left, and she might walk with a limp in her left leg. A few weeks later the more detailed results came back from the CT scan. They hadn't gotten all of the cancerous cells out. Some of the little buggers were still taking refuge in the tissue around her spine.

The chemo wasn't too bad for her. Mom had the constitution of an iron horse, but it did weaken her, made her feel kinda dragged out, and she lost her hair. She must have done the chemo sometime while I was OPS on HAMILTON. I remember going to see her on leave, shopping for a wig with her, and then going to the salon to whack off all my hair (which had been almost down to my hips) to send to Locks of Love in solidarity. When I got back to the ship, more than one person did a double-take at my open stateroom door to see who was using OPS's computer before realizing it was me.

Radiation followed the chemo. She made lots of trips between Blacksburg, where she lived, and Charlottesville, where the doctors at University of Virginia were treating her. But the treatment seemed to work. The cancer wasn't growing anymore...just a few cells sitting there in stasis. She was getting frequent CT scans so the doctors could track any growth. In the meantime, she had learned that the cancer was most likely not hereditary. She was frantic at the thought that it was something she might pass down to us. She also tried to modify her diet to help her body slow the cancer's growth, eliminating meats, caffeine, sugars, alcohol and other highly processed foods. *Tried* being the key-word there...Mom had a powerful sweet tooth.

I'm a little fuzzy on the next sequence of events...She moved to Hawaii in December 2007, retiring from a job that wasn't what she wanted at Virginia Tech, becoming my dependent with plans to care-take my house while I was in Bahrain. Somewhere along in there, I think the cancer started growing again. She became part of a study at City of Hope Hospital, in Los Angeles for an experimental drug. Her participation in the study required occasional trips back to the mainland, which was ok because my sister and her husband lived close by and she could stay with them for those visits. She participated in the study for maybe eight or nine months before she was disqualified because the tumor started growing again, though slowly. That was early 2010.

Mom consulted her doctors, who gave the chemo-radiation combo less than a 20 percent chance of slowing the cancer's growth rate this time. Mom declined further treatment at that point. She didn't want to go through the nastiness of the treatment with such a poor chance of any positive effect. We all (her kids and siblings) supported her decision. There wasn't any other option for us.

Gradually, very gradually, her capabilities declined. When I left the islands late last summer, she was still able to travel by plane, though she was slowing down around the house. When I came back in December, it was getting harder and harder for her to walk. The nerve damage in her left leg was causing problems for her mobility. I remember watching her try to get up from her chair on Christmas morning. I had been nervous for her for a couple of days, thinking she was unsteady on her feet because she couldn't straighten her left leg all the way. She walked hunched over so that both feet would touch the floor. I had been surreptitiously looking at canes on line, thinking if I could find her a nice one, she'd be more likely to use it. But Christmas morning, it all kind of came to a head, and she almost fell. I panicked. Holy shit, it was *CHRISTMAS DAY*...where the HELL was I supposed to get a cane for her so that she could safely walk around her house, to the bathroom, the kitchen, her bedroom?!?

Thank goodness for awesome and handy neighbors. Ash, who lived next door, fashioned her a lovely cane from some scrap wood he had laying around his shop. It wasn't hard for me to ask for his help...but I know it was desperately hard for Mom to acknowledge that she needed the help.

'Long about that time, I started to get really nervous about Mom living by herself. The last few weeks I was in Hawaii, my sister and I talked constantly about what to do. I planned to come back for Spring Break, which would cover two weeks. We reached out to other family members, and with their help, were able to have someone stay with her once I left in January, with very short periods, like two or three days, of her being alone in the house.

And thank goodness, also, for the loving generosity of family. Mom's cousin Carol came and stayed with her for a month before I was able to return in March. Which ended up being perfect timing, because three days before my flight out, Mom fell and broke her leg. Carol was there to help her. What a blessing!

Mom stayed in Tripler Army Medical Center for nearly a month. And then went to a rehab facility for another three weeks. My sister came out soon after I did and was able to stay through until Mom came home. Jay, my brother, flew in from Nairobi to stay for three weeks before Vicki came back. And she stayed until I got here at the end of May. My Aunt Linda, Mom's older sister, came out for a couple of weeks at the end of June, then Vicki came back. We pretty much patchworked our way through the summer. It was stressful, making sure that we always had someone here to help Mom. It got much worse as the summer started to come to an end. I had to leave to go back to school, Vicki was running out of family leave, male relatives were no longer appropriate options for caretakers. Mom would *NOT* entertain the idea of a care facility. Her own parents died after spending 17 years in a nursing home, and I think that significantly influenced her view of care facilities.

When Mom returned home after rehab, she allowed her doctor to engage with a hospice organization. Her doctors had recommended hospice in December, but she was reluctant to call them yet. Hospice is usually prescribed when the doctors think a patient has six months or less to live. Gawd, talk about a harsh reality to have to face about your own mortality, "Yes, please, call in hospice...let's start counting the days." But my sister and I finally convinced her that hospice was more for us, to help us help her than any commentary on how long she had to live. Hospice, once engaged, will stay for as long as the person lives; they don't go away just because someone lives longer than six months. And thank goodness for Islands Hospice. Amazing people, amazing organization, amazing services. In so many ways.

They helped us with getting in-home care givers so that we, her family, could get out of the house. They provided medical supplies. They answered uncomfortable questions about what to expect. They supported us as family-members/care-givers by just being there, knowing they were available to call if we needed help with something. Heather and Olivia were Mom's primary Nurse and CNA, respectively, and they are so very good at what they do. Both so cheerful, bright, capable, caring and fun!

But regardless of how awesome Hospice was, the bold, ugly truth is that the summer sucked; the situation sucked; watching my mother die...sucked. My aunt told me during one of our many deep conversations while she was here that this was likely to be the hardest thing I have to do during my life. My back got up a little when she said that. What did she mean *this* was supposed to be the hardest thing? I've commanded warships, for gawd's sake! How could *this* be harder than that?!

Silly Girl. Of course Aunt Linda was right. Or I hope she's right. I'm not sure I could do anything much harder than taking care of my mother during the last three months of her life. It wasn't that any of the things I had to do were physically demanding, or mentally challenging. But I was emotionally exhausted by having to do the same tedious (and sometimes slightly gross) tasks over and over again, day after day, without knowing when I would not have to watch this person that I loved suffer anymore. Mom didn't like not being able to move around her house without a wheelchair. She didn't like that she couldn't make her own meals. She didn't like that a trip to the commissary turned into a major production. She didn't like that she had to wake us up in the middle of the night if she had to go to the bathroom. Linda (who was absolutely chock full of great words of wisdom) said, you can stand on your left ear if you know how long you have to do it for. That not knowing, that uncertainty of how long the situation would draw out, was one of the things that drained my energy. I'm a planner...how do you plan for something when you don't know how long it's going to last?

One of the lessons I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to learn from this summer is to live in the present. Don't look back too often, dwelling on the past, and don't anticipate the future too much and miss what's going on right now. It was really difficult this summer, though, because well, what do you do when the present is shitty? My default reaction is to change it...do something different. Take positive action to alter the situation so it's not so shitty. I couldn't do that this summer. No going someplace different, no arguing with cancer, no walking out on Mom. I had to recognize that the present is temporary. Good or bad, the present will not be around for long. So enjoy the hell out of it when it's good, and learn to recognize the bad for what it is...not permanent.

I learned plenny about myself this summer too. I don't know why it should be a surprise to me, after grinding my teeth through innumerable small boat details that I thought were taking too long, but I'm impatient. I don't like to not be doing something. It annoyed *the hell* out of me when Mom took five minutes in front of the commissary's tea selection to find something that "would taste good." Or when I asked her a question, a simple question...do you want butter on your toast? and she would take a few moments to answer. Or when it took her an *hour* in the bathroom to get ready for bed.

I also default to cold professionalism when faced with uncomfortable emotional situations. One night my sister went out for the evening. I hadn't helped Mom get ready for bed for a couple of weeks, and told her to just tell me what she needed me to do and I'd do it. She was used to Vicki's seamless assistance and got frustrated at having to tell me how to do everything. Then she started to apologize for having to tell me to redo stuff because it wasn't done correctly. Then I got frustrated at her apologizing, and lost any semblance of personality or bedside manner. Vicki and I talked about it the next day...she told me I was scary then. They didn't want to piss me off because I went all icy. Eek. Mom and I straightened it out. It was a simple lack of clarity on each other's expectations. I was following my training on how to take directions, which I thought I had made clear by my initial "just tell me what to do;" she made it too personal when she started apologizing. She expected me to know what to do.

Which brings up another aspect of this summer that my therapist helped me to recognize. Death doesn't come all at once. There are small deaths along the way before that final breath. And it's not just physical capabilities that are lost. Long before my Mom actually passed away, our ability to meaningfully converse with one another died. Her ability to make important decisions about her care went away before she did. The physical losses were almost easier to deal with--I was still there to make her cocoa for her each morning; but the relationship and control losses were more insidious and difficult to recognize for the tiny deaths they were.

And yes, I sought professional mental help this summer. I'm a little reluctant to broadcast that, but my EAP-referred counselor helped me make it through an extremely difficult time with more grace and less self-inflicted emotional damage than I would have been able to muster without her. I'm not embarrassed to admit that I needed guidance to deal with a situation I'd never faced before. EAP provided a tool...I used it.

I needed a lot of help this summer. And I got it--for which I will always be completely grateful; I don't think I can express how grateful. For Islands Hospice. For neighbors, for friends and boyfriends (exes included), for Mom's church. For the Coast Guard...in many ways. For family. For my sister. And for Mom.

In her life, Mom taught me the strength and confidence that comes from being independent, slightly stubborn and doing as much as I possibly can for myself. In her death, she taught me the absolute necessity of being able to recognize when I need help and the strength and confidence in being able to ask for it.

Karen Planson Mundy, 1943 - 2011

Karen at age 22, about a month
after she was married

My mother, Karen Planson Mundy, passed away last Friday night, 19 August, 2011, at about 6:30 pm local Hawaii time. She succumbed to cancer that she had been fighting for nearly six years.

I loved my mom, but I didn't always get along with her very well. She used to say we were too much alike, but I think it's more that we were alike in one significant way that colored all our other interactions. She and I both have the stubbornness of a recalcitrant mule. Look up hard-headed in the dictionary, and you'll see both our pictures there, side-by-side.

She raised my sister and me as a single mom from when I was about three on. We saw my Dad during summer vacations and holidays, and he helped out financially, but she managed the day-to-day tasks of caring for two young girls while holding down various jobs and then attending Virginia Tech as a graduate student. One of my early memories is being prepped for school at the gawd-awful early hour of 3:30 am and then wrapped in blankets to sleep in the car while she worked at a local dairy farmer with the morning milking. She got fresh, raw milk as a side perk.

Sister Linda, brother Steven, and Karen
growing up on Long Island, NY, 1947

We had a chicken coop at the first house we lived in after my parents split, in Buchanan, Virginia. With chickens that lived in it so we could have fresh eggs. We always had a clothes line outside of every house we lived in, and we used it. She made her own bread (which I *hated* as a kid because it was dense and weird, and wasn't store-bought like all the other kids' sandwiches). She mowed her own yard. I always liked taking a cold beer out to her on a hot summer day while she cut the grass, mostly because she'd let me take a sip from the top like her own father had let her.

Mom was fiercely independent, never wanted to ask for help. One Christmas, when I was probably about eight or nine, we really didn't have enough money for a Christmas tree. We always put our presents around the "Christmas Castle," a wonderous structure made of empty boxes covered in wrapping paper and stacked together to make a castle. But Mom's friends at church knew her situation, and all pitched in to get us a tree, dropped anonymously on our front door on Christmas Eve. What a great Christmas that was! Oh, and she always played "Santa," handing out the presents one at a time from under the tree. The rule was, the next present could not be opened until the last present handed out was appropriately oohed and aahed over.

Another Christmas, when I was older, in college, I think, she and my sister played a funny little joke on me. They got me a two-part gift, and made me open the less obvious part of it first. I opened this package that was yards and yards of a very nice green plaid material, opened on one side, and backed with a white cotton backing. I had *no idea* what it was supposed to be. They howled with laughter as I tried to guess what it was. It all made much more sense when I opened the second half of the gift...the down comforter. The first part of the gift was the duvet cover.

Karen Mundy, photo taken for
Waialua Community Church, 2009

While we didn't always agree on many things (religion, how to drive a car, ear piercings and tattoos, appropriate friends, gawd, and boyfriends!), I never doubted that she loved me. And that she was (almost embarrassingly, sometimes) proud of my career. I could always ask her for whatever I needed, and as long as she was able, she would always, always, *always* give me what she could.

My sister and I found a box of memorabilia yesterday. She kept EVERY SINGLE letter and card we had ever sent her. And some of the very worst artwork any kids could ever make. I thought she had cleaned out most of that stuff when she moved from Virginia to Hawaii almost four years ago...but nope, there it was.

Thanks, Mom, for all the years of your love, generosity, strength of will and body, and independent spirit. Rest in Peace, as I know you are now.

A Hui Hou

It is with a good dose of sadness and a full measure of aloha that I have to say "a hui hou" to my blog. For now.

In Hawaiian, "a hui hou" means "until we meet again." So, it's not good-bye. I do think I'll be blogging again within a few months. But for right now, I cannot give the blog the time and attention it needs for it to be what I want. You may have noticed that a lot of the posts have been pretty superficial lately. Or maybe you haven't noticed...but I have. I like to write insightful things, or at least tell good stories, and I haven't been doing either of those things very well with my last few posts.

So, in the meantime, thanks to all my readers for your words of support and encouragement, your wonderful comments and just plain ol' being out there. Check back in a couple months. Hopefully I'll be back to writing again soon.

I can't believe I'm admitting that I can't do it all. Or at least "all" as well as I want to be able to do it.

PBPL Conference Notes

OMG!! My 100th post! When I sign onto Blogger, it tells me how many posts there are, when the last one was and probably other stuff. I don't usually pay much attention to it, but 100 is kinda a milestone!

But that's not the subject of this post. The Patrol Boat Product Line Program Review is. It was in Norfolk, week before last. No one else much in the office was very thrilled about going, and I can't really say I blame them...nearly 48 hours total in travel time from Hawaii for a three day conference (at least I wasn't travelling from Guam). I don't know *how* long it took ASSATEAGUE's EPO to get to Virginia, but it probably was a really, really long time. Despite the travel time, I was really excited for the opportunity to go. I wanted to hear how the Product Line was doing, what is still left to be done, advocate on behalf of the D14 cutters and well, hang out with a bunch of engineers...'cause that's always fun! Call it as close to getting underway as I'm likely to get for a while.

I won't bore you with all 12 pages of my typed notes from the conference, but there are a few gems that I want to pass on. It's not in chronological order, or anything like that either. Kinda more organized by what piqued my interest (because this *is* the world according to Charlotte).

About midway through the first day, RADM Ronald Rabago, Deputy Commandant for Engineering and Logistics (CG-4) spoke to the group in his role as Chief Naval Engineer. He shared his three priorities as well as some guiding principles. And while I'm always leery of paraphrasing senior leadership for fear of mis-quoting or mis-representing what they say, I offer the following only as *MY INTERPRETATION* of what he said and *MY OPINION* of what he said that I thought was important (can I emphasize that any more?).

His three priorities are: People, Resources and Processes. The people part is pretty standard for CG-speak. Regarding resources: we need to focus on getting the money in the right places, which may require Operational Commanders to make tough choices. But better choices can be made with better information, specifically maintenance cost per operational hour. One of my favorite quotes from all three days was "Without maintained ships, there are no operations" (I wrote that one down, word-for-word). And process is about making sure who does what and how business is conducted is institutionalized and preferably codified. RADM Rabago mentioned that PUB-4 is coming out soon, which will be the capstone document for engineering and logistics, similar to PUB-1 for the CG as a whole.

I found his guiding principles to be extremely heartening. This is an abbreviated list:
-Pride in work: Engineers must take pride in what they do; if they don’t, something is not right and must be fixed.
-Stewardship: This does not just mean how to cut the budget. Stewardship is more a mentality and commitment to leaving the situation/condition/process better than you found it. Good stewardship means that a lot more can be done with limited resources.
-Share the Good News: Make sure the good news of hard work done well makes it up the Chain of Command. It creates value within the community. RADM Rabago wants to personally hear about successes and good, hard work done well.
-Core Values: The core values of honor, respect and devotion to duty apply to day-to-day work. They should be a touchstone for each engineer.
-Loyalty Matters: The field needs to give leadership the benefit of the doubt in some cases. Supervisors reward loyalty with trust. This does not to mean to be silent about concerns, but instead means to support a candid dialogue about issues.
-Community of Naval Engineers: Naval engineers are a special group of people, taking care of ships. They must create an active, participatory community. We don’t know how to do the difficult job of taking care of ships without the community support.
-Ownership: Own your world; accept it, feel responsible for it. Every EO and EPO must take ownership of their ships, and use the PL to leverage the ability to be the best in the fleet.

I especially like the ones about sharing the good news, ownership, stewardship and pride in work.

It seemed like the buzz-phrase from the conference was vocalized best by CAPT Ed Nagle, Surface Forces Logistics Command Industrial Operations Division (SFLC IOD) Chief. He said we are a "data-driven Coast Guard." He was talking about it specifically in regards to a new IT tool that IOD is bringing online to track project management, but it applies to so much of where the Product Line as a whole is going. One of the main drivers for a number of the new processes being implemented by the Product Line (besides better, faster and more efficient service, of course) is to nail down that elusive maintenance cost per operational hour figure...how much does it cost in maintenance to run the ships?

It'll be interesting to see what gets done with that data once it's had enough collection longevity to be useful. The figures will be different for different classes of ship, different missions, different operational hours. How will it be used to make strategic decisions (homeporting changes, maybe?), or operational decisions (when during the year a fisheries patrol gets done?) or even tactical decisions (that acceptable level of risk that ADM Papp has mentioned a few times?)? I read an article for one of my classes last semester that analyzed what sources of information state legislators trust regarding performance measures (Bordeaux, "Integrating Performance Information Into Legislative Budget Process," Public Performance & Management Review, Vol. 31, No. 4, June 2008, pp. 547–569). The author acknowledges that analysis is thin in this area, but states that legislators tend not to give very high value to data presented by the executive agency itself, relying more heavily on information from interest groups and constituents. While the article deals specifically with Georgia State Legislators, I wonder how much of the same theory applies to the federal system as well. Regardless, though, I still think the "data-driven Coast Guard" allows us as an organization to make better decisions on all three of those levels, strategic, operational and tactical.

There was a strong and consistent exhortation by all representatives of the Product Line for supported units (Sector EOs and cutter EPOs) to provide feedback by all the means offered by the processes. Using CG-22 (on SFLC Central's webpage) to document discrepancies noted in any engineering drawings, tech pubs or Maintenance Procedure Cards (MPCs); using Quality Discrepancy Reports (QDRs) and Supply Discrepancy Reports (SDRs) when parts are received by a unit that are the wrong part, the wrong number of parts, or the part doesn't work; using 3rd A-Team meetings to provide feedback to the Program Depot Maintenance Branch on how the availability process worked; doing the leg work of submitting Time Compliance Technical Order (TCTO) suggestions when they've got a good, workable idea that improves the function of the cutter (instead of making "Chief Alts" and not documenting them anywhere); volunteering as a "prime unit" to validate MPCs, TCTOs and tech pub changes; tracking man-hours expended for various maintenance efforts (including wash downs and clean-ups); checking the "Discrepancy Found, Yes/No" box on the MPC. Lots and lots of emphasis placed on the role that the front line Naval Engineers had on improving things for everyone, including the next generation of Naval Engineers.

A couple of relevant quotes:
-"The Product Line makes sure the cutter can finish the marathon (the service life of the cutter); the Sector EO and cutter EPO make sure the cutter can finish the sprint (their two or three year tour).
-"Submitting QDRs and SDRs and CG-22s may not immediately help you and your current world of work, but it improves the processes for the entire system."
-"Things are tough right now. It's like going down I-95 at full speed, and changing all four tires.”

There was a presentation on the Fast Response Cutters (FRCs). I had seen the mock-ups of the ship, but hadn't really paid too much close attention to the specs. OMG! What a great ship it looks like it's gonna be! I hope, maybe, maybe, maybe, if all the stars align and the gods of the sea and assignment process smile down on me, maybe I just might get one. But it's a long shot.

There was a ton more great and useful information presented throughout the three days, but rather than bore you with all those details, I'll just mention one more--Ready for Ops/Safe to Sail (RFO/S2S). I don't know if that's the acronym that is going to be used, or if it's even going to happen, but CG-751 is asking the Product Line to develop a RFO/S2S MPC that must be completed every time before a ship assumes a Bravo status. Basically, from a supply, maintenance and casualty perspective, is the ship safe to get underway? That's not to say, necessarily, that if a cutter doesn't have every last widget they're supposed to have onboard, they wouldn't be able to get underway, since the Sector EO would have maintenance release authority. But in theory, it includes the engineering and maintenance perspective in operational decision making and can be used as a metric to determine prevalence of operational commander waivers and lost operational days. The Product Line would be the entity determining what required what kind of waiver for the ship to get underway. I guess the Small Boat Product Line uses something similar currently, just curious as to how that would translate to the cutter fleet.

It goes back to thoughts I've had before about where a CO's responsibility ends. I see three main players in this situation: the engineers, the operators and the Operational Command. The engineers need time to fix stuff and make sure it's not going to break. The operators (CO mostly, I think) wants to have the resources available to get the tactical mission done (which includes both equipment and personnel in my mind). And the Operational Command needs to know that they can cover all their mission requirements. In the end, I think some formalization of the process could only help alleviate some of the natural tensions among the three.