Dr. Ram (ENT)

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About me.About meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout me.
heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when
he ended a relationship.
Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool
in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for
Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the
Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but
couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they
decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17,
1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from
Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston,
Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a
wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch
dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a
two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but
failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years
and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother.
That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have
been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of
paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life.
When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked
up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I
beamed for days.
In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a
feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning
discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew
only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that
night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had
retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the
water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her
tears and went to work.
In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long
investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other
investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories
confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know,
including the fact that my father had probably been married three times b
heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when
he ended a relationship.
Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool
in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for
Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the
Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but
couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they
decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17,
1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from
Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston,
Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a
wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch
dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a
two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but
failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years
and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother.
That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have
been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of
paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life.
When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked
up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I
beamed for days.
In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a
feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning
discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew
only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that
night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had
retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the
water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her
tears and went to work.
In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long
investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other
investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories
confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know,
including the fact that my father had probably been married three times bheart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when
he ended a relationship.
Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool
in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for
Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the
Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but
couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they
decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17,
1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from
Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston,
Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a
wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch
dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a
two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but
failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years
and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother.
That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have
been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of
paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life.
When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked
up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I
beamed for days.
In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a
feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning
discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew
only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that
night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had
retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the
water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her
tears and went to work.
In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long
investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other
investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories
confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know,
including the fact that my father had probably been married three times bheart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when
he ended a relationship.
Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool
in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for
Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the
Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but
couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they
decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17,
1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from
Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston,
Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a
wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch
dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a
two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but
failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years
and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother.
That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have
been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of
paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life.
When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked
up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I
beamed for days.
In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a
feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning
discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew
only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that
night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had
retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the
water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her
tears and went to work.
In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long
investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other
investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories
confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know,
including the fact that my father had probably been married three times b
heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when
he ended a relationship.
Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool
in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for
Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the
Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but
couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they
decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17,
1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from
Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston,
Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a
wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch
dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a
two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but
failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years
and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother.
That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have
been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of
paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life.
When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked
up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I
beamed for days.
In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a
feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning
discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew
only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that
night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had
retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the
water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her
tears and went to work.
In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long
investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other
investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories
confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know,
including the fact that my father had probably been married three times b
heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when
he ended a relationship.
Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool
in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for
Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the
Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but
couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they
decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17,
1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from
Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston,
Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a
wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch
dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a
two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but
failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years
and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother.
That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have
been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of
paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life.
When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked
up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I
beamed for days.
In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a
feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning
discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew
only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that
night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had
retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the
water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her
tears and went to work.
In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long
investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other
investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories
confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know,
including the fact that my father had probably been married three times b

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About me.About meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout me. heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when he ended a relationship. Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17, 1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston, Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother. That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life. When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I beamed for days. In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her tears and went to work. In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know, including the fact that my father had probably been married three times b heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when he ended a relationship. Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they
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About me.About meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout meAbout me. heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when he ended a relationship. Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the new house. On May 17, 1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston, Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother. That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life. When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I beamed for days. In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew only casually came up to her and said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her tears and went to work. In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know, including the fact that my father had probably been married three times b heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when he ended a relationship. Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they

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