Remember life in 2020, when COVID turned everything upside down? A lot has changed—vaccines and testing have made a difference.

But oh, those vaccines! In the last five years, I have been jabbed, poked, and stabbed. I’ve been ping-ponged from Moderna to Pfizer and back again. Sometimes I’ve been injected with the “Pinch” and sometimes without it. But despite all the pokes, prods, and best intentions, just like in 2020, I am sitting here with a case of COVID.

I’m not sure which strain I have acquired. There are too many to keep track of these days. And it is anyone’s guess where I picked it up— it could have been at the food bank, the golf course, or the grocery store. The little viral freeloaders are everywhere.

My symptoms began overnight Saturday, with an intense sore throat that had almost disappeared by morning. Barb, always prescient, predicted I had COVID, but I dismissed the possibility. I spent two listless days before finally breaking down and using the last COVID test we had.

I didn’t need to be a retired pathologist to interpret the bright red line that appeared on the test strip almost immediately. A kindergartner could have solved that puzzle.

I haven’t kept up with recommendations for handling COVID, so I had my first Telemed visit, a discussion with a Nurse Practitioner on my internist’s team. We talked about Paxlovid (not for me), isolation (barely an issue anymore), and whether to take acetaminophen or ibuprofen (I prefer the latter).

I’ll stay home for another day or two, with my books, newspapers, and crossword puzzles. Barb bought a new box of test kits and tested negative, so she can go to her volunteer shift at the hospital while Cooper keeps me company. The Advil jar and Kleenex box are close at hand, my tea cup is perpetually full, and I am grateful I have nothing more serious than a bad case of the sniffles.

And that we have left 2020 far behind.

A reflection on what I wrote eight years ago and why it matters even more now.

If you’re a Facebook user, you’ve likely seen notifications like “You have memories,” linking back to posts from one, five, or ten years ago. The memories are generally happy ones. I suspect the Facebook algorithm chooses them with that in mind.

Today, I got a notification from Team Zuckerberg about a post I had written exactly eight years ago. It was a link to the Getting More From Les blog entitled “It’s Time to Repeal and Replace Donald Trump.” That blog remains the most widely read in my collection—the only one to surpass 10,000 views. Reading it today, I can only shake my head at how naive we were eight years ago.

My emphasis in that post, seven months into Trump’s first term, was on Trump’s attempt to abolish the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare) and replace it with…nothing. I also wrote that Trump’s

“foreign policy is a sham apparently designed to protect his personal interests; his Cabinet is mostly packed with lightweights; and his communications team is a joke.”

I ended by calling for impeachment or the use of the 25th Amendment to terminate his presidency.

Could we have imagined in 2017 that two impeachments would mean nothing? That foreign policy would flip-flop daily? That cabinet members—already lightweights—would willingly sacrifice public health, national morality, and global standing to serve Trump’s grievances and ego? Or that a violent attack on the Capitol Building would be seen as a heroic event, its perpetrators excused from responsibility and prison.

Eight years ago, ICE was kept in our freezer, and the National Guard was kept at home. CBS still had some dignity, and Stephen Colbert’s best days were ahead of him. We could have a reasonable discussion with those on the other side of the political aisle. Does anyone still have discussions like that?

Trump will not last forever. But, likely, the damage he has done will long outlive him. He didn’t start the fire, but he has fanned the flames, and because of his presidency, we may lack the resources to put it out.

And eight years from now, I doubt Facebook will be reminding me of this happy memory.

Designated Drivers, Fearless Leaders, and One Alleged Accountant

I recently returned from my 21st annual baseball trip with my high school buddies. This year, accompanied by our wives, we spent three toasty days in Tampa—sunning, swimming, dining, and watching the White Sox play the Rays in their temporary, makeshift ballpark. The White Sox won, the threatened rainstorms never materialized, and we all had a blast.

But now the hard part begins.

During our trips, we have a Fearless Leader to set things in motion, an Admiral to keep us on course, and the rest of the gang are our designated drivers, humorists, and philosophers. But once we get home, I take center stage as the Alleged Accountant.

How I was entrusted with this position is unclear. Perhaps it’s because, in addition to my medical degree, I have an MBA. It’s from a graduate school maybe one or two notches above Trump University in reputation, but hey, it’s an MBA just the same. Once we’re home, I dust it off and swing into action.

While on the trip, one person pays for each meal—no restaurant wants to handle six credit cards at breakfast. Same with the vans we rent. One person picks up the tab. Game tickets? One order, twelve seats. All these go into a theoretical “book.” By the end of the weekend, one person may have spent hundreds, while another has forked over just twenty-five bucks. My job is to make that “book” less theoretical. I collect receipts and do the balancing act. Who owes what—and to whom?

An Excel spreadsheet helps me through the first round of calculations. My rule is simple: charges for all meals and transportation are split evenly. That keeps things straightforward—until someone misses Monday’s dinner or skips Tuesday’s lunch. I don’t want to charge them for meals they didn’t eat!

It takes a few passes through the spreadsheet, but eventually I reach a reckoning and send out my preliminary analysis to the crew. Inevitably, someone points out a detail I got wrong—maybe I split a bill six ways instead of five. Eventually, the whole megillah gets reconciled to everyone’s satisfaction.

Then it’s time for those who underpaid to Zelle or Venmo (or even send a check) to those who overpaid.

And then, finally, I get to retire my accountant’s green eyeshade—at least until next year.

Would you ask the Piano Man?

Two days ago, my golf buddy Harvey and I were pulling our carts along the long fifth fairway at our favorite nine-hole course when I asked him a question.

He replied, “If I answer, is it going to end up in a blog?”

“No,” I said. “And you know I always change the names of the people I write about.”

But his comment got me thinking—about how I use personal material in my writing, and how I decide what to share.

I used to write more about politics, but there’s not much left to satirize when reality outpaces parody. Besides, I’ve never seen the point of preaching to the already converted. Since retiring, I’m not as immersed in medical advances as I once was, so I’ve written less about that. And my commentary on professional sports never quite clicked with readers—understandably so, especially these days.

That leaves my own life as the main source of material.

I’ve written extensively about Rogers Park, the neighborhood where I grew up: the Jewel grocery store where I worked, Ashkenaz where we had Sunday dinners, the Field and Sullivan schools I attended, even the laundromat where I wheeled our cart every week. These posts always elicit nostalgic comments from readers.

Those memories—filtered through a rose-colored retroscope—rarely name anyone outside my immediate family. I try to respect privacy.

But many of my more recent posts draw from the here and now—the situations I find myself in, and the people I meet. Harvey’s remark made me wonder if I’ve ever crossed a line in writing about those interactions.

Then I thought of “Piano Man.” Everybody knows Billy Joel’s iconic breakthrough. It’s about his time playing piano in a lounge, but more than that, it’s about the lives he observed while there—John, and Bill, and Paul, and the nameless old man at the bar. It’s life turned into song. It’s art.

I’m not Billy Joel, and my blog is no “Piano Man.” But like him, I sometimes draw on the stories of the people around me. I try never to reveal secrets or cause anyone embarrassment or distress. I hope I succeed.

I asked Harvey (not his real name) for permission to use his quote in this post. He agreed—on one condition: that I mention he’s muscular and charming.

So, to my pumped-up, amazing friend—thank you for inspiring this post. You’ve got honors on the next tee.

Some Things Matter More Than a Pickleball Score

I play pickleball with George once a week. We first met two years ago when a mutual friend assembled our pickleball squad. George is a big guy, but a gentle giant. His only flashes of frustration are directed at himself, usually after one of his dinks goes into the net instead of over it. When I am teamed up with him, we usually lose, but we both play hard and do our best.

Last year, he informed our group that his 30-year-old daughter had been diagnosed with breast cancer. He detailed for us the surgery and chemotherapy that lay ahead for her. George was clearly devastated, and the rest of us stood by in stunned silence. For the rest of the morning, the mood was somber, and talk of the year ahead replaced our usual water-break banter.

As I commonly do for friends, I volunteered to review the pathology reports — just the written findings, not the slides — and explain anything the family had questions about. George accepted my offer, although it turned out his wife’s Googling had already explained everything at least as well as I did.

Since the day George told us of his daughter’s diagnosis, I find a moment every week between games to ask George how she is doing. I can usually read the answer on his face before he speaks. She has some good weeks, but many other weeks are plagued by headaches, nausea, and hair loss.

I hear a lot of other people at the fitness center ask George about his daughter, and he always replies with the same calm patience.

Lately, I have been wondering whether my questions to George are an intrusion. I don’t know him that well, and perhaps he needs to save his empathetic energy and responses for his closer friends and family. I can understand how wearisome constant questioning must be. So today, after a tough weekly update, I said to George.

“George, please tell me if you mind my always asking how your daughter is doing.”

To my relief, he looked at me and said, ‘No man, it is fine that you do. Thank you.”

So I’ll keep on asking, always hoping that one day George will respond with a big grin and say, “She’s doing great, buddy. The future looks bright.”

And when that day comes, I won’t mind at all if we lose another game—because some things matter far more than the score.

My platelet donation had a history.

I donated platelets for the first time yesterday—it’s like giving blood, but slower, longer, and for me, it was even more meaningful.

I have been donating whole blood since I was in college. I have bared my arm at blood drives in hospitals, synagogues, fire stations, and even the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame. I lay on a recliner, let the tech stick a needle in my left arm, and in 20 minutes, the whole thing is over. Filling out the paperwork takes longer than the donation.

But platelet extraction is different. In a non-stop sequence, blood is removed, platelets are isolated, and the other blood components, the red blood cells, the white blood cells, and plasma are returned to the body through the same needle. This is repeated multiple times until the necessary volume of platelets is obtained. The procedure requires two hours or more.

Why did I decide to shift my donation pattern from whole blood to platelets? Vitalant, the regional blood collection agency, has been pursuing me relentlessly with weekly phone calls and daily e-mails. These inform me of the urgent need for platelets, particularly among patients undergoing chemotherapy. They tell me that my blood type makes me an ideal candidate for a platelet donor. And just like TV promoters around the world, they promise me special promotional t-shirts and gift certificates if I act quickly.

But what truly pushed me to switch from whole blood donation to the longer, more demanding platelet procedure was something else. It was memories of my father-in-law, Barb’s father, Lee.

Lee was a friendly, upbeat guy, as at home selling Fruit Of The Loom and BVD underwear as he was on the front nine with his best buddy Oscar. I’m sure he would have gotten me out on the golf course, too, but we never got the chance.

Shortly before our 1978 wedding, I learned that two years earlier, Lee had been diagnosed with Leukemic Reticuloendotheliosis, a rare malignant blood disorder now known as Hairy Cell Leukemia. As is typical in its early phase, Lee’s disease had been indolent, not impairing his activities or his outlook.

In the spring of 1979, we passed from the calm into the storm. Lee fell and broke his arm, unleashing the full fury of his disease. He was hospitalized as his blood counts plummeted. Spiky malignant cells replaced his normal white blood cells. A fungal invasion ravaged his body and brain, and his internist told us of his need for white cell transfusions to try to fight the infection.

I was young, in good shape, and the right blood type to donate. On three occasions that April, I underwent leukophoresis, a procedure very similar to platelet donation, except that both my arms were involved, blood leaving my body on the left, and returning, stripped of white blood cells, on the right. Each two-hour session gave me hope that I was accomplishing something for Lee.

Lee did not survive.

Forty-six years passed between losing Lee and my decision to donate platelets. So it wasn’t the promise of a t-shirt; it was the memory of doing what I did for Lee that helped me do something similar for someone else—someone whose family loves and needs them.

All my platelets will help a living person fighting cancer, but I am dedicating yesterday’s donation to you, Lee, and to all those rounds of golf we never got to play.

A Blog, a Brick, a Life Well Told–A Very Personal Post.

“Building your new house is a big adventure. You should write a blog about it.”

Exactly ten years ago, a friend and former co-worker said those words to Barb. Barb passed that idea to me, and my new passion was born. It has given me great pleasure over the past decade, and I hope it has brought a smile, a laugh, or a thoughtful frown to many of you.

The blog has wandered the digital landscape, starting on WordPress, enjoying a vibrant stint at ChicagoNow (RIP), and currently residing on Substack. I am so grateful that many of you have followed the journey with me.

I have never lacked for exploits to write about. The first 18 months were dominated by the unceasing battle with our architect and general contractor to complete our home. I am particularly fond of a lyrical ditty I composed for our lender, begging them to conclude the vetting process for our loan so we could start the big dig.

Family has been a frequent subject for posts, one dear to my heart. Memories of growing up with my parents and sister in Chicago, migrating to suburbia following marrying Barb, and the birth of our children have each merited at least one 500-word thought piece. So far, the current generation of grandkids has escaped my literary examination, although one post did explain how my eldest granddaughter dubbed me Baba, an endearment I carry proudly.

I have often written about my professional life, usually positively, occasionally not. Since my retirement, my tales of pathology have been less frequent, with no more “Can you tell if this biopsy is malignant quizzes.” I have used my posts to advocate for prostate cancer screening, and have also asked for your support for Us Too and Zero Prostate Cancer, organizations I was involved with that promote research and aid prostate cancer survivors and their families.

Of course, there has always been room for life outside of medicine. I’ve written about my divorce from my tennis league, my adoption of pickleball as a replacement, and my surprising rediscovery of bowling. I have let you in on the secret that “nice shot, Les” isn’t necessarily the compliment it seems to be, and why hearing “wrong again, Les” haunts my Jeopardy! appearance to this day.

My blog has also been my mouthpiece for speaking to the corporate world. American Airlines (repeatedly) and Woodman’s Market have each felt my wrath. And I unsuccessfully implored Sony Productions to hand me the baton after Alex Trebek’s sad passing.

Other deaths have not gone unnoticed. I have written memorials to friends, mentors, and rock stars. But I have also written about the joy of listening to my favorite music, the excitement of attending a Broadway show, and the thrill of seeing my personalized brick at the home of my beloved Chicago White Sox.

Why do I spend so much time trying to keep you amused and entertained? I write because I have to. When an idea strikes me, I feel like a volcano ready to explode. I need to get the flow of words, an extension of my brain, my eyes, and my fingers, onto the screen.

I may use a little AI to clean up grammar or structure, but the voice is all mine—I consider myself my own personal ChatGPT.

I hope you will continue to read and enjoy. I have loved every minute, and together, we’ve been on such a wonderful adventure!

How a friendly email made my week.

Last week, I received the following short email from a relative I hadn’t been in contact with for quite a while:

Hi Les,

Just a note to let you know that I am thinking about your parents’ anniversary and your mom’s birthday. I hope everyone in the family is doing well!

Rob

Rob’s note was brief but touching, and a reminder of what the end of June always meant to my family. My late father’s and mother’s birthdays, as well as their wedding anniversary, all occurred on the 29th and 30th. Dad has been gone since 1993, Mom since 2010, and in these busy, crazy times, I sometimes forget to think about them during their special week.

It’s hard to remember how we celebrated those notable days when I was growing up and Mom, Dad, my sister Linda, and I were all living in an apartment in Rogers Park. The events probably called for at least one night of dining out, so we would hop on the El at Morse Avenue or catch a CTA bus along Sheridan Road to take us to whatever city restaurant we currently found en vogue. Town and Country on Ridge Avenue was a favorite; Fanny’s in Evanston was a frequent choice, too.

If we were celebrating a very special birthday, we’d forgo our usual means of transportation and call for a cab. We’d head to further suburban spots like Allgauers or Henricis for a four-course meal, and Mom might even enjoy a Daiquiri.

Buying presents was usually Linda’s job. After all, she was five years older and had more disposable income than I did, especially when she started working for Marshall Field’s Department Store. Her employee discount helped us give a little more than we could afford.

One year, we went in a different direction and used mail order to buy Mom and Dad reserved seat tickets for the exclusive downtown showing of “A Man For All Seasons.” It felt very sophisticated to send the self-addressed stamped envelope to the theater box office and then wait at the mailbox every day for the tickets to arrive. No online ordering in 1966!

And though we celebrated, I am sure we didn’t do it enough. It’s wonderful to have the good times to look back on, and now that I am the last one standing, I only wish there were more.

Thanks, Rob, for the note and for giving me the nudge to remember.

What memories do you have of family celebrations when you were young? Please share them with me!