Sunday was a day spent at my friend Art’s lake house with a few other high school buddies, walking along the beach, downing chili, and watching the Cubs soar while the Bears and Sox flopped. My friend Gary mentioned that he enjoyed the blogs I have written about my family history. He quoted a line I had used in discussing my dad in a blog from two years ago, a piece that had faded from my mind, about looking into a mirror and seeing my father. Gary asked if I had any more family member to write about.  I hesitated, and Art said I needed to write about my sister.

I have always been reluctant to write about my late sister, Linda. Maybe it is a feeling that her story didn’t belong to me, but rather to her husband or to her two sons. Maybe I thought there is just too much pain involved. But with the exception of my cousin Judy, there is no one alive who knew Linda as a young girl, who remembers some of the early moments. So I have decided to try to honor her, as I have my mom and aunt, my dad, and my father-in-law in previous blogs.

When does a boy first understand he has an older sister, and how important she will be to him as he grows up? I first remember Linda as a flower girl at Cousin Judy’s wedding.  Was she seven or eight? I just remember being very sleepy as she walked down the aisle, doing an important grown-up thing. It was a few years later that she had first chance to “mother” me during our family’s month-long visit to our uncle and grandmother in Switzerland. Mom and Dad were traveling for a week in Austria, and Uncle Herbert really didn’t know what to do with his young niece and nephew. Linda made sure that there was food I would eat, that my blistered feet were taken care of, that we had time to swim and play in Lake Thun.

Linda was five years older than me, and because I spent part of my education in a parochial school, we never attended the same school at the same time. But I followed her at a few schools and had her reputation to live up to. I was expected to be well-behaved, courteous, a scholar and a willing volunteer.  Mr. Wohlberg, everyone’s favorite eighth-grade teacher, and Miss Nee, the freshman algebra teacher, insisted on nothing less from Linda Raff’s little brother.

I know Linda had the usual ups and downs in high school. Her four-girl gang would tighten and loosen, sometimes bringing hugs, other times bringing tears. Boys, dating, proms; it all followed as I looked on from one or two maturity levels below. I remember the cramped family drive to deliver her to Northern Illinois University, my uncle’s Chevy Impala totally unsuited for transporting six people and the clothes, makeup, and bric-a-brac needed for a seventeen-year-old girl to start university life.

Linda completed college in Chicago. She met Alan while I was busy being a high school over-achiever. Then in the blink of an eye, I was in med school and Linda was married and a teacher. Another blink and I was wed, Linda and Alan had two children, Barb and I had a pair of our own. Through it all, we never lived more than 10 miles apart. We spent so many birthday celebrations and happy holidays together and shared so much sadness over my mother’s bad accident and my dad’s passing away.

Linda never lost her sweetness and devotion to her family, but something inside her was changing and we had no way of knowing. She was only 46 when pancreatic cancer made its appearance. Alan and the boys did all they could for her, as did some amazing medical teams. We all lost Linda in January of 1999–a special light had flickered and gone.

But the reflection of that light continues, burning strongly in the eyes of her sons. Alan and his wife Yvonne made sure the boys always had a home and special place to be loved, and I hope Barb and I did so as well.

It is what Linda would have asked of us.

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Did it make you laugh? The first time you saw the Hyundai TV commercial using  “Sweet Caroline” to sell Sonatas? It suddenly seemed as if it were everywhere. The bum-bum-bum sing-along between the guy and gal commuters  ranked as the most frequently viewed car commercial for a week over the summer. And audiophiles like me know that there’s a radio version too. Much to Barb’s delight Neil Diamond was back in our lives.

So with a song catalog that stretches back over 50 years, I thought I would give some thought to how Barb’s favorite singer-songwriter could cash in on a few more of his hits. Here are 10 for his consideration:

1. Chicago Tourism can link in with The Last Picasso. The last Picasso may be in some old museum, but we have our own rusting in Daley Plaza.
2. Kentucky Bourbon and Kentucky Women. A match made in whiskey heaven.
3. Nature Valley should be pushing product using Crunchy Granola Suite.
4. Joel Osteen and Rick Warren can battle it out over the rights to Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show. They can afford it.
   
5. Red Red Wine will make Gallo fine.
6. And while we’re drinking, Cracklin’ Rosie will fill the bill for Aldi’s $9 a bottle Rosé award winner.
7. In concert Diamond likes to show a video of his youth while he sings Brooklyn Roads. Sell the rights and let all the roads lead to The Barclays Center and the Brooklyn Nets. Grab some of that NBA cash, Neil.
8. And how about  September Morn for the beginning of the NFL season? You’ve got more fans than Hank Williams Jr., and we all need Sunday Morning Football.
9. President Trump might like the rights to Coming to America. “On the boats and on the planes, they’re coming to America–that’s because I built my wall and they can’t get here by land.”
10. And of course, Levi’s will pay whatever it takes to have the world Forever in Blue Jeans, even if it’s mostly those funky dad jeans now.

If some of these are a stretch, at least none are quite as much of a grab as the Cherry Cherry Christmas song from a few years ago; the one with the “Holly Holy, Rocky Rolly” lyrics where you wedged in as many of your own songs as you could. As one nice Jewish boy to another, all I can say is oy vey.

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How long has it been? Do we even remember the early years? Every thing was so smooth and easy. It was like poetry in motion, just like a finely tuned ballet. If I was down, you picked me up; if I erred you were there to help me. I looked forward to being with you, when I was with you there was always a song on my lips, and a tune and a rhythm going through my head.

Who knows when it began to change? At first, there were only little squabbles. Beer and pizza would make things right. Or we would open some wine, have a birthday cake celebration. A few years ago, when we weren’t content being together in one place, we looked for another and made a change.

I was trying so hard to be honest, to be fair in my decisions. But I would look at you and see that grimace facing back at me. I was giving you all I had, but it wasn’t enough for you. I just wasn’t good enough. You were keeping score, and I was falling further and further behind.

In the last year or so has come the yelling, the screaming, the stamping feet. So much of it I couldn’t understand. I don’t even think you were angry at me, just upset at the way things were going. I would stand there mute, cutting myself off from all the emotion.

There were still some good moments when it all came together again. We would smile and catch fire. But those were few and getting fewer. This summer our meetings became a weight on my shoulders. I looked for reasons not to be there with you. A few weeks ago I made my decision. Resolute and with conviction, not sure I would even be missed, I told you it was over.

So now my Thursday nights are free. After almost two decades I have divorced myself from you, my Thursday Night Tennis League. I am saying goodbye to the wins and the losses, the highs and the lows. The time for arguing line calls has come to an end. I will miss many of my fellow players and the camaraderie over the beer and pizza, but I had to do what my heart said was right. And besides, Thursday night is Trivia Night!

I wake up as a tremendous ball of heat engulfs me. Throwing off the covers I  wonder. Did Kim Jong-un launch his first nuclear missile and chose the north Chicago suburbs as his target? Has Trump launched a pre-emptive strike and gotten the launch code parameters wrong? Maybe the decommissioned nuclear power plant up in Zion has gone rogue and had a core meltdown? While the grandfather clock in the hall strikes four, I realize the heat is far more localized, and presumably, less destructive.

First a word about that clock. It is a family heirloom, passed down from Barb’s parents and we treasure it. The wooden cabinet has survived three or four moves and multiple months in storage. To provide a proper place of honor for it in the new house we even modified our construction plans, eliminating a closet and replacing it with an enlarged powder room and a special clock alcove.

I treat the clock tenderly. Under my care, each pendulum swing measures exactly one second. The Westminster chimes ring out the quarter hours in exact synchrony with the time on my iPhone. The walls of its little cubby cause harmonic vibrations, and many times I have woken up to what sounds like an angelic heavenly choir. Only our house sitter hates the chimes, turning them off when staying in our home during our infrequent travels.

So with the reverberating notes filling my ears, I looked to my left at Barb, peacefully sleeping next to me, and knew she was the source of the Level IV heat wave. It is a malady we both suffer from, as we pass these warming trends back and forth faster than the charging frontal boundaries on a Tom Skilling weather map.

Their appearance is unpredictable, though mine seem to come during the day, usually with a cup of tea in my hands. My face flushes as the beads of sweat pop from my forehead.

Barb suffers more at night in bed; a myriad of “head-cooling” pillows all receiving a big thumbs-down. Some mornings at 3 a.m. a dive in the pond feels like it might be the only salvation.

Yes, both our doctors know about these attacks and have each provided a bit of testing and a just bit of help. But the improvement has been minimal. Just as global warming marches on, our local heat trend is up, up, up. Football gamblers may tell you “the trend is your friend,” but in this case, it is no friend to us. The clock keeps on ticking, while the heat goes on.

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photo credit: peretzp <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/68877611@N00/7238289476″>Salem and Hope Creek Nuclear Reactors</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

I made a mistake in judgment. Yesterday’s blog post was a satirical look at our President and how he chooses to view the world and its events, man-made or natural. It was a pretty good piece, worthy of being an anchor on the ChicagoNow Weekend Front Page and to attract some attention in the Twitter zone, where it recently was popular in Scandinavia. No one complained about anything I had written, and my words were certainly not vitriolic enough to put me in the target zone of any Pro-Trumpers.

But in that post, I made a misstep, and I need to apologize for it. I used a slur, an out-dated word that I am sure is offensive to my LGBTQ friends, relatives and colleagues, and to anyone else reading the piece, either on ChicagoNow, Facebook or Twitter. I ascribed the utterance of the word to President Trump, in an entirely invented quote from a non-existent news conference. Yes, fake news, but lord, it was so outlandish I hope no one took it for anything but a bit of whimsy on my part!

Yet I printed that word. My usage was offensive in two ways. First, although it was one of those smears that used to flow easily off peoples lips, like the “N Word” or the “K Word,” it was wrong to use in the past and it was wrong to use now. I cavalierly placed it in my post; I should not have. Second, I have no evidence that President Trump has ever used the word in private conversation or in public speech. He has shown himself to be incompetent, intolerant, thoughtless and dangerous, but that does not permit me to put certain words into his mouth. Besides, he already has his foot in there most days, without any help from this blog.

I have gone back to yesterday’s post and performed a self-edit. It looks pretty seamless. I don’t know if  Mr. Trump will appreciate my cleaning up his (fake) act, but I know that I feel better now that I have cleaned up mine.

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In an early morning impromptu press conference in the lobby of Trump Tower, President Donald Trump refused to lay the blame on next week’s solar eclipse on natural astrophysical events, instead claiming the alt-left was directly responsible.

“There is no doubt in my mind that emphasis on solar power is overwhelming the capacity of the sun to keep shining on great white America. Coal is the only answer, the only way to prevent future occurrences of darkness in the middle of the day. With my next Executive Order, August 21st will officially be declared End the EPA Day. I encourage all my loyal core followers to attend a mass West Virginia Coal Dig In on that day. I understand white hood shaped hard hats will be available along with Tiki torches.”

When questioned, Trump appeared unaware that eclipses have occured throughout history. “This is the direct result of un-American activity bringing darkness to our great nation. A black sky in the middle of the day? Next thing you know they’ll be plotting to have a glowing rainbow flag fill the darkness. You know, that LGBTQ thing.”

As Trump spoke, several advisors were seen leaving an elevator holding their coats over their faces and sprinting for the exits. When contacted by telephone, Scott Pruit, head of the EPA commented, “Mr. Trump may have misinterpreted some comments that were made by me, but I guarantee you he understands the darkness will be caused by the moon moving in front of the sun.”  Appearing on “Morning Joe,” Kellyanne Conway supported the President, stating that he had one of the greatest science minds of our generation. “He is not an Einstein, but he is very close.” An attempt was made to contact the members of Trump’s Science Advisory Board, but the Board no longer seems to exist.

Following the interview, Chief of Staff John Kelly was noted in a fetal crouch, covering his head with his hands, and quietly sobbing. Via a leak to Breitbart, Steve Bannon was quoted as saying “Don’t blame this one on me.” Jared and Ivanka Kushner were on vacation and unavailable for comment.

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Speaking of science, donations still being taken for the SEABlue Prostate Cancer Awareness Event on September 10, 2017. Make your donations here.

 

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photo credit: bobosh_t <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/31801622@N07/36181480020″>DSCN0129</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

The email began with “I’m hanging in there. My husband passed away in an accident in June. Been very difficult, but I’m doing my best.”

I don’t know Jane well. She is my contact for a company in a southern state that our lab has used for several years for online learning and record keeping. If I have a question or concern I send her an email, and she usually sends her cheerful, informative, reply within the hour.

I responded to her email expressing my condolences. I knew it was a situation in which a few words from a stranger a thousand miles away could hardly provide any solace. But the friendly personality always apparent in Jane’s emails made me confident that she had many friends who would help her family in such unimaginable circumstances.

I did some ‘net research. Googling Jane’s last name as well as the state her company was located in I was able to locate her husband’s obituary and a video of a brief segment on a local TV newscast. An unusual accident, an unexpected death, a local tragedy.

And it shook me. Death is not a stranger. I have lost parents, in-laws, a sister, and many other relatives and friends. Professionally I faced death daily, particularly in the early part of my training and career. But this suddenness was different and saddening, even if it was just someone I “almost” knew.

Since I received that email the country has moved on, the focus is now on the hatred, bigotry, and yes, death, in Virginia. But my thoughts keep drifting back to that one lost life from the month before and the widening circles of feelings that it engendered until they reached me, like ripples on a pond.

Those ripples of empathy are what we need to keep us human, to help us conquer haters and hate. We are seeing where a lack of empathy can take us, it is now time to move away from there. Share the word.

The above are the views of the authors and are not the official views of UroPartners, LLC.

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photo credit: blavandmaster <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/38134034@N04/33740003150″>Sunset with friends</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

 

I tried. I really did my best. I thought there was a good reason to give up all those artificial sweeteners. I am talking about the little pink packets of Sweet’N Low that I had been emptying two at a time into my tea cup every day. And although I had kicked my diet cola habit years ago, there were still the cans of Canada Dry Diet Ginger Ale I had recently started chugging down at an alarming rate.

Artificial sweeteners don’t have a glowing reputation.  Old reports linked saccharin use to bladder cancer, though those studies were refuted long ago.  And as for aspartame, a chemical I once had a professional relationship with, everyone seems to blame something on the little blue packets!

Paradoxically, the current concern with all the phony sweeteners is that they fool some of our brain centers and can lead to weight gain, obesity, and diabetes. I didn’t need any of that. And knowing that just like Oprah I feel best when my weight is under 200 lbs, I decided it was time to give up the sweetness and pseudo-sugars, lose weight, and live a life of purity and grace.

For about a month I gave it all up for what I hoped would be blessed, unsweetened, Nirvana. What did I find? My tea, even hot, well brewed English Breakfast Tea, tasted like dishwater–dirty dishwater. The “nothing artificial added” fruit flavored bubbly waters I tried were blah and lifeless. I had headaches. Episodes of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” our current binging favorite, seemed to drag on for hours. I was sleepy and moody, and I am sure Grumpy and Sneezy weren’t far behind.

And as for my weight? The scale stayed steady, no weight loss at all. The only time my weight trended downward was when I dropped a few pounds prepping for a colonoscopy. And we all know that no matter what late night infomercials and supermarket tabloids might say, colonoscopy preps are NOT an approved method of weight loss.

So I threw in the towel, bit the dust, said “to hell with it.” Last night, feeling a little drained and sore after two hours of tennis that felt like four hours on the court, I toasted a bagel and made a cup of tea. I tore open two packets of Sweet’N Low, poured them into my cup and took a sip.

I’m sorry, but it felt sooo good!

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Speaking of health and happiness, I am once again participating in the SEABlue 5K Run. SEABlue provides support, education, and advocacy for men with prostate cancer and their families as well. To support me in the run, please go to my personal SEABlue page here.

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Lab Mates:

We are a great lab. When we were reviewing inspection checklists at our meeting yesterday I said that it wasn’t following all the items on the mandated punch list that made us great. I was wondering if one of you would ask me what it is that does make us special, but no one raised that question. If they had, my answer would have been this.

We are great because you are compulsive. Issues arise in the lab–they arise in every lab. But issues have answers, and none of you will stop until you have found those answers and solutions. You won’t stop until you know the precise location from which each biopsy fragment came from. You won’t stop until you know exactly why a patient’s name was changed on the medical record. You won’t stop until you have proven that the change in a patient’s blood values correspond to some change in the clinical condition.

You make phone calls, you comb through the record, you dig out old worksheets. You come in at all hours of the day and night, intensity burning in your eyes. The balky computer systems between the lab and the electronic medical records aren’t playing nice with each other? You figure out a work around to keep the data flowing. The big national reference labs have been mixing up some of our patient specimens? You won’t stop until you know who every specimen belongs to.

It’s not just reference labs you have to deal with. Those world renowned university hospitals in our backyard–you are on their tail, making sure that when they request biopsy slides on our patients those biopsy slides gets returned, preferably unbroken, sooner rather than later. And the reports those medical Meccas issue? They better have all the details right or they will hear from you!

Of course we comply with all the thousands of items on the checklist. All the quality control, all the proficiency testing, all the OSHA and HIPAA and CMS details. It is my job to make sure we meet all those regulations. And that makes us a damn good lab. But it is the bulldog in all of you that makes us great.

Just thought you should know!

The opinions expressed above are those of the author and not directed by UroPartners LLC (though I am sure they agree.)

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