Taking the Doctor Under the Knife

It is just a bit ironic. This coming week I will be undergoing my first ever surgical procedure. True, I am not a surgeon, so there is no irony in that. The irony I see is that as the Medical Director for the laboratory of the biggest urology group in Chicago I deal with about 60 urologists on a regular basis, and yet have delayed this necessary urologic procedure for about, oh, 6 or 8 years!

As is common for men of a certain age, my prostate gland has been slowly encroaching upon and compressing the prostatic urethra, the tube that runs through the gland and carries urine from the bladder to “out there.” In laymen’s terms, it was getting pretty hard to pee. I had seen a few different urologists at about 5 year intervals, and all had told me that some day, probably sooner rather than later, I would need a procedure to get things moving again. Not seeing any benefit in doing today what I could put off until tomorrow, I ignored their warnings and just accepted the fact that I would be spending a few extra minutes each day standing in front of toilet, thinking of waterfalls and bubbling brooks, hoping that positive biofeedback would get things flowing.

And then about three weeks the flow stopped as permanently as if it had hit the Hoover Dam. Inconveniently enough, my internist was on leave, but I knew which of my 60 urologist buddies he sent most of his patients to, so I gave that doc a call and we arranged a way to give me some relief. Urologists can do a magical job opening the floodgates with catheter tubes and balloons. With a little training, I have learned to do the magic myself–something I do not recommend for the squeamish or for easy fainters. And it is only a temporary remedy.

So a permanent solution needed to be found. My urologist and I discussed a variety of options, from newfangled metal splints that shove the offending part of the prostate aside, to old fashioned scrape and burn treatments. In the end, we have settled on a newer type of procedure that vaporizes the obstructing tissue but does relatively little damage to the prostate that is left behind. I am set for Wednesday at Advocate Lutheran General Hospital. LGH is the birthplace of Michael and Laury, so I will have happy memories to focus on while the anesthetic scrambles my brain. Recovery should be quick–no worries about being ready to dance at Laury’s wedding two months down the road. You may remember Barb had major surgery a few months before Michael’s wedding. It makes us glad we don’t have a another kid to deal with. Who knows what medical emergency would proceed a third wedding?

On a related note, my regular readers know of my interest and involvement with the diagnosis of prostate cancer. Fortunately, the area of the prostate that grows in my current condition is not the part of the gland that is the common site of malignancy. Although I have had a small spike in PSA, it is probably related to some inflammation. Nevertheless, I will keep a close eye on the values, and as always, I recommend that you, your spouse, or your partner have at least an initial PSA screen.

I can’t say whether there will be another blog before my big day, but if not, keep me in your thoughts and I will catch you on the flip-flop. We gone.

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photo credit: MashrikFaiyaz <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/144410977@N03/32861108973″>Tiny Waterfall</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a>

Getting Smart at the Crystal Palace

at-home — Barb and the kitten enjoy the afternoon glow.

It has been a couple of months since move-in day and we are settling down. The house is beginning to feel like our home. It is taking time, but the neighborhood is beginning to feel like our neighborhood as well. The neighbors, all very friendly, have been stopping by, bearing gifts and eager for the house tour. With the arrival of warmer weather and the imminent delivery of our pond swans, we will feel even more in touch with our surroundings.

The last month has seen the IQ of the house rise dramatically. Not the IQ of the inhabitants, our brains are no longer adding neural networks, but of the house itself. First I discovered that our garage door opener was more than a motor and lights switch.I can check my phone and find out if once again I have forgotten to close the garage door on my way to work in the morning. The opener also tells me for exactly how long the door has been closed, a feature whose necessity I have not yet fathomed. Maybe if we had teenage kids trying to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night…

Next I got tired of switching on five different lights switches scattered all around the house to turn on our outside evening lighting. Sure, I could have installed individual in-wall timers for each of those, but resetting each of those as the days become longer is more than my slightly past middle-aged eyes can handle. So while our low voltage/wireless/wi-fi/cable team was tweaking our alarm system we asked them to install a smart controller system for the outside lights, and then, in for a penny in for a pound, added in controllers for the inside lights that Barb likes for ambiance. It has taken me a while to master the “scenes” and “schedules” the controllers provide for, but I am well on my way to becoming a smartphone lighting impresario.

Our wireless house sound system is doing just fine as a smart feature on our phones. It is the hard-wired stuff, the interface between Comcast and some of our TV’s that has been an issue. Some online research has revealed that we are not the only ones having problems with Xfinity boxes not behaving well with newer Sony sets. So far neither Abt Appliances, Comcast, or our cable team have a solution to this one. A swap out may be the answer. Any suggestions on the best brand to replace our Sony’s with?

Yesterday we had a long awaited walk-through with our HVAC contractor, a nice young man, rightfully proud of the job his company had done in the house. We reviewed furnaces, humidifiers, air balancing, and the new thermostats. Of course, the ‘stats are also much smarter than mere mortals, anticipating our needs and wants, calling for service whenever they feel the need, and changing colors to match our wall paint. When starting this project two years ago we didn’t dare dream we would have chameleons on the wall with brains bigger than IBM’s Watson.

The crystal is shining, prismatically fracturing the rays of light into rainbows on the dining room walls. Shades and shutters are being installed, and we are making plans for our first ever holiday celebration in the new house. The grass is growing greener, and every day we, and the house, grow a little bit smarter.

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Will We Be Holding Hands in 2032?

We are in the Westchester Panera. Barb has brought our granddaughters to the western ‘burbs for a rare treat, lunch out followed by a visit to Baba’s lab. The girls are entertaining the crowd as they always do, generous with their giggles and smiles and waves. An older couple, who tell us they have five grandkids of their own, seem particularly entranced.

Our food arrives and we begin the balancing act of eating our own lunch while keeping a one-year-old and a three-year-old fed, clean, and happy. Nana and Baba are quick with the wipes, not wanting the macaroni and cheese to fuse with the squeezable yogurt into an organic Gorilla Glue on the girls’ chins.

“hold my hand”–Hootie and the Blowfish

Barb nudges me. “Don’t look now, but they are holding hands.”

“Huh?”

“That older couple we were talking to. They are reaching across their table and holding hands. It is so cute!”

“holding hands and skimming stones”–Elton John

I casually look over my shoulder to witness the elderly couple as they hold hands and chat while waiting for the server to bring their order. They see us watching and smile.

“How long are you married?” Barb asks, gambling that this is a long-lived love affair and not a new infatuation.

“53 years,” they say in unison.

“I want to hold your hand”–The Beatles

Barb and I both do the math. That’s 15 years longer than the two of us have been married. Not such a long time. We will hit 53 years of marriage in our mid-70’s. Will we be sitting in the 2032 equivalent of Panera, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes?

Barb still takes my hand when we walk across a parking lot. Sometimes we hold hands in the car, even as I barrel down the fast lane of the Tristate, cruise control set and just one hand on the steering wheel. It’s not something we think about, just something that happens.

“hands, touching hands” –Neil Diamond

There are supposedly scientific reasons for hand holding. Yeah, that kind of science is air quotes “science.” For us, it is a connection, and more than that, a contentment. I think we can keep that up for another 15 years. Better yet, I think we will shoot for another 30! What do you think, Barb?

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photo credit: JPott Love is in the Air via photopin (license)

I am Wildcat, Hear Me Roar! Northwestern Rocks Chicago

Good things come to those who wait. Back when I was an underaged Northwestern undergrad, circa 1972, football and basketball, the “big” sports of the Big Ten, were an afterthought, or more truthfully, a non-thought for most of the student body. The last place football team had just graduated Mike Adamle, its only star, and the basketball team was rooted even more deeply in the cellar. I got my education, my degree, my med school admission without once getting the nerve to scream out “Go Cats!” And no one cared.

I didn’t even think about NU athletics until the mid ’90s. Then came Fitz, Darnell Autry, Gary Barnett and an upset win at Notre Dame. Son Michael pushed me onto the bandwagon and with him I went to Evanston to watch NU play for the first time in over 20 years. Soon there was a Big Ten Football Championship and I almost won Rose Bowl tickets from Roy Leonard, my WGN radio favorite.

But then Barnett left for Colorado, Fitz and Autry graduated and after a few years Purple Fever lost its heat.

Despite the cooling, Mike and I maintained a tradition of one NU football game a year. We cringed through critical broken bones (receiver D’wayne Bates), historic blown leads (against Michigan State 2006) and a scary road trip to Madison. We threw in a basketball game now and then, highlighted bywatching 6th year Senior Evan Eschmeyer and his ‘Cats lose in the NIT to local rival DePaul.

This year, basketball hopes and hoops were of a higher caliber. Then Mike and I sat in the cheap seats for the Northwestern-Illinois game last month. As we left Welsh Ryan Arena with all the other disappointed fans, I thought the NCAA Tournament dream was ending again. But no–some big late season wins and here we are, dancing! The exciting first round win aided by bad Vanderbilt mistakes, clutch free throws, and lots of screen time for player-mom Julia Louis-Dreyfus.

Tomorrow we face number one seed Gonzaga, a school that was almost unheard of not that long ago. I’m afraid that game maybe a rough one, but as Michael told me, I need to just sit back and enjoy the ride. And always be proud to scream out “Go ‘Cats.”

Pass it on!

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Time for the No Trump Revolution? Fifteen Rock’n’Roll Songs to Lead the Way.

Thanks to all for their kind thoughts on my previous post about Barb. She and I saw “Hedwig and the Angry Inch” last night. Among other things, it reminded us of the power of rock’n’roll. And political movements need a sound. After all, the French Revolution had La Marseillaise and people have been singing that number for more than 200 years. We have Trump. So turning to my rock’n’roll musical roots, here are my

Fifteen for Freedom:

Blowin’ in the Wind, Bob Dylan:

Sure there were folk singing protesters before Bob, but his music changed the world. How many years can a people exist?
London Calling, The Clash:

Punk rock of the ’70s, challenging police brutality and nuclear accidents with a great howl.
Sunday Bloody Sunday, U2:

Bono says this is not a rebel song, but with that military beat, you you want to get to your feet and fight for what’s right.
For What It’s Worth, Buffalo Springfield:

“There’s something happening here.” Say it Steven!
Where’s The Revolution, Depech Mode:

The only current song on the list, it speaks directly to today. But that is something all of these songs do.
Dialogue Part I and II, Chicago:

Maybe not the song that finally got Chicago into the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame, but “don’t you feel repression, just closing in around?”
Pompeii, Bastille:

Of course natural disasters have always been around, but our new EPAChief shouldn’t be guiding us to avoidable calamities.
Shape of Things to Come, Max Frost and the Troopers:

From the 1968 movie Wild in the Streets, “a cult classic of counterculture.”
Imagine, John Lennon:

I don’t particularly care for this Lennon classic, but there is a requirement that it be included on any list of songs of the past 50 years.
Street Fighting Man, The Rolling Stones.

Mick went to the London School of Economics. he gets it.
Revolution, The Beatles:

Cause I love the great guitar intro, and you know, its the Beatles.
Volunteers, Jefferson Airplane:

For Grace Slick, I “got a revolution”.
War, Edwin Starr:

Be it trade war, currency war, or fighting war, do I even have to ask, what is it good for?
Holiday, Green Day:

When Billie Joe Armstrong wrote “Sieg heil to the president gasman” in 2005 was he looking at the future through a crystal ball?
Won’t Get Fooled Again, The Who.

The greatest album, the greatest song, the greatest scream. But this time around, the new boss just ain’t the same as the old boss.

It’s not an all inclusive list, feel free to add your own thoughts. Or better yet, write the new song of sanity. Maybe people will be singing it 200 years from now!

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Of Melanoma and Memories–Looking Back Over Five Years

sisterhood — The Sisterhood of Barb gathers for dinner

Sometimes I forget. Five years ago this month, we were parents of the groom, busy preparing for Michael and Becca’s upcoming summer wedding. Dresses were being bought, tuxedos fitted, showers enjoyed, revisions being made to the rehearsal dinner when the intended site went out of business without a word to us. Almost incidentally, at the time of a different surgical procedure, Barb had a small lesion removed from her calf.

We were dealing with some complications of the primary surgery when the surgeon, herself stunned, told Barb that the leg lesion was a malignant melanoma. In disbelief, I did what any pathologist would do, and asked for the slides. I reviewed them and circulated them to additional colleagues, especially dermatopathologists, who specialize in diagnosing diseases of the skin. Although the presentation was unusual, and the slides a little confounding, there was eventually no doubt that the original diagnosis was correct.

We entered the world of the Northwestern University medical system. Consultations and scans, and at the end of March, a major leg excision and lymph node dissection. As Barb lay in recovery, I was busy texting and calling friends and family, passing the word that the surgery had gone smoothly. The oncologic surgeon and plastic surgeon were both confident in their work, though I have yet to meet a surgeon who was not.

Barb came home to a painful post-op period, perhaps made a little more difficult by my aversion to narcotic pain killers. She probably suffered a bit more than necessary, but was able to keep a clear head and avoid any risks, long or short term, from opiods. The recovery, tough as it was, was aided by the attention of her loyal friends, who I tagged as the Sisterhood of Barb. These ladies gave of themselves to ensure that all of our needs were met or exceeded. Their support was a Godsend.

The final pathology report was what we had hoped for. No residual tumor at the leg site, and no malignant cells within the lymph nodes. At this point the oncologic surgeon admitted he had been a bit concerned at the time of the surgery, the nodes being somewhat larger than he had anticipated. Fortunately, that was just the result of Barb’s immune system responding to the insult of the original operation.

For the next few months joy over the wedding was interspersed with ongoing medical follow up. Frequent appointments with an oncologic dermatologist and the two surgeons. My battles with them over proper staging of the tumor, and what it meant for the long term prognosis. (Why does it have to take a pathologist to correctly interpret a pathology report?) We learned the intricacies of the Northwestern parking garage and waved goodbye as the less than patient friendly dermatologist moved to the East Coast. Finally, the pièce de résistance, full body surveillance photography au naturel. Those are photos that I have never looked at and have promised to Barb I never will!

Barb and I are no strangers to the ravages of cancer. Barb lost her dad, and I lost my father and sister, all before their time, to malignancies. I see it every day professionally. While we know of the advances in therapy, with Jimmy Carter the poster boy for successful treatment of advanced melanoma, we also know that the new immunotherapies don’t work for everyone. So five years later, as we prepare for Laury and Alex’s wedding, this time as parents of the bride, it is time to take a break and give thanks for the good life the last five years have brought us. Because sometimes I forget. But Barb never will.

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On International Women’s Day, Epson Says Men Can Go to Mars While Women Can Have Babies!

Sitting at my microscope all day, I listen to a lot of radio. Since the reception in my office is poor for the public radio station and since I don’t have a satellite receiver, most of that time is spent listening to good old fashioned terrestrial commercial radio. So I hear a lot of ads. On the sports channel they are aimed at young males, on the high brow rock station the baby boomers get the pitch. Most of the spots go right past me, just background noise between Beatle songs and Bears’ rants. But recently I was in the market for a new wireless printer, so I paid attention when I heard talk of toners or ink.

The ads I was hearing most frequently were for the new Epson printer with their EcoTank ink technology. No need to refill ink for two years! And to let us know just how long two years is, Epson was running two different commercials. The first, with a male voice, was telling us that in two years you could fly to Mars. And the second commercial, using a female announcer, told us that two years is enough time to have babies. Twice!!

I may not be the most sensitive guy. I may still have some of my 1950’s-1960’s gender prejudices intact. But even I know it doesn’t sound right telling men to be astronauts and women to be mommies. I know Silicon Valley is a Big Boy’s Club, but didn’t Carly Fiorina crash that microchip ceiling when she became CEO of Hewlett-Packard? I know it didn’t last long, and that eventually Candidate Trump had his way with her, but shouldn’t the tech companies, or at least their ad agency, have progressed from the Neanderthal age?

In an effort to set Epson straight, here are a few things women have done in the two years it took to empty out one of those long lasting print cartridges:

Win over 65 million votes for President of the United States.
Be Chancellor of Germany.
Be one of more that 20 CEO’s of Fortune 500 Companies.
Prepare for that flight to Mars.
Get behind the wheel of a Nascar racecar.
Qualify for a national spelling bee.
Chair the Federal Reserve.
Make Music.
Make More Music.
Assume the Iron Throne.
and yes if she wants, have babies!

Because there shouldn’t be anything a woman can’t do!

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Does Something Haunt our Suburban Home?

“The stairs creak as I sleep,
It’s keeping me awake
It’s the house telling you to close your eyes”
Little Talks-Of Monsters and Men

Crash!! Barb jolts up, awakened by the boom reverberating through the house, cutting through her dreams and leaving her disoriented and uneasy. A hard nudge to my ribs and I join her in 3 a.m. confusion.

“Did you hear that? I think it came from the basement.”

So we rise together and head for the stairs, not sure what we will find below. For a moment I wish I had Lucille, Negan’s spike wrapped baseball bat* at hand. We flip on the many basement light switches and do a groggy but thorough search. We find nothing.

“Maybe it was from the bathroom.”

A search in the master bath is more fruitful. The suction cup holding the squeegee to the shower wall has loosened, and the dislodged squeegee has tumbled to the ceramic floor. In the enclosed space of the shower stall the bounces and echoes have made up the thunderclap that woke Barb. We go back to bed, mumbling about what it will be that wake us up next.

Because nights have been anything but peaceful in the new house. The evening before, we finally made it to bed at midnight following a small Academy Awards gathering lengthened by both losing the sound on our new super wide screen television and the La La – Moonlight Madness. Less than an hour after we closed our eyes we were awakened by our house alarm, warning us that a sensor had failed. Not an intrusion, just a failed sensor. Checking it out, responding to the monitoring company’s phone call, bypassing the forbidden zone, tossing and turning, and soon an hour of much needed sleep was gone.

The night before that? First Max, our aging pup, woke Barb at about 4 a.m. Before she could settle back to sleep she heard the chime warning that an outside door had opened — a feature I hate but now know why Barb appreciates. She rose to take a look, once again without the benefit of Lucille, and found the side door open and blowing in the breeze. She woke me and we did a search, responded to the monitoring company, and tried to get a last few moments of sleep.

Is the house talking to us? Is it having its fun with us? Is this a Poltergeist situation? Not being a believer in the supernatural, I doubt it. But I think that all of us, me, Barb, Max–everyone but the kitten–are still experiencing the unsettledness of living in a new home, even one as customized to our needs as this one. The little flaws and failures feel magnified, and we just haven’t gotten around yet to adding the final touches.

Hopefully soon the televisions will all work all the time, alarm sensors won’t fail, the $6.00 paper shades on the windows will be replaced by lovely window treatments, and a smart system will help manage all the light switches (any suggestions/advice on smart systems appreciated.) The house will feel like home.

I am sure we will return to good nights of sleep. Until then, if you see me yawning, now you know why.

*Walking Dead reference.

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High School Nerd Factor-Can it be Overcome?

safety-cropped — Love those sweater vests!

A former classmate began a new Facebook group last week, dedicated to our high school graduating class, Chicago’s Roger C. Sullivan High School, Class of 1972. Since this coincided with unpacking the moving box that contained my final high school yearbook I took the opportunity to find my pages, my pictures, my prophecies. I was on the Navillus staff (Sullivan spelled backward-get it?) and had joined lots of clubs to polish my college applications, so my face popped up in quite a few places. But with the jaundiced eye of someone who is far closer to his oldest grandchild’s high school days (11 years in the future) to his own (45 years in the past), I thought I would revisit all those activities that were meant to make my college application stand out and rate them for nerdliness. So here, with a rating scale of Nerd Factor of 1 (hey that’s cool) to 10 (complete loser activity) I present the high school life of Lester Raff, Sullivan Class of ’72.

1—————————————10

Cooler Loser

National Honor Society-Nerd Factor 6 with extra nerd point for being President.
Local Honor Society-Nerd Factor 10. This was just another name for the National Honor Society.
National Merit Finalist-Nerd Factor 8. Doing well on a test (PSAT) no one else cared about. And “Finalist” is another name for loser.
It’s Academic-Nerd Factor 4. Yeah, being on TV was pretty cool. But of course losing on local TV prepared me for losing on Jeopardy on national TV a few years later.
Freshman, Sophomore and Junior Councils- Nerd Factor 7 for each year. Did anyone care?
Navillus Layout Editor-Nerd Factor 8. And if the rest of the staff was having wild “creative type of people” parties, I was never invited.
Rangers-Nerd Factor 9. Who were the Rangers? The smart guys confined to a small cubicle outside the main office were they ran the ditto machine. Or as described by one of the shop teachers “A bunch of brainiacs who don’t know their asses from their elbows.” I guess he wanted to have that ditto machine in his office!
Safety Unit-Nerd Factor 10. The Rangers+Arm Badges. We guarded the exits during fire drills.
Key, German, Bridge and Chess Clubs-Nerd Factor ?– I don’t know, I never went to the meetings.

By my reckoning that averages out to a 7.6 on the Nerd Factor scale. How good of a predictor of future life was that? I think I have done a few cool things in life, and on the whole been pretty successful, but sad to say, when you look up nerd in the dictionary, you see the picture of a pathologist. Somethings are just destiny, you know?

How about you? How well did High School predict your life? And were those four years your high point, your low, or somewhere in-between?

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Neil Diamond vs U2. Who Do You Love?

With the weather warming, Barb and I have been looking ahead to our personal spring concert series, Neil Diamond at the United Center followed by U2 under the stars at Soldier Field. It will be our fourth visit with U2 as they tour to celebrate the 30th anniversary of their massive hit album “The Joshua Tree.” It will be about our 40th evening with Mr. Diamond as he tours to celebrate…well he tours to celebrate being Neil Diamond.

Barb has been a Diamond Girl since her teens, when she coaxed her parents to drive her and a friend to Kenosha for a performance of what was then a soul fulled,black-garbed troubadour. I discovered Bono, the Edge, Adam and Larry when “The Joshua Tree’ first arrived in the late 80’s and “With or Without You” filled the FM radio. In addition to dozens of Chicago shows, we have seen the now glittery Neil in Montreal (no poutine in the arena), and strutting Bono with a monster stage set in Las Vegas.

A little Google research shows that U2 and Diamond have never played live together, though U2 has played a few Diamond tunes in concert. No evidence Neil has ever returned the favor by belting out “Streets with No Name” or “Vertigo.”

A few notable U2/Diamond parallels:

Neil is a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn who likes to sing Christmas songs; Bono is a nice Catholic boy from Dublin who secretly dresses as a Hasidic Jew (OK–this turned out to be a joke, an early version of fake news.)
Neil sang a duet with Barbra Streisand, who once soared on Broadway; Bono and the Edge wrote music for “Spiderman” which frequently crashed on Broadway.
In “Brothers Love’s Traveling Salvation Show”, Neil sings about a preacher; in the New York Times Bono IS a preacher.
Neil wrote a big hit song for The Monkees; Bono wrote a song ABOUT monkeys.
Neil hired Rick Rubin to produce an album and got his best review in years; U2 fired Rick Rubin from their album and got their best review in years.
Neil has 1 Grammy award; U2 has 22 Grammys, but none for the song “One.”
Bono wears rose colored glasses; Neil has a champion rose NAMED for him.
“Sweet Caroline” was named for Caroline Kennedy; The Russians shot down a U2 spy plane when John Kennedy was President.

In any case, both U2 and Neil Diamond are Rock’n’Roll Hall of Famers who put on great live shows. So who do you prefer. Leave a comment either on the ChicaoNow blog or on Facebook rating each from 1 to 10, and then share. Let’s see who is King of the Road.

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