Has There Been a Pathologist in YOUR Life?

Tools of the trade.

There are about 21,000 pathologists in the USA. That’s not a lot. And we are a pretty quiet bunch, even though some of us blog, a few of us tweet, and a handful probably Tik Tok and Instagram. Quincy M.E. may have been our show but that ended close to 40 years ago, Jack Klugman himself met his maker early in the last decade.

Yet pathologists matter! We make the diagnoses on the biopsies that influence your treatment. We ensure quality in the numbers that tell how well your diabetes medication is working. We make sure your Covid-19 test is as accurate as current science can provide. We study the genetics of your tumor to predict its aggressiveness or the likelihood of passing it to your children. And we can be the final arbiter of how and why a loved one died.

Whether by nature or whether by circumstances, we are mostly behind the scenes. Unlike your heart surgeon, your internist, or even your urologist, you rarely get to choose your own pathologist. And even less often do you rave about us to your neighbors. “You need a CBC? Your really should get it done at Midtown Clinic–that Dr. Greene is a great pathologist.”

But are there some of you who have known of a pathologist and of the role they played in your healthcare? Maybe it was at a tumor board you attended. Maybe you went out of your way to review your slides with the doctor who read them. Maybe you called with a question about your Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) blood test.

If any of the above pertains to you, I’d like to know about it. Leave a comment, or drop me a line at les.raff@post.com. Let me know about any pathologists who stood out, who gave you knowledge, who made you feel cared for.

Please share, retweet, or forward this post, especially to those you know who have had an interaction with the healthcare system. I’d like to collect your stories for a future blog, or maybe more.

In the meantime, be well!

The opinions expressed above are those of the author and not UroPartners, LLC.


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Abt Expands–Will My Wallet Contract?

Abt has filled people homes for decades.

The Tribune is reporting that Abt Electronics in Glenview is doubling the size of its warehouse. That means I can relax.

I never know when Barb and I are going to need something from the monster electronics and home appliance store. It is our go-to, and believe me, we have gone there.

When we had a townhouse in Niles, Abt had a store in Niles. When we built a home in Arlington Heights, Abt was in nearby Morton Grove. And through our builds in Long Grove and Riverwoods, the massive Abt showroom in Glenview has been our frequent destination.

We don’t bother to shop around. We trust that we will get a good price, maybe the best price. So of course, all the original appliances for our first houses came from Abt. Redoing our kitchen in Long Grove? Yup, Abt once again. Building a new house less than two years after that kitchen makeover (OK, that was MY fault)–well of course we were going to Abt.

And it’s not just the kitchen stuff. Our new mattress is an Abt’er as well. Every TV in the house (and there are more than you can count on one hand) is Abt purchased and installed. And when the Sony sets stopped working with our Comcast cable system, Abt was there with Mitsubishi replacements.

In the height of the pandemic last spring, when Barb was cooking, cooking, cooking, we ran out of space in our kitchen fridge. and decided a garage refrigerator would be a good solution. We, along with about 1500 other Sunday shoppers, masks over mouths (and some noses) braved the Abt showroom. It remains as the biggest crowd we have been in over the last 15 months. We weren’t totally comfortable, but we got our new fridge, and at a good price too.

We have instilled Abt loyalty in the whole family. The store did a great job heating our son’s screened-in porch last fall. That has kept us warm through quite a few “outdoor” celebrations.

So Abt family, thank you for expanding that warehouse. You never know when Barb and I will think of a new project (NOT a new house.) And we wouldn’t want you to be out of stock on any whiz-bang gadget we might need!

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Should I Try To Win Tickets to a Genesis Concert?

Genesis. Photo Courtesy Chicago Tribune

The DJ’s on WXRT are super-excited. The station is giving away tickets to see Genesis perform at the United Center in November. Call In To Win!

Should I make that call? So many thoughts come to mind, so many questions.

First, as I have said before, I am not particularly lucky in contests–though I used to do OK on Lin Brehmer’s 3 for Free back in the day, back when Lin still hosted early mornings on ‘XRT. But there were no prizes for winning, and 3FF was broadcast at 6:30 in the morning–not a heck of a lot of competition.

Next, will I be ready to go to an indoor concert at the United Center in November? Like everyone, I am entertainment starved. And public health officials say we are getting to an inflection point in the pandemic. Barb and I are both well-vaccinated, and we wouldn’t turn down a booster if it was necessary.

So yes, we are edging toward losing our inhibition about indoor recreation. I am back working out at my (nearly deserted) fitness center. We are noticing that Broadway is going to be opening back up in September, though we will be holding off on a New York City trip until the Neil Diamond jukebox musical opens in 2022 (tickets to opening night would be appreciated.)

And we do have tickets for a couple of indoor things–the Van Gogh exhibit on Father’s Day and Six on our anniversary. But none of that is like going into the cavernous barn that is the United Center. The contest is for admission to a “luxury suite,” but I still would anticipate lots of crowds in the walkways and on the stairways. Will I be ready in November to rub elbows with the hoi polloi?

Lastly, there is the band itself. How much do I care about Genesis? I have a personal rule, I would never go to a concert if I can’t name at least 10 songs by the band. I have no trouble doing that for Genesis–but could Barb do the same? That is a lot less likely. Plus, Barb likes her concerts at the United Center more mellow–she still complains about being dragged to see Bruce Springsteen there. Besides, who would babysit Cooper?

So all you Genesis fans out there–don’t mind me. I won’t compete for those tickets. Though if Phil and Mike and Tony want to play a set in my backyard, that’s cool–I am sure we can get the Home Owners Association’s permission for a great night out on the lawn.

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The Michael Collins Almost Made It Award

(© stock.adobe.com)

Michael Collins died this week. Michael Collins, the man who came SO close. Michael Collins, Apollo 11’s Third Man. The man circling the moon in his cute little orbiter while Neil (One Giant Step) Armstrong and Edwin (You Can Call Me Buzz) Aldrin got to play on the moon!

So close and yet so far–how many times in your life have you been there? The job you were the “best candidate” for, but somehow didn’t get (remember me, Resurrection Medical Center?) The game show you were chosen to be on, but from whom you never got the final call (I am talking to YOU, Family Feud.) The Mega-Millions Super-Duper Jackpot you were only ONE NUMBER AWAY FROM (okay-that person never was and never will be me.)

In the late astronauts honor it’s time for the Michael Collins Almost Made It Award. And here are the nominees.

  1. His Royal Highness Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales: inching ever closer to the throne, but will he ever get there?
  2.  Actor Phil Bruns. Who is he? Mr. Bruns played Morty Seinfeld (Jerry’s Dad) on exactly one episode of Seinfeld, only to be replaced in future episodes by Barney Martin. Poor Phil, he never made it to Del Boca Vista.
  3. Stu Sutcliffe and Pete Best. The almost Beatles. ‘Nuff said.
  4. A long line of “Miss America” runner-ups. The only exception, Suzette Charles, who received the 1984 crown when Vanessa Williams was stripped of her title.
  5. Zeppo Marx. Would you recognize him if he passed you on the street?
  6. Vicente Yanez Pinzor, captain of the sailing ship Nina that accompanied Christopher Columbus way back in 1492. No cities named after him! No statues to be torn down, either.
  7. Rosalind Franklin–her work paved the way for discovering the structure of DNA–but it is James Watson and Francis Crick who get credit for the “double helix.”
  8. Richard Burton was nominated for an acting Oscar 7 times without a win. He’s a near-misser even for the record on that –Peter O’Toole, and now Glenn Close beat him out with 8 losses each.
  9. How about Al Gore. Eight years as VEEP, one heartbeat or one impeachment conviction away from the presidency, and then to ultimately win the popular vote for the highest office but be bounced by the Supreme Court. You can’t get much closer to being the most powerful man in the world than that.
  10. Garth Brooks. Although I guess it’s not too bad to be the second best-selling musical act of all time with 156 MILLION units sold. That’s a mere 27 million units behind the Beatles (but about 155.999 million units more than Stu Sutcliffe and Pete Best.)

So there you have it, also-rans and almost haves. Who would you choose for the Michael Collins Memorial Award?


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Jeopardy! Needs Me. You just have to let them know.

C’mon people I need your help. I don’t think I can do this without you.

LeVar Burton has been added to the list of celebrities who have been, or will be, guest hosts of Jeopardy! How did he get there? A petition with over 240,000 signatures convinced the powers-that-be to give him a shout-out.

I first mentioned my desire to host Jeopardy in 2018, when rumors of Alex Trebek’s potential retirement first surfaced. Like all of you, I was saddened when we learned that instead of retirement, it would be fatal pancreatic cancer that would end Alex’s reign. But just as Walter Cronkite transitioned to Dan Rather, Johnny Carson to Jay Leno, and Willard Scott to Al Roker, our TV idols eventually get replaced. And I want in.

So let’s see. Do I stack up against the “celebrities” that have been filling in for the last few months?

  1. Like Ken Jennings (first guest host), I am a former Jeopardy! Contestant. No, I didn’t win a gazillion episodes and two gazillion dollars, but just being there is what matters, right?
  2. Like Mehmet Oz (March) and Sanjay Gupta (June) I am a doctor. I can pronounce all the Latin medical terms such as medulla oblongata that may crop up. And I know what they mean.
  3. Like Mayim Bialik (host May 31-June 11) I am Jewish. Not really that important, but it does allow me to use the space laser if any contestant should get out of hand.
  4. As a kid hanging out at Wrigley Field, I got an autograph from Jack Buck, the father of Joe Buck, who will be hosting in August. That’s just one degree of separation, so close enough for me.
  5. With my white hair, I have the same distinguished, intelligentsia look as Anderson Cooper (current guest host.) Got to keep the show on the high-brow side.

I know there are a whole bunch of other guest hosts that I can’t quite compare to: Robin Roberts, Aaron Rodgers, Savanna Guthrie. But isn’t it time to give the little guy a break?

So someone out there–start a petition, write me a slogan, push my cause. I want to be a guest host too!

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This Morning’s Drive-Hell Ride at 85

My hands are gripping the steering wheel as if it is the only thing keeping my anchored to the ground. My knuckles are white. I can feel my eye balls bulge; my heart is palpitating in fear. My morning experiment has turned into a joy ride from hell.

I have described my drive down the tollway to the lab many times before, cruising in the left lane, at a speed I feel comfortable with, in control of my current ride. I will pass some cars, others will pass me–but it all feels balanced and I am relaxed and feel safe.

But construction season is in full bloom, and lane re-configurations are sprouting like dandelions. Suddenly this morning my left lane has split from the three right lanes and has become a single lane of speeding adrenaline.

The morning mist limits visibility and leaves the tarmac slick. The left shoulder widens and then narrows, pincering me between concrete barricades to my right and my left. There is no room for the slightest mistake, the slightest bit of over or understeering.

I feel like Tiger Woods barreling towards a crack-up. I want to slow down–hell, I want to stop. But a glance in my rear-view mirror confirms that the headlights of the car behind me are bearing down on my tail. I see the driver’s face, relentless. If I reduce speed, can she? Would she?

As if this is not enough of a horror show, my audiobook is rattling my nerves further as it describes a teen boy contemplating a swan dive into a quarry pond from a cliff 180 feet high. Will he risk his neck to impress the bikini-clad classmate below? Or will he wind up like a previous diver, with a smashed jaw and every tooth broken? Just what I need to hear.

I am reminded of my freezing in panic when I climbed the Mayan pyramids at Chichen Itza. This time if I freeze, there won’t be a friendly traveling companion to get me moving again. I am on my own. And I am scared.

At last, I see the “Merge Ahead” sign. I meld into the other traffic, moving to the right lane where I can slow down, loosen my grip in the wheel, and let my blood pressure drop into a normal range.

Three minutes later I am at the lab, in my office, putting on my mask. The day has begun.


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Assault Weapons Jar My Ride

“Lady Bird wanted the highways clear of billboards and junkyards, and filled with green landscaping and wildflowers.”

As I accelerate through my twice-daily commute along Interstate 294, I get a sense that Mrs. LBJ wasn’t particularly successful in her drive to beautify America. The billboards she fought against are the mile markers of my journey. Most times the giant messages pass into my subconsciousness where I keep my mental records.

I know where to expect a Blue Cross/Blue Shield “through it all.” I have counted as Brian Uhrlacher’s hair restoration billboard postings outnumber the total tackles in his Bear’s career. A big red arrow points the way to mortgage refinancing savings, while Wintrust is trying really hard to out-hometown the other guys. And the strip gentlemen’s clubs advertise what they have always advertised.

As a sign of the times I know who is pushing rapid COVID-19 testing, and who wants me to learn all about marijuana, both medicinal and recreational. Preferably not indulged in while zooming past construction zones and road shoulder stalls.

This month I have noticed a new billboard, a new advertisement asking for an investment of my time and thought as I thunder past. It must be about 650 sq. ft. in size, rising just to the right of the southbound lanes. And it features a silhouette image of a firearm. I am not an expert, but whizzing past, it sure looks like an assault rifle.

I assume the billboard is advertising a gun store, or a shooting range, or some other gun-related enterprise. I don’t care what it is for. It disturbs me and I despise it. I don’t get upset seeing reminders of the health plan I no longer belong to, the hair I can’t grow, or the pot and women that I don’t indulge in–but seeing weapons of mass destruction on my very favorite tollway? It brings tears to my eyes.

In the indeterminate future I will retire. I will not drive past this billboard. Better yet, I can wish the billboard, and the death it portrays, will go away. If only my wishes would come true.

Lady Bird Johnson could have told you rifles don’t beautify highways. She could also have told you how one changed her life.

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Six Vaccinations to try your Patience

I’m not an ant-vaxxer
I agree with all my might
That getting stuck, like a sitting duck,
Is the way to do things right.

But in the last six months it seems
My arms are getting sieve-y
So many holes, that bless my soul
My favorite drug’s Aleve-y.

It started with the shingles shots
A pair I’d heard were scary
It would burn your toes and crinkle your nose
And turn your tonsils hairy!

Next ‘twas time for the annual boost
Of the vax for influenza
The pharmacist jabbed, and the air I grabbed.
As I fainted ‘gainst the office credenza.

Six weeks ago it was my turn
For my left arm to surrender
I stood in line, whittled away the time
For two doses – the Moderna protector.

And when I thought that I was finally done
With Band-Aids, needles, and an alcohol wipe
At today’s physical exam, where I learned I am
Old enough for an additional type.

I’m Medicare age (a young 65)
Ripe for the shot that blocks out pneumonia
A vicious disease, brings the old to their knees
Those damn pneumococci will own ya.

But now I at last I think I’m done,
I’ve gone through all the potions
I’ll roll down my sleeve, put my doctors on leave
With my mind full of all healthful notions.

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It Takes More Than My Microscope For Me To Give You A Diagnosis Of Prostate Cancer

Microscopic appearance of prostate cancer (left) with special stain (right.)
Microscopic appearance of prostate cancer (left) with special stain (right.)

When I talk to folks, or blog to you all about making diagnosis, what I usually chat about is the time spent looking down the twin ocular barrels of my Olympus BX43 binocular microscope. After all, that is when my eyes and brain are most engaged in looking at the prostate tissue and forming a diagnostic impression. But in fact, that microscope time is probably less than half the time I spend on the hundreds of pieces of prostate tissue I see every day.

In the morning, while our crack anatomic pathology team is busy grossing, processing, embedding, cutting, staining, and cover-slipping prostate tissue to prepare beautiful slides for me, I am getting my paperwork rolling. I download a spreadsheet of all my cases for the day, using it to create individualized worksheets for each case. That lets me know the age of each patient, the name of the urologist doing the biopsy, and how many parts I can expect with each case. Basic stuff.

I then take my worksheets and progress to our online medical record (I love those online records!) Here I can get information on the patient’s past prostate history. Has he been biopsied before? What did we find? I can look at the most recent PSA blood test, and also look at a timeline of all the past PSAs to see how the values have changed over time. In addition, many patients have a “targeted biopsy,” aimed at “regions of interest” in an MRI of the prostate. I can read the radiologist’s report and learn just how suspicious those ROIs are.

All this information is running through my head when I look at the slides. Although it is a pathology maxim that “the truth is in the glass” the other data can guide me as I am making decisions on what I see. Oh, and while I am looking at that glass I am recording my findings on my worksheet, leafing through textbooks or websites for help on difficult cases, ordering the special stains I need, and filling out billing sheets. Sometimes it feels like my head is bouncing back and forth like a ping-pong ball, with a glance through the ‘scope as I am turning left and right.

Once I have handled the last slide of the afternoon I drop the worksheets with our administrative team. It is their job to transfer all my codes into our Lab Information System to create a nicely formatted report.

Next morning, I review the reports and add any information I have garnered from the special stains I ordered the day before. It is almost time to electronically sign the reports, and whisk them via the magic of interfaces to the performing urologist. But before that can happen, especially in malignant cases, there is one essential review step.

Nobody wants to call a benign biopsy malignant. So before a cancer case is signed out, we have it reviewed by at least one additional member of our pathology staff. In the oldest days that would be done at a multi-headed microscope. In the more recent old days (i.e. pre-Covid) we would review cases on a video screen in my office. Since the pandemic, we have avoided congregating and now place our slides on a tray and pass them to another pathologist for review in their own offices. A log sheet ensures all cases are seen and diagnoses are concurred with. Only then are the cases signed and distributed.

Am I done at that point? Almost! Since UroPartners has a very vibrant Cancer Registry, my final step is to mark the parameters of each cancer (grade, number of positive cores, length of involvement, other findings) on a sheet for our Tumor Registrar. This data allows our group to have an ongoing understanding of the patients that pass through our doors and to follow large cohorts of patient data. This has fueled numerous scientific papers and advancements in prostate cancer treatment.

My microscope may be my best friend, but it has lots of help in making sure our patients have the correct diagnosis in a timely manner. And that is always my goal.

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The above is the opinion of the author and does not necessarily reflect the opinion of UroPartners LLC.

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Searching and Dreaming for Mini-Snickers Ice Cream Bars

Are Snickers Mini-Ice Cream Bars Gone For Good?

Don Quixote with an impossible quest. Ponce De Leon exploring for the Fountain of Youth. Humphrey Bogart seeking gold in the Sierra Madre. Great searches all, but none can compare to my hunt for the Mini-Snickers Ice Cream Bar.

As a candy craving youth, I was never a tremendous fan of the Snickers Bar. While I did prefer Snickers to its stablemate, the overly-fluffy 3 Musketeers Bar, Snicks just didn’t compare well to the smooth and sweet Milky Way Bar. The peanuts in the Snickers Bar just felt wrong.

It was between 7th and 8th grade, while a camper at a Rogers Park summer day camp, that I discovered frozen Snickers Bars at the concession stand. I found that the crunch of the peanuts merged perfectly with the icy-chilled nougat, chocolate, and caramel. I enjoyed those frozen bars at break time all summer long, and then forgot all about them when the school year rolled around and camp came to an end.

It was years — more like decades–later that I came across Snickers Ice Cream Bars at the local grocery. Snickery flavored ice cream, chocolate coating, one or two peanuts. I bought a box and fell in love.

But there was a problem. Six to a box, they were large and loaded with calories. A blood glucose nightmare. Fortunately, on my next weekend shopping trip, I found Mini-Snickers Ice Cream Bars, a box of 12 with just 90 calories each. Surely my nutritionist couldn’t object to that.

So each evening, after finishing dinner and before clearing the plates off the table, I would pet the dog and walk to the fridge, open the freezer door (frequently forgetting to close it after) and treat myself to my 90 calorie bar of heaven.

Until the pandemic. While you were noticing the toilet paper disappearing from the supermarket shelves, I noticed that there were no Snickers Ice Cream Bars of any size to be found. My depression was palpable.

I replaced the Snickers with Mini-Ice Cream Sandwiches, squishy concoctions of phony ice cream between two faux-chocolate wafers. Dreadful. And I waited. After a few months, the full-size Snickers Ice Cream Bars reappeared. But where were the Minis? Nowhere, man.

And still, a year into Corona, I search. At every grocery store we go to (Sunset, Woodman’s, Mariano’s, even Whole Foods,) I prowl the freezer cases hunting for the elusive 90 calories. Barb knows we can’t leave the store until I have investigated. And I find nothing, nada, zilch.

What about online shopping sites? I enter Snickers Mini Ice Cream Bars into search bars and the sites just say Not Available in this Zip Code, Not Available In this City, Not Available All!

But one day they will be back. I just know it. Until then, I will join Don Quixote and dream the impossible dream.

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