A C-Section Without Anesthesia? It Happened to a California Couple, and Almost to Us Too!

Many of you know that Laury gave birth to our third grandchild, a wonderful, healthy baby boy this week. He was delivered by Caesarian section in the late night-early morning hours by mutual consent of Laury and her obstetrician, with the hospital anesthesia department doing its magic to ensure the procedure be as painless as possible (I know that’s easy for a man to say!) Mother, father, baby and grandparents are all doing well.

Apparently, the same cannot be said for a couple from California. In an article earlier this month in Money Magazine the couple claim that an emergency C-section was performed on the mom without anesthesia, with nurses holding her down as she screamed in pain. She is now eight months post-delivery and says she “did not feel connected with my daughter. I was really depressed and my stomach took a lot longer to heal. I couldn’t take care of her by myself at first.”

Not surprisingly, a medical malpractice lawsuit is underway. The hospital denies the allegations and states that pre-surgical anesthesia was administered. It sounds unlikely to me that a surgical procedure was begun without any anesthetic. Maybe she already had an epidural catheter with pain medication flowing. I may never know the whole story, but Laury’s delivery and the California couple’s story do bring back memories…

The birth of our son Michael was not exactly textbook. Barb’s pregnancy was fairly uneventful, but as she progressed well beyond her due date, we and her obstetrician Dr. B., fresh from a conference on post-term births, became a bit concerned. When an ultrasound demonstrated a marked decrease in amniotic fluid Barb was admitted for further testing and observation. A fetal scalp monitor was put in place and we were lulled by the steady beep-beep of Michael’s intra-uterine heart.

Until the beat wasn’t quite so steady. As the heart rate decelerated Dr. B. rushed to Barb’s side and blurted, “We’ve got to get that baby out. Now!!” He ripped off his tie and shirt in a move so dramatic I expected to see that he was wearing a Superman costume beneath his clothes. “Get her to the OR, no time to lose.”

And then, my medical training stepping to the fore, I mumbled to Dr. B., “Shouldn’t she have some anesthesia?” The good doctor recovered his equilibrium long enough to tell the nursing staff to call the Anesthesia Department. The in-house anesthesiologist arrived quickly, and by the time both Barb and I were taken into the OR, I was the only one of the two of us awake. Michael was delivered and whisked off to the nursery and I was banished to the waiting room (Tigers 3, White Sox 2) while the surgical team stitched Barb back up.

I suppose that sooner or later someone besides me would have reminded Dr. B. to make that call. I doubt he really would have made the first incision without the anesthesiologist having things well in control.

But anytime Barb gets a little angry at me I can always remind her that I was the one who kept her from going under the knife, wide awake. That’s worth quite a few brownie points, don’t you think?
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Truth isn’t Truth? Maybe Guiliani was Right!

I saw it with my own eyes. I was sitting at the breakfast counter Sunday morning, grooving on my weekly dose of “Meet the Press.” Moderator Chuck Todd was doing the interview duet with Trump attorney Rudy Guiliani, Todd’s favorite guest of the last few months. The tough-talking former New York City mayor was being quizzed on the reasons why the President might be reluctant to appear before Special Counsel Robert Mueller. His response, “Truth isn’t truth,” put a look of wild-eyed amazement on Todd’s face. along with the realization he had just hit ratings gold.

But was Guiliani wrong? Well, that’s as tricky as pinning down Bill Clinton on the meaning of “is.” Although the Merriam-Webster Dictionary lists a couple of definitions for thw word truth, for most of us, it means definition 1, being in accordance with fact or reality. Leaving alternative facts aside for a moment we can all agree on some things. 1+1=2 is a truth. Donald Trump is the President of the United States is sad but a truth. I am getting older every day; also sad, but true.

So it’s all simple; Guiliani was lying or talking nonsense, right? Well, not quite. You see, one of those Webster’s definitions of truth is “a judgment, proposition, or idea that is true or accepted as true” (italics mine.) Aye, there’s the rub. Accepted by who?

Acceptance is in the eye, or more correctly the brain, of the beholder. If I accept that winning 6 NBA Championships in eight years makes Michael Jordon a better player than Lebron James, but you accept that Lebron has more all-around talent than Michael in his prime and is thus the better player, we have different truths as to who is the GOAT (Greatest of All Time for you non-sports nerds,) Michael or King James.

So by this definition truth can be an awful squishy property, like Silly Putty picking up an image from the comics and then oozing out between your fingers, the image now distorted and unrecognizable. The Trump/Guiliani truth may not match the Mueller truth, but by that last definition, both can be “the truth.”

Guiliani might be right. Sucks, doesn’t it?

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The First Non Disclosure Agreement. It Sure Wasn’t Omarosa!

adam-and-eve — Adam and Eve, creators of the first NDA.

“Yeah, hi Adam, I’m Eve. No, I don’t know where I came from, all of a sudden I was just standing here, practically naked. All I can remember is some ephemeral force saying they were going to create me. Said there was a spare bone or something laying around and that you needed some company.

“So you been roving around here on your own for a while? That’s cool. Looks like life is pretty good, almost paradise. Oh, you say this IS paradise! I expected paradise would have a latte machine, but I guess this will do. No caffeine after 1 o’clock anyway or I can never get to sleep.

“How’s the food around here? Places to order-in from? You can build me a nice fancy fire pit, but I gotta tell you, I don’t cook.

“What about clothes? I hear fur is really in this year, though not sure why with all this never-ending sunshine. Oh, it gets cool at night? I’ll have to remember that.

“Talking about clothes, I just want to let you know, I am NOT wearing heels. Those things kill my feet and besides, how’s a girl to run from charging rhinoceroses in 6-inch stilettos? Though those new Choo’s I had a vision of would be great at stamping out snakes or serpents or whatever you call those creepy slithering things. Can you be a dear and try to find me a pair? Or two?

“So what’s this, you want me to sign a Non Disclosure Agreement? Your afraid some dude is gonna want to write a story about you someday, put millions of copies in print? And you don’t want me to tell stories about what really goes on here in the Garden? Things like the crazy ape party and the time you rode that elephant bare-assed? Or all those statues you bow down to and smoke a blunt with? Sure, I’m cool, I’ll sign. Besides, what would you do if I broke the agreement? Sue me? LOL! There are no lawyers in paradise!

“Hey, my blood sugar is getting low, I need a snack — want to split an apple?

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When Alex Trebek Leaves Jeopardy I Want In!

Thre Jeopardy Hosts: Art Fleming, Alex Trebek and Me! — Three Jeopardy Hosts: Art Fleming, Alex Trebek and Me!

There have only been two hosts of Jeopardy! that mattered. Art Fleming gave the answers on most of the original run, and Alex Trebek has been the man behind the podium on the current version since the show’s reinception in 1984. Mr. Trebek’s current contract expires in 2020, and he has hinted that after 36 years and thousands and thousands of shows, that might be the time for him to retire. He has also suggested two potential replacements, hockey announcer Alex Faust, and broadcaster Laura Coates.

Hogwash! If the answer is “This person would be the ideal next host of Jeopardy!” the question is “Who is ME!” Think about it. Appearances on both Jeopardy! and It’s Academic have shown I know what it takes to be tested under those hot TV lights without breaking a sweat. Ok, those were both decades ago, and I didn’t win on either show, but in my opinion, I have only improved with age. And my almost appearance with Steve Harvey on Family Feud should be enough to prove I’ve still got that cool under pressure style.

About physical appearance. Fans of Jeopardy! just want a host that won’t make them shudder each time they tune in. I think I can pass that bar. And thanks to Mr. Trebek, the audience has gotten used to a well groomed white-haired host. I have the hair color and style to match. I even have a Bangkok tailor so I can order as many fitted suits as I need for the multiple shows taped on one day.

How about a voice that gets attention and demands and commands respect? I served my six years as Board of Education President and kept those unruly crowds of unhappy parents in check. And I never had to raise my voice. They all just listened. (True confession: The crowds weren’t really unruly or unhappy, they were mostly at our meetings to see their kids get awards and honors.)

Oh, one more thing. I promise not to pretend I know all the questions to all the answers. The players should be the stars of the show. And even if they are not at all brilliant, charming, or funny I promise not to embarrass them. It’s probably their life’s dream to be holding that buzzer! Who wants to crash those dreams?

So Sony Television, give me a call. I won’t let you down.

Help me fight prostate cancer at https://ustoo.rallybound.org/seablue-prostate-walk/LesRunsforProstate

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Who was John Elsas, and Why Do I Care?

Are you into genealogy? Some people get their fix via “23 and Me,” some get it by meticulous research on sites such as “Ancestry.com.” I have never delved into genealogy, but I got a taste of my family’s backstory via an unexpected email from more than 4000 miles away.

The email, from Frankfurt, Germany, was originally sent to Laury, but mystified as to its nature she forwarded it to me. And I learned a part of my family history that I had never thought to explore before.

I know that my father was a German Jew, who fled Berlin in the face of rising Nazi power in the early 1930s. And I knew his mother, my grandmother Fanny, emigrated from Germany to Switzerland with her other son and her second husband, Freidrich Raff, a German movie screenwriter.

While I was in grammar school my dad would type a letter to his “Mutti” on thin onion-skin paper for airmail delivery to Zurich every other week. Linda and I would add a line or two about school or my weekly bowling scores. Those letters and a single visit to Switzerland in 1964 were my sole contact with Fanny. And because my father was a quiet man, not prone to talking about his past, I knew nothing of her life or her history.

That changed with the Frankfurt e-mail. The letter to Laury was from Dr. Dorothee Hoppe, a German researcher, who had become interested in John Elsas, a German artist from the early 1900’s. In her research, she identified that Herr Elsas’s descendants bore the last name “Raff,” and from that clue she discovered Laury.

Via multiple correspondences with Dr. Hoppe, I learned that Herr Elsas was the father of Fanny Elsas and my great-grandfather. A fairly wealthy German-Jewish stockbroker, he experienced a post-retirement career as a self-trained artist. To translate a quote from a monograph written by Dr. Hoppe “his designs often exist of caricatured exaggeration. The majority of pictures are accompanied by a doggerel verse that explained and narrated, in kind, a maxim that the painted scene illustrated.” He worked in multiple media and had many exhibitions. Quite a successful second career!

Dr. Hoppe also filled me in on family history that I was unaware of, and that even my father may not have known. For example, I never heard him speak of an aunt who died at Theresienstadt, a victim of the Holocaust. Dr. Hoppe also has access to a collection of letters written by my father as a young man, one of which indicates he immigrated to the USA in 1934, a year later than I had previously believed.

I have a tendency to look forward and don’t spend that much time looking at my past. But I am glad for this unexpected insight into my family history. And the story of John Elsas adds another talented artist to my lineage. It’s amazing I still can’t draw a straight line!

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This post reminds me that in honor of my father I am once again participating in the SEABlue Prostate Cancer Awareness Run in Lincoln Park in September. To support our cause, please click here!

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Is Terry Boers’ Autobiography the “Bore of a Lifetime?”

Since 1992, the soundtrack of my life has mostly been a shuffle between the “the adult rock” of WXRT and the non-stop sports prattle on WSCR, “The Score.” I have followed The Score across three radio frequencies and a shifting roster of hosts. But for most of that time, the one constant was Terry Boers, the former Sun-Times beat reporter and columnist, whose pairings with first Dan McNeil and then Dan Bernstein, combined for 25 years on the air.

I followed Terry through a variety of time shifts, from “Who You Crappin'” to “Friday Fung.” I listened to him opine on championships for the Bulls, the Blackhawks, and the White Sox. Ill health took him away from most of the Cubs run in 2016, giving a bittersweet air to that “hell freezes over” season. His retirement at the beginning of 2017 coincided with his promise to write a book and to tell all the stories that never made it onto the air.

Last week, Terry was back on The Score for a three-day fill-in stint with his old running mate Dan McNeil. It reminded me that I had meant to read “The Score of a Lifetime,” for a while. I tracked down a digital version, looking forward to hearing all the dirt and to getting all the inside scoops. What a disappointment that read turned out to be!

Boers chose to tell his story in a “stream-of-consciousness light” manner that begged for an editor. The chapters are generally short, and somewhat sequential in following his life from his boyhood in Steger, IL through his career at local newspapers, the Detroit Free Press and finally the Sun-Times. He does a decent job at explaining his initial hesitation and then his final decision to commit to the concept of sports talk radio and the Score. But that is one of the few areas into which I gained much insight.

We read about his ongoing feud with WSCR host Mike Murphy, but there is nothing in the book that hasn’t been said on the air, with Boers denying any responsibility for the ongoing hostility. Of Dan Bernstein, Boers’ longest co-host, all we learn is that Boers didn’t hate him, but that producer Matt Abbatacola didn’t like him very much. Boers’ big reveal about Michael Jordan? Even when Jordan was a rookie, his teammates thought he was really, really, good.

Boers does let loose with how much he hated two college coaches of the past, Bobby Knight, and John Thompson. In regards to Indiana University’s Knight, we are given no reason for Boers’ contempt. (OK, I guess Knight’s actions and tantrums were so well known that Boers didn’t feel the need to elaborate.) Of Georgetown and Team USA’s Thompson, Boers main complaint seems to be that the coach didn’t want his players to talk to the media, a character flaw so great it earned him Boers’ invective as “one of the biggest asswipes of the decade!”

I respect Terry’s decision to spend quite a bit of time talking about the malignancy that haunted his 2016 year. As a physician, I find his description of his cancer a bit confusing, but I understand how overwhelming his illness was, and that like many patients he found the explanations from his medical providers weren’t always clear and forthcoming.

We also learn that the Detroit Piston Bad Boys were thugs, and that Boers’ wife is an angel. In fact, most people in Boers’ life seems to fit into one of those two categories. And if he ever reads this review, I am afraid I know which of those categories I will wind up in!

Miss this week’s Battle of the Bands: Read it here.

Help Support Prostate Cancer Awareness here.

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They Might Be Dinosaurs. Springsteen and U2, Two Decades, Two Dominating Albums

born-to-run_joshua-tree — Bruce Springsteen and U2 with classic albums

I was reminded that it has been a while since I continued my “10 Favorite Albums” list. And as usual, once I start writing about music, I can’t stop at just one album. So today — two great albums, two very different decades in my life.

We begin in the late summer of 1975 sitting in a friends apartment (his parent’s apartment to be precise.) It was a lull in time; I was done with college, medical school would be starting shortly. I had no responsibility, nothing to attend to. I don’t remember what we were talking about, maybe another bad White Sox season. And then he put a record album on the turntable, and out of nowhere, there was Bruce.

“Born to Run” was the most exciting album in years. I was instantly hooked. I had missed out on Springsteen’s first two albums, but there was no way I was going to miss this one.

With only eight songs on the album, this was no double LP monstrosity loaded with filler. The title track got most of the early attention, with its wall of sound, its glockenspiel, its lyrics yearning to be free. But I soon appreciated other standouts. The opening track, “Thunder Road,” evolved into my personal favorite while the long moan at the end of “Jungleland, ” the closing number, became a haunting echo in my head. And I can still feel the mood of anticipation in the United Center as the piano intro to “Backstreets” welcomed the band back after intermission at the only live Springsteen show I have attended, some 30 years after “Born to Run’s” release.

It was only 12 years between the release of BTR and my album of the 80’s, U2’s “The Joshua Tree,” but it was 12 years filled with lots of changes for me. I was now married with two young children, finished with medical school and residency and in practice at Holy Family Medical Center while taking night courses for an MBA. Maybe because of all going on in my life I was barely aware of the Irish band U2. That changed with the back-to-back release of the singles “With or Without You” and “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” Toss in “Where the Streets Have No Name” and those first three songs from the album became an endless loop on whatever music player I was listening to through the years. Even Roy Leonard, the midday host and show-biz critic on good-old conservative WGN Radio was a fan of the band, encouraging his listeners to buy “The Joshua Tree” in order to knock The Beastie Boy’s “License to Ill” out of the top spot on the Billboard charts.

Barb and I have seen U2 many times in the last 10 years, including the 2017 “Joshua Tree 30th Anniversary Tour” show at Soldier Field. I loved seeing the band perform all the songs on the album live, but I love even more hunkering down with a good set of headphones in a dark room and listening to every note.

Two great albums from a long time ago. They might be dinosaurs, but so am I!

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A reminder, please sponsor me and the UroPartners Team in the SEABlue Prostate Cancer Awareness Run this September. Here is the link!

https://ustoo.rallybound.org/seablue-prostate-walk/LesRunsforProstate

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Do You Have Snobby Tastes? This Zippy List Says That We Do!

I came upon a fascinating little squib in my Time Magazine Daily Email. Researchers at the University of Chicago (Go Maroons!) using data from 2016 have come up with a list of the Top Ten products that can separate the highest economic class of Americans from the lowest class. Apparently, this list is not based on the cost of the item but somehow measures personal taste. The list is summarized below.

TOP TEN ITEMS SHOWING HIGH ECONOMIC “TASTE”

iPhone
iPad
Verizon Wireless
Android phone
Kikkoman soy sauce
HP printer or fax machine
AT&T cellular network
Samsung TV set
Cascade Complete dishwasher detergent
Ziploc plastic bags

So I have to admit it, Barb and I must have pretty highbrow taste. iPhone and iPad chargers are parked in every electrical outlet in our home, symbolic of our addiction to Apple technology. When we travel, half of a suitcase is devoted to those tangled white cords.

We have been using, and been overbilled by, Verizon Wireless for years, most notably when we leave the country and try to decipher their various international plans. I have been using HP printers since my dot matrix days, though Laury claims my current one-year-old printer sounds like it is from the Stone Age. I also have a subscription to HP Instant Ink, a nice revenue stream for HP in the “give away the razor, screw ’em on the blade pricing” manner.

We didn’t intend to purchase Samsung TV sets, but when our Sony TVs had difficulties in playing nicely with our Xfinity Cable, we swapped two of the sets for comparable Samsung models. Our dishwasher gobbles Cascade Complete Tablets, although I also keep a box of plain Cascade powder under the sink for special tasks. And Ziploc bags? Until recently my bagged lunch contained three of four, with rice and carrots and cherries and blueberries all getting their own little zip; I am proud to say that in a Zen moment last month I switched to reusable plastic containers for most of those.

So by my count, we hit on 7 out of 10. We don’t buy enough soy sauce to have a preference, we just look for the one with the lowest sodium content. If that happens to be Kikkoman, so be it. And by habit, if by nothing else, Android and AT&T lose out to Apple and Verizon, at least for the time being.

Call me a snob…and don’t you dare question me about my choice of hoity-toity all-natural peanut butter. See you at Whole Foods!

A reminder, please sponsor me and the UroPartners Team in the SEABlue Prostate Cancer Awareness Run this September. Here is the link!

https://ustoo.rallybound.org/seablue-prostate-walk/LesRunsforProstate

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We Were Once Friends. Now You “Share” Hate.

How many years were we on the same Medical Staff at our sleepy suburban hospital? We were never close friends, but we could share a companionable conversation. You were a raconteur who would have everyone in the Doctor’s Lounge listening to every word as you wove your tales. You would amuse and amaze us. You opened your home for Monday Night Football on a giant screen, back when giant screens were a thing to marvel at. You had a young son, of whom you spoke fondly and frequently. When tragedy struck we all felt the pain.

You were a skilled surgeon and a teacher. Our hospital was solidly middle-class, but there were pockets of poverty in the area as well. I am sure you served that population with the same care and thoughtfulness you served all others. Maybe you grumbled at times, maybe we all did, but we never begrudged the services we provided to the less advantaged.

We haven’t seen each other for a dozen years, but when I received your “Friend” request on Facebook, I accepted without hesitation. I assumed that your feed would contain some chatter about the old days, some family pictures, some marquees with your name up in lights, a travelogue of your trips around the world. I assumed they would be things I would glance at and smile and think “he is doing o.k.”

But your Facebook life is much different than I anticipated. The posts are frequent, frightening, and disheartening. I can’t recall anything you have written yourself, the posts are items from others that you share. And they are filled with hate. They insult. They deride. They are lists of “facts” that any second-grader could prove is nonsense with two minutes of thought or research, “facts” meant to divide and incite. Most of your Facebook friends give them a thumbs-up or add an even more hostile comment. I’ll occasionally take the time do formal fact checking and comment with a link to the truth, but it is so tiresome, fighting off this hate. I wonder why this is the legacy you choose to leave for your son.

Oh, I know that the vitriol is not one-sided. I know the Democratic/Liberal/Socialist/Left has too often given up on “When they go low, we go high.” And I regret that. I take solace in knowing (believing?) that the majority of people under that great big tent do not yet fight fire with fire, or fight hate with hate. I hope we never will.

The make-up of our country has changed, is changing, and will forever change. That doesn’t make America less great, it has the potential to make America greater. Can you “Share” this fact on your Facebook posts, my old friend?
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photo credit: Emiliano Grusovin <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/37182073@N06/31443914106″>noir city</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a>

Kitchen Confidential. A Crunchy Confession

Have you ever really screwed something up? And then tried to hide it? Come on, I know you have. It’s human nature. But it is also human nature to feel the need for confession. If you can talk about it, it really couldn’t have been that bad. And so my friends, it is time for me to bare my soul. And I promise you, no guests were injured in the making of this recipe.

We love to entertain; we designed our home to have lots of spaces for guests to mingle, indoors and out. Barb loves experimenting with recipes, a twist here, a splash of something there. But there are some recipes that are sacrosanct, crowd favorites that are never to be tampered with. So if you have eaten at our house for a summertime barbecue, you have undoubtedly enjoyed Barb’s Japanese Crunchy Coleslaw. A sweet and tangy concoction made with shredded cabbage, smashed ramen noodles (smashing noodles is fun!) toasted almonds and sesame seeds, chopped green onions, and a secret Asian dressing, it has been a staple in Barb’s recipe file for decades.

At this point, let me explain my role when Barb is in full executive chef mode. My job is simple. Like any guy on the kitchen line, I do what the boss tells me to do. It can be chopping, sauteing, shlepping, or cleaning up. My goal is not to burn, drop, or spill things, and to keep the sink clear, washing pots, pans, mixing bowls and measuring spoons as needed.

Back to our cabbage story. It was an hour before a gathering at the house last year. I won’t say which one. The large white ceramic bowl that minutes before had been used to mix the crunchy slaw sat in the sink, its inside glistening with oil. I grabbed the sponge-on-a-stick, Dawn Liquid oozing out, and set to work cleaning the bowl. Suds were everywhere, my washing-up trademark. A spray rinse and then I hefted the bowl out of the sink and into the drying rack.

And then the kitchen horror hit me. The big white bowl hadn’t just been sitting in the sink awaiting a clean-up. It had been a dead weight over a colander filled with the fully prepared crunchy salad, the bowls mass being used to compress the mixture to eliminate excess dressing. And I had succeeded-succeeded in replacing the excess dressing with my sudsy water. Panic time!

What to do, and how to do it before Barb noticed! I rinsed and I rinsed and I rinsed. The blue Dawn color dissipated. I rinsed some more. I tasted, and the salad seemed to be ok. It had retained its vinegary tang without a soapy aftertaste. I put the white bowl back in place to once again compress out the excess liquid. And then Iheld my breath. When the Chef made her taste test a few minutes later, she licked her lips and moved to the next item. I finally exhaled. And our celebration that day went on just fine.

So to our past and future guests, rest assured, we serve the cleanest food on the planet. And to Barb, sorry ’bout that!

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photo credit: insatiablemunch <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/48041244@N05/11287202814″>IMG_0021</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a>