Designated Drivers, Fearless Leaders, and One Alleged Accountant

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

But now the hard part begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you ask the Piano Man?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some Things Matter More Than a Pickleball Score

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My platelet donation had a history.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lee did not survive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How a friendly email made my week.

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

Hi Les,

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

Rob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say my name!

You can find my name in lots of places. Check out LinkedIn and you’ll find all the places I worked; pull up Substack or WordPress and you can find a list of all my blogs. Navigate to PubMed, and you can locate my name on scientific papers I have authored or co-authored. My name is even on plaques in public schools commemorating my service on School Boards and Referendum Committees.

But yesterday, I found my name somewhere I never expected it to be— as an answer to 67 Down on page 62 of Weekend Getaway Crosswords. The clue wasn’t straightforward or obvious (none of them are in this book.) There are probably lots of ways to answer “Rabble, for short” with four letters. But after solving that the Dixie Chicks and Destiny’s Child were TRIOS (this puzzle was originally published in 2004) and that “Two on a par four” was an EAGLE, I had the R and the A. But what were the next two letters?

And then it hit me. RAFF could be short for Riff-Raff. And what is Riff-Raff if not rabble?

I quickly went to work on 74 and 76 across, with the answers DEFILE and GOODFRAY (don’t ask) giving me the two Fs I needed to complete my namesake crossword puzzle answer. And after I had finished the puzzle, a check of the answer key confirmed that I was indeed the correct answer and had been enshrined in another media realm.

I recognize that it’s a small thing and that being called Riff-Raff is not the most complimentary thing. And I don’t know if RAFF or even LESTER has ever made it to the New York Times Sunday Crossword, the Mecca of all puzzles and puzzlers. But if it ever does, it will join my list of famous places, and it won’t fool me!

How a Crossword Puzzle Led Me to the Novels of Tana French

“____ French, Irish suspense writer (four letters).”

That was the crossword puzzle clue I came across three months ago. At first glance, I had no idea who the mystery writer was. I skipped over the clue, confident that when I filled in more spaces on the crossword, I would have the answer. And twenty minutes later, I was proved correct. Solving the adjacent across and down clues gave me the letters I needed to spell “Tana.” Although I had never heard of an author named Tana French, the answer key at the back of the puzzle book confirmed my findings.

The next day, while browsing through the fiction section at the local library, I pulled out a book titled The Searcher. And whether it was pure coincidence, serendipity, or synchronicity, the book’s author was my crossword puzzle solution, Tana French.

I checked the book, drove home, and dove into the world of Tana French. And I discovered that, unlike what I inferred from the crossword clue, she is not just a suspense or mystery writer; she is much more.

Her novels, mostly set in Dublin and its surroundings, do frequently contain deaths, often of a suspicious nature. There are numerous investigations, often featuring the Dublin police’s Murder Squad, or a retired Chicago cop named Cal Hooper (no word on whether he is a White Sox fan). But the themes that occupy at least two-thirds of each novel are about the nature of relationships, families, and the law. Even Broken Harbor’s Detective Michael Kennedy, who is proud of seeing everything as black or white with no shades of gray, is confronted by a situation in which right is inseparable from wrong, and justice is shaded by humanity.

I have now completed seven of French’s novels. Number eight is on my nightstand. It’s another Murder Squad book, but I know that the “who” and the “how” of the whodunit will be secondary to the “why” of the killer, and the inner workings of whichever detective pulls the assignment. That is the way Ms. French keeps us coming back for more.

And when I’m not reading her novels, I will keep doing those tricky crossword puzzles, always on the lookout for another writer to grab me via the clues and send me on another reading odyssey.

Who are your favorite authors? How do you choose new ones? Do you have a preferred genre? Let me know lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com. Or leave your comments on Substack or Facebook. Feedback is always welcome.

The Day I Got Fired

Exactly twenty years ago, on a Friday afternoon toward the end of June, I drove into the city on a trek that would change my life.

I had been summoned to the office of the Chairman of my group—a mid-tier pathology group at a teaching hospital with aspirations but little prestige, in a city full of giants like Northwestern and the University of Chicago. The nature of the summons was to “discuss my future role with the group.” This was reasonable and welcomed, as the sleepy suburban hospital where I had been stationed for more than 20 years was undergoing a metamorphosis and no longer required an onsite pathologist.

My expectations, as I became ensnared in traffic on that very hot afternoon, were that my new role would involve working with some clinicians who were recruiting me and our group to establish an in-office laboratory, while also teaching pathology residents and covering the pathology service at the university hospital. It would be a change for me, but with the support of my pathology colleagues, I was confident the new venture would be successful. I was also looking forward to the challenge of teaching.

Going into the meeting, I was aware that not all members of our group were my allies. I had become a partner when my suburban hospital affiliated with the larger institution about 10 years earlier and was still seen by some as a less competent outsider. But what I expected to be a conversation about the future quickly turned into something else entirely.

“Your role with our group is no role. You are out.”

I refused the chairman’s proffered handshake and walked out of his office.

I returned home in the heat and the traffic to tell Barb that, for the first time in my life, I had been fired.

In the next few weeks of negotiations, I received permission to pursue the clinician group’s in-office laboratory. That group agreed to contract for my services, resulting in a 17-year, satisfying relationship that ended only with my retirement.

Today is another hot Friday at the end of June. The travels I am planning are to a round of golf and a poker game. Nothing as life-changing as that voyage 20 years ago—but looking back, I see that the drive that seemed like an ending was only a beginning. It was my metamorphosis, and it was my liberation.

I won’t believe that whatever will be will be.

When she was a youngster growing up in Skokie, Barb had two favorite movies. The first was “The Man Who Knew Too Much,” and the second was “On the Beach.”

“The Man Who Knew Too Much” was a 1956 film by Alfred Hitchcock starring Doris Day and Jimmy Stewart. It involved spies, kidnapping, and Ms. Day singing the Academy Award-winning song “Whatever Will Be, Will Be” (Que Sera, Sera). We watched it once together. It was dark, but the ending was happy.

“On the Beach” was a 1959 movie set in Melbourne, Australia. A nuclear conflagration extinguishes the world’s civilization. The Melbournians, far from the rest of the globe, wait for the nuclear fallout to reach them and end their existence. I’ve never seen it — maybe that’s why its sad, haunting premise stays with me.

Barb’s childhood favorite may seem like an old relic of Cold War anxiety, but today, it feels disturbingly current. “On the Beach” was on my mind this morning as I woke up and checked my phone for the latest news on the Israel-Iran conflict. I read projections and background reports, then turned on the TV to watch the talking heads pontificate and prognosticate. And I am scared.

I know (hope?) that the risk of a widespread nuclear war is low. But as the US military increases forces in the Middle East, is it time for schools or summer camps to bring back “duck and cover” drills, cold war relics we once laughed at? Does the Doomsday Clock, currently set at 89 minutes to midnight, need to be reset a few clicks closer to the apocalypse? Do we need to finally create a family emergency plan?

For the sake of my children and grandchildren, for the sake of all of us, I trust sane heads will prevail. We are too intelligent a species to make the tragic mistakes that would end us all. I refuse to believe that “whatever will be, will be.”

And I don’t want our generations to be the last ones standing on the beach.