Archive for the ‘Health’ Category

Donnie Dewlap

October 19th, 2016

donjowlss-copyI’m old enough:

  • to be nearly be a peer of Donald Trump
  • to remember and have read Any Rand

She was and he is an awful lookist. The great irony there is that both were or are pathetically unattractive. She was an anorexic sort devoid of stereotypical feminine traits. He goes on and on about the virtues or shortcomings of specific women, while he is at best the Pillsbury Doughboy.

I recall Rand nailing one of her antagonists as “fat over the collar” (I think that was of Ellsworth Toohey in The Fountainhead.  She disdained and loathed body fat, so that glance was all the damning she required to make her view clear. The humor here is she did not have enough adipose tissue to have visible hips, breast or waist. She was physically an imitation woman.

Trump on the other hand, or head, is rife with flab. His neck and jowls and wattles hang over his clothes. I remember an article I wrote for American Management Association’s Management Review magazine when I was on staff, interviewing Mortimer Levitt, founder and head of The Custom Shirt Shop. He was a cartoon faced, scrawny guy, a male Rand as it were. He also hated visible body fat. His standard slide show included pix of President Kennedy showing flab bulging over too tight shirt collars.

The points here are how dare parody-of-women Rand disdain any body fat and how dare physically repulsive Trump judge women’s attractiveness? Let’s leave it as they were or are egocentric, asocial fools.

 

Failing the Mom

July 18th, 2016

wanda1While my mother, Wanda Lee Michael Ball, died almost 12 years ago, I continue to recall my times with her. Those are almost entirely happy and grateful. She raised my sister and me solo, did a damned good job of it, and balanced fun and moral and smart by example and word.

On occasion, I do have minor regrets though. I recall particularly how I failed her by turning down one request. Sure, she denied me this or that over the the years as well. Yet, as an old guy now myself, I am increasingly aware of the stresses and pains — interpersonal, intellectual, physical, emotional — that living and aging bring. I could have taken one for the team that afternoon.

In her mid-50s, she had a devil of a year. Even typing that, I snort at Wanda’s example. She was loath to swear or even euphemize. “Damn!” was extreme language for her. When she was angry or very disappointed, her strong language was typically, “For crying out loud in a bucket!” (full emphasis on bucket). A malefactor we might call a bastard or asshole would suffer her, “What a crumbum.”

To most of us her 1979 was a year from hell. It included:

  • She had finally found happiness and fulfillment with a lover, who was chased by his ex-wife’s lawyers and courts for new spousal and child support. He got his company to transfer him to Asia and safety.
  • Her own  company got sold to a much larger pharma who handed payouts to the entire sales staff. Thus she was jobless.
  • With her payout, she had to invest it in six months or lose much of it to taxes. That meant buying a house for her and her sister across the country a decade before she wanted to consider such.
  • She got a breast cancer diagnosis. Her doc wanted to aspirate the growths, but her nurse sister convinced her to get a second opinion in her pending new town of Santa Fe. The surgeon there saw the lymph cancers as well and scheduled her for a radical mastectomy.
  • As part of the treatment at the time, her doctors immediately stopped the heavy doses of hormones she was getting for a hard menopause. As a result, her personality changed and her always modulated and logical self became short-tempered and even occasionally irrational, in other words like most other adults her age.

Beaten up and beaten down in every way, she did cope. In Santa Fe without her friends and lover, without her career, without a breast, and on an on.

In many ways, I was there and helpful. I visited, I called, I sent her goody boxes (something she had always done for her children). I was swell to her until she asked one thing that choked me.

Her surgeon liked to tell the story of when he visited her with the post-mastectomy lady and a couple  of nurses a few days after the surgery. The woman showed with a suitcase of padded bras and prostheses. The nurses were there to observe and learn.

Wanda looked at the assembled crew and asked, “What are you doing here?” The woman said she was there to help with the recovery. The surgeon said that Wanda then stated very clearly, “I’m not sick. I just had cancer,” and shooed them out. She was definitely not interested in being fitted for an artificial breast.

You should know that she never identified strongly with her mammary glands. Hers were small. Her daughter’s large. They’d joke about it being obvious whose bras were hanging to dry.

She had cancer of both breast and lymph. The prognosis after successful surgery was death within five years. She went 25.

On one of my visits not too long after the surgery, but when she had healed as much as her body was going to, she asked and I faltered. I knew they had taken a big chunk of muscle as was the style in those years of mastectomy. When the two of us were on the living room couch, she asked in her previous style whether I wanted to see and feel where the breast had been.

I did not and she seemed truly disappointed. It was a ritual offering that I failed to accept.

Yes, yes, the idea of a son touching his mothers breast, rather where the breast used to be, sounds morally and sexually wrong. It really would not have been. It was a medical, anatomical thing. It was yet another of her healing mechanisms.

I should have bucked up and gone with it…for her. I couldn’t and didn’t.

Shortly after I was rereading one of my favorite poets, Frederick Nicklaus. In The Man Who Bit The Sun, one of his poems starts:

I remember a horse in Indiana;
it came from the fields, it ran alongside
the bus. I remember its reddish hide.

But believe me, I failed the fright of its eyes.

So here it was. My mother looked me straight in the face and asked for something pretty simple. I failed. I couldn’t do it.

 

Refining Rubes…Maybe

April 20th, 2016

Odds are you don’t know farm life. Not only are few of us farmers or even from an ag background, but also time, mores, economics and politics have shifted considerably from the early 1900s. I straddle times and conditions. I have milked cows (manually and mechanically), collected eggs, scalded and plucked hens, and worked corn from seeding to weeding to harvesting to turning under.

On the other hand, I never was in a position to inherit a family farm. I grew, picked and sold vegetables but was never in effect indentured servant/slave to nasty father. I never even belonged to 4-H, while I knew many peers in WV, VA and SC who were all those.

Yet, The 4-H Harvest: Sensuality and the State in Rural America (Gabriel N. Rosenberg, U. Penn Press 2016) goes far beyond county and state fairs, farm kids with beloved pigs and cows, and FFA meetings.

One warning is that the book’s index sucks mightily. I’ve done large book indexing and am positive that the author had nothing to do with this one. Many complex and detailed citations are missing (homosexuality, venereal disease, and on and on); it lacks the ideas and uses only keywords. Boo. The other shortcoming is that Rosenberg is far more concerned with the political and economic relationships than the kids. We can infer about the social, intellectual and economic outcomes for the 4-H youth, but he tells us more about the political players individually.  A third note should be that this is an academic press property; at $55, it’s a good meal price; get it at the library.

As someone who visited relatives’ and friends’ farms, I did the work, but I never actually owned and raised cows, sheep or pigs for exhibition (and eventually slaughter). My chums who did that grew up knowing the true script for animals. They had no apparent problem assisting at the birth, naming the cow, raising her, exhibiting her, then either selling or killing and butchering her, and in the latter case eating her little one.

Fatalistic comes to mind.

The 4-H book recalls other intersections. The Y is one. As a child in several places I belonged to YMCAs. When we moved to Boston, I found myself a member in the original Y. I learned it was the Garden of Eden for Northeastern University.

That is, the nation’s first Y started to be a shield for Christian young men who had moved to the (relatively) big city from the farm to earn a living. The new institution offered wholesome residence, free from bars and prostitutes and the moral perils of rooming house life. This Y offered evening lectures to keep the young men wholesome and occupied. Those in turn led to the college and university — evening activities for the mind and soul rather than the crotch.

Likewise, the 4-H clubs were specifically to counter the immorality and amorality of rural life. In contrast to our idyllic bucolic images, country life was rife with lust, pregnancy, venereal disease, bestiality, homosexuality and.well, non-refined ways to spend an evening.

The clubs viewed, described and treated the youth involved much as they did the produce and animals (other than not eating the kids). The descriptions of the programs and contests are embarrassing in their paternalism. Then again, this was largely the range of the 20th Century, start to finish. There was rampant racism and sexism, with the asininity of stereotyping,  that continued well into the 1970s.

Oddly, the author keeps his academic distance and does not wonder specifically whether the good and bad balance on the 4-H scale.

As an aside, the book reminded me of a dinner about 1970 in Cape May, New Jersey. The hosts were the former mayor, Belford (Bucky) LeMunyon and his wife Ione. She was the aunt of the woman I kept company with in Manhattan. A guest (to my embarrassment I do not recall his name) was a retired local physician. He recalled performing seemingly unceasing Army physicals during the WWI draft in a field outside of town. There were stations of long tents and much longer lines of naked men, each wearing only a bag with personal effects. He remembered to that day one potential soldier after another with secondary or tertiary syphilis, sores and a fatal prognosis unknown to them. They were farm boys given to the amoral sexuality of rural life, young men who had no idea they were close to the insanity and death that end-stage disease brings.

The 4-H book refers to the raw and common sexuality of the farm life. We can sit at a distance and snicker at the self-righteousness of the clubs and Ys preaching about the risks to body and soul from city life, while farm kids were at least as likely to suffer…or more so.

 

 

Surgical Sounds for Good and Ill

January 2nd, 2016

Mistake the first in my recent eye surgery was finding/viewing videos of the operation. To this simple person, eyeballs should not get four holes, guide tubes and multiple instruments in them. The pulsing fundus spasms alone are disconcerting.

Don’t watch your operation before it occurs.

In my case, the anesthesiologist got me just high enough before the deed (only 20 minutes of actual surgery) that I would not feel and react to a big needle going under the eye into the optic nerve and muscles to keep the eye motionless. So, I heard everything he and the two surgeons said.

If you have the choice, opt for a general. Sure, you’ll be groggier longer, but you won’t hear what you don’t need to.surgery1

 

 

 

 

Thus, my heaven-hell spectrum.

By decreasing hellishness, what you don’t want to hear is “Oh shit!” or “Oops!” followed closely by “Oh my God!”

Sighs and grunts are bad but not terrible.

Minor surgeon glee as in “All right!” is pretty damned good. A self-congradulatory “Yeah!” is perfect.

In my case, I clearly heard repeated grunts followed by several sighs. In the recovery room, the surgeon explained. He had wanted to thoroughly remove any extraneous scar cells off the macula. Lackaday, one layer tightly adhered to the retina, which lifted with the layer as he used his itty-bitty forceps. He stopped before he risked tearing the retina wall, thus blinding me.

That’s hard to argue with, although I share his disappointment, surely to a greater degree. He’s positive he stopped any advancement of the condition, but can’t be sure short-term how much visusal improvement I’ll get. In fact, with macular pucker (a.k.a. wrinkled retina) surgery, the doc and patient don’t know for sure how the operation worked until three to six months later.

My surgeon, Dr. Peter Lou, is classified as a super-doctor. He’s been operating on eyeballs for 32 years he says. He knows his stuff and is a nice guy as well, always learning and far more atune to what the patient says than a stereotypical surgeon. In fact, he says he doesn’t think surgeons are all that big a deal.

Back on the operating table, there I was with a plastic half mask to quadruple ensure they’d work on the proper eye (the right was the right and I left Mass Eye and Ear with a black R marked above the eyebrow as a CYA tool). My eye was numb and blind for the surgery. The left one was covered by the mask and paper cloth.

Yet I heard it all. The chairs faintly creaked as the two surgeons watched their work in the microscope screen. The BP/respirator machines beeped and breathed in turn. The surgeon’s movements made subtle rustles. The tiny drill inside the eye whirred almost silently. Then there were numerous grunts, followed by sighs of exasperation.

Still…far better than “Oops!” or worse.

 

 

Romancing the Diseases

December 6th, 2015

Cristobal_Rojas_37aSeveral physicians have told me how they used to dread the day of the month the new Reader’s Digest appeared. When I grew up, that formulaic and wildly popular little maggy featured an article on a disease. Within two days, docs would get calls from those sure they had it. That was crazy talk, but it still required diagnosis and much reassurance.

My maternal grandmother, an otherwise bright and witty human, played at that several times a year. In her defense, she lived in a small town in the eastern mountains of West Virginia. Excitement did not seek Romney out. Adding a bit of drama to a humdrum life is understandable.

Well, my grandmother, Mable, did have a disease. Several doctors had diagnosed her with nervous asthma. That is, her wheezing and shortness of breath were as real as someone reacting to physical or airborne irritants. She refused to accept that she might do something other than squeeze her nebulizer bulb. She found one GP, as they were known in the days before FPs and PCPs, who humored her and agreed that she had no control over her condition.

Wasting Envy

Her foible was small beer compared to Romantic Era poets, opera composers, painters and novelists. Check here, here, here, and here, and relish La Miseria by Cristóbal Rojas  above.) Numerous artists sincerely desired to have and die from tuberculosis, for its effects of paleness and weakness. I fear we still see such effects in thigh gaps, anorexia, obsession with wearing size 0, and countless young women who have bodies better suited to 11-year-old boys.

Being too thin, too weak, too wan sound frightful to me, conditions you should avoid through exercise, sensible diet and being sure you have good levels of hormones chugging through your veins.

And yet, a small part of me senses the glamor my grandmother sought to liven her rise-work-eat-sleep quotidian existence. For one specific for Mable, she was big boned (I inherited my big, honking feet and too broad chest from her). She truly wanted to be slight like her sister. They shared a dad, but Mable was the eldest and Anna, from their widowed father’s second wife, the youngest. They were physically unalike and Mable envied her little sister’s build.

Years later I recalled them on my first real full-time job. I went from college to be the editor in chief of the black weekly newspaper in Columbia, South Carolina. The race was important, in part because most readers and all the board members were African Americans.

So were the two everyday office staff, Ida and Jackie. They had been friends from elementary school, through college and now on the job. They were each other’s bridesmaids even. They were intimate and much of the day included personal chitchat mixed with work.

They talked a lot about each other’s bodies. They had the two stereotypical African-American women’s bodies — one short with large bust and bottom, one very slender. They each claimed regularly to want the other’s body. They would embarrass me with such talk as Ida saying her hubby, Thomas, would love to have a wife with Jackie’s sizeable breasts. While I lived with a woman, such intimate talk was not my norm.

Poetry of Illness

While not a drama queen myself (as the French might say, j’ai du sang-froid), I don’t totally lack sympathy with the disease romantics. In fact for a mild example, I recall being maybe 8 when my sister brought home one her many disease gifts. This was German measles as I remember it.

I laid n the bed febrile and covered with itching sores. I projected to various movies and Captain Gallant of the Foreign Legion (a TV show my sister and I watched). There were deserts and heat and suffering and heroism. Blah, blah.

As an adult though, I am only disappointed when my body fails me at any time. I long ago accepted that only in kiddy land can doctors fix you. They are good with acute and obvious conditions. Faced with chronic or nebulous adult disorders, they fail more often than not. “Live with it” is the too frequent prognosis.

Recently though I had minor pleasure at thinking I had rare disorders. I was not aware that desire existed at all in my brain.

Straight up, I had not heard of either polymyalgia rheumatica or macular pucker. I got diagnoses or each of those in turn. Because I have a broad general knowledge and knew of neither, with each I figured I was pretty damned special.

Wrong.

Instant Claudication

For polymyalgia, I went to bed feeling fine, but woke so sore I could hardly move my arms and struggled mightily to walk 25 feet to the john. I got slightly better over the week and decided to wait it out. A couple of weeks slithered by before I called my doc.

He knows my mild disdain for his profession and was positively chipper in being able to tell me that, “Come in for a diagnosis, but I’m sure that you have polymyalgia rheumatica.”

I had never heard of it but clicked around the tubes to see that I had the symptoms. He confirmed the initial call and hooked me up immediately with a rheumatologist. Before visiting the latter, we spoke and like my internist, he was sure right away.

The good rheumatologist Bates has a lollipop face and is young enough to have a daughter the age of my grandson. He was both very compassionate and a regular pro with polymyalgia. He squashed my romantic, special image quickly by noting that old white women frequently get a mild form of it but typically Caucasian men from 55 to 70 get it hard as I did. It is kind of like sickle-cell disease for African Americans or any of that dozen or more Ashkenazim blood disorders, a curse specifically on old white people. Fair enough.

Dr. Bates said simply, “It’s not rare. If you know a bunch of white men in their 50s and 60s, you know someone who had it.” Sure enough, I have found several peers with the condition. They don’t brag about, but deal with it.

By the bye, it used to be that just had to be crippled for one to seven years and it went away. Nowadays, steroids, typically prednisone, fix it. It requires months of dosing and one to three years of tapering off. You can relapse, often worse.

Well, it’s neither romantic nor glamorous.

Eye Trouble

My recent chance at drama and uniqueness was macular pucker, a.k.a wrinkled retina. I had blurred vision in one eye and went for my regular eye exam with my self-diagnosis of cataracts. I’m that age.

My optometrist wasn’t playing. He didn’t have all the eye diagnostic gear the surgeons do, but he knew it wasn’t cataracts.

I wanted cataracts. They are a known status and the surgery is nearly 100% effective and immediate.

Instead after a couple of visits to one set of eye specialists and surgeons, and then a second opinion by one of the super doctors, I got the pucker punch. It’s built-up scar tissue from unknown origin on top the macular and retina. It has no relation to macular degeneration. There are no drug, vitamin or exercise fix. Queue the operating room. Moreover, unlike cataract surgery, going into the eyeball to clear out the cells may or may not improve the vision.

Lord, I miss the long gone days when Dr. Newman could poke my butt with penicillin and fix my swollen tonsils.

Regardless, it turns out that my ignorance of macular pucker did not make the condition unique or even that unusual. It’s not as common as polymyalgia, but it’s not rare or romantic or dramatic.

I’m not likely as many to long for the exotic and romantic diseases. Yet, I do have a sense of what that’s about.  I think medical stasis and boredom are better.

 

The Mark of Cranium

December 5th, 2015

aaareyeOoo, that’s yucky.

I’m an amateur at surgery. You can search this blog for tales of my sole operation, on a leg. I had only my second yesterday (yes, I have my tonsils, appendix and so forth; heck, I don’t even have tattoos).

A souvenir was this R. It’s not a pirate joke or even a parody of the letters on toddlers’ shoes as they learn left from right.

Instead, a good medical fad has become making damned sure surgeons operate on the correct side. Various nurses and doctors  (including the anesthesiologist) asked in numerous ways which eye was getting operated on that day. Even when they just heard someone do it, they iterated and reiterated it. Ask the question, get the patient to point to the eye, try to trick the patient with, “Are we operating on the left eye?” and wait until the drug cocktail was working to do it all again. Finally, even with a hard, clear patch over the other eye, ask again.

My surgeon, Peter Lou, is one of those so-called super doctors. He’s done thousands of this macular pucker operation. He is very precise. Yet, he’s happy to have everyone play this safety game. No foul.

Because previous health-related posts have had high readership and search hits, I’ll likely post a bit about the condition and operation. As a sidelight about it, I didn’t like that Mass Eye and Ear staff refer to an operation as a “case,” as in “We are ready for your case now,” meaning they are moving me from pre-op into surgery. Is operation an obscenity?

Back to the quintuple checking, twice in the process, first a nurse, then the anesthesiologist, marked my forehead within R. I assume that this is simply to indicate the right side and not the “right” eye to poke today. Whatever they used was like a permanent marker. They didn’t remove it and I couldn’t easily scrub it this morning as I changed bandages. My wife says she’ll take cold cream to it.

Originally I showed up for my long-time optometrist appointment knowing I had blurred vision because of cataracts. He’d have none of it and referred me to an ophthalmologist and vitreoretinal surgery office. They ID’ed the pucker with hotshot diagnostic equipment. I got  a second opinion, which confirmed and expanded on the diagnosis. I had been quite wrong about the problem.

I had been somewhat romantic about it all. Ah, wrinkled retina, macular pucker, what an exotic condition.

Not really. A few years ago, I got polymyalgia rheumatica and thought the same. It is even more common than macular pucker. No one is going to write medical journal articles about such mundane conditions. In fact, for polymyalgia, my rheumatologist put it in perspective by saying noting that it was a Caucasian, late middle-age disease. “If you know a bunch of white men over 50, you know people who have had it,” he said.

Not unique…nor even special….

I did make one mistake in surgery prep though, I went out to the tubes and read all I could. I ended up watching several videos of the operation. I would advise against doing that. It is, as the above image, a yucky procedure.

I’ll likely write a bit about the operation and recovery.

 

Disease of the month

June 7th, 2015

When I was a tot and lad (I’m a Boomer), Reader’s Digest terrorized the nation. Within a week of the delivery of the latest monthly issue, GPs knew their regular patients would complain of identical symptoms.

The RDs had predictable ToC’s. There’d be an inspirational tale of overcoming seemingly insurmountable cirumstances. There’s be a damning example of government waste and overreach. There’d be that disease. There’d likely be a terrifying research snippet as well.

We’d learn from our grannies that virtually everything was fatal and caused cancer. I remember green beans and cranberries in the 50s. If you tunneled down into the findings, you found that you’d need to consume bushels of this or that to have the same effect as what the lab animals got, but never mind. The point was that string beans and cranberries each caused cancer.

We are so fortunate that the internet now delivers terror so much quicker and more efficiently.

greendragon1Today I walked about six miles from home down to the Fowl Meadow in neighboring Canton. There I braved the fatality of ticks and more on the overgrown nature trail.

Sure enough, I returned from a couple of hours of hiking and wading through the underbrush to play paranoid. I did go to the backyard to water the beds and pots to check, check, check.

I removed my shoes, socks and trousers. While I had left the house with both sunscreen and bug juice, I looked for ticks. Then, I put my clothes in the wash. Then I showered and scrubbed my body with the soapy brush. Finally, I washed my clothes.

Yes, it was silly. I did not see any ticks or other bugs, but as we simple-minded and literal sorts are prone to drone, “Better safe than sorry.”

Is it?

 

Christie, Ever a Jock

January 17th, 2014

Online big, braying heads from left and right, from pretending to be real news (Fox) to pretending to be pretend news (Stewart), one phrase in NJ Gov. Christ Christie’s saga of a news conference got chuckles and guffaws all around. In his pretense that he knew nothing of the GW Bridge mess before it happened, he started with, “I was done with my workout yesterday morning and got a call from my communications director at about 8:50, 8:55, informing me of this story that had just broken on the Bergen Record website.”

[If you’re nitpicky or masochistic enough, you can get the transcript at the WaPo here. ]

The risibility trigger was the single word workout. The underlying justification is that because is visually is such a porker, he can’t really work out, can’t be anything like a jock.

I have no doubt that in his Christie brain, he remains as much an athlete as he was in school. He may weigh twice as much and jiggle like a twerker (except on top) when he moves, but his mind and body remember. He’ll always be a jock to himself.

In fact, he reinforced that in answering a question in the conference about his HS chum David Wildstein, who seems to have done the bridge dirty deed. In trying to distance himself from his until-that-day great buddy, Christie said he didn’t know him much in school, that they ran in different circles, that “You know, I was the class president and athlete.”

Here again, he surely was the only person in the room who considered himself an athlete, but he thinks, says and acts it.

christorsoWe can get into how he might be strong and even quick, despite his rotundity. In his gymnasium (don’t think of the origin of that word as running naked), he could well lift more and run longer at a faster pace on a treadmill than younger, scrawnier sorts. Fat does not preclude fit.

The important aspect is that his being still is that of a jock. His pubescent identity remains and defines him. He has the poise and confidence of a competitor who has been successful an strutted his stuff in front of thousands, in his case as varsity catcher on the baseball team — not bad training for being a politician, confidence, arrogance, accomplishment, control of the situation.

As a disclaimer, I was also an athlete in high school and into college (until a gruesome auto wreck cut that short in the sophomore year). I identify with the benefits of team sports and understand how you don’t outgrow that anymore than you would if you were a cheerleader or even a U.S. Marine.

To worry the cheer leader example a bit (and putting aside that G.W. Bush was one), cheerleaders keep key attributes they had or picked up in the process. The former cheerleaders I know are, well, cheery. They have that people-person persona. They push those around them to succeed…with them. In other words, they make good real-estate agents, PR or marketing types, and other best-food-forward optimists. They smile a lot and many have kept their version of blonde hair. They are still cheerleaders at 40, 50 and beyond.

We all supposed are who our parents were, what we eat, what we wear, and many other nature and nurture background factors. I remain convince though that what we’ve done, particularly in high school and college push its way out of our insides our whole lives.

Much is made of the nerds in high school, the bookworm introverts and such who stay that way. That is even more true for the jocks and cheerleaders. In Gov. Christie’s case, I suspect his crouched glories as catcher have defined him immutably.

As this bridge scandal inevitably expands and splatters him, let’ s see how many times he alludes to athleticism and his former glories. Jon Stewart may snort, but there is a jock inside the massive pol who won’t be denied.

 

Man, Woman, Life, Death, Infinity

October 9th, 2013

caseyA real plus for watching House was the deadly disorder or disease of the week. In a simpler time, half a century ago, medical TV shows were far less sophisticated and demanding.zorba

Specifically for one example, Ben Casey seemed to have a single diagnosis — subdural hematoma. We’d just get to identify or sympathize with the suffering patient, when the internal head blood clot diagnosis accounted for all the dreadful symptoms. After all, the doc was a surgeon and like a cabinet maker or auto mechanic, he had a shot at seeing and fixing the problem that way.

Viewers had to be pretty dull not to notice that week after week, for 153 shows, the somatic villain was almost inevitably the same.

I had a flashback reading yesterday’s paper about Argentina President Cristina Fernandez’ Ben Casey moment. She has, ta da, a subdural hematoma. Unlike the best case in which the body resorbs (dissolves and eats up) the clot, her clot has come with pressure, headaches and lately upper-arm numbness. Those did not improve and her docs decided it was time to go in.

The US is still way down the list in longevity and medicine has not in the main made us that much healthier with drugs. Yet fortunately, in a few areas, like surgery, advances have been solid. In Ben Casey, popping the lid to remove a subdural hematoma was a big deal and might well have meant death on the table.

Here’s for President Fernandez’  unremarkable operation and cure…and thanks for the memories.

 

Young, youngish, still too young corpses

September 5th, 2013

Noticing the box with half my mother’s ashes, I thought again of three good folk I knew who died unnaturally young — or maybe naturally if you consider invidious, insidious disease to be our shared fate. Certainly going before 60 doesn’t seem right to me.

Today would have been my mother’s 89th birthday. She was outside the too-young range. She died 9 years ago.

nycchumsAt 33, Paula Delancey went first. We went to high school together, dated, and in our early 20s ended up becoming really close friends. She went to the CIA (as in chef’s school up the Hudson) and spent weekends in my West Village apartment. Hyde Park NY was not theater central nor where her friends lived and played.

“Her ambition is to be happy,” was beside her HS-yearbook pic.She was terrifically bright and well read. I couldn’t believe what a vapid, inane thing to write. Now of course, the older I get, the wiser that aim is.

She was a lot of fun, constantly laughing and joking, even ridiculing her own blunders and shortcomings.She looked forward to being a fabulous old lady.

The pic is, right to left, Paula, Isabel Wolfe (now Frischman) and I in Isabel’s NYC apartment.

She never got there. After being the first woman ever to graduate at the head of her class at the CIA, she worked in several NYC restaurants and then was head chef at a couple of others. She ended up making great money, taking her mother on an extended luxury trip to Paris and heading toward those two goals of being a grande dame and staying happy. Then she got cancer of the spine.

Apparently there’s little to do. She gave NYU Medical its best shot at chemo, radiation and surgery. She faded, continuing to sicken, go bald and suffer. She died in 1981. That was my first eulogy, delivered to a chapel in Brick Township NJ filled with a few of her friends and many of her aged parents’.

neil

At 40 , Neil Passariello was also far too young and far too vital to have died. This month he will have been dead 23 years.

He was the long-term partner of my friend from college, Jasper Lawson. He died of effects related to AIDS. He was finishing his doctorate in clinical psychology (Jasper already that one).  There is a regular colloquium in his honor.

I like to think I gave him a last bit of earthly pleasure. When he was in the bed where he died, I bought a bouquet of coriander I picked from my garden. He loved the herb and would say every meal needed a dish with cilantro and of course a pasta course. He no longer opened his eyes when we visited that last time, but he definitely smiled as I held the coriander close to him.

Surely all of his family and friends remember him as funny, dramatic, loud and passionate. An Italian-American, he referred to his heritage as he spoke intensely of food, of sex, of music. He could and did literally break out into song, generally an aria from an Italian opera.

His death did not seem right or timely or fair. He made others’ lives better and more fun, both personally and professionally.

Jasper and I have laughed more than once about how Neil made Jasper seem so WASPy, mannered and tame in contrast.

Jasper’s husband, Jay Landers, is remarkably patient when friends accidentally refer to him as Neil. On occasion, I make that faux pas. Supposedly that is expected with first “spouses,” although Neil died before same-sex marriage was legal. His intensity brings him to mind, quite understandably.

rehfieldAt 57.  John Rehfield still fits in the too-young category. He was remarkable in many ways. I can say for certain he was one of my two favorite managers (I married the other one).

John was a trade-magazine anomaly in being a civil engineer who was a good, no, a superb writer. He won every possible award in construction and trade journalism. He hired me to write for Construction Equipment knowing my only building experience was on carpentry crews during college summers. The day he hired me he said he could teach me anything I needed to know about construction but he couldn’t teach his engineers how to write.

He was very tall and light bulb shaped (his head at the screw end) and even laughed at his odd physique. He was an incessant punster. He came to work at dawn and completed his own before the rest of us arrived. He spent his day dealing with company matters and forever being there to help his writers, editors and art director. Oh, and he always wore a Mickey Mouse watch; he explained that he bought his children Disney stock when they were born, largely for the cartoon characters around the border of the certificates. They became surprisingly wealthy as the stock split repeatedly. He figured the watch was the least loyalty he could show.

He did wonderful motivational deeds too. Every so often and not related to the scheduled reviews, he’d come around to mention he was giving me a raise, just because I was doing a good job and writing good articles. I overheard him yelling at the publisher, telling him to keep his sales reps away from me; I ran the national directory of equipment and they all wanted favors for their customers.

Alas, Conover-Mast, across from the Daily News building in the literally heart of Manhattan, fell prey to Boston-based Cahners. The new parent sent the kids to Boston or Chicago. Moving to lower-tier towns was too much for those of us young and single. Most of us didn’t go.

Within 7 years, John died of cancer. Even though my sister and her kids were in Chicago, I would have felt stranded had I followed him there. I prefer to recall him as healthy and funny.

In fact, I remember each of these three for their virtue and joy they took in life.