Looking for Dr. Right

(from Western Illinois Family Magazine)

Things change.
Once upon a time, my doctor was a guy my parents took me to on those rare occasions they felt I was suffering from a malady too complex for their considerable skills as untrained, but highly experienced primary care physicians. No, mom and dad didn't actually go to med school, but her background as an elementary school teacher blended well with his training as a pharmacist. In short, she almost always knew when I was faking it to avoid the algebra test I hadn't studied for, and he had a veritable treasure trove of foul-tasting elixirs that would serve to propel me from my sickbed faster than you can say "castor oil."
Back in those thrifty, self-reliant days, an actual visit to the doctor was sort of a last resort. The practitioners in my hometown were, with a single exception, male and possessing of a certain dignity that was unique to their lofty profession. Ergo, it seemed important not to waste their time with minor bumps and bruises or commonplace ills.  So, for us, an actual trip to the doctor's was generally the result of something untoward, and involved stitches, plaster casts and other extreme measures. In addition, most docs delivered babies and wrassled with tonsils and the odd appendix here and there, plus actually made house calls from time to time.
They were wise, relaxed and self-assured.  What's more, they were genuinely good people who truly cared about the patients they saw.
It wasn't until I had kids of my own that I encountered an actual specialist. The 70s and early 80s were probably a good time to choose a career in obstetrics or pediatrics, as the giant generation known as the baby boomers began producing a generation of their own. They were, therefore, often so darn overbooked that making an appointment felt a bit like auditioning for a role in a Broadway play.
They were busy, smart and often more patient with the children they treated than their dumb-brained parents.
Fair enough.
When I battled my way through a bout of advanced prostate cancer a decade or so ago, the kind, generous local specialist I saw recommended I move on up the so-called physician food-chain by seeking help at one of the university teaching hospitals that dot the midwest. Thanks to the internet, I was able to investigate universities, hospitals and doctors alike before finding a person and a place that seemed appropriate to my situation. The docs I encountered there were, on the whole, nice enough, and pretty darn smart, as well. But I was a little surprised to discover they were also a bit over-involved with the politics and quest for funding that often rule such places.
They were capable, ambitious and driven to succeed.
So it goes, I guess.
When some stubborn back pain began keeping me up at night several months ago, I conferred with a young chiropractic physician, who gave me what was probably the best, most important medical advice of my life.
"Go get a thorough scan," he said. "Something's wrong."
He was right.
The resulting CT Scan showed CUPS, a mysterious Cancer of an Unknown Primary Source that had spread to my liver, lymph system and bones.
"Uh oh," I thought. "Now what?"
Here's what.
Yet another internet search led me to a famous Chicago hospital, which was rated as one of the best in the whole world when it comes to cancer and the ways to treat it. I was a little startled when I first met the doctor assigned to my case.
First off, she was drop-dead gorgeous, which is, I know, both unimportant and an unfortunate choice of words when used to describe an oncologist dealing with serious cases. As I got to know her better, I also came to realize that she was an astute physician who, while relatively young, had already began making a name for herself as both a clinician and a scientist.
She had brains, curiosity and determination.
And something more, too.
It was after she called me at home one Sunday afternoon just to see how I was feeling that I understood how much more.  Because, just like those family doctors I first met when I was a boy, she was a genuinely good person who truly cared about me and my family.
She had hope. She had a heart.
Sometimes nothing changes.
Lucky me.

A most memorable May Day memory

Happy May Day, Comrades.
I imagine all of us who have reached a certain age remember seeing those scary news photos of the annual May Day parades that used to take place in Moscow and other cities in the Eastern Bloc. In many countries, May Day has long been a focal point for demonstrations by various socialist, communist and anarchist groups.  It has been an important official holiday in countries such as the People's Republic of China, North Korea, Cuba and the former Soviet Union. May Day celebrations typically featured elaborate military parades in these countries, with giant tanks, huge missiles on trailers, and rows and rows of stern-looking soldiers.
But in many other parts of the world, the first Day of May simply celebrates the first days of spring, like in Germany, where it coincides with the annual spring festival called Walpurgisnacht.  Most of my thoughts of the day are quite happy ones. And even that one year when my little world nearly came crashing down around my ears is now a memory I can look back at with something resembling humor.
Sort of.
The May Day of my youth was celebrated with May Baskets, which were small, usually handmade vessels made of straw or paper and filled with flowers, sweets or both. We would laboriously craft them with construction paper, pipe cleaners, crayons and white school paste, then place them at a friend's door while shouting "May Basket" and running away. The running part was most necessary, indeed, as the recipient of the basket was supposed to chase you.
And if they caught you, they were suppose to kiss you, which was, of course, a fate worse than death when I was ten years old.
So, since very few of us actually wanted to either kiss or be kissed, it all quickly evolved into a pretty well-planned affair. If you were the recipient of a basket, you might sort of explode out of the door so as to make the first few yards of the chase kind of interesting. But chasers in the know knew enough to pace themselves just right so that the deliverer would make it to their mom or dad's car just in time to avoid any gooey physical contact whatsoever. Likewise, if you were the one running away, you knew that you were protected under the same unspoken agreement if you just maintained a reasonable jog on your way to the safety of the family Ford.
One year, I was sidelined by a sprained ankle suffered in a fall incurred during an illicit visit to a mile-high treehouse built by my older brother and his buddies. So I was forced to sit on the porch in the same rocking chair I used while watching the Grampa Happy cartoon show on Channel Four. The May Baskets were a mite hard to come by that year, as most of my friends took one look at me sitting on the porch and feared I had lost my mind and actually wanted to catch and kiss them.  Finally, my mother took pity on my plight and lettered a sign that she put on the top step.
"HE CAN'T RUN," it said, which was just enough to convince at least some of my more daring friends to leave a basket.
I finally met my most memorable May Day one year when Linda Sue came to call. Now, Linda Sue's name wasn't actually Linda Sue, though I'm betting quite a number of my grade school classmates can figure out her true identity without much trouble. She was a nice girl, and pretty good looking, to boot, though I could have cared less about that kind of nonsense when I was in the fourth grade. The problem wasn't with Linda Sue at all.
It was her dad.
Unlike most of our parents, who were a generally dour, no-nonsense bunch, Linda Sue's father actually had a sense of humor.
Or, at least he thought he did.
This, of course, would have normally had no bearing on me, as kids and adults rarely interacted in those days except when absolutely required, like in school, Cub Scouts, church and little league baseball. I don't know what drove Linda Sue's dad to do what he did on that fateful day. All I can do is tell the startling story.
After Linda Sue dropped off her goodies and shouted "May Basket," she played strictly by the rules and scampered towards her dad's waiting car. I burst out the door, then settled into a slow, steady lope that would give her plenty of time to reach the vehicle and hop in right before I caught her and planted a big, wet one on her, an unheard of occurrence that was just about a likely as me literally jumping over the moon. All was going exactly according to plan and the time-honored rules of the game right until the moment Linda Sue reached the car and grabbed the handle that opened the right front passenger door.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Nothing again.
Yes, the cruel fiend had locked the car doors.
What happened next remains sort of hazy some fifty or so years later. I remember seeing the shocked look on Linda Sue's face. I remember watching her dad laugh as she struggled with the door. The rest is still kind of a blur, though I know if I had actually kissed the winsome Linda Sue, I'd remember it still.
"You looked like you were going to faint," said my brother, who was watching from the window.
"I thought Linda Sue was going to throw up," he added.
It's many, many years later now, and I'm thinking that perhaps the old May Day holiday deserves to be resurrected. We have plenty of crayons and I've got a stack of construction paper somewhere. There ought to still be some Easter candy on sale, plus, I'm sure white paste glue and pipe cleaners are still available somewhere in my hometown. So maybe, just maybe you'll see my grandsons and me making the rounds later on today.
They know how to run, that's for sure.
And I absolutely, positively promise I won't lock the car doors.
Maybe.
After all, I do have a sense of humor.

In your Easter bonnet

Anybody who knows me also knows that "fashion" is not exactly my middle name.
Not even close.
But recently, I took a page from Star Courier column boss Rocky Stuffelbeam's book of fashion and adopted a certain look for those now-and-then days when I am most unreasonably expected to display  something besides the usual sweatshirts and khakis (fall and wintertime) or t-shirts and shorts (spring and summer) that pass for sartorial finery in my world.
I bought a bow tie.
It's not the first one I've owned. I made a couple of antique/junk shop purchases a few years ago and manfully worked to learn how to tie them. Then, more recently, when browsing through a european-based Michigan Avenue shop while in Chicago for a doctor visit, I saw a nice looking little on-sale number that was somewhere between the traditional tie-it-yourself models and those nifty clip-on jobs most guys mother's dolled them out in back when they were about three or so.
"Hmmm," I thought. "Maybe this would distract them from my head."
The noggin in question is the shockingly bald pate I've been displaying ever since chemotherapy left me as fuzzy as a Georgia peach. We had plans to attend a fun family wedding up in Wisconsin, and I was most anxious to look a little more dashing than Tooter Turtle, the 50s television star I most closely resemble currently.
Enter the bow tie.
I wore it to the wedding and felt pretty satisfied with the impression it made, as no one screamed or fainted or laughed or otherwise reacted in the ways I've become accustomed to ever since I dropped a cool 40 pounds or so and my hair went south.
My next "dress-up" occasion was Easter Sunday.
It appears that the custom of wearing new clothes at Easter is an old one. One explanation I liked noted that the newly baptized would wear white clothing throughout the entire Easter Week as a symbol that the waters of their baptism had cleansed them from all sin.  Other Christians would dress in new clothing to show that they, too, had risen to a new life in Christ.  This became an outward sign of one's faith and participation in the dying and rising of Our Lord.
But the old tradition of new clothing for Easter is one that seems to have faded away nowadays. I didn't see a single Easter Bonnet at Mass on Sunday morning.
Well, maybe one.
Or three, in fact.
Because besides the aforementioned bow tie that I sported, my two young grandsons had colorful ties of their own. They were the traditional stripy neckties that look so darn cute on little boys, though the combination of them and white shirts made the grandma-lady and me a little nervous as we tried to keep them away from the basketball court, the soccer ball and the half-burned leaf pile in the backyard while everyone else in the house was spiffing up for church. I was a lector for the morning Mass, and had to head in a little early to make sure the Old Testament reading didn't have any of those unpronounceable names--like Tilgathpilneser, Berodachbaladan or Chushanrishathaim--that are so tough for those of us who don't know scripture as well as we should. So it was determined that grandma and the boys would go with me in order to stay relatively clean, and to find a seat in what was bound to be a crowded church. Just before we headed for the door, I happened to glance at one of the bookcases in the little room off our front hall that serves as a combination office and den. Up on the very tippy-top of one of the cases were three straw hats of the style commonly called "pork pie," with jolly red, white and blue bands. My brother gave us those hats a couple of summers ago when we were all gathered together for a happy family gathering to celebrate my sister and her husband's birthdays and wedding anniversary. I've always liked them and wished I could find an excuse to wear them again.
Like Easter Sunday.
Quick as you can say "where'd you get that hat?" the two little fashion plates and I were suitably topped off as we headed down the front porch steps.
"Let me get a picture," said my shutterbug spouse.
Before I could protest, she aimed her iPhone at me and the natty duo, and captured the moment in time.
Now, I'm not especially crazy about any of the photos taken of me ever since I attained my current skinny, bare-headed state. But thanks to the outfits, and, especially, the two grinning little boys, I was adequately distracted from my own decrepit appearance.
In other words, even I liked it. And that's saying something.
Later, she posted the picture on Facebook, and based on the number of "likes" it gathered, it seems I'm not the only one who thinks the pic is O.K..
I think I know why.
The ties and the hats and the boys are pretty cute, and pretty cool, too.
But the memory is, well, darn near priceless.

You got me covered

Brrrr.
I'm cold.
I know, things are finally warming up outside. Or at least that's what the calendar indicates ought to be happening out there. But it's gonna take more than a few semi-sunny, 60-degree days to bake the chill from my bones.
Like nearly everything, from my faulty memory to my whirling stomach to my numb and tingly feet, I blame chemotherapy. Because thanks to a head that is suddenly more bare than the bottom half of a bouncing baby boy, and a body style that has gone from pleasing and plump to scary and skinny, I'm absolutely freezing most of the time.
Lucky for me, the chilly-willies, like almost every chemo-effect, have inspired a happy, gratifying display of kindness on the part of many folks around these parts. In other words, they've got me covered in a generous variety of warm, wondrous ways.
Like the hand-me-down I received from one dear friend; a one-of-a-kind electric lap robe that had belonged to her late father. It's the perfect sidekick to my recliner and the wool cap I wear when I'm really shivering. Just plug it in, turn it on, lean back and wait to be enveloped in a soft, soothing cloud of essential warmth.
Perfect.
That same friend was the angel who delivered a handmade prayer shawl from the ladies at the First United Methodist Church in Galva.  It's cool and cozy and remarkably masculine thanks to its unique knitted pattern:
It is, believe it or not, camouflage.
Or what I refer to as a "camo-chemo" blanket.
The FedEx man delivered a surprise gift from my oldest pal, a former childhood neighbor who has remained one of my closest friends through the years, despite the fact that she moved to California with her family way back in grade school. She turned her quilting skills into a thick, cozy blanket with a bright jungle theme that has been such a hit since its arrival that my grandkids and I battle over it nearly every evening.
My youngest grandson, John Patrick, was the bearer of the most recent fuzzy treasure when I received a big, billowy bundle from his class at Visitation School. Mrs. Fite's kindergartners each sent a sweet, special note, which accompanied a message from her explaining that the lovely shawl enclosed was the work of the talented ladies from Kewanee's First Methodist Church.
"Here, Grandpa!" he exclaimed as he thrust the package into my arms.
He watched carefully as I unwrapped it, and crawled into my lap as I looked at the first of the notes, then slowly held the shawl to my face. Like all the blankets that have come my way, it was wonderful and beautiful. I breathed deep and felt myself filled with the love and peace and prayers it contained.
In short, it was pretty well perfect.
Well, maybe just maybe a little damp around the edges.
I think you know what I mean.

Just like kids

Something startling happened the other day.
The sun came up.
The birds sang.
The grass turned green.
The flowers bloomed.
And spring sprung, just like that.
Well, maybe the wondrous transformation from the last stubborn days of winter to the first festive breaths of spring has been a little less instantaneous than all that.
But, by golly, it's happening.
It's happening now.
We've had a great time hanging out with our youngest grandsons in the big old house on the park.  As those final days of winter began to slowly unwind,  they were quick to learn just how great it is to live right across the street from playgrounds, a ball field, basketball courts and a seemingly endless field of greener-by-the-day grass, bushes and trees.
And then there's the kids.
And that's the biggest deal of all.
Our grandboys have always lived out in the country, so the idea of an in-town, residential neighborhood jam-packed with ready playmates is all new to them.
Until now.
Suddenly, they have the sweet freedom to go and do and run and play and have fun.
Just like kids. With other kids.
Doesn't get any better than that.
++++++++++
"Your columns seem a little shorter than they used to be."
I've had a couple of folks tell me this recently, and I'm pretty sure they're right. But, I think I've got a darn good excuse.
Or at least it's kind of interesting.
It's a well-known condition experienced by cancer patients that includes a whole host of enviable symptoms:
• Difficulty concentrating on a single task
• Problems with short-term memory
• Forgetting details of recent events
• Feeling mentally “slower” than usual
• Confusing dates and appointments
• Misplacing objects
• Fumbling for the right word or phrase
Now, if these all sound a trifle familiar, they should, for some of us, at least. But instead of being forced to chalk it up to "life" or "age" or some other convenient excuse, I've got an actual scientific condition to blame it on.
It's a real term used to describe thinking and memory problems that can occur after cancer treatment. It can be called chemotherapy-related cognitive impairment or cognitive dysfunction.  But the best name I've heard for the condition is my favorite, because it gets right down to the point.
Chemo Brain.
Heck, it could have been my nickname in high school.
++++++++++
Speaking of chemo and kids, my last trip to Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago included an ample helping of both. With my normal Wednesday-afternoon appointment changed to Friday morning because of scheduling difficulties, we brought along the grandsons, who were out of school due to parent-teacher conferences. Suffice it to say, the presence of an eight-year-old and his six-year-old brother changed the entire scope of the visit, starting with a Thursday-night arrival and a visit to the Lego store at Water Tower Place, which is just up the street from the hospital and the hotel where we sleep when we need to stay over.  The grandma-lady also forced the recalcitrant duo to step into the dreaded American Girl store, though they were quick to dash back out into the hall, gasping for breath and mercy. The evening capped off with dinner at an entirely kid-centric bistro called the Rain Forest Cafe, where animatronic monkeys, snakes, leopards and gorillas stared at me all night, while fake thunder rumbled through the faux-jungle.
I draw the line at making my favorite little boys watch me sit through a slow six-hour chemo drip, so the next day, the boys got to meet the nice people at the 21st-floor cancer center at Northwestern before leaving for the Field Museum and its bountiful bevy of dinosaurs and other great exhibits.
Just like kids.

Call me Dr. Jones

There's a lot to be said for home ownership. Especially, I think, when the house in question is nearly 150 years old. The big old barn of a place we call home is a pretty cool place to live in, no doubt. But when it comes to the never-ending torrent of repairs and cleaning projects needed to keep our ancient abode from crumbling down around our ears, things can get a little dicey.
Did I say "a little?"
O.K. A lot.
After my hard-working spouse retired from over 35 years of elementary school teaching, we enjoyed the opportunity to spend a good part of the next three years on the North Carolina shore, while getting to know our youngest grandsons. The added bonus of a beachfront lifestyle kept us tan, happy and, well, relatively impoverished, too. Meanwhile, the old home place kept getting older.
Just like us.
So now that we're back in the Land of Lincoln for an extended period of time, it seems like we need to get, uh, serious.
Kind of.
Really.
Ergo, I've got an answer to the challenging mounds of indescribable stuff I need to sort and sift through. Because, here's the thing...
I always thought it would be kinda cool to be an archeologist, anyway.
It was a dream that faded a bit when I mentioned it to my high school guidance counselor. He, not unkindly, reminded me that archeology, like rocket science and brain surgery, required some talent, or a least interest, in heretofore unexplored subjects like science and math. Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, he gently sent me toddling off to typing class, the fiction section of the library, and my eventual alternate career path.
But I still thought it would be interesting and fun, even, to dig up mummies, old bones and pieces of ancient pottery.
So, now is my chance.
It's been awhile since we've done a thorough "sort, discover, file & pitch" procedure in the vast, winding depths beneath our house.  Our basement, like the rest of the place, is old and extensive. And while we've cleaned it many times before, there's always a lot of stuff to go through. Part of it has to do with the fact that my sons are the fifth generation of Sloans to live in Galva. My mom's family came to town a little later, in the early 20th century, which just added to the accumulation of clutter, plus we inherited a plethora of papers, letters, books, photos, household items and other miscellanea after my mother-in-law passed away nearly 10 years ago. We've attacked a few tubs full of those treasures now and then, but there's always a more comprehensive bit of exploration a-waiting just around the corner.
"I feel like I'm one of those American Pickers in my own basement," she said, as she waded through a pile.
I, on the other hand, felt more like I was finally getting to live my high school dream.
"These are the ruins of the Galva people," I intoned in my best professorial voice. "They were hunter-gatherers who never, ever threw anything away."
Best, though, was my sudden inspiration for a brand-new Indiana Jones movie.  I couldn't help imagining the evil Nazis pinning Indy against the hot water heater, while grasping the valiant cat Max by the scruff of his neck.
"Zo, Dr. Jones. You vill tell us ze location of ze 1928 Galva phone book, or ze little cat dies."
Yep, there's one of those down there. And more. Lots more.
Now you might think what I really I need to equip myself with would be a rugged leather jacket, a scary-looking bullwhip and one of those cool slouch hats like Indy wore in the movies. But I've got a better idea, i think.
I figure all I really need is a dumpster.
And a stop watch.
Because here's my plan.
Dig deep.
And ditch it.
Fast.
Before the place gets any older.
Me, too.
Meanwhile, just call me Dr. Jones.

A letter from a friend

Listen.
You might not believe me, but there are a whole bunch of good things about battling cancer. Like food. because, as I've mentioned before, losing a lot of weight has the undeniable power to make others want to feed you.
A lot.
That fact has happily manifested itself in a steady stream of goodies via many of our friends and neighbors. My health-conscious brother, who normally considers kale chips and desiccated prune pulp a bit wild and reckless, has discovered and shipped whole bagfuls of chocolate chip cookies that claim to be as healthy as they are tasty, while my spouse, who has dedicated big chunks of our married life to making me eat right, has been quick to trot out hearty helpings of things like chocolate-covered, bacon-wrapped jelly beans if I'll just agree to eat them.
But along with the edible goodies that have headed my way are an equally sweet stream of greetings and good wishes and hugs and prayers from those same beloved friends, neighbors and family members. And while they are all much appreciated and entirely treasured, I can't help but find the messages I receive from a certain most special group of people the most amazing of all.
Like the letters I receive from total strangers.
Every once in awhile, a look in my mailbox reveals a note or card from someone I've never met before.
"Who's it from?" she asks.
"Well," I reply. "I don't really know."
But I do. And that's what's good about cancer.
Because I have discovered that I live in a world where some people are nice and thoughtful and just plain good enough to take a minute to do something incredibly kind.
To send good wishes.
To reach out.
To express some hope.
To share a prayer.
And when it happens, I realize just how lucky I am.
"Who's it from? she asks. "A fan?"
Then we laugh.
Not a fan.
A friend.