My doctor's visit has just ceased
I've barely left her clutches
When my Apple watch begins to chime
And jerks me off my crutches.*
It's not the instructions that give me pause
I know it's good to read 'em
It's the final line all marked in bold
That has my ulcers steamin'*
"Won't you please go rate my care,
The highest score the better
So that on Yelp and Docs on Call
I'll be the best bone-setter."
"Did the receptionist smile when you paid your bill?
Did our valet park your car right?
Was the coffee hot when you filled your mug?
We need the rating airtight!"
Wherever you go, whatever you do
Your compelled now to relate it
What's right, what's wrong. no in-between
And you better not predate it.
The plumber and the moving man
Your barber and Mom's electrician
Want ten points on a ten point scale
They should pay me a commission!
When I buy doo-dads on Amazon
A hose or some eye-glass cleaner
Jeff Bezos's boys will send a link
That to ignore's a misdemeanor.
"Was the product shipped in a timely way?
Did it meet your satisfaction?
Did the nozzle leak, did the cleaner smear?
Did we take the proper action?"
I understand about data points
They want customers with opinions
But for me it's just a waste of time
I'm not one of the rating minions.
To one request I will respond
When my time on earth is nigh done.
And the God above says "Rate your life."
I'll say "Dear Lord I had a fine one!"
*To my dear friends who may worry, I currently have neither broken bones or painful ulcers!
My dad enjoyed playing chess and taught me the game when I was just a kid. It was in regular rotation with Scrabble and Gin Rummy for Dad and me. I would play white and go first, Dad would be black, and although at the disadvantage of going second, invariably win. Later, I signed up for the high school chess club (I signed up for everything in high school) and enjoyed reading and watching The Queen’s Gambit, but my talent and interest in chess never really blossomed.
But in the last few weeks, post-op swelling around my eyes has left my near vision out of focus. Reading and browsing social media for more than ten minutes at a time has been a struggle. So it is fortunate that I have discovered a new passion to fill in the gaps between pickleball, volunteering, family time, MSNBC, and Netflix. And to my surprise, that passion has been solving chess problems.
The puzzles unexpectedly started showing up on my Facebook feed two weeks ago. In each unique chess problem, the chessboard is set with a certain number of black and white pieces in various positions, and instructions are given such as “White to move and checkmate (win the game) in 2 moves.” I decided to try one and within the first few moments, I was as hooked on chess problems as I was on Wordle and Connections.
I started trying to solve the problems by staring at the screen and mentally moving each piece. My success rate was low. The Comments Section contained brilliant moves others could see and I was blind to. I decided I needed a more tactile approach and searched unsuccessfully for my old chess set. Amazon Prime came to the rescue. I made a quick purchase and by the next day, I could fumble through the puzzles on a portable folding magnetic chess set.
My fumbling has paid off. With the new set, and some tips from a college student I mentor, my success rate has risen to about 50%. It can take me an hour to solve a problem, but I enjoy the feeling of the small plastic figures in my hand as I attempt various moves to trap the opposing king. Solving one of the puzzles gives me a buzz as great as solving Wordle on my second move.
Last week I introduced my 10-year-old granddaughter to the puzzles, and we enjoyed solving one together. I hope my other grandkids will enjoy them too. My chess-loving dad has been gone for many years, but I’m sure he is looking down on us with a pawn or a queen in his hand and wearing a big smile on his face. I know he would be proud!
Yesterday marked my return to pickleball after recovery and convalescence from my corrective eyelid surgery. As usual, the courts for open play were crowded and time dragged on a bit between chances to play. I was chatting with a player named Ben when he reached into a pocket, pulled out a wrinkled sheet of note paper, and handed it to me.
Reading is still a little tough for me post-op, but I noticed the emblem of my alma mater at the top. Below this was a handwritten list titled “The Ten Commandments of Pickleball.” The commandments were so obvious that Moses could have brought them down from Sinai on two paddles. “Dink to your opponent’s backhand,” “Try to hit a winner on your serve,” “Don’t forget to come to the net.” You get the idea.
A few minutes later I played two mixed doubles games against Ben. I couldn’t tell if he was following the pickleball commandments, but I could tell that he was pissing off his partners mightily. He was telling them where to stand and what to do. His intent was clear; he planned to poach every ball and hit every shot. By the end of the two games, both ladies who had partnered with him were grumbling, out loud and under their breath.
Watching Ben’s approach inspired me to consider how we can all have a better time on the court. Based on Ben’s play, I present my observations of how to enjoy open pickleball.
MY TEN COMMANDMENTS OF PICKLEBALL
Everyone is playing on the same court. Stop blaming every missed shot on the quality of the lights, the color of the lines, or the texture of the flooring.
There are no instant replays. If you can’t make a line call, give the point to your opponents.
If a line call goes against you, suck it up. No calling the next one in your favor “just to even things up.”
Never push a partner out of your way, unless it is to avoid injury to either of you.
Don’t lecture your partner. Your partner likely isn’t paying you for in-game lessons.
Avoid aiming shots that might injure an opponent. If your shot hits someone with unusual ferocity, apologize, and mean it!
When you are racking up in an “open” situation, don’t insist that you will only play with your besties. It’s fun and challenging to play with different people. If you want to play only with your friends, you can reserve a court just for you.
When a ball from another court interferes with anyone on your court, call a let. And don’t complain that you would have won the point.
You won’t lose any points if you smile every once in a while.
Be courteous, congratulate your opponents on a nice shot, and HAVE FUN.
On reflection, maybe my commandments aren’t just helpful in pickleball. With compassion and camaraderie, we can all go a long way.
When I see a headline or news photo of a favorite celebrity from my youth, whether an actor, a musician, or an athlete, it is invariably as part of a death notice or obituary; for instance, when a photo of Bill Melton, a White Sox slugger and home run champ in the early 1970s appeared on my Facebook page last week I was not surprised to see it was an In Memoriu notice.
So when I saw Dick Van Dyke’s name in a New York Times headline, I immediately feared the worst. I was sure that Van Dyke, forever Rob Petrie of The Dick Van Dyke Show, had perished. His TV wife, Mary Tyler Moore, has been gone since 2017, and I imagined them cavorting together in their heavenly living room, Rob dodging the pesky ottoman—though would it matter if he tumbled over it? I doubt he would be subject to any injuries in the afterlife!
But happily, and much to my surprise, Van Dyke is still alive! The article was not a notorious New York Times obituary. Rather it was a celebration. Ninety-nine-year-old Van Dyke is the star of a new Coldplay music video.
I rarely watch music videos (crotchety old man alert: I have never seen a Taylor Swift video) but I watched this one, the official video for All My Love. Through a wonderful 7 minutes, Van Dyke shimmies, clowns, and duets (admittedly off-key) with Coldplay’s Chris Martin. As photos of his family fill the screen, he discusses love and mortality, and at Martin’s suggestion, closes his eyes to think about “all the people who have meant something in his life.” Van Dyke’s eyes are closed for a long, long, time.
I am so glad he is still alive, and still a little bit of a performer. Whether as Rob Petrie or as Bert and Mr. Dawes Senior in Mary Poppins, he brought happiness to me in my youth—just as he does while watching him in this video today.
I may have lost Bill Melton, but I still have Dick Van Dyke!
“Do you want to get new license plates for your new car?” Barb asked me.
Astonished by her question, I told her, “It would be harder for me to change my license plates than it was to retire last year.” I meant it!
Barb and I have had personalized “vanity” license plates since 1984. Barb has been OT MOM for most of those years, only recently updating to OT NANA. For 40 years, I have had PATH DOC.
Neither Barb nor I are unusually vain, but we are proud of our careers. With our personalized license plates, we show off just a bit while we provide PR for our professions, two areas of health care that are not routinely in the public eye.
Because of Barb’s OT plates, people often ask if she is an ‘overtime’ parent who works two or three jobs and then races home to her family. She patiently explains that she has had a wonderful career as an occupational therapist and extols the value of a field diverse enough to provide service to newborn infants, stroke victims, and hand-injury patients, Barb’s specialty. The license plate is a great recruiting tool.
It’s rare that anyone sees my car and recognizes me as a pathologist. People ask me if I repair sidewalks or work on trails at the forest preserves. That allows me to clarify what a pathologist is, what we do, and how important we are to patients in hospitals, clinics, and doctor’s offices. I fill them in on blood tests, biopsies, and more. I probably haven’t convinced anyone to join my field, but I hope I have gotten many people to respect it.
Our residences, vehicles, and family size have changed multiple times over the last 40 years. MOM has become a NANA (four times over). Barb and I are both happily retired. But Barb should know that asking me to change my license plate is like asking me to forsake the White Sox. Like the Sox, those plates are in my DNA. They will never be replaced.
The solitary red rose in our front yard is the last flower remaining. Spring, summer, and fall were filled with riots of color, the scent of magnolia, and the air of hope and promise.
Barb has tended the yard with care and devotion, always envisioning what more can be done, what needs pruning, and what needs replanting. The gardens are living things, changing with the seasons. They are a technicolor kaleidoscope of ever-evolving beauty.
The unusually warm October kept the magnificent landscape in bloom far longer than we hoped. But October has ended, the Halloween dress-ups are gone, and November has come with a chill wind that has destroyed color, beauty, and hope. One lonely rose remains.
But if we can survive the coming winter, there will be a new spring next year, a chance for a new beginning. Barb will work hard on her garden. It may take a while, but I have faith—and I hope you do too—that joy, resilience, and wonder have not left us for good.
Gary was the first bully I ever encountered. He was the terror of my freshman high school class. Accompanied by his lanky sidekick Jean, his domain extended from the school locker room to the streets outside the school. His modus operandi was typical for bullies; grab the runtiest of his classmates and shake them down for pocket change.
I never encountered Gary after freshman year. Perhaps his family moved, or perhaps his parents transferred him to a different school. Jean also faded into oblivion. They were not missed by me or my classmates.
I have suffered a few other bullying episodes since those early teen years. A teaching physician in medical school comes to mind, as does a past tennis partner. Instead of reaping some loose change, they intended to belittle and embarrass. I learned to move past them.
But now, the biggest bully is on the precipice of reclaiming his objective, the presidency of the United States. With 10s of millions of Jeans by his side, he seeks payback for imagined persecution, escape from continued prosecution, and to wreak havoc on the American institution. And when he shakes down his supporters to spend a few dollars buying his lines of Bibles and tennis shoes, that must make my old classmate Gary proud. A hustler knows a hustler.
I cannot vote for Donald Trump. I have cast my vote for Kamala Harris, and endorse her full-heartedly. I don’t have the impact of the Washington Post, but I refuse to be intimidated by another bully.
Some thoughts on the first anniversary of my gluten-free life!
A year ago is when it came to be
That my GI specialist said to me
"Celiac Disease is your diagnosis
Be glad that it's not acute shigellosis."
So that was the day that I gave up on gluten
All the bread and the buns and things high-fallutin
Like brioche and scrumptuous cream pies made in Boston
And a salad named Caesar with croutons all tossed in.
Sometimes I'm inspired to prepare a new dish
When a gluten-free special is just what I wish
My Korean fried chicken was easy to master
With spicy Gochujang paste it was not a disaster.
Banana bread without gluten is something I treasure
I use special flour, it's measure for measure.
And my ground turkey chili needs no modification
I just need to pass by the crisp cracker station.
Sunday brunch I would love with cream cheese and bagels
But without wheat or rye the baker finagles
A doughnut shaped rock with a miserable texture
To pretend it's a bagel is a losing conjecture.
Pasta is something I used to eat weekly
The alternate versions I stare at so bleakly
Made with almond flour, chickpeas, corn, rice, and more
They are all miserable messes that I've grown to abhor.
When I dine with my wife at a local cafe
I let the host know that it's gluten-no-way.
The menu they hand me is greatly reduced
But it's the rolls on the table that have me seduced.
I fight the sensation of wanting to bite in
The pain in my stomach starting to tighten
The gluten-free bread I'm given instead with
A smile, is not worth the butter it's spread with.
I've craved Lou Mal's pizza it was so satisfying
But their gluten-free version is just horrifying.
The crust is like cardboard mixed up with cement
To eat it requires truly informed consent.
So let them eat cake, all my family and friends
My giving up gluten has brought dividends
My waist line has shrunken by more than an inch
And my digestion's no longer the after meal Grinch.
Are meteorologists responsible for our weather? That’s the word on the street after two terrible hurricanes. Those claims remind me of a different misconception.
Before I retired from my last pathologist position, I often wrote about cancer, particularly prostate cancer. In 2017, writing a blog post responding to an acquaintance’s comment that “I gave people cancer” I explained that no, I didn’t do that. I wrote in the post about being in the hot seat and making diagnoses on the appearance of stained biopsy tissue that I viewed magnified 400 times under my microscope. Sometimes other factors aided my decision-making, but what I saw was what my patients were told they had.
The patient and his healthcare providers could use the information I provided to decide the best course of action; whether or not to fight the cancer and what modalities to use in the battle. So no, I wasn’t causing the cancer, I was reporting on it and hoping my report, accompanied by updated clinical information, was beneficial for those in prostate cancer’s path.
meteorologists have a similar task. They take the latest data, run it through various algorithms, and tell you what is going on now, and the likelihood of multiple things in the future. They forecast tomorrow’s temperature and whether the sun will shine next Tuesday. Most importantly, they predict the path of tropical storms and hurricanes.
Whether the forecaster is with a governmental agency such as NOAH or the smallest local TV station in rural West Texas, they have one thing in common. They predict the weather. They don’t cause it. They tell you what’s going on now and give information that guides your future activities. Can I go to the beach on Tuesday? Should I get the hell out of Sarasota?
Despite this basic truth, meteorologists are being harassed, threatened, and accused of being part of a vast government conspiracy raining tragedy on Florida and Asheville, North Carolina. According to the New York Times the accusations “have been spread by conservatives and supporters of former President Donald J. Trump, including a former Trump administration official and a Republican congresswoman.” Spreading insane stories to boost chances of winning an election.
Weathermen don’t cause weather, just like pathologists don’t cause cancer. We all provide a valuable service, and there is no politics in that.
The editors of the New York Times recently offered a challenge. The challenge wasn’t related to Wordle, Connections, or other games on their puzzle pages. This challenge was to submit a Letter to the Editor, but instead of using normal correspondence, the letter should be in the form of a poem or lyrics to a well-known song. I knew this was a gauntlet I needed to take up, even if I wouldn’t choose a song from Camelot.
My first step in composing my letter was to list possible topics and appropriate melodies. Should I rewrite Joy to the World as an homage to Kamala Harris? Could the lyrics of preening King George III’s You’ll Be Back in Hamilton be reconfigured for Donald Trump? Or was Who’ll Stop the Rain the perfect canvas for a lament about Global Warming?
I knew I could write all those songs, and I knew I could do them well. But I also intuited that the editors of the Times would be deluged by letters on those topics. Who wouldn’t want to opine about their staunchest political beliefs? So I added one more topic to my list of potentials, a topic that might win, but in other ways was sure to lose. I chose to write about an unrequited love, the Chicago White Sox.
The weekend the Times challenge was issued coincided with the eventful days on which the White Sox were on the cusp of setting Major League Baseball’s all-time record for losses in a single season. For days, their 120 losses tied them with the 1962 New York Mets but all die-hard fans knew 121 was inevitable. That was where my head was when I submitted the following lyrics, to the tune of I Want To Hold Your Hand.
I'M JUST A WHITE SOX FAN
Oh yeah I, feel like grumbling
I need a new game plan
My crew they're really stumbling
I’m just a White Sox fan!
I’m just a White Sox fa-an
I’m just a White Sox fan.
Oh team, hear my plea
And score runs if you can
Esteem, has gone from me
A lowly White Sox fan
A wholly White Sox fa-an
Unholy White Sox fan.
And when you win games
It just fills me, with pride
It comes so rarely that, it can’t be
Bona fide
Every night
It’s not right!
Big clue
The team is awful
Even the mascot’s bland
This bad
Should be unlawful
I’m just a White Sox fan
Hard-drinking White Sox fan
Rethinking White Sox fa-an
Unsinking White Sox fa-a-a-a-a-an!
Today theNYT published the winning entries. These included the predicted Trump and Harris numbers, a song about ecology, and one about homelessness. Beatle tunes, show tunes, and even a poem made the cut. But as I read on, I was filled with a growing sense of emptiness. My name had not been entered into the starting line-up.
The White Sox are losers once again. But with a song in my heart, I say “Wait Til Next Year!”
Getting More From Les 