Ponce De Leon Was Right All Along. Florida Does Have The Fountain Of Youth.

You all know about Ponce De Leon, right? He was a Spanish explorer in the early 1500s, not too long after Christopher Columbus “discovered” the New World. Not only did he give Florida its name but he also did a pretty good job of mapping out its coastline. He served 3 stretches as Governor of Puerto Rico. Unlike most Illinois governors, these stretches were not followed by one in the hoosegow.

Legend has it that while exploring Florida, Senor De Leon was hunting for the Fountain of Youth. Wikipedia dismisses this search as a myth.

Wikipedia is wrong! In fact, Ponce was 100% correct. The Fountain of Youth DOES exist and is indeed located somewhere in the State of Florida.

My proof? As previously reported Barb and I recently spent 10 days in the state of DeSantis, Delray, and Disney. This was the trip that American Airlines so graciously treated us to, whether they realized it or not. And this is how it went.

We were at O’Hare Airport on a Wednesday early in January, dawdling at gate H6 for our slightly delayed flight. And we were surrounded by…seniors. I know that age-wise Barb and I technically fall into that group, but this was the real white hair, early-bird-dinner crowd. No one under age 75. Priority boarding was Group 1 Wheelchairs, Group 2 Walkers, and Group 3 Canes. The roll-up music to the jetway was courtesy of Lawrence Welk. You get the picture…

We flew with that crowd down to Sarasota International Airport. Barb and I spent our time in the Florida sunshine, eating and visiting and playing. The 10 days of our visit quickly flew by and soon we were back at the Sarasota airport.

Some technical issues with the flight ahead of ours resulted in our flight being delayed and our spending an extra hour or so at our departure gate. We looked at our fellow delayed passengers expecting to see all the white-haired passengers we had traveled down with. Much to our amazement a Florida transformation had occurred. The oldsters we had flown with from Chicago had been magically converted into young families with strollers, backpacks, and screaming babies for the flight back home.

I don’t know how they did it. I don’t know what magical waters they drank from. But I have no doubt that a plane load of our most senior and revered citizens spent 10 days in Florida and were now flying home transformed into kids in their 20s and 30s. They must have found the Fountain of Youth.

Ponce De Leon was right all along!

Learning to Procrastinate. I Could Have Written this Yesterday.

People have lots of recommendations for how to handle my newly-entered retirement phase. I found the best way to start retirement was to initially ignore all recommendations and go to Florida (Atlantic and Gulf coasts) for ten days. Barb and I took care of that, visited with lots of friends–and easily resisted all urges to buy a home down there.

The retirement recommendations have varied from “you’ve gotta plan exactly how you are going to spend your retirement time well before you retire” (I obviously disagree and didn’t do that) to “don’t make ANY decisions for the first six months” (yikes–that’s like living in purgatory or at least limbo.)

The one suggestion that makes sense to me and which I will think I will take to heart is to always leave at least one thing for the next day. When I was working, days with nothing on my to-do list felt heaven-sent, but for a retiree, I guess they can feel like a black hole sucking away the need to get showered, get shaved, get dressed.

Putting things off for a day or two won’t come easy to me. I have always been the type of person who tries to do everything on schedule, even if it is a schedule that matters to no one except me. My school years, often juggling classes, social activities, and part-time jobs, were very regimented. That’s how I managed my tenures at Holy Family Hospital and the Uropartners Lab too–a time for everything, and that time was usually RIGHT NOW. Never put off for tomorrow, yada yada yada.

So now I am going to learn to take it easy–if there are three things I want to do around the house today, I can learn to leave the least crucial task (I hope nothing will be THAT crucial) for tomorrow. Just like this blog. I was going to write it yesterday but I let it slide. No pain and no remorse.

I think I am going to like this retirement life!

May You Succeed In This Endeavor — A Message To My Successor

There is a tradition of American Presidents leaving a message on the Oval Office desk welcoming their successors to the highest office in the land. The convention is so strong that even Donald Trump left a gracious message for Joe Biden. While the transference of the Directorship of our laboratory isn’t quite as significant as assuming the Presidency, I still want to leave a message for Dr. Ken Beck, who will fill my place in the Square Office as I shut off my microscope for the last time.

Ken,

First and above all, I thank you for your dedicated, loyal service during the fifteen years we have worked together in this Little Lab by the Tollway. You have brought your professional expertise and some business insights as well. Your Information Technology knowledge has been invaluable to the laboratory and the organization as a whole. And I am still amazed by the quantum mechanics on your whiteboard.

You and Bev have five children. Over time, you will come to think of the laboratory as your sixth. As with your other children, it is important that you give the lab, and the people who work here, a sense of direction and a code of ethics to follow. I advocate a loose love–lead but don’t micromanage, delegate where you can to a dedicated staff who have proven they will come through when and where you need them.

You admire technology. Use it to move the lab into this decade where necessary; don’t use it for the sake of being the most up-to-date. I sense that you understand that.

Change is inevitable. Medicine changes and the business of medicine changes even faster. At times this can be overwhelming–or at least highly stressful. I hope that any changes that come bring opportunities as well as challenges. Make sure your voice is heard and that you and the lab make the most of those opportunities.

My phone will always be on for you — except when I am rambling over a tennis court, slicing a golf shot, learning the tricks of pickleball, cheering at a White Sox game, enjoying a Broadway show, or romping with the grandkids. Ok, I will be keeping busy, but I will always find time for you, Dr. Brown, and the lab staff.

May your years as Director be as long and as fulfilling as mine have been.

Best of luck and Happy New Year,

Les

The above are the opinions of the author and not UroPartners, LLC.

Do You Want to Know The Final Walk-Off Songs?

You all know what a walk-on song is, right? It’s the music that blares over the loudspeakers at a ballgame when the next player comes up to bat. It’s usually loud and raucous. The song’s job is to get the hometown fans up and rocking and get the batter in the mood to do major damage to the opposition pitcher. Examples of songs that hit it out of the park include Thunderstruck by AC/DC, Jump Around by House of Pain, and Welcome to the Jungle by Axl Rose, Slash, and the rest of the boys in Guns N’Roses.

But as I fade into the sunset at the end of this week I need just the opposite, songs that will help me walk out the door, songs that will help me say goodbye. I won’t be swinging for the fences, just saying a last goodbye before the club retires my number.

Today, Wednesday, I have two more days to go. What is the song that is running through my head? It’s the triumphant, uptempo Eagles song, Already Gone. And although I have still two days to go, in my head I’m singing that “I’m already gone, and I’m feelin’ strong. I will sing this vict’ry song. Woo hoo hoo, my my, woo hoo hoo!”

That’s strike one.

Tomorrow, Thursday, almost at the end. I know I’ll be thinking One Day More, just like the rousing, climactic, act-ending song from Les Miserables. Unlike the characters in the musical, I’m not on the precipice of a revolution or embarking on a new love affair, but my Act 1 (or is it Act 2 or Act 3?) is certainly ending as I start a new chapter in life…one more dawn, one more day, one day more!

And that will be strike two.

And finally, on Friday, my last day, you can play the Harold Arlen/Johny Mercer classic tune, One for My Baby for me. It’s a sad 3 a.m. song about putting an end to things, about saying fairwell. It was a signature song for Frank Sinatra but it isn’t the Chairman’s version I want you to play. I want to hear it from the Divine Miss M, Bette Midler. Bette called herself “the last fool Mr. Carson would have to suffer gladly,” when she serenaded Johny Carson as his final guest on The Tonight Show. The song brought Carson to tears. If it was a good enough goodbye for Midler and Carson it is good enough for me.

And that will be strike three, and I’ll be outta there!

(But all is not lost, the blog will go on!)

The above is the opinion of the author and not Uropartners LLC.

Lost in the Supermarket (and other places, too)

Hansel and Gretel got lost in the woods. The Robinson family lost their way in outer space. Gilligan and all the rest went missing at sea. But I must not be very venturesome, because when I get lost, it’s never in such an adventurous locale. But whenever I get lost, I always know “there’s no place like home.”

In fact, I got lost just the other evening, that frigid night when the snow was falling and the wind was whipping it into a shimmering haze. Winter chill or not, Cooper needed his nighttime walk. Barb put Cooper into his winter sweater and smeared Musher’s Paw Protection Cream on his paws while I dressed in my long johns, jeans, tee shirt, light down jacket, heavy down jacket, hat, hood, scarf, cleated boots, and thick gloves. Grabbing a flashlight and looking more like the Michelin Man than my typical svelte self, I set out with Coop down our subdivision’s main drag, a road without street lights or sidewalks.

Following the flashlight’s narrow beam we walked about 1/4 mile until Cooper did his business, then turned and headed for home. The wind was now in our faces and the flashlight started to flicker and fade at the same time as my glasses began to fog. I stumbled, disoriented. I could no longer tell if I was walking in the street or across the front yards of neighbors. Inflated Santas leered at me while red-nosed reindeer threatened to pounce. Twisting and turning I finally recognized a light coming from our upstairs window and staggered into our driveway, home at last.

That wasn’t the only time I have found myself lost, outside and close to home. In the first summer of Covid, I was taking my usual 3-mile run. My course always took me through a hotel and office park just across a busy street from the house. I was familiar with each step, each turn, and each shortcut.

I was chugging along at a decent pace when fog quickly rolled in, not on cat’s feet, but dumped by a Caterpillar tractor. A whiteout engulfed me. The asphalt beneath my shoes disappeared. I had no idea whether I had kept on the road, had swerved into a parking lot, or was approaching the hotel swimming pool. My sense of north and south, east and west, deserted me. Fortunately, before I could stumble over the diving board and into the pool, I found salvation in the form of the traffic signal at the edge of the office park and I was able to make my foggy way home

A third time that I lost my way was the oddest of all. Barb and I were shopping in a newly-redesigned Walmart. We picked out whatever it was we were buying and discovered we were in the center of the immense store. We both looked up and down the aisle and realized that we had no idea where we were or where the checkout counters could be. High shelves loomed to our right and to our left. We were hysterical and claustrophobic. We pushed our cart up and down the aisle hunting for a helpful employee, or at least a trail of breadcrumbs, that could lead us to the storefront. Finally, in a daze, we reached our checkout destination just as the overhead loudspeaker blared “Panic in Aisle 7.”

We don’t shop at Walmart anymore.

The Walking Man is Back, But is His Dog the Same?

He is back in the neighborhood. It has been such a long time, since the halcyon days before the first Covid shutdown, since I have seen him ambling on the sidewalks, dodging traffic on the streets, and circumnavigating the cul-de-sacs. But the cold weather has returned and the Walking Man is back.

He once again wears his sleek black winter coat, the appropriate patch on the shoulder. A grey knit cap is pulled tightly over his head, Bluetooth headphones do triple duty–preventing the hat from flying away while functioning as ear muff surrogates and providing the musical cadence to keep propelling him forward.

In years past when the polar vortex gripped the streets a blue muffler wrapped over his face. Perhaps the less frigid temperatures of this year have convinced him to leave the muffler at home, at least for now. Surely he will wear it when colder winds roar in from the arctic before this Midwestern winter is over.

One other thing has not changed…or has it? The Walking Man always had a dog at his feet, sauntering, scampering, sniffing, but is this a different dog? The canine I remember was small, multicolored, a terrier of sorts. The dog trotting beside the Walking Man now is a larger specimen, curly-haired, a uniform brown color, and much more handsome. He struts like a Clydesdale as if he owns the streets and he is on patrol.

The streets that man and dog walk along have a pre-festive air. Glowing colored lights and blow-up decorations festoon many of the lawns, but some of those holiday balloons are deflated, laying like sleeping children on the lawn, waiting for a puff of air to fill them and put their full form on display. And while the people he meets smile and say hello, their words on not yet filled with holiday cheer.

Soon the snow will come. Vertical sticks will do their job guiding snow plows. And our Walking Man and pet will hunker down as they skitter on slick ice-covered concrete and asphalt. But for now, they march upright…and I am glad to see him back.

__________________________________

Did you see Les’s special announcement? Click here now to find out what the hubbub is about!

I Have A Big Announcement To Make. Read On So You Won’t Miss Out!

Friends and Blog Readers:

I know that there is nothing that you would rather spend your hard-earned cash on than…me. And now I am giving you the opportunity to own a very special piece of yours truly.

Yes, now you can buy me! Well, not me exactly, but wonderful trading cards that feature me. And they are not exactly trading cards. These are NFTs of me. My backer in this enterprise, a curly-haired wild man by the name of Sam Something-or-other, tells me NFT stands for non-fungible tokens. That makes no sense at all, but as I understand it, I get to sell all of you the rights to things worth about as much as the chocolate Hannukah gelt my grandkids play with. Or maybe worth as much as bitcoin. (That’s something else I just don’t get.)

Instant delivery, so if you act now, you can have these wonderful NFT trading cards of moi to give as holiday stocking stuffers. There are three fantastic Super Hero action poses; me as DishwasherMan. me as DogWalkerDude, and of course the best one, me as DoctorAmerica (only available for two more weeks.)

I know you are already reaching for your wallet. And here’s today’s special deal. Each card normally sells for the low, low price of $35. But if you act today, you can get the full set for $100. That’s a ginormous $5 savings!

And if you are wondering where the money goes, all profits will go directly to me. None will go into a campaign fund if I change my mind and decide to run for Village Trustee and none will go into my legal defense fund (if I ever should need one–no charges are currently pending. That was all just a little misunderstanding.)

Act now! To order your set of these exclusive, limited edition, Les Raff Super NFT Trading Cards call 244-794-6353 (BIG-SWINDLE.) Better still, order a dozen sets to give to all the loved ones in your life. Operators are standing by to take your ~~money~~ call!

See you when the next scam comes along!

I Was Going To Write A Funny Blog About Giving Cooper A Shower, But Read On To See What I Did Instead!

Yesterday evening I picked Cooper up from his weekly Monday Fun Day at a local “puppy resort.” As the pooped-out pup bounded into my back seat, an awful fragrance wafted from his head. Unidentifiable but highly potent, the smell quickly filled my car. I drove the five miles home with the windows wide open, the cold breeze acting as a natural fumigant.

And here is where I was going to write the funny blog about the challenge of giving Cooper a shower. But instead, I decided to try out ChatGPT, an artificial intelligence program that is being touted as able to create text as good, or better, than the human writer. Already, educators suspect they will no longer be able to recognize essays written by computer rather than by their students. Journalists fear for their jobs. And I am afraid I may have to quit blogging.

So here is what ChatGPT constructed when I asked for a funny blog about Barb and Les giving Cooper a shower:

Barb and Les were excited to give their dog Cooper his first bath. They had all the supplies they needed: a towel, a shampoo, and a hose. But when they tried to put Cooper in the tub, he refused to cooperate.

Cooper wiggled and squirmed, trying to escape from Barb and Les’s grasp. They chased him around the bathroom, but he was too fast for them. Finally, they managed to catch him and hold him still long enough to get him in the tub.

But just as they started to rinse him off with the hose, Cooper shook himself dry and sent a spray of water all over Barb and Les. They were drenched from head to toe, and they couldn’t stop laughing.

In the end, Cooper enjoyed his bath so much that he jumped out of the tub and started rolling around in the puddles on the bathroom floor. Barb and Les were exhausted, but they were happy that their dog was clean and happy. The end.
ChatGPT

Well, what do you think? Personally, I am not terribly impressed. Those paragraphs feel like they were culled from a Dick and Jane reading primer. But I guess this sort of thing is still in its infancy, so a first-grade primer is pretty appropriate.

And by the way, about the picture at the top of this blog. No, that’s not Cooper. That is a picture that DALL-E, a different artificial intelligence program, created when I asked for a funny picture of a dog taking a shower.

I will admit that DALL-E does a better job on illustrations than I could. But for now, I am putting ChatGPT to bed—I like what I write, and I’m going to keep on doing it my way!

And now for YOUR opinion:

The Packing Boxes Are Filling Up And Moving Out

The packing up has begun. Fifteen more working days, but I have never been one to wait until the last minute. One box a day (and a lot of paper shredding) should get the office cleared out by the end of the year.

This lab office has been my home away from home longer than any previous office. I was a pathologist for more years (22) at Holy Family Hospital, but my office location changed there several times, once following a lab redesign, and then three times as my star ascended in the department hierarchy, from a scrub with a pole in the middle of my office to the Chief with “the corner office.”

I have spent 17 years at the UroPartners Lab. My office here is spacious, large enough for a decent desk, a roomy countertop for my microscope, plus a few computers, a row of file cabinets, and a small round table where I have sat with and consoled many employees having a rough day. I have collected plenty of knick-knacks for the window sill, hung more than a few pictures, certificates, and awards on the walls, and added to my collection of bobbleheads on the bookshelf. All these memories of a job (hopefully) well done will be heading home with me where I will try to find a place for at least some of the most essential bits and pieces.

While my office has been in the same place for 17 years, the world of pathology has been moving forward at a dramatic pace. Microscopes everywhere are being supplanted by video screens as digital and remote pathology are becoming the keys to surviving an impending pathologist shortage. Artificial intelligence is making inroads, and prostate biopsy pathology, the field where I spent most of my time, should be one of the first to feel its impact.

Even more stunning is the rapid progress in molecular pathology. It is now possible to analyze and assess the DNA of tumors almost as soon as they are diagnosed, allowing more accurate predictions of patient prognosis as well as the usefulness of various chemotherapeutic and immunologic agents for treatment. These molecular techniques can help put the pathologist on the frontline of patient care, working hand-in-hand with cancer-treating clinicians.

The 21st Century Cures Act has also increased pathologist-patient interaction. This federal law gives patients much greater access to their medical records and patient portals. More patients than ever are speaking directly to pathologists to gain insight into their disease process. Pathologists are learning to become communicators and educators. (I somewhat anticipated this trend with Pathwise, my pathology translation service in 1990’s.)

Pathology and all of medicine will keep changing. I will keep packing. Transitions will occur in this office. And in a few weeks I will drive off into the sunset and the future

The above is the opinion of the author and not UroPartners LLC.

The Tri-State Trips Me Up One Last Time

I can’t explain why. The Tri-State Tollway has a grudge against my current car. In the previous four years of driving the 25-mile stretch from Riverwoods to Westchester in the morning, and back again each evening, my Audi has sacrificed three tires and a windshield to the constantly under-construction roadway. And now, in the last month of my daily commute, the beast has struck once more.

In the dark morning yesterday, I was nearing my exit lane when I caught a glimpse of an irregularly shaped object just ahead of me. My front left tire caught it full-on, and I heard the crunch. The car limped the last half-mile to the lab, an ominous rumble growing with every wheel revolution. I parked in my favorite space in the parking lot, opened the door, and gazed at my pancake-flat front tire. The Tollway never loses.

The morning proceeded much as can be expected. The first call to AAA brought out Jeff, a tire-change expert. First, he struggled to remove the lug nut covers Volkswagen and Audi put on their autos. Using the flimsy stool provided in the tire change kit, he was able to remove all five covers—by breaking them.

The lug nuts themselves came off easily enough and using an industrial-size jack, Jeff lifted the tire off the ground. And then he came to the next challenge. He tried to pull the wheel off the axle. It would not budge. He had me turn the wheel to the right and he pulled again. No luck. I turned the wheel to the right. Jeff pulled with the same result. He used the jack handle as a mighty lever. No progress.

“You know–you are going to have to call a tow,” Jeff told me as he sailed away.

After another call to AAA and a short wait, Andre showed up with his flatbed truck. He lowered the ramp and I drove my car onto the deck. After some grumbling about “nowhere to attach the hook” Andre semi-secured the car and we set off for my chosen tire store.

We drove at a steady 25 mph pace with Andre telling me that he hated this truck because it wasn’t his, complained about the size of some of the houses we passed (admittedly, there were some horrendously ugly double-wide McMansions,) and finally filled me in on his weekend visit to the neighborhood gun store.

“They didn’t like my FOID card and they wouldn’t sell me the three AK-47’s I wanted. So I went to a different store and got ’em.” I didn’t question him. I didn’t ask what he planned on doing with 3 high-power rifles. I didn’t say a word. He was a very large man, he had my car on the back of his truck and he owned at least 3 assault weapons. I didn’t think a lecture on gun control was going to change any minds…

We got to the tire dealership without any shots being fired. The manager honored an “all-causes” tire warranty I had purchased after tire blowout #3 and the replacement was made without an issue. I was home in time to pick up the pooch from daycare.

This morning I faced the Tri-State Terrorizer again. I drove a little slower than usual, kept to the right lanes, and breathed a sigh of relief when I parked in my spot in the lab parking lot. Only 16 more daily commutes. I pray the God of Expressways let my tires (and me) survive.