The Day I Got Fired

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Now I Don’t Care as Much

I’ve written before about my dread of being late, an affliction known as “chronophobia.” Just the thought that I might be late for an appointment, a reservation, or a doctor’s visit makes my stomach roil and my knees shake. Genetically speaking, I’m not sure how I got it, but it’s something I’ve passed down to my daughter (she most definitely did not inherit it from Barb, who has perfect timing).

Despite my constant attempts to always be where I need to be when I need to be, the last month has had me on the edge of my timeliness parameters three times. Surprisingly, I survived every incident.

The first episode was on an evening when Barb and I were out to see the new Mission: Impossible flick. Good seats were sold out at our favorite theater, so we booked tickets at the Randhurst Mall in Mt. Prospect, a little beyond our normal movie zone. For a pre-theater dinner, we chose Northbrook’s Charlie Beinlich’s, our favorite hamburger shack.

We reached the restaurant parking lot confident that we had our timing just right. Unexpectedly, the service at Beinlich’s was slow that night. We wolfed down our burgers when they arrived (I brought my own gluten-free bun), threw our money on the table, and raced off, knowing we were impossibly late for the 7:15 showtime.

As Barb is apt to remind me, there are always lots of previews before a feature film starts, and more than a handful of ads, too. The 7:15 time was more of a suggestion than a deadline. But I knew we were running very late, and that if we missed any of the actual movie, we would struggle to follow the plot. With a mad dash through the parking lot, we made it into our seats just as the movie began. Notwithstanding our timing success, we still failed to follow the plot—was there one?—but Tom Cruise looked very cool wing walking on his biplane.

My second late shift this month was 100% my fault. I was scheduled to play pickleball with friends at 10:00 a.m., but was woolgathering at my computer. By the time I looked at my watch, it was 9:50. I sent a quick “Sorry, guys” group text and hit the road, flop sweat coating my face. I was fifteen minutes late, but the boys didn’t seem to mind. I even had one of my better days on the court.

Strike three for me was last Saturday. I planned on attending the No Kings rally in Buffalo Grove and left home in plenty of time. When I reached the designated corner, the crowd was surprisingly sparse. A friendly police officer on a bike rode up to us and let us know we were at the wrong location for the rally. I ran back to my car, shot out of the parking lot, and made it to the right spot at exactly noon, anti-king poster in hand. Of course, being one of hundreds at the rally, it really wouldn’t have mattered if I were a few minutes late. The only one who would have cared was me.

So now I am trying to think of time in a new way. Yes, being on time is a virtue, but in most instances, a few minutes one way or another won’t really matter. I can skip the heart palpitations and acid reflux. After all, Tom Cruise won’t even know if I show up late for the next Mission: Impossible or Top Gun 3!

⸻

Our family of ten have been spending the past five days in a magnificent VRBO house in the Smoky Mountains. We have enough bedrooms for everyone, enough board games for anyone who wants to play, and a refrigerator-freezer plus ample counter space stocked with all our favorite foods.

The only downside to this wonderful trip has been my suffering from a bad head cold that started the day before we left and has lingered through today. Knowing I need to be at my best for the long drive home tomorrow, I decided not to join the crew on today’s trip to Dollywood—the area’s famed theme park and the highlight of any stay in the Smokies, especially when you’re traveling with four grandchildren, all age 11 or younger.

This morning, I sat quietly in the corner of the living room, unobserved, as the rest of the group made their final preparations for the day of fun. It felt like theater unfolding in front of me.

The rapid-fire dialogue was natural and unrehearsed, with parents checking on kids and on each other. Bags of cereal, pretzels, and other snacks—stage props in this production—were packed into gargantuan tote bags. Water bottles were filled and their lids carefully tightened.

As Act II began, the kids went on quests to find their Crocs and bathing suits, and then headed outside for the mandatory application of sunscreen and bug spray. Hats were grabbed, sunglasses perched on noses, and travel directions coordinated. Finally, with our middle granddaughter belting out Dolly Parton’s “Jolene,” the entire cast exited stage right.

No curtain fell, but I was left alone, marveling at the wonderful family Barb and I have been blessed with. Watching them in action filled me with a joy deeper than any Tony-winning performance ever could!

Democrats Replaced Biden with Robots—and Not Even Good Ones

If you have been following Truth Social, you know the Democratic Party has blown it again. According to a post shared by President Trump, Joe Biden was “executed” in 2020 and replaced with “clones doubles & robotic engineered soulless mindless entities (sic)?”

Robots? Haven’t I been telling the party for years that when they needed someone to replace Good Ole Joe, all they had to do was call on me? Just like Kevin Kline in the movie Dave, I have always been at the party’s beck and call to be Biden’s stand-in, just a single pre-Qatar Air Force One flight away from whatever DC area airport is operational at the time.

I have the look, the style, the sense of humor, and dare I say it, the grace to have filled in for Joe. I even have the stumbles. And let’s face it, I would have been a much better match for Jill than those robots. We’d have matching code names—DrPotus and DrFlotus. What a team!

Instead, you replaced Joe with automatons, less realistic than the mannequins in Disney World’s Hall of Presidents. And you did this before ChatGPT was even available! No wonder “Joe’s” logic sometimes seemed a little sketchy.

Of course, by the time of the first debate at the end of last June (can it almost be a year ago, already?), the wheels were totally off the Biden bus. The cyborg’s embedded software was clearly hallucinating, just like machine learning modules are apt to do. No wonder the party apparatchiks had no choice but to pull the plug on the great android experiment!

In any case, I am still in the hinterlands of Chicago waiting for the party to give me a call. When the time comes, I can be the “Backup Dave” for Gavin, JB, or Pete. It might be a little tougher for me to fill in for Kamala, but with some good makeup, the right clothes, and soft focus lenses, I could probably pull it off.

And hey, if the Dems want to put my name on the ballot, I’m ready to do that too!

A Former Board President Reflects

It’s Graduation Season.

When I was President of a high school Board of Education, I always looked forward to this time of year, the special Sundays when I would lead the processional into the auditorium, hand diplomas to each graduate, and have the privilege of making the commencement address.

What did I say to the graduating class in those 3-minute orations, some 20 years ago? Unlike my predecessor, I made it a point of honor to create something fresh each year, to use a new viewpoint, or comment on a new aspect of the graduates’ lives ahead, whether it be in school, the military, or other types of service. I recall horrifying the school superintendent one year, opening my remarks by discussing our pet dog. I believe I eventually made a point that coincided with the school’s mission.

Looking back, I wondered what themes truly stood out. So with curiosity, I logged into an old backup hard drive and found the text of three of my speeches. I used AI to list the most common words in them. Not surprisingly, “education,” “class,” and “students” were at the top of the list. They were closely followed by “vision” and “values,” the school’s buzzwords. A third V word, “village,” was there as well (Hillary Clinton had made her impact), and so were “community” and “opportunity.”

I am proud of what I said each year, and just as proud of what I didn’t say. There were no attacks on enemies, no barbs at underachieving faculty, no threats of retaliation. In fact, except for my one dog story, the speech wasn’t about me. Graduation was a time for the young men and women before me to savor what they had accomplished and look ahead to what they hoped and dared to achieve.

I hope Graduation Day can still be about all that, and nothing more.

The Hidden Costs of Tariffs

As a regular reader of the New York Times and viewer of MSNBC, I am well aware of the macro effects that increasing tariffs are having and will continue to have on our economy. But I am not in the market for a new car, and we won’t be buying holiday gifts for several months (two of our three granddaughters are too old for dolls, anyway), so there has yet to be much impact on our personal buying habits. Little did we know, the ripple effects of these tariffs would soon thread their way into our home.

Here is how the tariff pinch squeezed us. Barb’s many talents include creating beautiful needlepoint pieces of art. Starting with a painted canvas, Barb interweaves threads and beads, silks and trinkets. Pieces take months to complete, and each is unique and breathtaking. Many adorn our walls or have been made into decorative pillows throughout our home. Each grandchild has received at least one wall hanging from their Nana, surrounded by frames carefully chosen with love.

Last month, Barb found a canvas on a Facebook page that would be ideal for her next project. She ordered and paid for the item, then waited for it to arrive. Today, she received an email from the artist who created the canvas, reading:

“The Trump tariffs are wreaking havoc on our production because we use the same painting service that most designers use. Not only are we getting EU tariffs (luckily they are suspended for a little while), but when all of that nonsense started, those designers that also used painters in China switched all their painting to my company causing a back up for delivery to almost 3 months. NOW, anything that would be ordered is going to be put on hold because the tariffs might go back up July 9th and no one wants to pay 50% more.”

Barb will get a refund, or perhaps choose a canvas that the artist has in her current stockpile. It just won’t be the one she really wanted to do, the one she had a spot in our home picked out for.

So it’s not just cars, steel, or lumber that are being impacted by tariffs and trade wars. The arts, with the ability to uplift our lives, will also bear the burden of increased costs and disrupted supply chains.

So is this how tariffs help to ‘Make America Great Again’… one canceled art project at a time?

A Message from the Heart, Not the Inbox

Barb and I don’t receive many handwritten notes anymore—not many people do these days. So when a special one arrived last week, it truly stood out.

The note in our mailbox had an ominous beginning. It opened with “Barb and Les, I am Harriet Burlow’s* daughter, Lorna. I am writing to let you know.” I feared the next few words would be, “My mom passed away last month.” Instead, I read with relief and joy, “Mom is now living in a beautiful memory care facility. She still remembers the two of you and loves the pictures of your grandchildren in your holiday cards.”

Harriet had been our departmental secretary in my first job, a rookie pathologist ignorant of the ways of office and medical politics. Along with her co-worker Margaret, she guided, taught, and occasionally scolded me, helping mold me into the professional I am today.

We probably worked together for about 20 years until she and Margaret retired from the hospital and the working world. Sadly, in the intervening years, the exchange of holiday cards has been our only contact.

I was determined to write back to Lorna, to write something much more personal than the brief, generic message our holiday cards contain. I knew it had to be a handwritten note, not an email in 11-point font to a Gmail or Hotmail address. This needed to be more from the heart.

I composed my message on my desktop—my thoughts flow more easily from a keyboard than a pen clenched in my hand. I told Lorna how much I had enjoyed working with her mom and how much I appreciated her note. Following some light editing, I knew I was ready to write it all out.

My next challenge was finding a note card. I have never had personal stationery. If I write anything down these days, it is usually on the back of a scrap of paper or a receipt. I asked Barb if she had anything appropriate (that is, not overly feminine) for me to send my note on, and after much searching, she found a lovely folding card from our Vietnam trip, complete with a pop-up jungle inside.

I carefully transcribed my words onto the note card. Since my cursive handwriting is unreadable (I know the cliche), I was obligated to use block print. I meticulously wrote out each word, taking care to avoid making any smudges or cross-outs.

I can’t remember the last time I hand-wrote four complete paragraphs. My hand was cramping by the time I printed out my signature. But I was glad that I did it this way. I can envision writing more brief notes and thank-yous in longhand.

I think it’s time I buy some stationery of my own. I don’t want handwritten notes to become a thing of the past, even as we move to the future.

*Names have been changed.

My son Michael had some expiring travel credit with United Airlines and suggested we go away together for a few days. We tossed around a few destination ideas before settling on Las Vegas—a city we hadn’t visited together in 20 years. Back then, we traveled with a group of Mike’s friends and their dads, all (the friends, not the dads) having recently turned 21. This time would just be the two of us.

We discussed a few things we would like to do in “Sin City”, made reservations for a hotel in the middle of the Strip, and hit the friendly skies last Tuesday morning.

We packed a lot into 48 hours: a big win on a free slot machine play, an introduction to the game of Pai Gow Poker, sunning at the hotel pool, and splitting a steak at Mike’s favorite Vegas steakhouse.

We walked north and south along the strip, visiting a dozen casinos. For a break, we took a longer-than-expected Uber journey to reach an over-filled miniature golf course, where the manager apologized for the unexpected crowd by offering us free ice cream, coffee flavor for both of us.

And there were shows. Shin Lim’s sleight of hand was incredible, but by the end of 90 minutes, the magic routine started to feel, well, routine. On the other hand, there was nothing routine about the U2 movie at the Sphere. Bono has never been more Bono, and the band never rocked so hard as when projected on a screen the size of the Titanic. I’ll count this as the 5th time I have seen the boys “live.”

Throughout the two days, Michael and I talked. We talked about family trips when he and his sister Laury were small; about travel we hope to enjoy in the future; about friends; about music, and about relationships.

Towards the end of the walkabout, Michael asked me what my favorite parts of the trip were. I mentioned U2, great steak, and my gambling winnings (not mentioning the losses). When I asked him the same question, his response was shorter than mine. He said, “My favorite thing was spending time together.”

In that moment, the noise of the casinos and flashing lights faded into the background. It wasn’t about the shows or the wins—it was about us.

My son is a mensch. I couldn’t be happier, or prouder.

Haiku Do You Do?

I published my first set of haiku five years ago during COVID. They were well received. I have waited a long time to write these new verses. Some are personal, some are universal.

I know your lives are busy now, but take a moment, sit back, relax, and let the rhythms (no rhymes) bring you harmony. By the way, my favorite is the final entry; keep reading until you get there.

A final note. To all of you reading on Sunday, Happy Mother’s Day to you and the mothers in your life.

Let the haiku begin.

A curious cat
Cannot understand it, when
Breakfast is delayed.

Baba O'Riley
Though written by the Who, it
Shares a name with me.

Coyotes slither
On our roads at night, waiting
For prey to emerge.

Definite maybes
Are the secret feature, of
Passive aggression.

Easter Island the
Polynesian refuge, whose
Stone heads make you think.

Feeding animals
At zoos is forbidden, while
In shelters is grand.

Gorillas in mist
Imposing to behold, we'll
Observe them next year.

Husbands never know
Politics of romance, 'til
Elections are done.

A basement spot with
Shovels tucked away, as
May blooms in the yard.

Justice, Justice it's
What you all should pursue, but
People disagree.

Knights take silent pawns
Rooks crouch in corners, waiting
To launch their attack.

Leery time to fly
But I'll be in the air, still
A traveling man.

Mothers have a way
Quieting the hurt soul, when
No other will do.

Nadia, gymnast,
The one with the first ten, she
Set the world's standard.

Orange cones laid out
Congestion everywhere, it's
Construction season

Polaroid snapshots
Once were unique treats, now
Selfies everywhere.

Questions in reverse
Jeopardy! way to play, but
Ken is not Alex.

Running on empty
Scouting out gluten-free, when
Pantry shelf is bare.

Streaming until 10.
The Pitt, The Handmaid's Tale, then
Time to watch the news.

Taxi service is
A thing that is gone so, no
Judd Hirsch at the wheel.

Understand the past.
It teaches us the lessons, for
Novel times ahead.

Virtually real
Is not really the same, as
My life its own self.

Walks for the brown dog
Chasing rabbits away, we
Stroll an endless loop.

X-ray med enticed
I went another way, so
Call me the Path Doc.

Yesterday is gone,
Some Beatles are gone too, just
Paul and Starr still shine.

ZZTop told us
Jesus left Chicago, but
New Pope is Sox fan.

That’s the end of the haiku. Tell me which you like, and have a wonderful day