In The Weeds

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Fri, 12 Mar 2021 23:35:00 -0500

Minecraft. That is what I remember from the earliest days of quarantine. My son set up a server and he and his sister played for hours with their friends. Every night we would hear them upstairs. It started with the energy of a vacation. They even gave me a copy of the game for my birthday in May. March 12, 2020, was a Thursday. It was the last full day of in-person school for my daughter and my wife in Waltham, and my son at Framingham State. Every day leading up to the 12th seemed to be trying to out-shitshow the previous one. Things were spiraling rapidly downward in a way we had never experienced before. I had first become aware of the coronavirus while reading a story on the Drudge Report website right before New Year’s. I remember a feeling of dread upon reading it and thinking “we will have to keep an eye on this story”. Then on January 23rd a new customer came into my shop and over the course of his visit, after shaking my hand, he told me how he had been on the flight that came from Hong Kong the night before -the one nine people were taken off suspected of being sick with a new virus. The virus was in the news constantly from that point on, but I still had multiple people coming into my tiny shop at the same time. Like everyplace else out there it was still business as usual. Though I had bought gloves, was using the sanitizer we had on hand like never before, and trying to avoid touching their laptops until I could wipe them with glass cleaner as it was all I had on hand. I remember a moment in the final week of normalcy when there were three people in front of the counter and one started sneezing. The burst of panic that erupted on the other’s faces as they tried to back away from each other in a four-foot by four-foot space I will never forget.

The next day, Friday the 13th( of course) I had a previously scheduled eye appointment to check out some weirdness that was going on. When I made the appointment I remember thinking that date was a bad omen. I had no idea! It was unlike any visit I had ever had. There was a table outside the office with hand sanitizer and instructions. Inside the waiting room, there were several people waiting. Michelle came with me. The receptionist was frantic, wiping pens and clipboards non-stop between clients. The doctor’s assistant came out to take me back fully covered in scrubs and wearing a mask and face shield. While I waited for the doc a man in a mask came in and haphazardly sprayed down the computer keyboard, When the doctor came in he was not wearing a mask when he examined me, so I held my breath the entire time he checked out my eye. “You have a posterior vitreous detachment” he announced, not quickly enough given how close he was to my unmasked face. “It will resolve over time”, and it was not to be confused with a retinal detachment which is a much more serious issue. “Like covid-19?” I thought as I exhaled. But not on the doctor.

Remember being told this was “two weeks to stop the spread’? The crazy run on toilet paper? I remember being in my basement on the 14th counting rolls and calculating approximate usage, panicking that we did not have enough, despite our efforts to toss an extra pack in the cart every week for the previous month. It was hard to believe that everything was going to shut down for two whole weeks. We were told to assume everyone already has the virus, and it was highly contagious. Every day they trumpeted a new way it could spread. Surfaces, coughing, then the aerosols and asymptomatic. Just breathing could spread it. It could hang in the air for hours. It could order an Uber and show up at your house. We assumed we had to have been exposed due to our own ignorance. So for the first two weeks, we waited for the symptoms to show up in our house. Fortunately, they didn’t. The only thing that showed up at our house other than Peapod was the D’Amato family delivering Hershey Kisses to their friends. We had no idea what we were in for at that point. Instead, we marked the time, like a family simultaneously in the witness protection program and under house arrest. No idea that two weeks would become six, then eight, then so many that every day you had no idea what day of the week it was and now it is a year later. It is fitting that my wife got her first of the Moderna shots today, a year to the date.

It’s all downhill from here.

Jam

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Sun, 28 Feb 2021 09:15:00 -0500

Sweet syrup sitting on the table. The waitress brings it with the pancakes and cornbread. We love to sit at the crowded table at Joseph's and eat the butter-soaked pancake. The noise inside makes your head vibrate. This place is so busy the line stretches out the door and down to Main Street. It is a popular Sunday breakfast spot. It should be. They have the lightest and fluffiest pancakes in the city. Their red bliss home fries are pretty damn good too.

I miss going there. For the past year, we have not eaten inside a restaurant due to the pandemic. I cannot remember the last time we had breakfast at Josephs's as a family. I know the last fast food sandwich I had was a Big Mac at McDonald's the day we brought Cal home from the shelter. Since then we have ordered pizza a couple of times, Marios a couple of times, and Chinese food probably a dozen or more times. Also Mexican maybe three times. But sit inside? Nope.

They are progressing with opening things up in the state. Even though the total cases as of right now are higher than they were in the spring. But people are tired of being stuck at home. The kids' mental health is declining. I think everyone in the world is seeing mental health take a hit.

What I wouldn't give to have a jam in the basement with Pete and Brad. It has been almost two years I think since the last time we did that. Time flies when you hide in fear of a deadly virus. Potentially. They like to say that. I think it is to keep the masses from panicking and then the machine would totally break down. Then they would be in a jam. Right now they have enough toeing the line. Life continues on. Just keep passing out those stimulus checks. Keep bringing the jam to our table. We like our sugar, daddy. Spread it on the bread and circus so we do not break our little heads.

I think there has been a major lost opportunity. We have been stuck as a family for over 350 days now. What have we learned? What have we done to grow together? We have had our moments for better or for worse. The basement is still a mess. We did get the shed organized. The dining room is still a mess. We did get the front and back porches repaired and painted. The bedroom is still a mess, but we did get the roof leak fixed. Yin and Yang. The butter and the jam. Spread it on sugar, spread it on.

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Wed, 16 Dec 2020 21:14:00 -0500

“We got to get the bread and milk!”.

The first blizzard of the season is on its way. When I worked in the grocery business days like today, the proverbial "calm before the storm", we would be slammed. The panic in the shoppers as they lined up before the doors opened in the morning. The only days worse were the ones before Thanksgiving.

They rush the milk aisle, the bread, the meat. Nothing is safe. They have to stock up. They fill their carts with the abandonment of a contest on that old game show "Supermarket Sweep". Except this was real life. This was bloodsport.

Most people these days are already pretty well stocked due to carrying extra inventory in the pandemic. In the spring we could not get supplies and were dealing with the first real shortages in our lives. People older than us had experienced worse I am sure. But fighting over toilet paper? That is not an issue right now. But the panic is still out there I am sure.

We get our groceries delivered now. It has been going on for nine months now. The last day either of us set foot in a market basket was March 14, 2020. I never imagined we would sit here months later and still be ordering our food on Instacart. The winning of the Trump administration shining through every aspect of our life.

I have a memory from my childhood. I am sitting at the table in my Nana’s kitchen. The table was between the two windows, with a mirror on the wall in the middle. My grandfather would sit to my right. My Nana to the left. We are having dinner. I slept over one weekend every December when I was in elementary school and she would take me Christmas shopping. I would use my paper route money to buy presents for the family. My grandparents would pick me up on Friday night (Nana didn’t drive) and I would spend Saturday and after church, on Sunday they would take me back home.

There was always a bottle of ice-cold milk on their table. In my younger days, it was a glass bottle with a paper cap. My grandfather had grown up on one of the last surviving dairy farms in Marblehead, (see the picture above), and when that was sold he had his own milk delivery business. He would bring home fresh milk every day. He had the coolest truck. He would stop at the house so I could dart down the stairs and climb up into it. Then he would race to the end of Vine Street to the lot where he parked it for the night. He left the door open and the ride, probably less than a minute, was one of the most exhilarating things I remember of my younger years. The pavement would fly by, an ashen blur, the empty bottles clanking against each other in the milk crates in the back, the engine whining as it went up the hill, the heat from the engine hump in the cab, smelling of a mixture of oil, exhaust, and sour milk.

No one gets their milk like that anymore. Now you pick it up at the store yourself. It has been that way for years. Unless you are stuck at home in a pandemic. Then you get it delivered. By Instacart. For the last nine months. And counting.

Chapstick

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Mon, 7 Dec 2020 17:18:00 -0500

Chapstick

The plastic tube sits in the pocket of my winter jacket. The “secret” inside pocket to be specific. It has been there for a long time. One thing about chapstick is it never spoils. It is a semisolid cylinder of vaseline in a plastic case that has a screw-driven dial on the bottom which as you apply it lets you push more forward until it runs out. But it never seems to.

I usually lose the thing before it ever runs out. You only need it a few times a year mainly in the winter. At least for me as an adult. When I was a kid I needed to use it more frequently. Chapped lips were one of those discomforts of childhood like chafed thighs from your corduroy pants.

I cannot remember the last time I applied chapstick, to be honest. It has been a few years. I am not even sure if I have any in my big coat pocket if I was to go and check.

I do have hand sanitizer though. Freshly filled bottle from my wife. We need to be armed with it these days as the deadly virus continues to run rampant in this country. The result of four years of an incompetent failed president. We will have over 300,000 dead by Christmas. It is surreal. And we are on the precipice of the worst winter in modern public health history.

We have to cross the rickety rope bridge that dangles over the virus volcano. On the other side of the bridge is the vaccine waiting for us, dangling the temptation of normalcy. So we do not have to wear masks everywhere we go in public. So we can have friends and family members inside our homes again, But we have to cross this bridge. And it feels like the bridge is collapsing with each step we take forward.

As I write this, Christmas is less than three weeks away. We usually put some chapstick in the kids’ stockings. They probably have a lifetime supply of it by this point. If they could find them. I doubt they know where all the little plastic lipstick shaped containers are.

Waxy, it slides over your lips leaving a protective film behind. It can be flavorless, or not. Fruity, or bubblegum. The flavorless has slight petroleum after taste. It is probably wise not to ingest it despite the claims of “non-toxic” on the side of the tube.

If only defeating corona was as easy as defeating chapped lips. Spread the vaccine on your lips. Enjoy the waxy film. Then go to the movies. Go to the bar. Have your family over for dinner. Stop worrying where your son is going. Put on your chapstick. It will make it all better. If only.

Irreconcilable Differences

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Thu, 30 Apr 2020 12:52:00 -0400

On January 17 2017 the human trainwreck and perveted German blowup doll stood on the steps of the capitol and gave one of the grimmest inaugural addresses ever by a so-called American president. He spoke of "American Carnage" repeatedly. We always thought the presidency of Donald John Trump would be a mess. Did you ever think it would be one that would result in the deaths of more Americans in two months than died in nineteen years of combat in Southeast Asia? That over one million people (and climbing) would be infected with a deadly virus that his administration did basically nothing to halt the spread of in January and February as it silently wove its way across this country? Now we are looking at potential food shortages. Mainly in the meat industry as more and more workers contract the virus due to the horrendous working conditions they are forced to endure day in and day out for basically slave wages. They just raised the death projections this morning to 100,000. It most likely will be even higher than that since most states are issuing fuzzy numbers. Particularly the ones in the Trumpistan part of the country. It is time for this country to split up. We need to divorce due to irreconcilable differences. For the sake of the children.

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Tue, 21 Apr 2020 17:04:00 -0400

Who else is sick and tired of the bullshit that is being spewed on us every friggin day by the most incompetent so-called "president" this country has ever witnessed? As I type this they are reporting over 43,000 Americans have died since February 29 from the coronavirus. We have a baby man throwing temper tantrums on Twitter who only cares about himself as more and more Americans die. Schools in my state were just closed until June , having already been close since March 13, one of at least 34 states to do so. Meanwhile the elected leader of the country is laying out plans to reopen and then immediately tweeting against HIS OWN PLANS. When does this madness end? What will it take?

U2's " War" Turns 30

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Sat, 2 Mar 2013 13:27:00 -0500

It is almost impossible for me to comprehend that this album is 30.To put it into perspective, 30 years before this album's release, rock -n-roll hadn't been invented yet, at least in as far as mainstream America was concerned. Bing,Patti Page , Perry Como , Sinatra and their ilk celebrated 30 yr old songs when "War" was released.

I can still remember hearing the first notes of "New Year's Day" coming out of the television in my livingroom,because in those days MTV still played music, and was the first thing I did when I got home from school.

Radio Free Europe - Hib-Tone Single - 1981

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Sun, 3 Feb 2013 13:41:00 -0500

picked up "Eponymous" at Planet yesterday for 3.99 .( Lost my original years ago so it was a nice find.) The version of R.F.E on it differs from the one released on "Murmur". From the liner notes on this tune: : "mike and jefferson think this one crushes the other one like a grape" . I tend to agree.

R.I.P Daydream Believer

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 15:14:00 -0500

Earlier today I had this odd premonition that Paul McCartney was going to pass away-for real this time. I have been in a big Beatles reading mode of late, having just finished reading the 2009 updated version of Hunter Davies' excellent must-read (and only authorized)1968 biography of the group before diving into Geoff Emerick's "Here, There and Everywhere: My Life Recording the Music of The Beatles". Maybe that had something to do with it. When I did open up the interweb news page , I did not see the death of Macca headlining the entertainment section. No, the "cute" Beatle was apparently alive and well somewhere in the world. The news was not so good for another iconic 1960's pop star. The "cute" Monkee, Davy Jones ,passed away suddenly from a heart attack at the much too young age of 66. Other than enjoying the reruns of their abbreviated show on WLVI when I was a "tween, and a couple of the hits, I never was much of an aficionado of their overall canon, having never purchased a single recording of The Monkees. I fell more into the "pre-fab four" opinion of the group. I just never could get past the original cynical intention of the group's origin, when compared to the Beatles more organic origins. Yes, once the Liverpool lads fell under Epstein's wings, and then later Martin and EMI et al, they became part of the corporate music world. But they certainly paid their dues to get to that point. And created much more influential music than the Monkees could ever lay claim to in their brief career. Nonetheless it is sad news, but Paul's passing will hit the generations of our household a bit harder when that day comes.

My Daughter's Creations

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 11:12:00 -0500

This is something my daughter created at school the other day. It made me smile

Damn Belgians

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 12:18:00 -0500

Christmas eve I made what has apparently become an annual tradition: a trip to Trader Joe's for some last minute holiday treats." Those candy cane sugar cookies looked good. Into the basket! Chocolate fudgie thingies ? Into the basket! One pound bars of imported Belgian chocolate? ( if it's half as good as their beer...) Into the basket! Fast forward a couple weeks ...one of those hefty cocoa bars was forgotten in a bag , left on a chair , in our living room. Then it was discovered by our dog, an undersized 20 month-old black lab mix. Discovered, then consumed in it's entirety in about three minutes. An emergency trip to the vet, $350( and many worried children's tears ) later she is back to her old self, aside for the fact that when she does her "business" it looks more like something out of a Kingsford bag due to the charcoal gunk she has been having to take. Another Belgian catastrophe averted. Damn Belgians.

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 21:25:00 -0500

Thirteen years ago today we lost my brother David very suddenly. We lost not only a sibling, but a best friend. He was just twenty-six. He was the proud father of a seventeen-month old son, with another on the way. This was one of his favorites and I dedicate it to his memory, and to all those who have gone through similar tragedy. Thousands of days can pass; yet the wound remains raw.

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 13:01:00 -0400

One of my earliest childhood memories is singing along to songs as my mother drove around delivering newspapers from her car. I remember hearing songs that would stay with me the rest of my life. I also remember being brought to tears and begging to change the station by either songs that were too sad, or just plain terrible. At least to a toddler’s ears.

At my elementary school we had no preschool or kindergarten, so my school memories started with first grade. It was the first time I was in the same room with a real guitar, when the music teacher would make her weekly visit to our class. Up until then the guitar had only been something I saw on television, or in the windows of music stores. Hearing the beautiful sounds those strings made when she strummed them, I thought “this must be what it sounds like in heaven“. I still remember the first song that music teacher played for us, all the way back in 1973. It was “Michael, Row The Boat Ashore”. I definitely can trace my love for, and my moderate ability to play the guitar to that very moment.

Like many families today, the 1970’s were not an easy time to raise a family. My parents had six children, and did not have an easy time raising their brood. They did not own their own home , so we moved around quite a bit. Not always to the best of neighborhoods, but we always had clean clothes and enough food to eat, so I can’t complain. Being the new kids at school all the time though,was tough. Many times the only tangible thing that stayed the same for me and my siblings was my mother’s old record collection that would go with us on each move. She seemed to have everything in her box of old 45s. We may not have had any friends at the new school, but The Beatles, Elvis, Buddy Holly, The Beach Boys, Carl Perkins et al would be ready to entertain us and keep us company in unfamiliar surroundings, as soon as we unpacked the box.

I had just turned ten when our latest move took us across the bridge from Beverly to Salem. After five years we left the suburban ,single-family confines of our former town and moved into a tougher, more urban neighborhood of triple deckers, where sidewalks and asphalt took the place of lawns and woods . A lot of the kids at my new school came from families where school was not the primary focus at home. For most of these parents, much like my own, keeping the roof over their heads took priority over supervising homework. Many worked two or three jobs, and their kids were pretty much on their own when they weren’t in school. I had a paper route of my own soon after we moved in, and classmates I would often encounter on the street would make the completion of my route “interesting” to say the least.

We only lived there for three years and I have forgotten most of my teacher’s names . I do remember though, my music teacher, Miss McSorley. Unlike some of the other music teachers I had had up to that point in my young life, she played contemporary music. At school! I couldn’t believe it. Elvis.The Beatles. The Beach Boys. The Carpenters.It seemed as though she raided the record box at our house. She knew the power behind music, and was able to capture and hold the attention of thirty hungry, hyperactive and streetwise kids with the simple act of placing a needle on a piece of spinning vinyl. The class would start out as a rowdy, seemingly uncontrollable group, acting like a scene out of the movie “Lean On Me” , but seconds after that needle dropped we would all be singing our hearts out .

Throughout my life, through thick and thin, music has remained a constant in my life. It led me to learn the trumpet which I played from elementary to high school , including the marching band which allowed me travel to places I could not have seen at the time otherwise. I was able to travel across New England to Canada , performing and competing in competitions. As a teen I returned to my first musical love, the guitar, which soon led me to learn how to write songs, playing and recording in local rock bands with gigs from Boston to New York, as well as making lifelong friends. Now as a father, it is so gratifying to see my children developing their own love of music, standing at the threshold of music’s call. I am honored that music has enabled me to sing and play songs with the children of my church parish. Every time my son or daughter puts their fingers to the keyboard, or the children let it rip during our sometimes cacophonous sing-alongs in Sunday School , I really do hear the sounds of heaven.

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Wed, 6 Apr 2011 09:17:00 -0400

he rises long before dawn
just to face another day
a boxer’s caught in the ropes
punch drunk in his own way

Holy Jesus,
I don’t know how
he does this

the hot steam rises
from that same old broken cup
I remember how it burns his hand
as he hopes for some better luck

Holy Jesus I don’t know how he does this
over and over again

his road is so well traveled
he might as well drive it blind
the miles pass like the sunsets
in the mirror behind him

the years keep on rolling by
like so many falling leaves
dropping from the sky
that one day will be calling him back home

Holy Jesus I don’t know how he does this
over and over again

this ain’t no deperate prayer
I’m hoping he can say
no , its just a worn out legacy
til he passes away

It's The Little Things

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 15:15:00 -0400

Today I had to have my first follow-up bloodwork taken to see how the thyroid meds I started taking in January are working. I braced myself for a couple hours lost from an otherwise productive day.
Since I am under the care of an endo doc at MGH I figured I would have to haul myself into downtown Boston to get tested. Dealing with the traffic, the tolls, the parking fees and the lost time from work. You know, fun stuff like that.
How pleased was I to find out that the satellite branch they have here in Waltham would do the test . Not only was it not more than a bit out of the way of my commute to work, but THERE WAS FREE PARKING!
I was in and out in about ten minutes, but I easily spent eight of those minutes wandering the unfamiliar halls looking for the office. Turned out that they are only listed on one of the first floor directories. Guess which one I checked?

A Winter Valentine

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 12:54:00 -0500

it always seemed to be

right out the chute
we're mired in the sand

and the rescue rope

you threw to me

only left its burns on my hands

sometimes you seem

like time standing still

it never does for me

there's not much more to say

when I built it all up

just to watch it blow away

lately we've been like

that fading bird in the sun

we found under that tree

it's hard to get close

even harder to read

what you wrote for me

sometimes you seem

like time standing still

it never does for me

there's not much more to say

when I built it all up

just to watch it blow away

if i could you know

i'd catch you when you run

to keep you forever in my arms

sometimes you seem
like time standing still
it never does for me
there's not much more to say
when I built it all up
just to watch it blow away

August Anniversaries

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 20:20:00 -0400

I do not know if it is by mere coincidence, or whether it is due to something slightly more cosmic, but, many of the most important, and in fact traumatic events in my life have happened in August . It was in August at the start of my senior year in high school when my parents decided to up and move yet again, ending the Beverly to Salem to Beverly loop by moving to Ipswich. It was in August, 1990 when I received my first diploma. It was in August when my wife and I bought our first home. It was in August when we bought our second home. It was in August when we later sold the first. More recently in August I received my biopsy results. Ten years ago , on the third of August I became a father. Sixteen days later, a stretch of eight days began that would bring me as close to the title of "single dad" or "widower" than I hope I ever experience again.

Our son ,who I am convinced did not want to be born ( he had to be induced twice) finally joined the outside world at 9:45 pm on August 3rd, 2000. Two days later our discharge to go home was delayed as our baby boy came down with jaundice, so we had to wait for a blood test result on him to see if we could go home. Finally about 9 pm they sent us packing , more or less. That is what it felt like. They are just throwing us out? When you are new parents, you feel like every time you pick your baby up you may break him. At least in the hospital, if you do in fact break the baby, they can fix him right there. They have a baby-fixin' toolbox right there. I have seen it. No worries.

Eventually, though,the legally mandated forty-eight hours expires, and suddenly you find yourself escorted to the curb, thrust out into the cold cruel world( well it was August so it wasn't all that cold) entrusted with caring for this really tiny human. Really tiny. Hamster sized. Made out of Christmas Ornament glass. Well not really . But that is what it felt like. And they were keeping the toolbox. Sure they sent us home with a six- pack of Pampers,"just to getcha started", but that is like sending an Astronaut on a space walk with nothing more than a a scuba mask. But it would only be for sixteen days.

Ten years ago, for the most part August 19th was like any other hectic, sleep-deprived day in the life of new parents. At that point, after sixteen consecutive days of sleeping in ninety-minute shifts, Michelle and I were pretty much shells of our former selves. Our son was not what you call a "napper". He would so unwillingly submit to the sandman that I used to think we should have named him Dylan. So the fact that Michelle was not quite feeling herself that afternoon, at first did not seem that odd. Giving birth after a long labor, then a subsequent mild infection, and a baby that refused to sleep would do that to a person. But her unease quickly escalated to the point of horrific pain,so severe that when they asked her later at the E.R. to quantify the pain, had she not just given birth, she told them it would have ranked as the worst in her life.

They admitted her for tests, that would later reveal a massive gall stone attack. She needed surgery. Quickly. The doctors put her on morphine for the pain, then proceeded to explain to us how they would do the surgery. Many words flowed from their mouths. Large words like laparoscopic, hepatic, pancreatitis and not so large words like camera, gas, bile, risks, and death.

After approving the procedure, she was wheeled away a short while later for her surgery. For the first time in my life I was faced with the prospect that were something to go tragically wrong, my newly born son could be left without a mother. A mother he would never know. Comforting thoughts to a new dad. Good book title.

I spent the next few hours waiting, worrying, pacing, processing , and learning how to feed my child formula . Up to that point the plan was that he was going to be nursed. Morphine drips tend to change plans.
After her surgery they wheeled her back into the room, and declared that the surgery went well. Some relief seemed to float into the room alongside her gurney. But it would not last.

Over the next several hours it became harder for her to breathe. Out she went for more tests. X-Rays. CT-Scans. The doctor came back to speak with us. His earlier upbeat face had been replaced. This one was not smiling. This time he used a word whose gravity I didn't fully grasp at the time : embolism.

Up to that point she had been allowed to return to the maternity ward, to be close with the baby. With this new news, she was to be moved into the telemetry unit. More nurses there, he explained. More training to deal with this sort of thing, he said.

So we were taken to the new room. We left the carpeted, wood paneled , almost hotel-like amenities of the maternity ward and soon found ourselves immersed in more traditional hospital decor. It was at this point I began to fully realize what was happening. Then it was made crystal clear, when the nurse in charge at the new unit, informed me that Michelle could no longer breastfeed due to the "clotbusting drugs they are starting her on. So you need to go get yourself some formula for the baby".

Practically in a state of shock, I took my newly born son, left my wife to be tended to by what I hoped and prayed were capable doctors , and headed to the grocery store. I had no idea what was going to happen. At the hospital. Or at the store.

After a few false starts up and down the aisles, I soon located the formula . During my quest , my son began crying. He was hungry. I was lost. Not a good combination. As his screams grew louder I found myself confronted with literally hundreds of brightly colored boxes, each claiming to be the "best choice for your child's nutrition". Yet each named with such unappetizing words like Enfamil. Or Simmilac. Is there an Ipecac too, I wondered. I had no idea what to choose. It was so frustrating. I started to sweat. The baby's cries grew louder. People around us in the store started to look. What is that guy doing to that baby. He has no idea what he is doing. Well, this is not the plan . I would explain to them. The plan was for the baby to be born on time. The plan was that the baby would be nursed. I am not supposed to be doing this. I found myself suddenly feeling angry. Then guilty. The plan was not to be on this roller-coaster ride;one minute taking you up, up up, filled with the incredible awe, joy and wonder of birth, then down, down down , the next turn into emergency surgery, morphine, heparin, medical proxy decisions and last minute formula purchases .

But then again it is August.

How Elvis Saved My Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 22:39:00 -0400

Thirty-three years ago, on this date, the sixteenth day of August, nineteen hundred and seventy-seven, I remember exactly where I was. I also remember what I did pretty much the entire day.

That summer I was ten years old and my family had just moved from the city of my birthplace , Beverly, across the bridge to Salem. We went from living in a classic "leave it to beaver" kind of neighborhood, unified around a quaint, old-fashioned elementary school at it's center, to one split in half, divided as much by the physical location of the school, if not the socioeconomics of the inhabitants . One half of the neighborhood, the side we were now living, was filled with older Victorian-era homes that had seen better days, with mostly french-canadian names on the mailboxes. The other half was a more urban neighborhood than my young eyes had ever seen. Narrow,litter-strewn, congested streets filled with run down triple deckers, inhabited mostly by recent immigrants from Latin America and Puerto Rico.

It was a far cry from the neighborhood we left . At that time, Beverly was mainly populated by families with either Irish or Italian surnames. Names like O'Brien, Flaherty, McDonald, Giacomo ,Vitale were the ones that filled the phone books of the first ten years of my life.

We moved literally the day after school ended. I was still finishing my Little League season , in fact, and had to arrange rides to finish out the schedule. My parents had found what they thought was a way out of their five years of post-bankruptcy tenancy by pursuing a "rent with the option to buy" arrangement they saw in the local paper. "It's too good to pass up" my dad naively explained to his five kids, three of whom would be forced to change schools, friends, and last but not least ,baseball. Baseball!

Due to his previous financial misfortunes and having five children before he was thirty, my father could not pay the movers any more than he had to. This was to be the third move for me, so I knew the drill. About a month before the move date, he would begin secretly bringing home his truck from his job at the newspaper, so we could spend the last weekends of the school year packing, (which involved a lot of fighting between my parents over what to keep and what not to keep) and loading box after box into the van, driving it over the bridge into Salem, and unloading it into our "new" house. Not since the Berlin airlift had American's been involved in something so logistically complicated. There was also the added air of secrecy to our operation, as dad "would catch hell" from his boss if he was caught using the truck that way, burning company gas. Like the moonshine runners of the thirties, we loaded by daylight and unloaded by twilight.

The house up to this point had been serving as a defacto frat house for the nearby Salem State College. We knew this because evidence of its previous life was everywhere.The first thing I remember seeing when I walked in was the Christmas tree hanging from the antique chandelier in the living room, so dry it was practically mummified. In June. There was also the nice, collegiate-themed decorating touches in each room: "A friend with weed is a friend indeed" posters, along with matching exotic tubular "ashtrays" which my mother quickly gathered up with a gasp. Also hanging on the walls were the requisite velvet black light posters of the 1970's. They contained the usual suspects: Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, and some kind of a unicorn/water buffalo themed Dali-esque lovefest. You know, the usual stuff. This once proud Victorian, probably originally commissioned for one of Salem's early movers and shakers, had been carved in two, christened with the haze of post-Vietnam celebratory pot smoke, and rented out to students who, when the acid kicked in, must have thought they had died and gone to Hell .

Somehow during all the chaos and nashing of teeth that came to be known as the"Linden Street" move, my siblings and I "discovered" my mother's collection of vinyl, that somehow she had manged protect from her now brood of five. And we also realized that we had a turntable that unlike most of the household devices of my childhood,actually worked.

On top of being the "new kids" in a strange , tough neighborhood, the summer of '77 was extremely hot. So we mostly stayed inside. At first helping my mom unpack. Then driving her crazy. When it looked like we were about to become a murder stastistic: "five children found hanging by a Christmas Tree. In July" we found the vinyl. We then spent the rest of that summer listening to many, many old 45's. She seemed to have everything, from the Beatles to the Searchers' to Johnny Cash to Robert Mitchum. Yes that Robert Mitchum. Seems ol' Bob himself cut the theme song for his moonshine-running crime flick "Thunder Road" back in 1958.

But to us, the true piece of eight in this newly discovered treasure chest ,was the LP entitled Elvis' Golden Records. From the moment the needle hit the vinyl on the opening track "Hound Dog", once we placed that platter on the turntable, it never left. We loved it so much we began performing the songs , grabbing whatever was nearby to assume the roles of our instruments in our newly formed band. As the oldest, I naturally felt I should be Elvis, and my sister took on the part of the drums, and the older of my two brothers completed the rest of the ensemble.The other two kids were toddlers, so they were our "audience". My sisters "drum set" consisted of the arm of our beat-to-hell brown Naugahyde-cloaked recliner , which she would straddle and play, looking more like it was some bizarre headless animal , than a drum set. My part was to "sing" into my "mike":the hollow metal tube for the "power nozzle" attachment for our ancient Electrolux vacuum cleaner.
The racket we made singing along with the King probably made my mother wish she could actually put us in a vacuum.

There was a boy living on the other side of the duplex we met during one of our many "moonshine runs". He was about my age and introduced himself to us soon after our first visit. I remember thinking he must have just come back from the beach because he was so tan. His name was Jimmy, and his family was Greek he told us, not beachcombers, and his dad left his mom a along time ago so it was just him , his two sisters and his mom next door. He would be my friend if I wanted, he told me. I could also be his older sister's boyfriend if I wanted. She's twelve. He seemed like a nice kid. I remember just being relieved to know one person in this new place, but as things often go in families like his, he was gone just a year later, shipped off to live with his dad and I never saw him after that.

That summer after we were more or less settled in , my best friend from Beverly would sleep over on the weekends. Kind of helped ease the transition I guess. It was during one of these weekends when Jimmy burst through our back screen door , yelling "hey did you hear ? did you hear? Elvis is dead! The King is dead!"

He told us he had just got back from a plane trip to see his dad, and apparently the pilot announced the news over the loudspeaker to all the passengers. Women broke down and cried, he said. It was really weird. As suddenly as he had arrived, he left. Probably to tell Mrs.Hood next door, my mom said. We immediately went back to our 'tween Elvis Tribute Band performance. Appropriately, "Heartbreak Hotel" came up next.

Despite the traumatic start to that summer, when I left the only school I had ever known, and the looming uncertainty of it's end ,when I would find myself thrust into a sea of children as diverse
as the General Session of the U.N., the few weeks before and after Elvis' death remain a bright spot in my memories of that part of my childhood. So much so, that whenever I hear one of the tracks that was on the Golden Records LP, it instantly transports me back to that strange old house, surrounded by old vinyl, an electrolux, and the songs of a dead king .

Can You Hear Me Now?

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 13:22:00 -0400

Seems I am finally getting my voice back to normal after almost 4 weeks. Sunday marked the first day without any real throat pain. Still feels as if I tied my tie too tight, but the main soreness has dissipated. Seemed to take a lot longer than they said it would. Needless to say, once you find yourself with an altered voice box, you tend to put off verbal communication as much as possible. The less I spoke the better. A week or so ago, I went into Dunkin Donuts for an iced coffee and it took three takes to get my order right. Not terribly enjoyable, but I would be lying if I didn't say it bothered me more that I repeatedly caught the clerk's eyes alternating her glances between my eyes and the bandage on my neck. In this period my main communication has been with my family , and aside from writing, not so much the rest of the world. Time to start getting back to "normal".

I realized I was regaining my voice during Donovan's birthday party, which we hosted this past Sunday. I was able to, for the most part, hold a tune when we sang "Happy Birthday" to the lad. Having some strength in the vocal chords also came in handy earlier in the afternoon, while I was simultaneously grilling and keeping his cousins from burning themselves on the deck-side inferno, aka our Smokey Joe Weber grill. While I grilled , there were gusts of wind that kept the flames a good 8 to 12 inches high throughout most of the cooking process. Good for the burgers and 'dogs. Not so good for children.

I spent most of my "fire safety" time on one cousin, who stared wide-eyed with pyro-maniacal desire at the billowing flames and smoke. I was tipped off to his infatuation earlier in the day, when he repeatedly peppered with me "Uncle Roger , let me try " while lighting the old newspaper we use to start the lump charcoal. The other children at the party could care less about the guy at the grill. Not this one. Had I left the grill for a moment, I am sure anything flammable nearby would have been thrust into the flames, and carried about devolving a late-summer birthday bbq into a suburban variation of "lord of the flies".

Letting It Sink In

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Thu, 5 Aug 2010 13:30:00 -0400

Today I had my first-ever, post-op, follow-up. (that has to rank as one of the most hyphenated sentences I have ever written.)

Throughout this process ,all the appointments were made for me by the doctor's office month's in advance, completely wrestling from me the ability to delay something I very much wanted to delay, if not avoid completely. These dates seemed so far off that they may as well not even have existed. I received my "packet" three months ago that laid out the pre-op consult , the pre-op physical exam, and the post-op follow-up, along with lots of documentation, needing lots of my closely guarded personal information. It was then I began to realize how much control over "self" you give up as soon as you decide to enter the mechanism known as the "Finest Medical Care In The World". I had just seen Gran Torino when the package arrived and unlike Mr. Kowalski(or is that kwaski?) I filled out all my forms, and kept all my appointments.

It has been a bit longer than two weeks since my surgery, and I am still adhering to the restrictions imposed on me as best I can. One such item was 'no driving'. I probably can drive now, but I figured rush hour in Boston was not the time to get behind the wheel for the first time in weeks. So Michelle drove me in to Mass Eye and Ear. My appointment was for 10:45, and we made it in with enough time to spare to hit the cafeteria on the seventh floor for some of their pancakes . For some reason they did not seem as good as they were two weeks ago when they were my first breakfast in forty-eight hours. Go figure.

When we got to the office , it became apparent that today the doctor was on a tight schedule. "He wants to keep things moving" one of his assistants explained to me as she escorted me back as soon as I walked in the door.

After showing us to the exam room, she immediately began her role in this process: removal of the steri-strips. She bustled about the cramped exam room, her extremely generous physical attributes only adding to the claustrophobic feeling I had as my personal space was invaded yet again, and began draping me with a gauze bib.

" I'm a-gonna put some unsticker lotion on you, and this will keep you dry"

Did she say 'a-gonna?'What the hell is 'unsticker' " I thought to myself as she started to squirt a cold fragrant gel all over my neck.

"Apparently the gel is mainly witch hazel," she informed us. By the smell of it, I had no reason to doubt her. After I was good and saturated with it, from Adam's apple to navel, and the room full of its aroma,she began pulling off the last surgical remnants of my summer ordeal. "Ohh look at that! He sure does good work" she crowed as she got the first looks at my nineteen day old incision. "Here come see for yourself" she prompted , showing me where the mirror was. "Oh. Yeah." I concurred, not so much agreeing as placating. I still had a six inch long scar on my neck. I still had the disturbing "path" report. I still had to "have a conversation" with the surgeon, and the endocrinologist. The only things I didn't have anymore were the nasty,yellowed, curling steri-strips, and half of my thyroid.

"The doctor will be with you shortly" she said abruptly exiting the room.

Michelle and I barely had time to make the usual, sarcastic wise-ass comments about the medieval-looking instruments laying about the room, before there was a light rap on the door and one of the "fellows" entered the room and introduced himself. I remembered seeing him several times when I was in the hospital, but Michelle was meeting him for the first time.

"Hello, I am Dr. P. Nice to see you again."

He took a deep breath before speaking. " So, I am going to talk with you first and then Dr. R will be in . I see he called you last week with your report, and informed you that the large lesion was benign..." he began with thickly accented English. My years spent in food service told me when I first met him, even in my narcotic-induced post-op haze, " he's Brazilian" . I wanted to say "Fala !" but restrained myself .

"...but we also found a small papillary carcinoma. This happens all the time and you have nothing to worry about" Now do you mind if I feel your neck..."

While he was speaking, I had become aware of a presence hovering outside the half-opened door to the exam room. Dr. R suddenly opened the door fully, said "hello" to both Michelle and I, then curtly asked the fellow, "Dr. P, Can I speak with you for a moment in the other room."

Michelle and I just looked at each other with a "wtf is going on?" expression as we awaited the fellow's return.

It never came.

Instead it was Dr. R who returned to the room. We exchanged pleasantries, and he flipped open the red folder with my name on it, and took a moment to look at the papers therein.

"As I discussed with you over the phone last week the path report showed the lesion we were concerned with, the large 16 mm one, was benign. So that is good news. But it also did show a small follicular carcinoma, of about 4 mm in size..."

I did not really hear the remainder of that sentence .

I heard the word "follicular" and my mind was off to the races.

The fellow had used the word "papillary" to describe the cancer. Papillary is the most common , and most indolent form of thryoid cancer. If it spreads at all, it mainly is confined to the lymph nodes of the neck. Very easy to keep an eye on. Follicular on the other hand spreads through the blood , bypassing the lymph system altogether. Immediately my mind began to think of the worst case possibilities. That my body was at that very moment being seeded with microscopic cancerous cells floating throughout my bloodstream, like bits of garbage swept away in a mid-summer's flash flood. That the garbage contained cancer-like maggots that would then infiltrate the organs of my body, devouring from the inside out. That what he was going to say next would include the words "six weeks" or " six months" or "to live". And "radiation." And "chemotherapy".

But it didn't. Instead the conversation contained phrases like " "minimally invasive", and "near zero","discussions" , "conversations" and "we will make sure we follow you".

But I couldn't let the slip-up by the fellow go.

"Dr. P told me it was 'papillary'. Follicular can spread through the blood" I blurted out, interrupting the doctor in mid-sentence.

"yes, Dr. P made a mistake. He is still very new, and does not always get the language right."

No shit ,he is new, I thought. Would it totally blow this guys mind if he knew with my advanced research tool , "The Google" , I found out on "the Google" that Dr. P was so new that his medical license, a "limited " one in fact, had only been issued to him on July 7th. Exactly one week before he was in the O.R. assisting you as you sliced open my neck? But I refrained.

" Yes, about that. I will be addressing that with him shortly. Forget what he said. You need to listen to what I am saying", Dr. R replied. I began picturing what will happen later, after we leave. I imagined this intern, fellow, whatever he is called being beat about the head by my enraged surgeon with tubes of witchhazel,clipboards, his "Limited License", and whatever else he could grab,amid screams of " Papillary? Papillary?!! I'll show you Papillary!!!!" Then, summarily being dragged by his ear to the cabinet where the wax for the Maserati is kept," I want two coats this time , dammit, you hear me? TWO COATS!"

Needless to say,henceforth our verbally challenged fellow has now become known as "Dr. Maserati" between Michelle and I.

Basically the long and short of my follow-up is my doc feels they got all of the cancer during the surgery. Yes it was follicular , a more aggressive variant, but the fact that it was minimally invasive in pathology means he feels ,aside from more frequent check-ups on the remaining part of my thyroid, "we can put this to bed at this time". The likelihood that it metastasized is in his words "close to zero". But that also means that the ability to have the certainty I need for my own peace of mind will be "close to zero" as well. I realize the chances at getting a doctor to speak in absolutes, or guarantees is also "close to zero".

So I surrender to my new reality. That of "lucky bastard post-op cancer patient" . I will be followed more closely. That means more frequent blood tests, checkups, ultrasounds, more invasion of my personal space, and whatever else they deem necessary, for the rest of my life. As a sufferer of "white coat syndrome" I am not thrilled at the prospect, but it certainly is much better than what the alternative could have been. As cancer diagnoses go, this is about as good as it gets.

The doctor began the visit "wrap-up" by summarizing what he had said previously, and telling me he understood "this was a lot to process " and I need to "let it all sink in." No kidding.

So I have begun the sinking-in process. If this is my only brush with the Big C , I will take it, but this year so far has been enough to make me old.

I sure as hell hope so.

Do You Suppose Thyroid Cancer Has A Sense Of Irony?

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 21:35:00 -0400

Today, July 29th 2010, I got "the call" from my surgeon.

The call that has had my stomach churning the previous seven days every time the phone rang. The call that would quite possibly decide at the very least, the next several months of my life. In keeping with the ways of today's online existence, I received an email notification that a message had been left on our home digital voicemail. Noting that it was only 14 seconds long , I immediately thought " Oh its just the robo-call reminding me of my apppointment Monday AM." I will check it tonight. Then I decided to retrieve it and give it a listen. To my surprise , instead of an annoying computerized robot, I heard the sound of my doctor's voice.

"Hello Roger, this Dr. Randolph calling to chat about your path report. " Shit. Heart leaps immediately into my throat. Hands shaking, I called the number he left , and found myself speaking with his assistant, and not him. She seemed surprised that I had a message from him as she thought he had" left for the day some time ago," but she would check and see if he was still "up in his office". The next thing I heard was the dead air of a music-free hold.

Moments later the doctor picked up .

"Roger, this is Doctor Randolph. How are you? You got my message. Good. I'm happy to..."

Tell me that everything is fine?

"chat with you about your path report over the phone, or wait until the followup and we can chat in person"

He sure likes the word 'chat'.

"No I'm ok talking on the phone" I heard myself reply,with a voice still slightly altered in timbre and strength from my surgical event two weeks prior.

Dr. Randolph began, with his usual calm, almost upbeat way of speaking. (Had he not become a World Famous Thyroid Surgeon, he certainly could have had a future in recording self-help audio books. Not quite a Stewart Smalley, but you get my point.)

"Well as you know you had a lesion that was 16mm..."

Yup. Have to say I know it pretty well at this point. Pretty intimate with "the lesion" , doc. I have found myself in a longterm dysfunctional relationship these past 6 years with this so-called "lesion", discovered incidentally in the summer of '04,same year my daughter was born. You only just met it face-to-face two weeks ago. Dysfunctional to the point that hundreds, check that, thousands of subsequent hours of my life have been irrevocably lost. Ever since my "atypical" biopsy result in the fall of 2004, I have lived with weeks of anxiety,insomnia, unexplained weight loss,abdominal pain, an endoscopy, an abdominal CT-scan, and too many panic attacks to name in the last year alone because "the lesion" decided this past February to "change slightly in size and complexity". Not to mention I apparently gave myself a hernia this winter trying to get myself out of the funk, courtesy of "the lesion"( which will have me back under the knife at some point in the not-too-distant future). Yeah quite a relationship this one,ultimately ending in antidepressants and a mid-summer's thyroid surgery. Yeah, I am pretty familiar with "the lesion".

"...well the pathology on that turned out to be 'benign'. It was caused by -insert medical jargon here-thyroiditis" . Then he paused.

Somehow, I knew what was coming on the other side of the pause.

" however..."

No. Absolutely not. No "howevers".

Benign you say? Works for me. I'll see you Monday for my stitch removal/post-op checkup. In fact I will come see you every Monday to pay you tribute with the breakfast treat of your choice for a benign pathology, and a clear-cut end to this saga. "Howevers" are not welcome in this conversation, thank-you very much. In fact , maybe you did not notice the big " NO HOWEVERS" sign hanging up behind me. Did I mention my son turns 10 on the 3rd. Also my Dad's birthday. Big birthday, turning ten. He is so excited. All he talks about these days. His father's surgery is a distant memory at this point. Be nice to have the stitches out on the 2nd. Surprising him with a trip to the Fenway that night so...Good Day Sir.I said, " Good Day!"

"the report did show a 4 mm cancer underneath the benign lesion".

"what?" I heard my response , stunned to hear the C-word so soon after hearing what I thought was an "all-clear". Who's report? My report?

It's this damned tee-shirt, I immediately thought. What? What the hell does the tee-shirt have to do with ANYTHING? "Well you see, "crazy Rog" started to explain to "sane Rog", Remember the ' cancer' dream a few years ago? You were wearing the same exact shirt you have on at the moment, the HP Government IT one with the orange outline of the US Capitol when you took the call" Fucking HP. You suck. In fact when I took the shirt out of the drawer this morning, I almost put it back , in a move my overly superstitious mother would be proud of. But I told myself, c'mon, they haven't called by now they aren't going to call . Besides , it was a friggin' dream. Means nothing.

The next several minutes of the phone call was what I can only imagine an out-of-body experience feels like. My mind began to race as it tried to process what it was hearing. I had imagined over and over again in the time leading up to this moment:how would I react if the news was cancer? Would I totally freak out? Would I start crying? Would I faint?. Hollywood has given us all kinds of scenarios for this moment. Which one would I choose?

In reality I did nothing. I just listened. Almost semi-hypnotic. I heard the calm, soothing voice of my surgeon, droning on with the expertise of a well-rehearsed bass, explaining numbers and statistics, and my voice accenting his explanations with the carefully placed snare beats of my response.

"now this occurrence is a fairly common one, when dealing with lobectomies. In fact it happens one in ten" Bahh-dumm dee dumm.

"I see." Snap.

"And this week, counting yours, I have 2 of these phone calls to make " Dee-dumm dee-dumm.

"I see" Snap.

"Now four millimeters is very small , but that being said ,it is a focus of cancer. The standard protocol for thyroid cancer is complete removal of the remaining thyroid tissue, and radioactive iodine treatment. However..."

There is that word again. Jesus, can't this bastard read my sign?

"as I was saying..."

He continued to do the "As I was saying" thing for another couple of minutes, while I climbed higher and higher up the precipice. But then he began talking me down off the ledge. Damn this guy is good.

"given its size , and the fact we removed the entire lobe containing it, I feel the risk of additional surgery outweighs the risk that this tumor poses going forward. So that is very reassuring".

"uh huh". Reassuring you say. Easy enough for you . It's not your neck. It's not your thyroid. It's not your cancer. It's not your son's tenth birthday. Holy Shit. This can't be happening. When I turned 10 , the most traumatic thing in my life was my parents decision to up and leave the town I was born in, and move across the bridge to Salem, changing schools, friends, quality of neighborhood, changing everything. Donovan gets this. Variation on a theme,I guess.

"So we need to have a conversation about this, and an Endocrinologist that focuses on thyroid cancer has to be a part of that conversation. I work with an excellent one at Mass General, and have already been in touch with him. I discussed your report with him and we are in agreement about how to proceed in the short term. I like to involve him in these cases as he does not automatically just agree with me as to what is best for the patient. So that is very reassuring also...."

"Dr. Barbarino?" I asked. I was fixated on the name, not really paying attention to what followed. In keeping with the way fucked up things tend to follow me around, earlier this week I was working on a computer owned by a "Cotter". Go figure.

"Barba-See-no" he corrected. "As I was saying..."

It is cancer, but it may not be one of the more aggressive forms, which necessitate additional surgeries and chemo , at this time. According to Randolph lots of people have undetected thyroid cancer. Some autopsy results often show it in as much as 36% of certain populations. But in many cases it is happy to sit and stew in its own "cancerousness" if you will, growing so slowly , one ultimately dies from something completely unrelated. Right now I am hoping that is the case with me.

"and right now it in your case it is totally, and completely unplugged."

His words, not mine.

Is that an all-clear? I am not really sure at this point, and am still processing. I guess it comes down to being optimistic and trusting enough to put my life in the hands of the doctor(s) advising me. Unfortunately my faith in the medical establishment has been shaken by the fact that for the previous six years we were just "watching and waiting" my thyroid, assuming all was ok. But after meeting Dr. Randolph we learned that "atypical really means "suspicious" , and from the get-go it should have come out soon after it's discovery. Not treated as if it was benign, per the advice of the endocrinologist I was seeing. Was. Won't be darkening his doorstep anytime soon. The kicker is I only saw him in the first place because the ENT surgeon who originally discovered our friend "the lesion" in 2004, whether because of inexperience or plain stupidity, deferred to the endo quack.

What faith I have left in those who swear to Hippocrates also has to withstand my innate predilection to always assume the worst-case scenario when it comes to my own health status.

Hopefully my follow-up August 2nd will resolve some of this.

Pushed To The Limit

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 16:10:00 -0400

of what remains of my patience with doctors, doctor's offices, their assistants, their mistresses and last but by no means least, their absolutely fucked up impression of what people want to read while waiting in their magazine-laden waiting rooms. Do I really need to keep up with the Kardashians even here? Fourteen days ago,( yes that's right FOUR-TEEN, not that I am counting) , I was fresh out of the O.R. after having a suspicious nodule removed for biopsy via the surgeon's scalpel. I still have no idea what the results of that biopsy are, despite being told just prior to being discharged, that they would call me with the results "next week". I know these things take a certain amount of time. After calling the office to check up on the results , I was informed that my doc was unavailable due to his being "in research" this week, and that I would have wait for one of his "fellows" to call me. Or wait for my follow-up which is scheduled for this Monday, almost three weeks after the procedure. Waiting for this just plain sucks. It will suck even more if it is bad news though. As a famous little leaguer/philosopher once said:
Good Grief.

Aimlessly meandering about

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 17:33:00 -0400

Maybe it was the chance reading of a friend's "Smokey and Bandit" posting on Facebook that got the idea planted in my mind, but for some reason today just had the feel of a "road trip" kind of day. After spending the better part of mid-day lounging about the house, we loaded the kids (and the dog) in the car and hit the road, with no particular plan , but only one requirement: that wherever we may roam , part of the journey would include a stop at Kimball Farms Ice Cream in Carlisle.
Off we went up Route 128, then we missed the Kimballs exit , thanks to a careless driver in a late-model Mustang, who apparently felt he was the only car on the road. Michelle was more concerned with keeping our car in one piece (imagine that) and the exit ramp quickly passed us by. So we went up 3A , erroneously thinking we would cross at some point the road that would lead us to one of the two locations of our frozen treat valhalla.
Upon seeing the sign :"Entering Lowell" we quickly realized we would have to backtrack a bit, and soon,as the sky began to lose the bright sun that occupied it all day , and was rapidly filling with some pretty angry looking clouds.
A quick jump onto 495, then Route 3 got us back to 128, then 4/225. This time we made the exit the first try, and 15 minutes later we were sitting with our fellow parishioners, taking communion in our pews of umbrella covered picnic tables, dipping our spoons into the enormous creamy delight that never seems to tire our tastebuds. Summer at it's best.

Another Day Spent Waiting and Recovering

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 16:19:00 -0400

Not quite sure what to make of the delay in getting the pathology report back from the doctor. Does taking a long time mean bad news? Or would bad news be reported sooner than good? Or is it simply a case of the doc being on vacation and the report sitting in his inbox on the desk?
It is something I am not that aggressive in getting answered as I do not want it to be a classic case of "be careful what you wish for".

There Are Few Things As Anxiety Provoking

noreply@blogger.com (Mooseleader) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 13:40:00 -0400

as waiting for your surgeon to call with the biopsy results after they removed a 1.5 CM tumor from your thyroid.
Everytime the phone rings, or the email notifier goes off, my heart does a flip-flop and my stomach feels like it has suddenly become a cement-mixer full of lead butterflies. Do I call? Do I call? But they told me THEY would call after about a week. "After about a week" . How many days exactly is "after about a week'? Do doctors have their own variation of the Gregorian Calendar......