I hope you all had a nice time with your families over the holidays and had fun stimulating our nation's economy. We go both ways at the Leblanc household. I have chosen to practice and raise my kids as Jews but I can't let go of Christmas. Growing up the Friedman household did it up big, the tree and the presents that is; let's face it, Christmas at the Friedman household had all the religious fervor of Halloween. So it is easy for me to continue to embrace Christmas because it's about Santa, not some other guy's birthday.
This year a happy Christmas was a close shave. One week prior I fought with belly pain all night and after spewing my guts like Linda Blair a couple times I had to admit I needed to go in for another bowel obstruction. I was admitted and after a day of things not going well the NG tube fairy made another visit. This time in the form of a gyn resident who was as nice as anyone can be who is shoving something into your nose and down into your stomach. After about a day the stupid thing caught on the gurney coming back from radiology and slithered out.
The second NG tube fairy came in the form of a surgery resident who meant business. She picked a bigger tube. That baby went down there to stay. I cried like a toddler getting her shots. The resident seemed a little indifferent to my discomfort as if some inconsequential place like the nose couldn't possibly hurt that much.
And there I sat. I was chained to the wall by that NG tube hooked up to suction in an effort to decompress my swollen, twisted bowel, the NG tube made even more special by a sinusitis I picked up from Adam before I came in. I was sent for studies to see if the source of the blockage could be determined. I had a CT scan and was told the next morning that there may be a new mass in my pelvis causing the blockage. Thunderstruck is a good adjective to describe my reaction. A CT scan less than a month ago showed very little cancer. In fact some of it had improved. The doctor who was covering for mine and I determined that they weren't comparing the new scan to the most recent. She trotted off to check this out after telling me about the possibility of a feeding tube.
After she left I threw the food magazine I had been reading across the room.
I wasn't ready for this. This was the beginning of the end. Time to call in a favor. I called my friend Barb and explained the situation. I needed a real radiologist. Barbara is not a radiologist but an internist. However, her husband is. Barb calmly took my information and got right on it. I never saw Barb during an emergency like an ice storm but I bet she loves them. She had that Hall of Justice, steely determination in her voice as she told me she'd call Steven and he'd get right back to me.
Steven did get back to me in a couple hours while I calmly watched NCIS (no joke). He not only read the CT but had several other guys in his department read the thing as well. No change from previous films. "ohhhh!" was all I could say at first as the reality of the thing just hit me when he called. Later I sent him a text message: Thank you Hannukah Harry!
So it's the surgeries and radiation that have caused this in case you're wondering. It was now a matter of getting over the current mess and getting home. Things were progressing slowly and it didn't look like I was going to be home for Christmas.
Now here comes Santa. My parents were spending the holiday with my sister in Boston. On the night of the 23rd they decided to come to Rochester. On Christmas Eve they loaded up the SUV and Granny Franny's Land Yacht with all the gifts and food they had planned for their Christmas and road tripped to Rochester. They arrived in the afternoon and the grownups came over to the hospital to visit me and bring a webcam so I could watch the kids open presents in the morning.
As they walked into my room I was clawing at my face like Sigourney Weaver in Alien. I had been blowing my nose when I was suddenly seized by fit of sneezing ten times followed by a sensation of several razor blades in my nose. Barb also chose this time to visit. "Should we get your nurse?" I could hardly talk and tears were shooting out my eyes. Barb being practical said, "well, that tube just has to come out. You want me to help?" "No, don't piss off the nurses!" I said for inexplicable reasons.
My nurse came in and wanted to put the tube back to suction. It had been shut off because the obstruction had been improving. My mother, also a practical woman said, "what the hell is that going to do?" She was right of course but I'm not sure I'd have phrased it that way. When the suction was turned on it was like a Hoover in my head. It took me a minute to realize that the end of the tube was not in my stomach but in my nose. I'd sneezed the damned thing out. So out it came. My wildest dream come true.
Would I make it over night without having to have the tube replaced? I'd rather have pulled out my own thumbnail. I slept overnight comfortably. I even got to eat some jello after a few hours. The bowel obstruction was over. I made it home Christmas Day just after lunch. The kids had waited patiently all morning, pacified with Christmas candy, and I opened presents with everyone that afternoon.
God bless us, every one! Oy!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Finding one's "peeps"
The Yoders were next to arrive; Kate showing me up by bringing actual homemade goods. Doug also came bearing provisions. He made enough caramel corn to feed the next installment of troops to Afghanistan. Caramel corn is a specialty of his family. I remember the first year he made it at the Friedman house. For the next few days we all had bits of popcorn under our fingernails. My mother, on her eternal diet was miffed at the diet's sabotage. "Goddammit Doug!" she admonished as she plunged her hand in for another fistful.
Of course Doug also brought beer thus beginning the 2009 Beer Wars. Everyone denies this exists or has their own interpretation but they are all lying. We all know it's true. Here's how it works. The men want to start the afternoon's libations but know that they will get in trouble with their respective spouses if they start on the beer too early so instead of getting themselves a beer they offer each other one. This has to be done in the presence of the recipient's spouse because in addition to avoiding conflict with their own spouse it is a lot of fun to piss off each other's. Here's an example:
Doug: Hal, can I get you a beer?
Hal: (a slight pause, but then not wanting to be impolite) Ok, sure.
Fran: Jesus Hal, don't get sloshed by dinner!
Endless variations exist. I like the subtlety of getting one of those really big bottles from the microbreweries and offering to split it because it's "too much" for one. Very slick. (A note, everyone was very well behaved at dinner).
Thanksgiving dinner itself was its usual array of splendor. Granny Franny did it up to perfection despite the huge crowd this year including the neighbors. The chickens (Mom's not a fan of turkey) were moist, golden goodness. The mashed potato made excellent nuclear reactors. What, you don't do this? What can I say, we're into our 40's and my brother and I still make 3 Mile Island out of our mashed potatoes. It's easy. Make a big well, pour in a lot of reactor coolant (gravy). Cap off the top with more potato. Done. Ugh! Reactor core breach! Evacuate the plate! Delicious.
Everyone was having fun. Everyone could barely walk from eating. The kids were well behaved. Daniel, the newest addition's every move was followed closely by a gaggle of adoring cousins. On Saturday morning when we were scheduled to leave I decided completely ruin the festive air by taking a side trip to the emergency room and getting myself admitted for three days with another partial bowel obstruction. Tube down the nose, not quite enough pain medicine, heparin shots in the belly. All was well and is well. The obstruction relieved on its own. Alain took the kids home on Sunday and I flew home on Tuesday. Still doing fine.
This was my fourth run in with this particular problem. My mother cornered one of the gastroenterologists at the hospital who is a long time family friend and said, "Bob, what can we do about Beth?" (or something to that effect). Bob, aka Dr. Cimis launched into a detailed description of radiation enteritis. What the problem was (stasis and bacterial overgrowth) and how to fix it (low dose antibiotics). The reason I'm feeling better than before is because I've been on antibiotics all week. My doctor here doesn't know anything about this. In fact, I've done my own review and didn't find any mention of this kind of problem. If you recall I'm also a doctor; I know where to look. Three cheers to Dr. Cimis!
This post was meant to be a tribute to Bob but since it's getting long I'm going to sign off here and write my tribute on another post at which point you'll understand the title. Just in case you need to get back to your online holiday shopping.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
We all need heroes.
Hello all,
No health news from me to report. I am very saddened this week by a colleague's sudden loss of her husband. It was unexpected and devastating. I am thinking of her. Now, go hug someone you love.
I've been asked several times recently if I plan to see the movie about Julia Child. I'm not sure about this. Before her cult status was resurrected recently she was my hero. Mine.
I grew up watching Julia. My mother learned to cook in part from her. Let's just say the culinary tradition from which my mother sprang was a barren dessert of dry roasts and scalloped tomatoes (the latter are actually good). My grandmother would boil a bunch of corn in the summer and call it dinner.
As a child I grew up with Coq au Vin, Navarin of Lamb, chicken a l'orange and other delights. And these were on week nights! My mother used to, and probably still can make a sit down dinner for 30. She cooked everything from chicken pate to the pork tenderloins to the holy trinity of deserts: the walnut roll, the lady finger thing with strawberries, whipped cream, and grand marnier, and an almond meringue cake filled and glazed with a chocolate ganache.
We'd watch Julia Child on public television on the weekends. I loved her. She took such pleasure in what she was doing. I especially loved at the end when she'd set forth the whole meal as if guests were going to walk in at any moment. She usually had a glass of wine and it wasn't much of a stretch to think that the bottle had been open a while.
As I got older I liked how she conveyed her love of those classic dishes as if they were old friends. They weren't dishes you just ordered in a restaurant. If you really loved food you would want to cook it. That is how I feel too. I haven't read a book in bed in a while but I have read countless cooking magazines cover to cover. One cannot truly love food without knowing something about cooking. I'm sorry. I know everyone does not share my love of the stove. I've said it before; git yer own blog.
One Saturday Julia was shucking oysters. Not something young children should watch. Also needing a PG-13 rating is a middle aged woman sucking one of those slithery beasts out of it's shell and exclaiming "they have a wonderfully sea-bottomy flavor!" Ewww! Sorry Julia, ya lost me and the rest of the under 12 crowd with that one.
Later as a young adult I shared an apartment with both my brother and sister for a while. It actually worked pretty well. Sure we yelled at each other but that was the beauty of it. We could yell at each other. It was easy to go food shopping and just split the bill three ways plus we knew automatically where everything in the kitchen was supposed to go. When it was just Kate and me together we also watched Julia Child every now and then. There she was one Saturday doing oysters again. Kate and I, now worldly adults watched intently. "Oh, you open the back side not the flat side!"
Julia took up one of those shells of glistening goodness and sucked it back. "they have a wonderfully sea-bottomy flavor!" she exclaimed once again. She wasn't doing oyster again; it was the same show.
Not long after this Julia's huge tome "The Way to Cook" came out. Of course I had to have it. I already had two other signed books of hers. My brother went to a book signing and stood in a long line at the end of which he regaled Julia with some version of this tale. How much he actually conveyed to our heroine I don't know but I am the proud owner of a this book inscribed: "To Beth, Wonderfully sea-bottomy flavor! -Julia Child.
No health news from me to report. I am very saddened this week by a colleague's sudden loss of her husband. It was unexpected and devastating. I am thinking of her. Now, go hug someone you love.
I've been asked several times recently if I plan to see the movie about Julia Child. I'm not sure about this. Before her cult status was resurrected recently she was my hero. Mine.
I grew up watching Julia. My mother learned to cook in part from her. Let's just say the culinary tradition from which my mother sprang was a barren dessert of dry roasts and scalloped tomatoes (the latter are actually good). My grandmother would boil a bunch of corn in the summer and call it dinner.
As a child I grew up with Coq au Vin, Navarin of Lamb, chicken a l'orange and other delights. And these were on week nights! My mother used to, and probably still can make a sit down dinner for 30. She cooked everything from chicken pate to the pork tenderloins to the holy trinity of deserts: the walnut roll, the lady finger thing with strawberries, whipped cream, and grand marnier, and an almond meringue cake filled and glazed with a chocolate ganache.
We'd watch Julia Child on public television on the weekends. I loved her. She took such pleasure in what she was doing. I especially loved at the end when she'd set forth the whole meal as if guests were going to walk in at any moment. She usually had a glass of wine and it wasn't much of a stretch to think that the bottle had been open a while.
As I got older I liked how she conveyed her love of those classic dishes as if they were old friends. They weren't dishes you just ordered in a restaurant. If you really loved food you would want to cook it. That is how I feel too. I haven't read a book in bed in a while but I have read countless cooking magazines cover to cover. One cannot truly love food without knowing something about cooking. I'm sorry. I know everyone does not share my love of the stove. I've said it before; git yer own blog.
One Saturday Julia was shucking oysters. Not something young children should watch. Also needing a PG-13 rating is a middle aged woman sucking one of those slithery beasts out of it's shell and exclaiming "they have a wonderfully sea-bottomy flavor!" Ewww! Sorry Julia, ya lost me and the rest of the under 12 crowd with that one.
Later as a young adult I shared an apartment with both my brother and sister for a while. It actually worked pretty well. Sure we yelled at each other but that was the beauty of it. We could yell at each other. It was easy to go food shopping and just split the bill three ways plus we knew automatically where everything in the kitchen was supposed to go. When it was just Kate and me together we also watched Julia Child every now and then. There she was one Saturday doing oysters again. Kate and I, now worldly adults watched intently. "Oh, you open the back side not the flat side!"
Julia took up one of those shells of glistening goodness and sucked it back. "they have a wonderfully sea-bottomy flavor!" she exclaimed once again. She wasn't doing oyster again; it was the same show.
Not long after this Julia's huge tome "The Way to Cook" came out. Of course I had to have it. I already had two other signed books of hers. My brother went to a book signing and stood in a long line at the end of which he regaled Julia with some version of this tale. How much he actually conveyed to our heroine I don't know but I am the proud owner of a this book inscribed: "To Beth, Wonderfully sea-bottomy flavor! -Julia Child.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
A bright note...
Hard to believe but I have some good news. Oh my, that sounds terribly self absorbed. Well, I have been rather self absorbed lately. After a summer of delightful travel interspersed with trips to the hospital I've been feeling crappy and worried about my health.
My saddlebags that I wear on my saddlebags, that would be the bags of pee I clip to my underwear at my hips for those of you needing more explanation, haven't been cooperating. I went in recently to have the nephrostomies converted to internal stents so I can pee like a normal person instead of drenching the bed, or my leg periodically (yep, it happened at work). They are very nice in the Interventional Radiology suite, especially a nurse named Andrew. He's some kind of dope dealer. I got some sedation and pain medicine during the procedure but was still in pain after so he got me 2 vicodin. One of those usually has me slurring my words but I was still a little gorked from the procedure and didn't think about the dose. Vicodin being an oral medication doesn't work right away. Andrew's solution was some intravenous dilaudid as a chaser. That makes a grand total of fentanyl, versed, vicodin and dilaudid in about 90 minutes. Holy cow, it took me three days to detox.
I had a cocktail party the following night. If Happy Hal and Granny Franny hadn't been there to help we'd have had to turn people away at the door. After tanking on fluids all day I rallied about an hour after the party started. It was a fun little soiree.
Ok, so what's the good news? The internal stents aren't working. I still gotta saddle up with my bags. My tumor marker took a jump the last round of chemo. I'm not eating well and am losing weight. Worsening disease was on everyone's mind. The good news is a CT scan last week shows disease that is stable to slightly improved. There's actually not a whole lot of bad stuff in there. You can all stop coveting my road bike now. The chemo is working and we're going to stick with the current treatment plan.
I'm so relieved. It's taken almost a week to really feel it. It feels good, real good.
I'll sign off now. In the next installment I think I shall right about my hero.
Dr. Bif
My saddlebags that I wear on my saddlebags, that would be the bags of pee I clip to my underwear at my hips for those of you needing more explanation, haven't been cooperating. I went in recently to have the nephrostomies converted to internal stents so I can pee like a normal person instead of drenching the bed, or my leg periodically (yep, it happened at work). They are very nice in the Interventional Radiology suite, especially a nurse named Andrew. He's some kind of dope dealer. I got some sedation and pain medicine during the procedure but was still in pain after so he got me 2 vicodin. One of those usually has me slurring my words but I was still a little gorked from the procedure and didn't think about the dose. Vicodin being an oral medication doesn't work right away. Andrew's solution was some intravenous dilaudid as a chaser. That makes a grand total of fentanyl, versed, vicodin and dilaudid in about 90 minutes. Holy cow, it took me three days to detox.
I had a cocktail party the following night. If Happy Hal and Granny Franny hadn't been there to help we'd have had to turn people away at the door. After tanking on fluids all day I rallied about an hour after the party started. It was a fun little soiree.
Ok, so what's the good news? The internal stents aren't working. I still gotta saddle up with my bags. My tumor marker took a jump the last round of chemo. I'm not eating well and am losing weight. Worsening disease was on everyone's mind. The good news is a CT scan last week shows disease that is stable to slightly improved. There's actually not a whole lot of bad stuff in there. You can all stop coveting my road bike now. The chemo is working and we're going to stick with the current treatment plan.
I'm so relieved. It's taken almost a week to really feel it. It feels good, real good.
I'll sign off now. In the next installment I think I shall right about my hero.
Dr. Bif
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Shaking the tree, or peeing on it.
I am home from the hospital but not after they tried to feed me pureed roast beef. It comes molded into a little shape reminiscent of something someone thinks looks like a slice from a roast. Ew.
I am home again. Thank god. As I mentioned I was just on my way out of the big house when I was informed that my kidneys were in distress. After having been released from the IV pole I was not only hooked up to it again but chained to the bed with a foley in my bladder. It is possible to get up and walk around with that thing, you just have to carry around a large bag of pee. Combined with the IV pole it becomes an elaborate interpretive dance to get into the bathroom without yanking on something vital. The foley was done in an attempt to decompress my kidneys, assuming the bladder wasn't doing it's job of relieving them.
My urologist is a good guy. He came in after the holiday, saw that I was scheduled for yet another ultrasound before any procedure was decided on. He said, "that's stupid. I'm going to go shake the tree." I was then second in line for nephrostomy tubes. Yay, Dr. Gentile. Tres gentil.
So now I have more tubes and bags. I'll digress just a moment here to say that I have mixed feelings sharing all of this with everyone. Do I want to show up at a family function and have relatives checking to see if my bags show under my clothes? What happened to suffering in silence? When I was an intern I had a senior resident who I did a floor rotation with. We were good friends and the nature of the job required us to be in each other's presence almost constantly. She had a miscarriage on our rotation and I was none the wiser. I'm not clueless either. I can read people's moods pretty well (In fact I'd make a good spy but I can't overhear conversations when there's background noise. Jason Bourne's job is safe.). I admire that kind of stoicism but I possess it not. Everyone knows when I have a hangnail.
So I let it hang out there. What the hell, I am who I am. It gets tricky with patients though who find out I've been ill. It hasn't gotten intrusive because I just stick cheerfully to the facts, answer only what is asked and move on. It would be very much trickier if I were someone's primary care physician or oncologist. Sometimes it's good to be just an allergist.
Now that I've shared that little nugget with y'all I'll just say that I am now the recipient of more bags than a recycling center. I was told by the PA before the procedure that they would be totally discreet under my clothing. If I ever find out where she parks her car I'm going to empty one of them onto her front seat and see how discreet she finds it. The tubing is long enough to hang to my feet and each bag holds 600 cc's of pee. "Hey, that's almost 2 beers each side," said Alain. Medical things need to be translated into terms Canadians can understand: beer. On the plus side, I can now pee standing up. Can't wait for a tailgate party.
I was totally outdone by my sister in the black humor category with the following email. Kate, if you don't like me posting this, git yer own blog. Frankly I'm proud of ya, Katie:
Beth,
I was wondering if you would like me to make a call to the Glad bag people
and look into a sponsorship?
You could be on Top Chef! "After making the alligator soup over the
radiator in my room, I will safely empty my bags using the NEW osti combo
bag set. This challenge was a really tough one for me. I have never worked
with alligator before and I wish someone had told me to kill the thing
before I tried making the soup. I just don't want to be sent home, what
will my colleagues think. How will I keep my sponsorship with Glad and
their fabulous Combo Osti bag set?"
Well done, care to top it Ted?
Dr. Bif
I am home again. Thank god. As I mentioned I was just on my way out of the big house when I was informed that my kidneys were in distress. After having been released from the IV pole I was not only hooked up to it again but chained to the bed with a foley in my bladder. It is possible to get up and walk around with that thing, you just have to carry around a large bag of pee. Combined with the IV pole it becomes an elaborate interpretive dance to get into the bathroom without yanking on something vital. The foley was done in an attempt to decompress my kidneys, assuming the bladder wasn't doing it's job of relieving them.
My urologist is a good guy. He came in after the holiday, saw that I was scheduled for yet another ultrasound before any procedure was decided on. He said, "that's stupid. I'm going to go shake the tree." I was then second in line for nephrostomy tubes. Yay, Dr. Gentile. Tres gentil.
So now I have more tubes and bags. I'll digress just a moment here to say that I have mixed feelings sharing all of this with everyone. Do I want to show up at a family function and have relatives checking to see if my bags show under my clothes? What happened to suffering in silence? When I was an intern I had a senior resident who I did a floor rotation with. We were good friends and the nature of the job required us to be in each other's presence almost constantly. She had a miscarriage on our rotation and I was none the wiser. I'm not clueless either. I can read people's moods pretty well (In fact I'd make a good spy but I can't overhear conversations when there's background noise. Jason Bourne's job is safe.). I admire that kind of stoicism but I possess it not. Everyone knows when I have a hangnail.
So I let it hang out there. What the hell, I am who I am. It gets tricky with patients though who find out I've been ill. It hasn't gotten intrusive because I just stick cheerfully to the facts, answer only what is asked and move on. It would be very much trickier if I were someone's primary care physician or oncologist. Sometimes it's good to be just an allergist.
Now that I've shared that little nugget with y'all I'll just say that I am now the recipient of more bags than a recycling center. I was told by the PA before the procedure that they would be totally discreet under my clothing. If I ever find out where she parks her car I'm going to empty one of them onto her front seat and see how discreet she finds it. The tubing is long enough to hang to my feet and each bag holds 600 cc's of pee. "Hey, that's almost 2 beers each side," said Alain. Medical things need to be translated into terms Canadians can understand: beer. On the plus side, I can now pee standing up. Can't wait for a tailgate party.
I was totally outdone by my sister in the black humor category with the following email. Kate, if you don't like me posting this, git yer own blog. Frankly I'm proud of ya, Katie:
Beth,
I was wondering if you would like me to make a call to the Glad bag people
and look into a sponsorship?
You could be on Top Chef! "After making the alligator soup over the
radiator in my room, I will safely empty my bags using the NEW osti combo
bag set. This challenge was a really tough one for me. I have never worked
with alligator before and I wish someone had told me to kill the thing
before I tried making the soup. I just don't want to be sent home, what
will my colleagues think. How will I keep my sponsorship with Glad and
their fabulous Combo Osti bag set?"
Well done, care to top it Ted?
Dr. Bif
Monday, September 7, 2009
Back in the big house
Some of you complained that I hadn't posted on the blog in a while. Well, now look what happened? I'm back in the hospital. Hey if I have to slug it out with hospital food I might as well make you all feel guilty as well. Not to be outdone by my sister's little weekend getaway at Mass General I decided to work up a bowel obstruction. things aren't the same inside after a bunch of surgeries and the bowel can get kinked on scar tissue. Luckily this one worked it's way out with just some rest and pain medicine.
I was all set to bounce out of here when a very nice resident told me they couldn't let me go because my kidney function was off. So I've had a scan and some fluid and some potassium. Now I'm waiting for the kidney specialists to weigh in on this. I might be up for a procedure soon. Try not to get sick on a holiday weekend. Hospitals, like the rest of the world grind to a halt. It shouldn't be that way but it is. I wonder how much extra money our insurance companies pay for extended hospital stays just because a holiday rolls around?
With any luck they'll get this show on the road soon. In the meantime I'm going to get a bunch of knitting done and watch the NCIS marathon. It is probably not a good idea to watch a medical crime show while in the hospital. I don't care, it fuels my black sense of humor.
On a more practical note, i think alain is set with the boys as far as food goes. he just went shopping. they are back from vacation in Montreal. Sam is enjoying his jar of Nutella they bought up there. He was introduced to it in France. He'll be glad to know they have it at Wegman's.
beth
I was all set to bounce out of here when a very nice resident told me they couldn't let me go because my kidney function was off. So I've had a scan and some fluid and some potassium. Now I'm waiting for the kidney specialists to weigh in on this. I might be up for a procedure soon. Try not to get sick on a holiday weekend. Hospitals, like the rest of the world grind to a halt. It shouldn't be that way but it is. I wonder how much extra money our insurance companies pay for extended hospital stays just because a holiday rolls around?
With any luck they'll get this show on the road soon. In the meantime I'm going to get a bunch of knitting done and watch the NCIS marathon. It is probably not a good idea to watch a medical crime show while in the hospital. I don't care, it fuels my black sense of humor.
On a more practical note, i think alain is set with the boys as far as food goes. he just went shopping. they are back from vacation in Montreal. Sam is enjoying his jar of Nutella they bought up there. He was introduced to it in France. He'll be glad to know they have it at Wegman's.
beth
Friday, July 31, 2009
It's not easy being green.
I was sure there would be comments from the last post. You are all obviously out enjoying the summer. If you live on the east coast that means drowning. If you live on the west, frying to a crisp. In the spring I was thrashing around in my yard almost every day. I am determined to have a garden that looks like a grownup planted it. You know, for someone who imagines herself having some kind of artistic talent, garden design is not my forte. I really love that casual English garden style where it looks like a bunch of foxglove, daisies and roses just wandered in. My attempt at casual elegance however, looks like a school’s flower bed. Ah, that must be the area they let the kindergartners plant.
To make matters worse, the weeds have crept in and gotten away from me. They didn’t have far to go. The lawn is mostly weeds. I will not take the blame for this. The yard was a big mess when we moved in 6 years ago. All Alain and I have been willing to do is mow the suckers down occasionally. When we first moved in my neighbor across the street tried to be helpful. She said, “You know, if you were thinking of spraying some weed killer down, now is the time of year to do it.” I told her, “If it’s green it stays.” Hey, you’ve got to admit that huge patch of clover looks pretty darn good during a drought. I don’t know for sure but I think all those weeds have something to do with the annual crop of really weird mushrooms that sprout up all over the yard. One of my neighbors practices his golf swing on his. Me, I get out the mushroom guide books to see which ones I can eat. I am strange in many ways. Wouldn’t you know? Not a single one edible. And what peeps out from under a pine tree just three feet over the property line of my neighbor’s yard but a tiny patch of chanterelles. It ain’t fair.
Now, even I, the earthy-crunchy, tree hugging environmentalist, have contemplated the purchase of Round Up. But no, I can’t do it. Lest I offend you Monsanto types I would just like to point out that it would take poisoning all of nearby Lake Ontario to kill all the weeds in this yard. I have to remind myself of what I tell other people as they gaze at all the many leafy green things that have completely outcompeted the grass. What some people call weeds, I call biodiversity.
I did cheat though. When we were away in France my neighbor sent her lawn service guy over to mow our lawn. Yes, Ann is a saint in many ways. One of the best things you can ever do is make friends with a neighbor who is a neat freak. One day she came over with her power washer and cleaned my deck. The workmen renovating my kitchen are still talking about it; they never saw anyone do that kind of thing voluntarily, just to be nice.
The lawn looked nice. Damned nice. Alain was away this week at a conference enjoying balmy, sweltering Vancouver. Did you know the public beaches there are clothing optional? Did you know Alain hates the lawn services because of all the noise they make on the weekends? I cheated. I had Ann call the guy back. Don’t tell.
To make matters worse, the weeds have crept in and gotten away from me. They didn’t have far to go. The lawn is mostly weeds. I will not take the blame for this. The yard was a big mess when we moved in 6 years ago. All Alain and I have been willing to do is mow the suckers down occasionally. When we first moved in my neighbor across the street tried to be helpful. She said, “You know, if you were thinking of spraying some weed killer down, now is the time of year to do it.” I told her, “If it’s green it stays.” Hey, you’ve got to admit that huge patch of clover looks pretty darn good during a drought. I don’t know for sure but I think all those weeds have something to do with the annual crop of really weird mushrooms that sprout up all over the yard. One of my neighbors practices his golf swing on his. Me, I get out the mushroom guide books to see which ones I can eat. I am strange in many ways. Wouldn’t you know? Not a single one edible. And what peeps out from under a pine tree just three feet over the property line of my neighbor’s yard but a tiny patch of chanterelles. It ain’t fair.
Now, even I, the earthy-crunchy, tree hugging environmentalist, have contemplated the purchase of Round Up. But no, I can’t do it. Lest I offend you Monsanto types I would just like to point out that it would take poisoning all of nearby Lake Ontario to kill all the weeds in this yard. I have to remind myself of what I tell other people as they gaze at all the many leafy green things that have completely outcompeted the grass. What some people call weeds, I call biodiversity.
I did cheat though. When we were away in France my neighbor sent her lawn service guy over to mow our lawn. Yes, Ann is a saint in many ways. One of the best things you can ever do is make friends with a neighbor who is a neat freak. One day she came over with her power washer and cleaned my deck. The workmen renovating my kitchen are still talking about it; they never saw anyone do that kind of thing voluntarily, just to be nice.
The lawn looked nice. Damned nice. Alain was away this week at a conference enjoying balmy, sweltering Vancouver. Did you know the public beaches there are clothing optional? Did you know Alain hates the lawn services because of all the noise they make on the weekends? I cheated. I had Ann call the guy back. Don’t tell.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Are you busy or guilty?
Someone I knew a long time ago sent me a friend request on facebook. I sent a reply and he answered three months later, apologizing for the delay and stating that he had been busy until now. At first I dismissed the comment because one hears it all the time. Then I got to thinking. What makes that guy so damned busy he can't answer an email? Last I checked he wasn't running the Fed or the free world.
Then I began thinking about how infrequently I apologize for being too busy to do something. I apologize for things I haven't done all the time. I apologize constantly for the state of my house whenever anyone comes in. I am always doing things at the last minute (I should be cleaning the house right now) but it never occurred to me to apologize because I was too busy. What is the difference between someone who assumes the world will understand that too much has been placed on their shoulders to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks such as answering an email versus the person who beats themselves up regularly for not being organized enough?
So I tried it. I just said it. My apology for not doing something (which I don't recall now) was simply to say I had been too busy. To my amazement the person to whom I said this just accepted it. There was no look of condescension at my incompetence. In fact the look was one of pity that I could be so busy.
Toss my cell phone/calendar/email/organizer in the trash, I am free at last.
Dr. Bif
Then I began thinking about how infrequently I apologize for being too busy to do something. I apologize for things I haven't done all the time. I apologize constantly for the state of my house whenever anyone comes in. I am always doing things at the last minute (I should be cleaning the house right now) but it never occurred to me to apologize because I was too busy. What is the difference between someone who assumes the world will understand that too much has been placed on their shoulders to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks such as answering an email versus the person who beats themselves up regularly for not being organized enough?
So I tried it. I just said it. My apology for not doing something (which I don't recall now) was simply to say I had been too busy. To my amazement the person to whom I said this just accepted it. There was no look of condescension at my incompetence. In fact the look was one of pity that I could be so busy.
Toss my cell phone/calendar/email/organizer in the trash, I am free at last.
Dr. Bif
Monday, June 29, 2009
I am the Highlander, there can be only one!
I'm at Highland Hospital again and I'm not the only one here so not a very good title.
I should be out soon. I had a bowel obstruction on Friday. Previous surgeries and radiation made things sticky in there. I have a tube down my nose and into my stomach. It is an absolute joy. On the pain medication I was having freaky dreams, getting chased by monsters. As I started to feel better I started having dreams about glasses of water. The best was a glass of cold orange juice. I opened up a fridge and there were several gallon jugs all open.
Today I drank about 4 little cups of apple juice. I'd have to say I prefer that to orange juice lest some kind hearted soul send a bunch of cans to my house. I'm hoping to get out in a day or so. the NG tube in my nose is clamped and we are seeing how well I fly on my own. I'm supposed to leave for France on Friday. We're going to France, we're going to France, everyone now, we're going to france...
a bientot.
Dr. Le Bif
I should be out soon. I had a bowel obstruction on Friday. Previous surgeries and radiation made things sticky in there. I have a tube down my nose and into my stomach. It is an absolute joy. On the pain medication I was having freaky dreams, getting chased by monsters. As I started to feel better I started having dreams about glasses of water. The best was a glass of cold orange juice. I opened up a fridge and there were several gallon jugs all open.
Today I drank about 4 little cups of apple juice. I'd have to say I prefer that to orange juice lest some kind hearted soul send a bunch of cans to my house. I'm hoping to get out in a day or so. the NG tube in my nose is clamped and we are seeing how well I fly on my own. I'm supposed to leave for France on Friday. We're going to France, we're going to France, everyone now, we're going to france...
a bientot.
Dr. Le Bif
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Legend of Uncle Bill
Hello,
Just an update from the field since my knitting friends think I've gone awol. I missed the last knitter's guild of the year. Very unlike me. I just plain forgot. My knitting has really fallen by the wayside recently. I finally figured it out. I have been knitting "the cable nightmare" for 2 years now, on and off. I decided I would not work on anything else until it was done. Strangely my interest in knitting has waned over the last few months. I've wanted to knit but just couldn't make myself. Even stranger was that I didn't understand why. Ah, at last some wisdom has percolated into my addled brain. I've been monogamous too long. As soon as I realized I wanted to knit a baby blanket for a friend's new baby I haven't been able to put the needles down. While in Boston I spotted some groovy, overpriced yarn in a trendy yarn store. I schmoozed with the ladies, impressing them with my lingo, tossing around names (oh yes, I love Alice Starmore patterns...blah blah blah...), bought the yarn and started a scarf. I am obsessed again. I left the baby blanket project at a friend's house this week and it's killing me. No more monogamy, the yarn slut is back!
Chemo seems to have settled into a routine. God, what a weird thing to say. the last round was a breeze. It might have had something to do with me taking one of Alain's meloxicam for his stress fracture by accident. I thought it was my citalopram. for you non-medical types it's just an anti-inflammatory not a freakin' narcotic. I score those outside my office on Monroe Ave. The high school kids just stand there outside our break room on a busy street corner and light up weed. Other mornings there's a homeless guy or two passing a brown paper bag.
So the title of this post says "The Legend of Uncle Bill." This is a story I've wanted to tell for a while but have been unable to write. How do I do the man justice? For a long time I felt the need to get all the details correct. I even called Uncle Bill and interviewed him. I have let myself off the hook for the simple reason that I will never get it exactly right and as you can see from the last post, some Moran will respond by telling me exactly what detail I got wrong (ahem, Mom...). So, Frankie, Martha, Nancy, Sally, Susie and any other "Moran Police" who feel the need to correct me, this is just an artistic rendering if you will, a gestalt, a mood piece, a fable...and if you don't like it. Get your own blog.
If you recall the other postings you know that the Moran clan is highly respectful of tradition. Our traditions, the ones we find funny. We don't respect much else. We will do things to amuse ourself and mortify those who have married into the clan because it is more fun that way. My mother and her siblings loved to remember games they played as a child. A favorite was called Chuckle Belly. Everyone lies down on the floor at right angles, one head lying across another person's abdomen. The first in the line says just, "Ha!" The second person says it twice, the third, three times and so on. Go ahead try it. The Morans can't get past the third "ha" before everyone is laughing with their heads bouncing up and down on each other's bellies. It's hysterical actually. My mother and her siblings proved this by starting a game at a wedding reception. Maybe I'm not being clear here. They were not children, they were grandparents when they did this. Hey, it's a tradition.
Uncle Bill though, is a tradition unto himself. In addition to being a major player in all the water fights he alone has a tradition unique to him. It started years ago and it involved a cake. It was a cake he was not supposed to eat but there it was, a slice missing and someone very upset. Uncle Bill explained that taking a slice of the cake was an old Irish tradition. The male head of the family was supposed to sample the cake and make sure that it had not been poisoned before guests could eat it. Apparently this assuaged the indignation.
Well, give the man an inch and he takes a mile. Uncle Bill ran with that and has been running with that excuse for years. At the wedding reception of his brother's daughter he was seated near the cake. The dinner went on and on. The reception hall was hot. No one was cutting the cake. Time went by, still no cake. Bill thought the cake was going to melt. "Well, I'm just going to go get myself a piece of that cake!" and off he went. The cutting ceremony followed seconds later by a flustered wedding party with the missing piece hidden in the back.
At my cousin John's wedding the tradition had been well established. So John's new wife was ready for Bill. She enlisted John's brother, Tommy to stand guard at the cake. The reception goers waited to be seated at dinner. All the Moran siblings were to be seated together. My mother was standing with Uncle Bill and some of her sisters waiting to sit down when she noticed Uncle Bill was eating. No one else was eating... He'd accomplished his mission and changed out of his ninja gear long before the "guard" was posted.
At my wedding I felt sorry for Uncle Bill. The cake wasn't in the reception hall. I was actually a little sad that he wasn't going to sabotage the confection. Unbeknownst to us, Uncle Bill was up to the challenge. I think they'll be using this as plot device for the next Bourne Identity movie. Uncle Bill talked with one of the waiters. He told him as the eldest member of the family he had to inspect the wedding cake. It was an old Irish and family tradition. The waiter was a little confused. He called a manager. Uncle Bill explained the story to her. After some negotiations she led Bill downstairs into the bowels of the Hanover Inn and to the restaurant kitchen. The cake was delivered later to the wedding party minus one small, perfect wedge.
The picture above shows us pointing at the culprit. Obviously the photo was staged.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The allergist hates benadryl.
Man does benadryl knock me for a loop. I got it yesterday pre-treatment and I was slurring my words. It's still not as much fun as a couple glasses of wine. Why can't they put that in my IV?
On Thursday I saw one of my allergy patients who also has a terrible medical condition that wracks her with pain daily. We compared a few notes on how people react to our illness. Here are a few of our favorites.
A total stranger says, "gosh, you handle it so well!" Why, because I can tell you I have cancer without sobbing? You expect me to be out on disability at home getting drunk?
A nice little old lady in my own synagogue once told me, "oh ovarian cancer? My mother died of that." I should have kept my mouth shut but instead I asked her, "now why do you think I needed to know that?"
Here's a personal favorite, "god doesn't give you any more than you can handle." You mean if I was a weaker person this wouldn't have happened to me? That comes from Harold Kushner's When bad things happen to good people. Good one Hal.
And now for something completely different. Here's the story of Grandma and the Can of Tuna, or The Funniest Day of My Entire Life.
Grandma Friedman was a miserable person. No exageration there, she really was. Some of it she came by honestly I suppose. The woman was divorced when my father was a boy, a time when that was just a little bit frowned on. She never remarried and pretty much raised her two children on her own as a nurse.
Nothing ever seemed to make her happy. Certainly not my father's marriage to my mother. I never in my entire life saw those two women together except for one occasion. She lived in series of shabby apartments throughout her life. She would never put a picture up on any wall because she never planned on "staying in this dump" for very long. And she didn't.
She had no friends that I knew of who she socialized with. I don't know what she did with her days except for the odd trip to the doctor's or the grocery store. She did have a friend or two from nursing school and a few relatives that she corresponded with but no one came to visit but us. She did love us though and thoroughly delighted in seeing her grandchildren. When I went to Haverford College outside of Philly I would take the train over to her apartment in Upper Darby to see her occasionally. All her apartments smelled the same. A combination of boiled vegetables and Yardley's English Lavender. It actually wasn't too bad. She always greeted me the same way, "Hello my Bethy!"
Then she would proceed to feed me. As you know that is required of grandmothers. Some people are lucky enough to have grandmothers who cook from the Old Country, recipes from their grandmothers. Mine cooked from Prevention Magazine. She would take a piece of chicken breast and poach it until it resembled shoe leather. She'd do the same to canned green beans. Luckily I will eat anything including the canned fruit salad for desert (the best part actually). That made her the happiest woman on the planet. "Doesn't everything taste so good?" she'd exclaim. I'd have done anything for a shaker of salt but who was I to argue, it made her happy.
Eventually she began to need more assistance. After a stint with my aunt it was our turn and Grandma moved up north to New Hampshire where she bounced around another series of apartments. My brother, sister and I still visited and took her grocery shopping every now and then. It was a singularly painful experience because for some inexplicable reason my grandmother could not walk and talk at the same time. She'd shuffle along with her cart and collection of coupons. Then she'd stop dead in her tracks to say something. Usually to complain about the prices or the quality of the produce. She would slowly bend down to pick up a couple cans of tuna, slowly raise one to her ear and shake it to see if it had to much water in it. It did absolutely no good to tell her they were all the same. It took forever to get down an aisle. Only my sister had the nerve to say "let's go grandma!"
Grandma developed more dementia over time. She became even more paranoid than usual and actually called the police about money that had gone missing which she was sure a neighbor or landlord had stolen. She burst pipes in her apartment by turning off the heat to save money. Finally it was time for the nursing home.
Grandma didn't like that place much but why would it have been different than any other place? Her mental status declined rapidly as she had one micro stroke after another. She still recognized me but didn't say much any more. The day I went to visit her and saw her hair in a braid down her back instead of in it's usual bun was the day I knew she had already left. She would never have allowed her hair to be done in such a manner when she was younger.
Her body lingered on though. She went through one pneumonia after another. Although my grandmother had been placed on comfort measures only she had a pansy of a primary care physician who kept making the argument that antibiotics counted as comfort measures. When faced with the possible demise of a relative it's hard to argue; doctors, including my father are not immune to this.
Finally she passed away. After my mother called to tell me I shed a few tears of sorrow and relief. Her wish had been to be cremated. There was no wake, no funeral. The funeral director asked if we would like to go out to the cemetary to have her ashes buried. My brother was home and I was home also, in medical school at the time. My father was traveling that day and met us later so my mother came out with us. We met Mr. Campion and walked to the plot. I cried a little. We stood there for a moment. Then Mr. Campion handed the urn to my brother and asked if he wanted to say anything. This took Ted by surprise and he just looked down at the urn held awkwardly in his hands for a moment. Then slowly he raised it up to his ear and shook it.
Peels of inappropriate laughter rang off the headstones. Now tears of laughter ran down my cheeks. Even my mother was laughing. Poor Mr. Campion. I think that was a first for him.
Dr. Bif
On Thursday I saw one of my allergy patients who also has a terrible medical condition that wracks her with pain daily. We compared a few notes on how people react to our illness. Here are a few of our favorites.
A total stranger says, "gosh, you handle it so well!" Why, because I can tell you I have cancer without sobbing? You expect me to be out on disability at home getting drunk?
A nice little old lady in my own synagogue once told me, "oh ovarian cancer? My mother died of that." I should have kept my mouth shut but instead I asked her, "now why do you think I needed to know that?"
Here's a personal favorite, "god doesn't give you any more than you can handle." You mean if I was a weaker person this wouldn't have happened to me? That comes from Harold Kushner's When bad things happen to good people. Good one Hal.
And now for something completely different. Here's the story of Grandma and the Can of Tuna, or The Funniest Day of My Entire Life.
Grandma Friedman was a miserable person. No exageration there, she really was. Some of it she came by honestly I suppose. The woman was divorced when my father was a boy, a time when that was just a little bit frowned on. She never remarried and pretty much raised her two children on her own as a nurse.
Nothing ever seemed to make her happy. Certainly not my father's marriage to my mother. I never in my entire life saw those two women together except for one occasion. She lived in series of shabby apartments throughout her life. She would never put a picture up on any wall because she never planned on "staying in this dump" for very long. And she didn't.
She had no friends that I knew of who she socialized with. I don't know what she did with her days except for the odd trip to the doctor's or the grocery store. She did have a friend or two from nursing school and a few relatives that she corresponded with but no one came to visit but us. She did love us though and thoroughly delighted in seeing her grandchildren. When I went to Haverford College outside of Philly I would take the train over to her apartment in Upper Darby to see her occasionally. All her apartments smelled the same. A combination of boiled vegetables and Yardley's English Lavender. It actually wasn't too bad. She always greeted me the same way, "Hello my Bethy!"
Then she would proceed to feed me. As you know that is required of grandmothers. Some people are lucky enough to have grandmothers who cook from the Old Country, recipes from their grandmothers. Mine cooked from Prevention Magazine. She would take a piece of chicken breast and poach it until it resembled shoe leather. She'd do the same to canned green beans. Luckily I will eat anything including the canned fruit salad for desert (the best part actually). That made her the happiest woman on the planet. "Doesn't everything taste so good?" she'd exclaim. I'd have done anything for a shaker of salt but who was I to argue, it made her happy.
Eventually she began to need more assistance. After a stint with my aunt it was our turn and Grandma moved up north to New Hampshire where she bounced around another series of apartments. My brother, sister and I still visited and took her grocery shopping every now and then. It was a singularly painful experience because for some inexplicable reason my grandmother could not walk and talk at the same time. She'd shuffle along with her cart and collection of coupons. Then she'd stop dead in her tracks to say something. Usually to complain about the prices or the quality of the produce. She would slowly bend down to pick up a couple cans of tuna, slowly raise one to her ear and shake it to see if it had to much water in it. It did absolutely no good to tell her they were all the same. It took forever to get down an aisle. Only my sister had the nerve to say "let's go grandma!"
Grandma developed more dementia over time. She became even more paranoid than usual and actually called the police about money that had gone missing which she was sure a neighbor or landlord had stolen. She burst pipes in her apartment by turning off the heat to save money. Finally it was time for the nursing home.
Grandma didn't like that place much but why would it have been different than any other place? Her mental status declined rapidly as she had one micro stroke after another. She still recognized me but didn't say much any more. The day I went to visit her and saw her hair in a braid down her back instead of in it's usual bun was the day I knew she had already left. She would never have allowed her hair to be done in such a manner when she was younger.
Her body lingered on though. She went through one pneumonia after another. Although my grandmother had been placed on comfort measures only she had a pansy of a primary care physician who kept making the argument that antibiotics counted as comfort measures. When faced with the possible demise of a relative it's hard to argue; doctors, including my father are not immune to this.
Finally she passed away. After my mother called to tell me I shed a few tears of sorrow and relief. Her wish had been to be cremated. There was no wake, no funeral. The funeral director asked if we would like to go out to the cemetary to have her ashes buried. My brother was home and I was home also, in medical school at the time. My father was traveling that day and met us later so my mother came out with us. We met Mr. Campion and walked to the plot. I cried a little. We stood there for a moment. Then Mr. Campion handed the urn to my brother and asked if he wanted to say anything. This took Ted by surprise and he just looked down at the urn held awkwardly in his hands for a moment. Then slowly he raised it up to his ear and shook it.
Peels of inappropriate laughter rang off the headstones. Now tears of laughter ran down my cheeks. Even my mother was laughing. Poor Mr. Campion. I think that was a first for him.
Dr. Bif
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Ah technology...
I just figured out why you all can't leave comments. This silly thing was set to take comments only from registered users. I fixed that. You may now comment away. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?
We had our usual speed seder last night. I made a LOT of food for passover. My parents were in attendance and some friends. My mother and my friend from medical school, Helen were in rare form either swearing or recounting how gruesome one of our urology professors could get in his lectures (that's the pee-pee doctor for you non-medical types). Most of the stories had to do with misguided but enthusiastic attempts at self-gratification. Vicky, Adam's nanny was also in attendance. She's a very religious woman who never swears. I wanted to slide under the table a few times. She seemed to hold up well though.
Lara and Dina came to knit with me and I am now happy until the next knitter's guild meeting.
bif
We had our usual speed seder last night. I made a LOT of food for passover. My parents were in attendance and some friends. My mother and my friend from medical school, Helen were in rare form either swearing or recounting how gruesome one of our urology professors could get in his lectures (that's the pee-pee doctor for you non-medical types). Most of the stories had to do with misguided but enthusiastic attempts at self-gratification. Vicky, Adam's nanny was also in attendance. She's a very religious woman who never swears. I wanted to slide under the table a few times. She seemed to hold up well though.
Lara and Dina came to knit with me and I am now happy until the next knitter's guild meeting.
bif
Friday, March 27, 2009
kick the cat
Ok, so no takers on a knitting session. Ladies, I'm bitter about that.
I haven't posted in a while. Not much to report and that's a good thing. This whole blog thing gets a little self centered after a while. "But enough about me! What do you think of my blog?"
I'm doing chemo again about which I am just thrilled. It's going fine. I am having some complications from various things which I am not enjoying and will not go into detail. It's just more information than you all really need. All of this has put me in a really spectacular mood. Several patients have been uppity this week and I was really spoiling for a fight. You know what I mean? I really wanted to let someone have it. Everyone turned out to have simple misunderstandings so I am resigned, as usual, to take my frustrations out on my family. I'd kick the cat but I don't have one.
So the next person that tells me, "My gosh, you're handling this so well!" will probably get the end of my shoe lodged somewhere really creative.
I asked my brother to review my story about Grandma and the Can of Tuna. Is it blog-able? I asked. He said no. Go ahead, Ted. Tell me what you really think. What the hell does he know. I'll revise it and post it later.
Dr. Bif
I haven't posted in a while. Not much to report and that's a good thing. This whole blog thing gets a little self centered after a while. "But enough about me! What do you think of my blog?"
I'm doing chemo again about which I am just thrilled. It's going fine. I am having some complications from various things which I am not enjoying and will not go into detail. It's just more information than you all really need. All of this has put me in a really spectacular mood. Several patients have been uppity this week and I was really spoiling for a fight. You know what I mean? I really wanted to let someone have it. Everyone turned out to have simple misunderstandings so I am resigned, as usual, to take my frustrations out on my family. I'd kick the cat but I don't have one.
So the next person that tells me, "My gosh, you're handling this so well!" will probably get the end of my shoe lodged somewhere really creative.
I asked my brother to review my story about Grandma and the Can of Tuna. Is it blog-able? I asked. He said no. Go ahead, Ted. Tell me what you really think. What the hell does he know. I'll revise it and post it later.
Dr. Bif
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Back to the rodeo
Hey gang,
I'm officially off the study. They asked for all the un-used medicine back on Tuesday. I start chemo this Friday at 10:30. I'm going on a medication called Doxil. It is apparently well tolerated by most people. I may need a ride to and from chemo if they plan on treating me with Benadryl. I get real goofy from that stuff.
I missed Knitter's Guild this week and I'm all broke up about that. Anyone want to sit and knit?
beth
I'm officially off the study. They asked for all the un-used medicine back on Tuesday. I start chemo this Friday at 10:30. I'm going on a medication called Doxil. It is apparently well tolerated by most people. I may need a ride to and from chemo if they plan on treating me with Benadryl. I get real goofy from that stuff.
I missed Knitter's Guild this week and I'm all broke up about that. Anyone want to sit and knit?
beth
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
No cute title for this one...
CT showed growth of a couple of lesions. Study is over. I will be starting chemo in the next week or so. It's not all bad, I don't have to commune with the commuters on the subway anymore.
(...who am I kidding? This sucks the big whazoo.)
b
(...who am I kidding? This sucks the big whazoo.)
b
Monday, March 9, 2009
The roller coaster goes up and down, up and down, up and down...
Hi,
I haven't had much new to report. Until last week when some bloodwork came back fairly nasty. I need to get a CT scan in NYC tomorrow. Very good chance I will be out of the study and back on the chemo train since it looks like the miracle drug isn't working any more. We'll see what the scan shows.
If you're wondering whether I think I can handle this with my usual witty aplomb. I think it sucks eggs.
We'll bring you more on this story as the details come in.
You're watching Dr. Bif News. Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I haven't had much new to report. Until last week when some bloodwork came back fairly nasty. I need to get a CT scan in NYC tomorrow. Very good chance I will be out of the study and back on the chemo train since it looks like the miracle drug isn't working any more. We'll see what the scan shows.
If you're wondering whether I think I can handle this with my usual witty aplomb. I think it sucks eggs.
We'll bring you more on this story as the details come in.
You're watching Dr. Bif News. Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I'm your kachina doll.
Well, so much for Judaism. I'm your Hopi Kachina doll now. The drug works. We have yet to determine exactly how much, but it works.
I went down to the subway this afternoon from the doctor's office and some guy was playing on a guitar and harmonica "ob la di, ob la da, life goes on la, la la how the life goes on..."
And so it does.
beth
I went down to the subway this afternoon from the doctor's office and some guy was playing on a guitar and harmonica "ob la di, ob la da, life goes on la, la la how the life goes on..."
And so it does.
beth
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
To Honor Kokopelli
Back when I was in medical school my parents returned from a trip out west with a gift for me. On my own trips I am wracked with guilt as I shop at the airport Discovery Channel store for a stupid stuffed animal remembering all the lovely jewelry and clothing my parents brought home from their trips. On this particular trip the gift was a pair of earrings. They were a little unusual in that one was an image of the Native American deity, Kokopelli, and the other was the inverse, the square of silver from which it was cut.
I loved those earrings and wore them often. Everyone else loved them too and I got many compliments. I knew I should put those little rubber things over the ends of the loops. They did not have clasps, just silver wire and were in danger of falling out each time I wore them. I had lots of earrings like that and I have indeed lost some but it never mattered much because then my earrings were cheap ones I had bought myself. When I was a girl my mother hadn’t really come around to the idea of earrings being a suitable gift. She wasn’t allowed to pierce her ears as a girl (only prostitutes did that) and never did. I wasn’t allowed to have mine pierced until I was 16; obviously she had gotten beyond the prostitute thing. Ooh what a rebel I was in college then, to pierce another hole into my ear lobe with a needle dipped in a candle flame and shoved through my lobe into the cut half of a potato. Remember that was in the 80’s and tongue piercing wasn’t a Bat Mitzvah gift yet.
Needless to say I lost one of the earrings and I ached with the disappointment of losing something truly valuable. I was rotating at the hospital and had some hope that a kind soul would turn it in. Who was I kidding? Lots of people had multiple piercings and the image of Kokopelli would have made a wonderful addition to the parades of earrings people had running up the sides of their ears. I kept the remaining earring in the hopes of finding its mate in a forgotten coat pocket.
Later that year I had the opportunity to do one of my medical school rotations on the Navajo/Hopi reservation in Arizona. In a nutshell, I hated it. It was cold and I was underdressed for eight full weeks. My fellow classmate and I were terminally bored. There was nothing to do. We were quite bitter about this because other students who had been on the rotation talked about it as if they had gone to Mecca. They had us believing that we would be invited to the doctors’ home regularly, that we would be invited on scenic hikes every weekend, that we would have wonderful cultural experiences. Perhaps after their experience with those students the local docs were less inclined to invite more students to their houses. It also turns out those students had a car.
My classmate and I sat on our cold tushies most nights without enough to do. I missed my fiancé terribly. The docs didn’t seem terribly committed to the Navajo and Hopi and the Native Americans seemed not to care too much about them in return. They cared even less about us two. Why would they take any interest in a couple of white chicks assuaging their white guilt? It turns out the Navajo culture is extremely reserved and it is rude to look a stranger in the eye. I quickly realized my hopes of gibbering fluently in Navajo by the end of the rotation were blown away like the grains of red dust that blew under our screen door every morning. In addition to hating that red dust which also blew into my eyes, hair and nose, I grew to hate the image of Kokopelli. It was everywhere, a ubiquitous symbol of the Southwest. It was on jewelry but also on every chotcka you could buy at a souvenir stand. And those seemed to be spaced about every 15 feet. It seemed demeaning to me to put the image of a revered deity on a coffee mug and it came to represent everything I saw as wrong with reservation life. Well, you can buy coffee mugs with Jesus, the Star of David and “allah is great” on them too. What did I expect?
My fellow classmate and I bonded over the experience. She was the first deeply religious person I’d met who didn’t give me the creepy crawlies, probably because her faith was genuine. We had a lot of discussions about religion among other things and are friends to this day. Now hey, I loved ya girlfriend, but I wanted to be on that plane home more than I wanted to breathe.
Eventually we made our escape. My fiancé who greeted me with roses is now my husband. I won’t say our early married life was terribly difficult but we had a few obstacles to overcome. Our first child was diagnosed with autism and my husband was diagnosed with lymphoma just six weeks before our second son was born. It turned out after a lengthy workup to be an indolent form of the disease that just sits there for the most part. I hated St. Louis. There was no winter to speak of and summer was like living on the sun but with more humidity. And let’s just say, in case any of my old attendings are reading, that my allergy training program was “difficult.”
I felt just slightly beat up when we left St. Louis for Rochester and my first job as an allergist. After moving in to our new house I noticed the weathervane over the garage for the first time. It was an image of Kokopelli. What the hell was he doing there? Within a year of moving in I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One day, looking out the window and feeling sorry for myself I noticed the weathervane again and another notion came to me. I think that little guy is mad at me. Then I remembered the earring. I still had the lone one. I am not a superstitious person but the idea occurred to me that it was lonely for its mate. To follow this twisted logic to its natural conclusion would lead one to believe that Kokopelli felt disrespected and perhaps I could make amends by restoring the two mirror images of each other.
I thought that was a cute idea for a while. Then as I waited to find out whether the cancer was back I took the lone earring to a jeweler and explained what I wanted. He told me he could do it but it would cost me more in labor than the silver was worth for him to special order such a small quantity of silver. That was fine.
The earring was made, the two were reunited. I wore them almost constantly. No, it didn’t prevent another recurrence of the cancer. In fact, not too long after the new earring came loose from its clasp and I just managed to catch it before it was lost too. Since then I’ve had yet another recurrence, the worst yet.
Then I began to think about whether this deity really had it in for me. You see at heart I’m a “glass half full” kind of gal. My mother once said when I was little that if I was put at Christmas time in a room full of horseshit I’d be happy because somewhere in there was sure to be a pony. Maybe Kokopelli has been protecting me all this time. Maybe I’ve been lucky. No I’m not kidding. Look, my husband could have had the stage four lymphoma they thought he had. My kids have autism but they are very high functioning and adorable. I’ve had ovarian cancer on and off for five years and I am still alive.
Earlier this week I had another clasp put on the earring and I am wearing them now. Tomorrow I go down to Sloan Kettering. I had a CT scan done last week and we will find out if the new drug is working. I guess I will find out whether Kokopelli feels honored or not.
Dr. Bif
I loved those earrings and wore them often. Everyone else loved them too and I got many compliments. I knew I should put those little rubber things over the ends of the loops. They did not have clasps, just silver wire and were in danger of falling out each time I wore them. I had lots of earrings like that and I have indeed lost some but it never mattered much because then my earrings were cheap ones I had bought myself. When I was a girl my mother hadn’t really come around to the idea of earrings being a suitable gift. She wasn’t allowed to pierce her ears as a girl (only prostitutes did that) and never did. I wasn’t allowed to have mine pierced until I was 16; obviously she had gotten beyond the prostitute thing. Ooh what a rebel I was in college then, to pierce another hole into my ear lobe with a needle dipped in a candle flame and shoved through my lobe into the cut half of a potato. Remember that was in the 80’s and tongue piercing wasn’t a Bat Mitzvah gift yet.
Needless to say I lost one of the earrings and I ached with the disappointment of losing something truly valuable. I was rotating at the hospital and had some hope that a kind soul would turn it in. Who was I kidding? Lots of people had multiple piercings and the image of Kokopelli would have made a wonderful addition to the parades of earrings people had running up the sides of their ears. I kept the remaining earring in the hopes of finding its mate in a forgotten coat pocket.
Later that year I had the opportunity to do one of my medical school rotations on the Navajo/Hopi reservation in Arizona. In a nutshell, I hated it. It was cold and I was underdressed for eight full weeks. My fellow classmate and I were terminally bored. There was nothing to do. We were quite bitter about this because other students who had been on the rotation talked about it as if they had gone to Mecca. They had us believing that we would be invited to the doctors’ home regularly, that we would be invited on scenic hikes every weekend, that we would have wonderful cultural experiences. Perhaps after their experience with those students the local docs were less inclined to invite more students to their houses. It also turns out those students had a car.
My classmate and I sat on our cold tushies most nights without enough to do. I missed my fiancé terribly. The docs didn’t seem terribly committed to the Navajo and Hopi and the Native Americans seemed not to care too much about them in return. They cared even less about us two. Why would they take any interest in a couple of white chicks assuaging their white guilt? It turns out the Navajo culture is extremely reserved and it is rude to look a stranger in the eye. I quickly realized my hopes of gibbering fluently in Navajo by the end of the rotation were blown away like the grains of red dust that blew under our screen door every morning. In addition to hating that red dust which also blew into my eyes, hair and nose, I grew to hate the image of Kokopelli. It was everywhere, a ubiquitous symbol of the Southwest. It was on jewelry but also on every chotcka you could buy at a souvenir stand. And those seemed to be spaced about every 15 feet. It seemed demeaning to me to put the image of a revered deity on a coffee mug and it came to represent everything I saw as wrong with reservation life. Well, you can buy coffee mugs with Jesus, the Star of David and “allah is great” on them too. What did I expect?
My fellow classmate and I bonded over the experience. She was the first deeply religious person I’d met who didn’t give me the creepy crawlies, probably because her faith was genuine. We had a lot of discussions about religion among other things and are friends to this day. Now hey, I loved ya girlfriend, but I wanted to be on that plane home more than I wanted to breathe.
Eventually we made our escape. My fiancé who greeted me with roses is now my husband. I won’t say our early married life was terribly difficult but we had a few obstacles to overcome. Our first child was diagnosed with autism and my husband was diagnosed with lymphoma just six weeks before our second son was born. It turned out after a lengthy workup to be an indolent form of the disease that just sits there for the most part. I hated St. Louis. There was no winter to speak of and summer was like living on the sun but with more humidity. And let’s just say, in case any of my old attendings are reading, that my allergy training program was “difficult.”
I felt just slightly beat up when we left St. Louis for Rochester and my first job as an allergist. After moving in to our new house I noticed the weathervane over the garage for the first time. It was an image of Kokopelli. What the hell was he doing there? Within a year of moving in I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One day, looking out the window and feeling sorry for myself I noticed the weathervane again and another notion came to me. I think that little guy is mad at me. Then I remembered the earring. I still had the lone one. I am not a superstitious person but the idea occurred to me that it was lonely for its mate. To follow this twisted logic to its natural conclusion would lead one to believe that Kokopelli felt disrespected and perhaps I could make amends by restoring the two mirror images of each other.
I thought that was a cute idea for a while. Then as I waited to find out whether the cancer was back I took the lone earring to a jeweler and explained what I wanted. He told me he could do it but it would cost me more in labor than the silver was worth for him to special order such a small quantity of silver. That was fine.
The earring was made, the two were reunited. I wore them almost constantly. No, it didn’t prevent another recurrence of the cancer. In fact, not too long after the new earring came loose from its clasp and I just managed to catch it before it was lost too. Since then I’ve had yet another recurrence, the worst yet.
Then I began to think about whether this deity really had it in for me. You see at heart I’m a “glass half full” kind of gal. My mother once said when I was little that if I was put at Christmas time in a room full of horseshit I’d be happy because somewhere in there was sure to be a pony. Maybe Kokopelli has been protecting me all this time. Maybe I’ve been lucky. No I’m not kidding. Look, my husband could have had the stage four lymphoma they thought he had. My kids have autism but they are very high functioning and adorable. I’ve had ovarian cancer on and off for five years and I am still alive.
Earlier this week I had another clasp put on the earring and I am wearing them now. Tomorrow I go down to Sloan Kettering. I had a CT scan done last week and we will find out if the new drug is working. I guess I will find out whether Kokopelli feels honored or not.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
No pain, no strain just sit and...oh nevermind.
Best to leave that title alone whether you know how it finishes or not. I have received some awed congratulations since my surgery for how well I am coping with my new, um appliance. Those would be hastily withdrawn if you heard the decibel level at our house this morning. Luckily since today is my day off I was still in pajamas while I helped get the kids ready for school. Luckily I was also standing on the easily cleaned tile floor of the kitchen when the clip let go releasing a torrent down my leg.
As I tried to wrap the cuff of the pajama around my ankle to prevent further spillage I yelled at Sam to get me the kleenex I knew to be in the next room. He returned with one. Thanks, dude. I hobbled up the stairs holding onto my ankle and got in the shower, pajamas and all.
After sufficient decontamination and new clothes I made my way downstairs to reassure Adam who was a little freaked out by all my yelling. By now he was laughing and calling me "Poopy." Sam also christened me with a new nickname.
Mrs. Splatter.
I love all the comments on the blog. The last post is a new record. If you are wondering what my cousin is talking about she and my cousin Annie along with several of my aunts showed up at our gate to wish us farewell by staging an anti-war protest against F.R.O.G. (the Friedman liquid SWAT team). Still don't know what I'm talking about? You mean you DIDN'T READ THE LAST POST? YOU MEAN YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO? C'mon, it's not that long, scroll down and read. They all carried signs and dressed up looking as if they were going to a Mardi Gras parade at a mental institution. Someone even wore the box that the cake came in as a hat. The best get-up was Aunt Nancy. Although my mother insists that it was Aunt Martha. So to back up for a second. When Nancy was about 12 she had very long hair that she wore in two braids. When she decided to cut them off she couldn't part with them and kept them. Later, years later they were given as a gift to Martha (or was it Sally?) who for also inexplicable reasons also kept them. One of these fine and dignified representatives of the "Original Eight" strung the two braids between a piece of string and donned the braids by running the string over the top of her head and walked through the airport to send us off.
We were in fact, speechless.
Dr. Bif
As I tried to wrap the cuff of the pajama around my ankle to prevent further spillage I yelled at Sam to get me the kleenex I knew to be in the next room. He returned with one. Thanks, dude. I hobbled up the stairs holding onto my ankle and got in the shower, pajamas and all.
After sufficient decontamination and new clothes I made my way downstairs to reassure Adam who was a little freaked out by all my yelling. By now he was laughing and calling me "Poopy." Sam also christened me with a new nickname.
Mrs. Splatter.
I love all the comments on the blog. The last post is a new record. If you are wondering what my cousin is talking about she and my cousin Annie along with several of my aunts showed up at our gate to wish us farewell by staging an anti-war protest against F.R.O.G. (the Friedman liquid SWAT team). Still don't know what I'm talking about? You mean you DIDN'T READ THE LAST POST? YOU MEAN YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO? C'mon, it's not that long, scroll down and read. They all carried signs and dressed up looking as if they were going to a Mardi Gras parade at a mental institution. Someone even wore the box that the cake came in as a hat. The best get-up was Aunt Nancy. Although my mother insists that it was Aunt Martha. So to back up for a second. When Nancy was about 12 she had very long hair that she wore in two braids. When she decided to cut them off she couldn't part with them and kept them. Later, years later they were given as a gift to Martha (or was it Sally?) who for also inexplicable reasons also kept them. One of these fine and dignified representatives of the "Original Eight" strung the two braids between a piece of string and donned the braids by running the string over the top of her head and walked through the airport to send us off.
We were in fact, speechless.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
No news is good news...
I know, I haven't posted for a while. I'm back at work and doing fine. A little busy as you can imagine. Still knitting and hoping to publish a paper in an allergy journal soon. So if you have guessed that no news is good news, you would be right. I'm still flying back and forth to Sloan Kettering on a weekly basis. It's a drag. I'm a little bored with the JetBlue terminal. Maybe the corporate geniuses did focus groups which told them blasting Lionel Ritchie loud enough that I can't talk on my phone is somehow soothing to passengers but I'm not seeing it. Nor do I understand why a rock band of kids in the central hub seemed like a good idea around Christmas time. A bunch of ten year olds singing "I see a red door and I want to paint it black..." is just wrong. It's just...wrong.
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
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