Caselman collection

As Judy may have told you folks, I had a stress test last Friday, 6/11/04, which resulted in my having to spend the weekend at Swedish Covenant Hospital, awaiting an angiogram and possible angioplasty with stent placement if needed. As it turned out, it was needed, One artery, 90% blocked, was nicely cleared by the stent. Other blockages were noted, but will be handled medically by some nineteen medications I am to take daily. Some are to be ingested with a meal, some without, some as I rise, so as I go about my midday, and there are several I take just before I lay me down to sleep. Thank G-d for my HMO and the Blue Cross. The retail would be nearly $500.

I did not have a heart attack, much to the surprise of my cardiologist. There was never any chest pain or discomfort. Much of this was because I am not an excitable type "A" personality, and what with the pedal edema, I wasn’t about to race about like a maniac. In the natural flow of things, if the neighborhood lion was staking the herd, would have been lunch. In more civilized terms, I was just ready to drop dead, quietly and peacefully some Sunday afternoon.

This is literally a new lease. I have to figure out what to make of it and how to use it.

Sunday, June 06, 2004

Last night my wife, Judy, asked one of those innocent questions that tied my mind into loops for the rest of the evening. Looking at our new board positions at the Temple and the looming problems we are facing in the new year, she asked, “What is Temple Menorah?” Since I think in advertising catch phrases and sound bites, I blurted something about “Why, we’re the last stand of Reform Judaism West Rogers Park, little lady!” She frowned as though I had offered a crossword puzzle answer with too many letters. So I fished about with other phrases: Inclusive! Diverse! Welcoming! New and Improved! Now with lower membership dues than the other guys down the block!

Sure we are all of that but…what are we? Simply, we are a place.

We are the place where a Jew with a Christian life partner can bring their kid for a Jewish education. We ask no questions about family, all we require is the sincerity of the seeker.

In this place, kids of vastly different racial and ethnic stock: Black, Hispanic, Oriental, Caucasian, unite in the common worship of the G-d of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rachel, and Leah.

We are the place where Jews of all interest levels, serious to occasionally observant, can put meaning behind the rituals. We pray in English so our words may speak of our hopes, we pray in Hebrew so our words tell of our heritage. Hebrew prayer unites us with millions of Jews around the world and the thousands of years our people have been an ethical beacon. English prayer gives us the wonderful tool of our own language to speak our hearts and minds to G-d, and stand behind them, knowing our strength is in meaning, not just ritual.

Temple Menorah is this place. Spread the word; we are too precious to lose.

Coming soon: some of the problems!

It was good to speak to Vic Kaplan the other day. I had called a week or so earlier to let her know how we were doing in Chicago. She and her husband Jon are among my oldest and best loved friends. We spent the 1960’s together initially as part of Rick Freedman’s orbit of friends, then just as grow-up buddies. I always thought of them as the kid brother and sister I never had. Jon and Vic were good friends who have a knack for adopting waifs and strays. Jon is intelligent and pretty expert on anything you have in mind. He is generous with his help and will try to do the right thing, if given the choice. Vic is one of those naturally beautiful people you just want to be around, she is smart, kind, and has a people sense that keeps her and Jon from adopting more lost causes than they can handle. A favorite cause as an early twenty something was dodging the Vietnam War.

The Kaplans were there, recommending doctors who would find grounds for giving me a 4F rating, having me drink pancake syrup to produce a sugar overload in my urine, and suggesting that I send the draft board a notice of my death. I flunked the pre-induction physical on more legit means; in helping around his dad’s workshop the week before, Jon dropped a large machine on my left big toe. The Army wants to inflict its own wounds, thank you.

This was the time of my life when I wanted to be a journalist when I grew up. I was attracted toward journalism because I thought I could write for a living and news coverage is the easiest way to do that. News writes itself, once you nail the formula, and there is no need to be creative just to earn a paycheck. These were my years at Roosevelt University, time I hold as precious as anything I have ever done. This is an entry I look forward to writing, but need the time to sort and savor.

When do you stop being a parent? That’s not the right question, I know; if you ever took the job seriously, you know you there is no “’stop” and if never took it seriously, the question never came up. Still, there is a “letting go” that goes on at it’s own rate whether you acknowledge it or cooperate. Check off the milestones: the first time the kid walks to school alone; the first time you send them to the store alone with money and a note; first job; first time you lend them the car; first date; the first time they are gone most of the night and get grounded, first time they’re gone and don’t get grounded. And so it goes. I came across this, looking thru some old notes: April, 2001

“Victoria, my prodigal daughter, came by to pick up bedding from her old room and to ask if we could provide transportation for a bedroom set she wants to buy. As she buzzed about the house collecting the important personal trinkets and possessions of having been a kid in my house, I was swept with more than a wisp of sadness.

I watch my children with wonder and confusion as I see them grow into full adults. Surely there are reflections of myself within them; I see shadows of Judy and me in their walk, speech, stature, and manner. Still they are so marvelously individual in resource, reasoning, attack, and response as to be strangers to me. “Where the hell did they get that?” I mutter to myself when confronted with their politics, morals, and lifestyles. If I quiet the mother hen within me, I hear the ghost of my own parents, chuckling.

In the end, my kids will be their own people. We arm them against a sea of woes and troubles, as best we can, but eventually all we will be able to do is whisper “G-d love them and G-d help ‘em.”

I was wandering through my old emails looking for some of the stuff I sent after the 9/11 attack, just to get a look at how my perspective has changed since then, when I came across the fascinating correspondence I had going with my old friend, Barry Roth. Barry and I date back to the old Roosevelt Torch days when I thought print journalism was what I was to do when I grew up. Barry writes well, and has a way on paper of bringing his reader with him, weaving about the marvelous workings of his mind, and getting to the point without getting lost. This is no simple trick. His old email address was no longer working but I had a valid home phone number that was answered by his charming wife. She wanted for our families to meet and spend time together.
We have changed since the early 70’s lest we become as out of place as the clothes and hairstyles on Laugh-In. My kids do not believe I was a hippie. The world of sex, drugs, and rock and roll is now work, home, and family. Barry and I have become adults. Old Hippie friends are an anachronism, an indulgence from a past best left buried. I’m glad we have more history than just that. Judy and I saw him through lots of life changes, and we enjoyed Barry’s company through those years. I do not doubt an evening introducing our families to one another would be good. I think our chemistry was always good.

Vic is home having driven 28 hours straight thru, using four drivers. If the rotation is reasonable and everyone drives after a rest, it is at worst, uncomfortable. The two extras in their car turned out to be a married couple they met at the wedding. They traded driving time and their share of the gas for transportation back to Chicago. Vic is now back hiking cars for Budget and hoping for a better job somewhere over the rainbow.
Mark is out of Forman high school for the spring break (we used to call it Cleanup Week when I was a kid) after his ROTC battalion stood inspection for three hours. I guess the passed and he is now the very model of a modern major general. He is rather proud of his promotion to 1st Sergeant this year and wanted to borrow one of my uniform work shirts so he may wear his chevrons on the shirt's epilates when he attended the Military Ball. He looked quite snappy in uniform and, I admit, I felt a moment of pride. My greatest fear is seeing him go off to the Middle East where he may have to deal with someone else’s son making his dad proud by blowing himself to a bloody pulp just to kill Americans. Does al-Queda give double points for killing an American Jew?
We are approaching the anniversary of our Iraq victory and it feels like we are replaying the plunge into Vietnam. The administration refusing to admit it got it wrong, challenging the war is treason, we are dragged into supporting our troops by sending more over to die, and we believe we can make a democracy work among a people who embrace terrorism legitimate political discourse. I had a perfect answer to the mess in that country and the Palestinian problem in Israel. Just pack up all the Palestinians who want their own country, dump them in Baghdad, and we leave. Put up a big statue of Yassar, and let al-Queda and Hamas fight it out.

I discovered I did not know as much about my insulin management as I thought. I have been on the Atkins diet and my blood sugars have responded quite well. Before Atkins, my morning readings have up in the 170 to 180 range, petty high for first test of the day. Along with my morning Actos, and Metformin pills, I inject 55 units of Humulin 70/30 to keep me through the morning. However, since I am doing a low carbo regimen, my morning readings are much lower; this morning I was at 100. Fifty five Units of insulin was too much. I had breakfast made (breakfast sausage and fried eggs) when I noticed this the first signs of overdose, for me it is a blue/white blob obscuring my vision, much like someone had set off a flashbulb in my face. Next came the muscle tremors in my arms and cold sweats, as well as an inability to keep a reasonable, focused attention span.

"Judy, I have a problem" I announced to my sleeping wife, "I am going to need some help." G-d bless her, she took it all calmly as I tested myself again and saw the reading sink down to 45. We got some orange juice into me, along with a glass of milk. She dug out some of the chocolate Elizabeth hides around the house, and set me munching on some Ritz crackers. The crackers would stay “with me” throughout the morning as the rest of my prepared lunch was the low carbo Atkins friendly stuff. My blood sugar was up to 100 before she drove me to work, I spent most of the morning monitoring the railroad from my booth and riding with one door control defect. Tomorrow I will try half the insulin dosage if my readings are near 100, followed by some oatmeal for breakfast.

Victoria got home this afternoon and has promptly crashed on the living room couch. I think she’s using the time to think up a good story about the trip, the $200 rescue bailout, and why there were four people in the car rather than just her and her girlfriend.

Wired $200 to Victoria this morning so she could afford the drive back north. I am still suspicious of her story, first the tire was ruined by security spikes and Disney refused to pay, then it was just a nail “in a bad place” on the tire. So they needed a new tire and that cost all their cash. What does a dad do when his prodigal child asks for help? I talk Judy into sending money. She was willing to let the kid stew for a hours this morning but this was one of the rare long days we would have together, so we got it out of the way by 9am.
At the beginning of the year I reserved this first full day of Pasach as one of my personal paid holidays then forgot all about it. I did not attend the second Seder dinner at the temple this year because my legs are giving me trouble again. First I tore my left leg quadriceps which laid me up for nearly nine months, during which my weight shot up to over 300 lbs. When I was able to walk again without a cast on my leg, my gait was so stiff that the rest of my support musculature decided I was nuts, and refused to cooperate. Then the high blood sugars started to take their toll, and my thighs ached with every movement, my hip would send messages of distress to my back, which would agree to make every movement hell. Many of the things I took as an enjoyable part of the day, picking up food at the market, snooping around Costco, Best Buy or MircoCenter, or just checking out a museum are out of the question. I refuse to use one of those electric scooters some stores offer their handicapped customers. It’s just pride and a refusal to fall into the role of disabled shopper; I may fall in too deeply, and stay there.
All is not bleak, however. I’m taking the Atkins (nee Stilman) diet seriously and have lost 5 lbs in a week and a half. I am looking to get my gross tonnage mass, or some such figure (based upon my height, weight, and temperature at sea level) below 50 so I may be eligible for some sort of gizzard banding operation that reduces my stomach to the size of a gerbil’s. It has shown some dramatic results in the morbidly obese. There is a group title for you. Sounds like you’re a member of a grunge band.