WhirlyBall; Saturday, December 26, 2009

Medicine -- Undergrad (Part 1)

In addition to a general dislike for anything relating to physicians, there was little in my background that would have pointed to a career in medicine. As my youngest brother approaches his graduation from medical school, I started thinking of what led me to practice medicine.

This is my story ... Undergrad (Part 1)

I walked out of Moore Hill that first day to a brisk, sunny January morning not at all certain what the future would hold. By the time I had walked a mere fifty yards or so past Gregory, I began to feel at home.

I made my way along strange sidewalks to register for classes. Every corner and turn took me one step closer to familiarity with the campus that would prove beneficial in the months and years ahead. I had arrived at The University.

Given it was my declared intention to eventually be accepted into medical school, one might assume I would first make my way to the Pre-Med office to get the run down of classes required for admission. Not I.

No, I had decided to go in an entirely different direction; instead, I made my way to the Robert Lee Moore Building and the Department of Chemical Engineering.

I still wonder how it is most undergrads come to decide on a major when entering college. Some choices seem obvious: the artist might decide on architecture; a talented French horn player may elect to teach high school music. And I am forever in awe of those who simply seem to "know" what life has in store for them. I am writing about the rest of us; what happens along the way which helps to devine our future?

High School anatomy had granted me an education from Mrs. Whipple and the "cat." This practicum eventually bestowed an arrogant, ignorant notion that simply because I had successfully endured the stench of phenol as well as commendably memorizing copious details, I must surely be suited for a career in medicine.

But, was that enough?

Well, I had also grown to love Chemistry and gained a better than average facility with Math.

Good. It turns out these skills are also prerequisites for success in being accepted into medical school. So why didn't I just make a left turn past the Welch Chemistry building and walk up the hill to the Pre-med office that January morning?

Because I had been warned to avoid registering for classes as a "Pre-Med" student.

I am guessing Pre-Med students had been much-maligned for years; while only an assumption, I honestly didn't know for certain if it was a well-earned generalization or not. However respectful friends may have been of my career choice, many wasted little time advising me to, "grow an extra set of eyes in the back of my head," when dealing with "Pre-Med people."

So, it was that when considering the totality of (dis-)information I had gleaned, as well as an assessment of my academic strengths and weaknesses, I enrolled as a Chemical Engineering student who also intended to one day attend med school. While undoubtedly making the road more "interesting," my logic seemed sound: By earning a degree in Chemical Engineering, I would have an alternative career choice if med school never materialized.

Survey Classes, Gunners, and Grades

There is nothing quite like walking into a room ~ no, an auditorium ~ with 500 or so other students vying for top honors in a class like General Chemistry, notorious for being a "weed out" course. Chemistry marks the beginning of the end for many students; as a result, enrollment has the potential to bring out the best and worst in people.

I was soon introduced to the term "gunner." I came to hear the whispered phrase, "Oh, so and so is a gunner," and it certainly didn't strike me as praise. I don't recall if anyone ever sat down and explained its meaning to me; eventually everyone figured it out for themselves. To my way of thinking, a gunner was someone who would stoop to any level to get a good grade.

I initially felt many were being a bit hypocritical; after all, wasn't everyone then ~ at minimum ~ a "closet" gunner given we each had the same goal of doing our best while simultaneously outperforming fellow classmates? But I came to learn that to walk in the shoes of a gunner, one must be willing to visit a darker side of human nature; a gunner would screw a fellow student, step over the bloodied corpse and continue climbing the proverbial "food chain" with nary a moment's hesitation.

I unfortunately have distinct memories of a few of these students. They each seemed to be universally held in contempt as they really made no effort to conceal their intentions. On one occasion, I heard the brother of a now famous mogul intentionally mislead a fellow classmate regarding the date for a test. He then cavalierly admitted what he had done, all the while laughing hysterically. It was through my experiences with gunners that I came to better understand why many people held Pre-Med students in disfavor.

I soon learned there are other, less invidious, ways to find yourself in dutch with classmates enrolled in Pre-Med survey classes. I learned this lesson the hard way.

When eventually enrolling in Organic Chemistry, I was truly fortunate to land in the class taught by Taylor B. Jones, PhD, one of the rare professors who could teach anyone to love this touchy subject. But for all the praise I have for Dr. Jones and his acumen as a professor, his enthusiasm for students and their success held the potential for mildly adverse consequences.

I distinctly remember everyone nervously settling into seats the morning we were due to receive marks following our first exam. Dr. Jones entered the room, approached the podium and immediately asked if "Rob Marvin" was present. I hesitated then raised my hand with no small amount of trepidation; I had seen the "Paper Chase."

After acknowledging my attendance, he proceeded to go over the stats for the test and then went on to announce that I had earned the highest marks on the exam.

Was I happy? Of course. Dumbfounded is another word. Organic Chemistry may rank highest among those classes which destroy the hopes of many a potential physician.

I was also not blind. I quickly learned that singular notoriety has consequences especially among the ranks of gunners. With a few laudatory words of praise from Dr. Jones, the gunners turned and glared, telegraphing concern that this Marvin guy might actually inch his way past them and potentially stand in the way of them realizing their goal. Gunners are not in the habit of looking at the backside of anyone; they pride themselves in always having a clear path.

While a great moment for any college student, I understood my invisible position in the class had changed:

Not only was I now targeted by the gunners, I was also labeled one by others. It also marked the day I officially became engaged in Pre-Med warfare. By enrolling in an entirely different college, I had hoped to be beyond the scope of these dynamics; like it or not, however, I was now directly in competition for a valued seat in some distant med school class.

My perch at the top of that Organic Chemistry class didn't last ~ it seldom does for most of us. Thankful for my moment in the sun, I was equally grateful eventually having the onus placed on someone else's broad shoulders.

I eventually came to understand; up until that day in Dr. Jones' class I had not truly been engaged in the pursuit of my goal. Sure, I had gone through the motions: attended classes and labs; studied well into the night; had taken and passed exams. By calling me out, however, he forced me to come to terms with the fact that competition in college, and life, is an essential component to success. People who actively pursue a vaunted position must compete against great odds all the while potentially risking being vilified unfairly along the way.

Despite my enrollment in the College of Engineering, I officially became a Pre-Med student that day.

It isn't Pre-Med students people should hold in contempt.

No, I would say to keep your eyes open and on the lookout for the Gunners.

Medicine -- High School Years

In addition to a general dislike for anything relating to physicians, there was little in my background that would have pointed to a career in medicine. As my youngest brother approaches his graduation from medical school, I started thinking of what led me to practice medicine.

This is my story ... the High School Years.

"Been there, done that." "No way in hell." These are the common answers people offer when asked,

"If given a chance, would you revisit your high school years?"

With one caveat, my response would be, "In a heartbeat."

I absolutely loved high school and never willingly missed a single day.

High school was an insular environment in many ways. We were all first segregated by age and class rank which afforded an inherent sense of belonging; twenty years down the road ~ popular or not ~ one would always be a "member of the class of ~ what have you." As a student you were further encouraged to integrate into the various social and athletic constructs. While I was a proud member of the Conference and District championship swimming teams, I doubt this qualified me for the revered "jock" status reserved for football and basketball. Regardless of where one ultimately settled into the mix, we were a "family" of sorts. This provided a good deal of comfort to me.

Education was the means to an end.

To be certain, each of us was enrolled in school to get an education. But studies often seemed to be more the price of admission we each had to pay in order to reap the benefits of an even greater wealth of fun and entertainment. The first bell at every hour would have everyone searching the halls for this friend or that. The final bell and simultaneous closing of all the doors would then have every student safely ensconced within a room of thirty different friends or acquaintances all of whom were fodder for another fifty minutes of mutual entertainment ~ and education.

Looking back, I still have difficulty imagining my friends being forward-thinking enough to actually plot a course of study for the next four years while a freshman. I had initially assumed all of us would take the same compulsory courses weaving our way through high school in goose-step fashion. I had no idea we were going to be asked to make choices. It was only after our freshman year was well underway that I realized just how poor my choices had been.

Erudition aside, words are a passion of mine.

Imagine, then, the horror ~ two to three weeks into the school term ~ when I suddenly found myself lost during conversations with friends as they discussed the esoterica of Biology and French ~ courses I had opted not to take. In short order, I had summarily exempted myself from participation, impotent as I sat listening to friends speaking in "languages" I didn't understand. For someone who thrives on conversation, this drove me to distraction.

I would guess there is nary a person who has endured high school who wouldn't admit to wanting to "belong" rather than setting themselves apart. Yet, through a lack of foresight or guidance, I had single-handedly managed to accomplish this by signing up for a less than prodigious workload. Not immune to the crazed need to fit in, in addition to an overarching drive to not be isolated from conversation with friends, I made the conscious decision to correct my mistake.

My best friend, Kevin, had taken Biology 1. I took Biology 1 the following year.

My good friend, Julie, had signed up for French 1. I took French 1 the following year.

Thus, the story of my high school academics became a game of "catch up." It was embarrassing.

As we eventually approached our senior year, all the "cool" guys were signing up to take a course called, "Bachelor Living." There was a concerted move afoot to assure that the men of tomorrow would at least know the rudiments of cooking and sewing. Whether or not I truly wore the imprimatur of "cool" is debatable, doubtful, OK, so I wasn't, but I signed up for the course nonetheless; I suppose I may have hoped it might wear off on me by association.

While I truly enjoyed the semester of cooking, I had absolutely no intention of spending five months sewing a shirt. I had other plans.

Having discovered a true passion for Biology in the three years since the embarrassment of my freshman year, I had ravenously consumed every course offered by Ms. Redden and Mrs. Whipple ~ the much revered and dread Biology teacher of lore. Still paying a price for that freshman mistake, the most coveted course she offered still seemed out of my reach. Senior Anatomy and Physiology was offered only to those students who had completed every prerequisite course -- I was currently enrolled in the one course which would have assured my admission.

There was also the little problem that this course was held during the same hour as my "sewing" class.

Don't ask how I managed; I honestly do not remember. But, with the inexplicable agreement of Mrs. Hoax, the easy going Bachelor Living teacher, I was allowed to "skip" the entire semester of sewing all the while (somehow) inserting myself into the Anatomy and Physiology class.

I had arrived during the vaunted semester of "the cat."

Over the years as people invariably come to ask how it is I decided to pursue a career in medicine, I generally begin by speaking of "the cat." While the sacrifice of that cat certainly played a role, there are many others who were also central to the decision.

Mrs. Hoax, Ms. Redden, Mrs. Whipple, Mr. & Mrs. Bucker, "Mimi" & George Stewart, Mr. Glidden, Mr. Earnhardt, Kevin, and Julie ~ they and countless others ~ played some integral role in paving the road to my future. It is a shame I have never before sat and pondered this until now. I am convinced people are generally unaware the impact they have on others in ways great and small. What I wouldn't give to have the opportunity to let each of them know how grateful I am simply for having had the opportunity to spend those four precious years alongside them. To let each of them know how they unwittingly helped to guide me to an uncertain future.

"If given the chance, would you revisit your high school years?"

In a heartbeat, but only if I was allowed to bring all the lessons I have learned along the way.

(Including Mrs. Hoax's tried and true method for a kick ass omelet!)

Liquid Gold

I have a problem

It never fails.

Once finished, taking a firm grasp, I shake and shake and shake it ~ just as my father taught me years ago. Despite all of my best efforts, however, I never manage to keep the last drop from falling at my feet.

I am glad to discover I am apparently not the only inept person in the world. I watch.

I have seen plenty of other men ~ and women ~ struggle as well.

It is on my mind every time I am pumping gas:

"Will I be able to come up with some new maneuver that will allow me to win the game of preventing that last drop from hitting the ground?"

And, just how much gas and money is wasted every year by the needless loss of these lowly droplets?

Let's just say the average number of drops that fall to the ground per fill-up is "five." (While I can proudly state I never lose more than one or two, I am going by the stats collected by a much smarter and obsessive man than I.)

The volume per drop is roughly 0.05cc or 1.32086026 x 10-5 US gallons. In 2005, he contends there was an estimated 180,000 million gallons of gas pumped in the United States by the likes of you and me. After calculating a rough estimate of the volume of fuel lost to the ground, he went on to perform some admittedly "voodoo" mathematics so as to estimate the cost of these drops. He elected to use a $4 per gallon cost estimated during the fall of 2008, during the period of hyper-inflated prices (presumable in his area).

Regardless of the crude calculations or debatable methodology, his results seem impressive:

1,182,830.36 gallons of lost fuel in drops which fall to the concrete as we finish at the pumps, with an estimated collective cost of $4,731,321.45 per year.

As Labor Day approaches, as well as an all-too-predictable bump in "demand," we will all be party to yet another cycle of inflated fuel prices.

This gives me pause for reflection:

Surely, there is some innovative person out there who has already developed a ridiculously simple and inexpensive solution to this problem; "some clever piece of plastic" that would stave off the loss of these precious drops?

And I should also not be forced into the embarrassing position of appearing as though I am thrown into a fit of convulsions as I try to come up with new maneuvers to beat the drop at it's own game. I do own the drop, after all.

How could I possibly have known I had money "falling at my feet" every few days?

No less, at the pumps of my local gas station!

Go figure.

November Looms

Emma: I want you to tell them it ain't so tragic! People do get better!
Patsy: What do you want me to do?
Emma: Tell them it's OK to talk about the cancer!

from the book, "Terms of Endearment"

During the phone call, a family member was struck by the fact I had not informed everyone. She wanted to know how my complete circle of friends and acquaintances could not be told.

I had my reasons.

I was also free to change my mind.

For the past couple of years I have been under treatment for cancer.

It all began as a nagging point of tenderness in my chest ~ just where my sternum meets with one of my ribs. With one finger, I could isolate the pain and "rub" it away. It went on this way for another couple of months or more ~ no better and no worse. It was tolerable.

Until the night I was awakened by a breath-robbing pain elicited by simply turning onto my side. This was definitely not normal by any stretch. I chose to ignore it anyway.

It did not take long, however, for me to realize I could no longer fool myself into believing the pain might be inconsequential.

I enjoyed a momentary reprieve, however, after talking with some of my colleagues, all of whom were certain the totality of my symptoms pointed to a nerve root compression injury from working out. "We are tired of watching you rub your chest ~ go order a damned MRI and get the problem fixed."

It was not a nerve root compression injury.

The MRI isolated a golf ball-sized mass encroaching on the neurovascular bundle under one of my ribs.

Following an extensive evaluation, a diagnosis was returned: In oncology-speak, the mass represented a high-grade, 3BE Anaplastic Large Cell Lymphoma.

This past March I drove to the cancer center to undergo yet another round of RCHOP21; my second complete course of chemotherapy (due to failure of initial treatment or relapse). As I sat in the waiting room of the lab, I heard my name being called. The woman shouting my name was clearly not one of the lab technicians; she was either a physician or a nurse.

She came forward and introduced herself to me, asked a few probing questions and then left the room. She repeated this process another two or three times before finally explaining that, "the head of the BMT Department would like to speak with (me)." Huh?

I was then ushered into a nearby conference room where a physician (I had never met) was seated at a table reviewing my treatment records. What?

Without wasting a breath, the stranger proceeded to inform me that, as a specialist, he was not confident I would be able to, "see (my) way to a cure without a transplant."

I felt dizzy. "What kind of transplant?" (A stupid question but I was in shock.)

Seeming to appreciate my confused state, the physician hesitated and then smiled as he replied, "A bone marrow transplant, Dr. Marvin."

I am currently biding my time as I await another diagnostic biopsy this November. My transplant future will depend on the outcome of this test.

So, going back to my relative's initial concern. Why haven't I told everyone about the cancer?

Simply put: I enjoy normal conversations with family and friends.

"How are you doing?"

Sure, it is a simple question. But this most common of questions takes on considerable heft when tainted with the knowledge of someone's treatment for cancer. You soon realize every answer is incomplete until you have again addressed the "cancer."

Please don't misunderstand. I appreciate the care, concern, and compassion extended by all my family, friends, and strangers alike. The prayer groups and support I have enjoyed have been a source of great comfort.

After a period of time, however, this patient wanted to be asked that simple question from someone ~ anyone ~ who wasn't aware of my medical condition. I craved normal conversations with people who were only interested in knowing, "what kind of great stuff has been going on in your life?"

This begs another logical question: If this is truly how you feel, why write about the cancer now?

As much as I would like to believe I am living a normal life, I am not. At least for the time being.

I am tired of keeping separate the mental lists of those, "who know," from those, "who don't know."

I am tired of circumventing questions and responding with "half-answers."

And, I am tired of hurting those who, once they have discovered my situation, are slighted by my apparent inability to trust them with the information.

This IS my life. For better or for worse.

I feel great at the moment. I am not now nor have I ever sought anyone's sympathy. I hope anyone who may feel slighted would accept my apology. Your understanding and support wouldn't hurt, either.

In a few months, I will know what my future holds; I remain an eternal optimist.

And, I honestly don't mind if family and friends continue to feel compelled to ask about the "cancer." But do me a favor ~ balance those concerns by also asking,

"What kind of craziness have you been up to lately?"

Lost And Found

Clare Boothe Luce was an amazing human being. She is famous for a highly successful, multi-faceted career which included stints as editor, playwright, politician, journalist, and diplomat. With the possible exception of a few classic plays, I would guess she is mostly forgotten by many who are not of her generation.

I am willing to put up cold-hard cash for an almost certain bet: Most everyone has, at one time or another, heard or uttered one of her most famously cited quotations; specifically,

"No good deed goes unpunished."

Today was my day.

I found a lost cellphone and then tried to return it.

In hindsight, I probably should have kicked it into the nearest sewer.

After a little quick research, I came up with some startling results regarding the annual loss of cell phones worldwide. One study in the United States claims, "10% of the cellphone-using population will lose at least one phone per year." Other research claims the hard numbers range from 6 to 12 million cellphones per year. I would venture all cellphone companies incorporate these data into their annual earnings forecasts.

Other research indicates that theft accounts for a large percentage of cellphone losses. In the United Kingdom, some 700,000 "mobiles" are reportedly "lifted" every year. Other noteworthy factors include: 400,000 phones dropped into alcoholic beverages; 600,000 deposited into the "loo"; and some 200,000 inadvertently put through the gentle cycle of their washing machines. One is left to assume there are quite a few imbibing, loo-using, thieving "sods" who mistakenly do laundry (while drunk) in Great Britain? (Illiteration vs Alliteration)

This lost phone could not have met a more ignoble fate; it was found on a fractured slab of concrete sidewalk in front of a nondescript, smelly Oriental grocery store (I had once gone into this store only to find a woman buried chest-deep -- feet in the air -- inside a deep freeze presumably "fishing" for rotten, stinking scrod). Even while fearing I might drop dead from the stench surrounding that store, "Bobby-Do-Good" had to stop and pick up the damnable phone.

In a recent poll, 89% of those surveyed indicated it was, "definitely worth a shot," to return a lost-then-found cell phone; the other 11% were divided equally among the "snooze, loose" and "it depends" camps. On reading these data, I truly felt vindicated; 9 out of 10 Americans agreed that making an attempt to return the phone was a good idea. The reader may be my judge.

I am no technological wizard. For this reason, I don't know how to work any device not my own; after picking up the lost cellphone, I decided the best course of action would be to first wait for someone to call "me." I would then inform the caller that I had found the phone and would be more than happy, with their help, to assure it's return to the rightful owner. It took no more than three minutes to ring; I somehow managed to answer it the second time around:

CALLER: Hello?

RDMMD: Hi. Are you, by chance, the owner of this phone?

CALLER: Oh, thank you so much! No, the girl who owns the phone is right here. She was hoping to get through to someone who may have found the phone. Here she is ... and, thank you, again.

RDMMD: (My chest swelling) Oh, no problem, ma'am!

LOSER: (As in "person who lost the phone") ..... hey.

RDMMD: Hey, I found your phone and would like to know how I might get it back to you?

(LOSER now will embarrass me with gratitude)

LOSER: What the hell do you mean -- you got my phone? Where the f*** you get my phone?

RDMMD: (chest deflating) What? What do you mean, "Where did I get your phone?" I found it on the street!

LOSERETTE: (now an official female "loser") Well ..... I need my phone! I need it now! When the you gonna bring me my phone?

RDMMD: (getting testier by the second) Where are you, ma'am?

LOSERETTE: What do YOU mean, "Where am I?" I'm at work! I'm at the Sonic ..... Mother F*****(MF)!

(She went on to relay the address which was, by this time, only a five minute drive)

RDMMD: (What can I say? Something snapped) I am heading to the hospital (no, I wasn't); I have an emergency (no, I didn't).

LOSERETTE: Where that be? (Could not make that up)

RDMMD: Oh, I am already across the river; I am at least twenty minutes away (in fairness, I WAS heading in that direction). May I bring the phone by your company later today or tomorrow?

LOSERETTE: I need that phone now! You shouldn' have picked up the phone in the first place! I didn' lose my phone -- I misplaced it! I need my phone, MF!

RDMMD: Fine. I am heading to a hospital (picked at random on my originally planned route) about twenty minutes or so from your location; I will leave it at the volunteer's desk for you to pick up.

LOSERETTE: SumBitchMF! (She eats with that thing!) Who are you? I need to know who am I talkin' to!

RDMMD: Oh, my name is Bill Esry (a former patient and past CEO of Sprint -- her carrier)!

LOSERETTE: mumbling ......

BILL ESRY: You are welcome ! Have a nice day!

LOSERETTE: EXPLETIVES DELETED ...... click

Do I feel good about how I handled this situation? Probably, not. If given the same set of circumstances, would I do it again? Hell, yes. Had she bothered to accord me even the slightest bit of appreciation, I would have gladly returned the phone on the spot.

Clare Boothe Luce was correct when she wrote, "No good deed goes unpunished."

Ask my new "friend" what she thinks.

I believe I do deserve to get credit for the good deed of returning the phone. She, at least to my way of thinking, well, she got "spanked."

Cellphone Conversation: Friday, July 31, 2009

I (UP) called Hayley, my neice (HM), and Linda, my Sister-In-Law (LRM), both of whom were leaving Colorado Springs on their way back home to Silverthorne, Colorado.

FIRST CALL:

UP: Hi, Linda!

LRM: Hello? Hello? Are you there? Hello?

UP: (I could hear her) Hello? Linda, can you hear me? Hello? Helloooooo?

LRM: Hello? Darn! (HANGS UP)

SECOND CALL:

UP: Linda, are you there?

LRM: Yes. I could hear you before -- you kept yelling, "hello!"

UP: Hmm? So, I could hear you, and you could hear me? I hung up for no reason?

LRM: Well, we are on a freeway outside of Colorado Springs on our way back home, and there is a lot of traffic. It sounded like you were under water!

UP: OK, well, how is Hayley? Is she feeling better?

LRM: Yes, I would say so. Just blowing a lot of stuff out of her nose.

UP: (LAUGHING) Well, tell her that is a good thing. She taking her medicine?

LRM: Yes. She is taking the antibiotics, the Sudafed and the other thing.

UP: Good. So, what were you two doing in Colorado Springs?

LRM: We decided to take the opportunity to drive down to UCCS to take a look at the school; you know she is a Senior and is actually thinking of going into nursing school.

UP: Oh, really? I had never heard that before! Hell, why not medical school?

LRM: She doesn't want to go to school that long.

UP: (JOKING) Oh, ..... she plans on marrying a doctor, then?

LRM: Yeah, that's what she wants ..... she wants to marry some a****le! (LAUGHING)

UP: WHAT DID YOU SAY? DID I HEAR YOU CORRECTLY? (She never swears)

LRM: (LAUGHING) I just said it for effect; you know that -- it was a joke.

HM: MOM! I CAN'T GET IT TO SHIFT!

UP: Wait a minute! I thought you were driving? So, Hayley is driving?

LRM: NO. I am driving -- she is SHIFTING!

UP: WHY IS SHE SHIFTING?

LRM: So that I can talk to you .....

PAUSE

LRM: ..... and eat my sundae!

UP: WHAT?

LRM: We stopped at a drive-through and got ice cream sundaes. I am driving, talking to you, and also trying to eat a sundae -- and, yes, Hayley is shifting for me. Well, she is also feeding the sundae to me!

HM: Mom, you had better finish this soon or I am throwing it out the window!

UP: Let me get this straight: You spent the day in Colorado Springs visiting a college and nursing school she would like to eventually attend all so that she might someday meet and marry an a****le? NOW, you are driving home, Hayley is shifting the gears -- so that you can continue talking to me on the phone while eating an ice cream sundae?

LRM: Well, it has stopped raining!

PAUSE -- (GUT WRENCHING LAUGHTER)

UP: Oh, well, that is a relief! Glad to hear it has stopped raining! Anything else I should be worried about?

LRM: OH, I HAVE TO PUT THE PHONE DOWN. A police car -- with its lights on -- is coming this way!

PAUSE

LRM: Oh, thank, God, he's going after somebody else!

LRM: The sundae is no longer overflowing; I can handle it now.

UP: Really? Is there anything else?

LRM: Well, we are driving into a lane with orange construction cones. But, it is only an exit.

You would just have to be there; we all really LOVE our Sister-In-Law!

MY Chicken

I recently came across a book of “celebrity” chefs each of whom was asked a single question:

“What would you eat for your last meal?”

I was somehow overlooked.

Had the author bothered, I would assure him my choices change with time; my tastes are continually in flux. But, for the moment my all-time list might include:

Mylla’s roast, Karen’s potatoes, Paula Deen’s green beans with new potatoes, a field green salad with Jeannie’s dressing, ending with Ina Garten’s Frozen Key Lime Pie.

Sure, we have all eaten roast, but it is Mylla’s roast that I crave. People may be loathe to admit in public that they covet a good roast, but we all search for a way back to some special time or place in our lives through food; I think it is called "comfort food."

But, seriously, Mylla isn’t a classically trained chef; for that matter, neither is Paula Deen or Ina Garten. Mylla learned the secret to her roast; it didn’t appear to her in a vision. I would also venture a guess that Paula and Ina have recipes which originated on bits of worn paper discovered in neglected recipe boxes from long-forgotten kitchens. Moreover, these savvy women have gone on to sell books filled with the purloined recipes from those dusty boxes to people like me; if only I were so smart.

So, how is it that all of these people have come to hold proprietary claim over certain recipes? And, how many different recipes can possibly exist for pot roast? In my mind, there can only be so many ways to, “skin the proverbial cat.” Yet, bookstore shelves overflow with an ever expanding collection of newly minted instructional cookbooks.

Googling “pot roast," I was confronted with a staggering “1,150,000” posts. Adjectives describing the recipes include: Best, Classic, Simple, Slow-cooking, Oven, and Stove-top – to name a few.

The Food Network – today – lists a mind-numbing 541 recipes, most all of them with generic tag lines of: Meat, Mushroom, and Beef.

If I was new to a pot or even a roast, the choices would be all too confusing. I would need help. I might think to call Marilyn.

If ever in the vicinity of Lecanto, Florida – and desperately in need of resource material for a recipe or future cookbook – as well as a purient desire for a wee glimpse of “the crazies” – one need make a single stop (once past security) to see my good friend, Marilyn B. (That's her: she doesn't believe in makeup but never fails to have a blob of icing on her face.)

Some people collect stamps. Others save newspaper clippings. Some even horde – or have difficulty parting with – garbage. Marilyn has only one vice: Cookbooks. I will do my level best to locate incriminating pictures of her collection; suffice it to write that the shelves of her bookcases moaned and strained under the sheer weight of the collection when she moved to the Black Diamond Ranch community – and lost. The aggregate number totals some 800 or so books; she gave away a "couple hundred of them" before making the move. She has every cookbook known to man.

I guess one could write that I am a one-woman man; I very seldom stray from Ina Garten. (There are occasional dalliances with the likes of Paula Deen, and Tyler Florence – please, don’t go there.) So, when compared to Marilyn’s library, my eight or nine books might seem anemic. Well, to my way of thinking, the collection while small is also mighty.

What has Ina done for me? She has brought great food to the table for my family and friends. As a result, she has also made me a very popular guy. People think I can cook -- and when others come to believe you do it well? Forgetaboutit.

How is that? Look at the picture -- I cooked those beauties!

Ina’s ridiculously simple and fantastic roast chicken is now “MY” roast chicken. I made no claim; I let the recipe, my ability to follow instructions -- as well as the results -- do the talking. I should note that I may-have-also-kind-of-sorta (silently) laid claim to her homemade gravy – as well as her frozen key lime pie. It is an innocent sin of omission; I never declared ownership. By way of full disclosure, I should probably add that I pretty-much cook almost everything Ina offers up; I may very well be guilty of a multitude of similar sins.

I don’t imagine I will ever have the opportunity to meet her -- unless a lawsuit is filed for failing to declare that the food I cook, “is the intellectual property of Ina Garten.” Absent litigation, I certainly wouldn’t forfeit an opportunity to meet Ina -- if only to thank her and to relay how her recipes have greatly expanded our collective compendium of “comfort food.” And, I hope she would actually find comfort in knowing that some of her recipes, those which have now become MY crowd-pleasing favorites, will live on in the hearts and minds of my family and friends. She has my unflogging loyalty as well as some of my money; maybe she could spare a little of the credit?

And, if Ina really pressed, I would even consider asking Mylla, Karen, and Jeannie if I could share their recipes with her. (I doubt they would charge.)

Rest assured, Ina. I have no interest in writing a cookbook – y(our) recipes are safe.

I wouldn’t trust Marilyn, however.

"You Been Goofing With The Bees?"

I hate -- that is a strong word -- "very much dislike" on-line "quizzes." For the life of me, I don't understand why anyone would want to know if I like "broccoli," or if I am a "birdwatcher?"

Regardless, a friend recently forwarded a multi-question interrogatory my way. Generally, I would have dismissed the quiz out of turn; had it been sent by almost anyone else, I surely would have relegated the test to its rightful place in the wastebasket of the Ethernet.

50 questions.

I began by answering with bored, monosyllables but soon found myself elaborating. Worse, I later "got to thinking."

Question 47: How many tattoos do you have? None. Unequivocally, NONE.

Not that I have anything against body art; I actually believe tattoos, in moderation, suit some personalities. (But seriously, why would you tell me on Sunday you have no money to pay bills, then proudly celebrate a brand new "tat" on Monday?)

My issue with tattoos is long-standing but has nothing to do with ink.

I am trypanophobic -- I am terrified of needles.

Question 26: "What did you want to be when you were little?"

When I was five, I wanted to be a firetruck. I had issues.

If alternatively asked, "what could I see myself doing as an adult?" I may have answered that I wanted to be funny -- like Dick Van Dyke. But, I most certainly also wanted to be a physician.

I somehow managed to accomplish both; although one of my patients is always quick to (re-)assure me that, "(funny) looks aren't everything."

Again, I very much dislike -- no, really hate -- needles. How did this needle-phobic kid become a physician?

Summers were spent outdoors; there were no computers or video games. There was also the dictum that children were "meant to be seen -- preferably outside." So long as a summer sun ruled over our street lights, we ran and ran and ran. This amount of time accorded me the opportunity to accumulate a great wealth of (dis-)information from "knowledgeable" siblings and friends.

One valuable lesson handed down -- and confirmed by the singer, Nilsson -- declared: "Don't be goofing with the bees." The rule, in my mind, logically extended to anything with a stinger. I had personally witnessed pain and suffering inflicted on countless friends by these flying marauders; while it wasn't a pure case of schadenfreude -- my general thinking was, "better them than me!" The take home lesson: anything with a stinger is bad.

So, given this construct, why would anyone believe I could somehow grant special sanction to man-made "stingers" attached to syringes filled with potentially life-saving vaccines or not?

My family eventually came to expect it. I suppose it may very well have been embarrassing for them; not for me.

As a result of my fear, I spent a great deal of time as a kid running and screaming through sundry doctor's offices in failed attempts to avoid moustached, pointy-hat wearing, syringe-wielding nurses in white. It was just too bad if you happened to get in my way; I was going through you, "come hell or high-water." In the end, unfortunately, the Cloris Leachman-esque nurses of my youth always had their way with me; they had help -- I clearly understood THAT tone in Mother's voice.

The logic escaped me. Why would anyone voluntarily sit still for the infliction of any pain? Seriously, which of us was truly smart? On one hand, you had an automaton of a child who unflinchingly sat "like a good boy" while under a parent-sanctioned assault. Or, as in my case, you had a boy who dared question -- strenuously -- the necessity of being needled by some stranger. My parents had always told me to use my head -- well, my mind, heart, and accumulated life-lessons called on me to rise up and "fight the man."

Perversely, I later opted for that career as a physician -- with a license authorized by the state to stick ridiculously large bore needles into the persons of my patients. The object of my dread as a boy has now become one of the tools of my trade. Ironic - perhaps even hypocritical. 

Question 22: Birdwatcher? I have never personally seen a tufted tit-mouse.

Question 42: Broccoli? I do like broccoli. Blanched with a squeeze of lemon. Have recently been told to try a broccoli garlic mache?

Question 47: How many tattoos do you have? None.

I DO hate on-line quizzes.

And, I recently had a tetanus shot.

I took it like a man; the bite marks on my hand were visible for at least a day.

Super Size Me!

I am driving in the right of two Northbound lanes of traffic on a hilly and winding highway notorious for police speed-traps.

The posted speed limit is 55 mph.

It is fast approaching rush-hour -- but not quite. There is still ample room between cars but the volume of traffic is rapidly increasing.

The cars in my lane are, inexplicably, going at least five miles below posted speeds; my only thought is, "Boy, life at home must really be good," or, dare I say, some of the drivers may very well be "Occidental?" Whatever the reason, my little brain, by force of habit -- as well as fear of tickets -- demands I use my blinker before moving into the left-lane to pass.

As an aside, I believe blinkers have come to represent a genuine modern-age relic. From my observations, I could very well be the last driver who actually still uses them religiously. Either, blinker technology is patently defective, or -- I hate to generalize-- my fellow travelers are simply choosing to not obey the law!

Every American driver should take up the challenge of successfully navigating the massive "intersection" of 610 Highway and US 59 in Houston, Texas at least once -- preferably -- before they die; it could very well be more perilous than bungee jumping with a rubber band. Maneuvering your way through this interchange is hard enough at 2 am, but to come away from the "adventure" unscathed -- as a "newbie" -- and during rush hour traffic is a genuine accomplishment.

It was on the concrete morass of this, the "Spaghetti Bowl," that I learned a hard lesson: use of blinkers is a sign of weakness. By activating the annoying clickety-click, you are signalling to everyone that, "I am wimp and would very much like to have permission to move into your lane. Thanks, and have a nice day!"

"Oh, really?," is the first-half of a nearly-universal reply.

This pitiful display is anathema to most Texans. By merely indicating your intent, the other drivers, acting as judge and jury, immediately convict (you of being said-wimp) and impose sentence; after quickly accelerating, the unspoken retort is:

"NO, you will NOT be moving into your desired lane. Bite me. I have an appointment with a Big Mac."

If I am wrong and this is not a conscious decision, then the mere sight of blinking lights must produce a Pavlovian response which forces (victimizes) the offending drivers to advance, thereby blocking your lateral movement. My independent (anecdotal) research, however, indicates there seems to be a positive statistical correlation between this rude behavior and cellphones, big hair -- and trucks. Singularly or in combination.

This is guaranteed: The day I don't use my blinker is the same day I get a ticket for not signalling my intention to turn or change lanes. Sorry, I digress ...

Going back to where we started, (after having used my blinker) I am now safely in the left-hand lane. I then begin to accelerate, moving past the slower drivers to my right -- making certain they all get a good look at my displeased countenance -- I am silently transmitting to each of them, "my time is valuable, too." (Those who are not oblivious to other drivers) will know better next time! Eventually, I settle into a "safe" cruising speed -- 5 miles or so above the posted speed seems to be the universal "rule." In this case, at 60 or 62 miles per hour, I am moving at an acceptable speed that is not too slow and one that shouldn't subject me to ticket and fine. The reality is that you never know.

My current beef is with those drivers who are then in an even greater hurry to speed past me. These guys -- a disproportionate number in oddly over-size trucks -- clearly don't understand or care for the well-established "two-second" rule for maintaining safe distances between cars. By way, of "making a point," some of them feel compelled to -- pardon my "french" -- ride my "ass." Well, it just so happens that this poor decision generally tends to, "chap my ass." (I really don't know what that means -- just sounds right.)

"Excuse me, insecure guy in the embarrassingly-large truck: I am already driving well above the posted speed limit in an area notorious for police speed traps! Now, you would have me increase my speed further on the odd chance I might -- might -- secure an opportunity to move over into the congested right lane full of "slower people" -- all so that you can rocket past me?"

MY knee jerk -- well, Texan -- response is to apply the brakes -- slowing down, thus, allowing the offender a little time to realize he has been adjudged guilty by ME.

"Slower Traffic Keep Right."

To be certain, this does not translate to:

"Speeding But Slower Traffic Move The Hell Over So I Can Break The Law Even More Than You Are Already Doing So I Can Git Me Some Beers And Fast Food."

Before judging ME, please do not forget -- in this situation -- If I were to accept his bullying and accomodate him by accelerating, I would probably be the first target of the police and dread radar gun.

I am not restricted by any mandated sentencing guidelines but punishment is generally the same:

"You will travel at an even slower rate of speed to be set by my NEW best friend -- the lady to my right --the one with blue hair who can barely see over her dashboard. The duration of punishment is variable; be it one mile or ten, we will travel together until you either find an avenue of escape -- or, until I get bored -- (or, you pull out a gun.)"

And waving your disfigured hand will generally not sway me. I can be a bit stubborn.

Oh, and here is a news flash:

McDonald's will still be open when you get there.

What's In A Name?

I have a mountain named after me -- I really do.

Puppy Peak.

Yes, I'm sure there is some officious name mapmakers have ascribed to it, but everyone I know in Colorado refers to it only as, "Puppy Peak."

I was born Robert. If asked, I think most would say that the diminutive for Robert is Rob -- it stands to reason. Well, there are those who strongly disagree -- at least with me.

It is a fact that I was named for the famous physician, Robert Lamar, MD, who was the first to arrive in Bataan as WWII drew to a close; he was also the same inebriated, Robert Lamar, MD, who brought my twin brother and I into the world.

After suffering labor with two six-pound plus watermelon equivalents, my Mother never again  had a kind word to speak of the tipsy physician who spent most of the day reading comic books and patting her on the head while admonishing her to "be a good girl."

It  remains a puzzle to me, then, as to why my parent's decided to name me for this man.  While it was probably my father's idea, I can assure you Mother never called me Robert again ~ except on those rare occasions when I was (mistakenly) in trouble.

So it is that in my world, my given name begat Bob, which morphed into Bobby and eventually to Blob .. ad nauseum.  There was also a time during high school when I was inexplicably "Uncle Bobo" to most of my friends; the truly sad aspect of this fact is that I never discouraged it..

There seems to be a negative cultural connotation of sorts with the name, Bob.  There are plenty of movies as evidence which invariably portray the village idiot as some mouth-breathing buffoon named, "Bob."  And while I may simply be paranoid, it also seems that television sitcoms routinely curse every stupid husband with the dread name.

Why not Fred?  Better yet, Blake, Bill, Scott, Mark or Jim?

The movie, "What about Bob," is a perfect example.

Bill Murray plays a psychiatrist-stalking, obsessive-compulsive ~ albeit lovable ~ psycho named ... you guessed it ... Bob.  At the beginning of the movie, the doltish Bob forces his psychiatrist into an early retirement but not before the shrink foists the loon into the care of an unsuspecting and egomaniacal collegue.

The not-so-subtle irony in the movie ~ for me ~ comes when Bob then proceeds to drive the aforementioned unsuspecting, egomaniacal, Dr. Marvin, into an asylum.

When it comes to my names, I can't win!

One day while in college, it all changed for me; I woke up one morning as "Bob" but went to bed that night as "Rob."

Catherine ~ carob eating, soda nazi, lawyer-to-be ~ informed me while (she was not) studying Organic Chemistry that "you are most definitely not a 'Bob' ~ you are a 'Robert!'"

For the life of me, I don't know why her words resonated as they did; I had never really given my name much thought.  Even so, I listened when this intelligent, pre-med dropout cum future lawyer declared the use of the name "Bob" taboo.

I asserted my prerogative and went to bed that night freshly empowered with the name, "Rob."  I have been Rob to most everyone since.

I probably should have told my father.

While at home over the summer break, it dawned on me that I hadn't heard from many of my college buddies.  I mentioned this curious turn to my father who went on to tell me that while they "had received quite a few odd phone calls requesting to speak to someone named 'Rob,' no one had specifically asked to speak to me!"

Before hanging up, my father apparently ended the calls with an abrupt, "There is no Rob here!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today, there exist at least three distinct camps:

Most family members stubbornly refuse to call me by any name other than 'Bob' ~ as well as the many cute permutations of the same.  (My cousin informed me recently that she once requested to speak to her cousin, one of the staff physicians at the hospital named, 'Bobby Marvin.'  I am amazed I never heard anything of this exchange from the viscious pack of nurses.)

My college and med school friends (post-Catherine) all know me as Robert, Rob, Marvin, or even 'Starvin' Marvin' (thanks to South Park).

And, finally, there are the (Non-South Park) Colorado relatives who prefer to call me, "Puppy."

Puppy came from the mind ~ and mouth ~ of my first nephew, Evan.  As a mere toddler when he met his favorite Uncle, he was intent on making a great first impression.  So, despite his youth and underdeveloped communication skills, he did the very best he could (especially given his father's contribution of translocated genes) to call me by name.

Bobby became Puppy.

The name stuck and it doesn't bother me in the least; it makes me feel special.  Other than another second-tier Uncle who is called, EUB (to distinquish him as 'Evil Uncle Bob), I am the only other family member with such a nickname.  I prefer my moniker ~ and besides, I have my own mountain!

Those Colorado Marvin's live in Summit County.  It's sad to think that everyday familiarity would ever have them taking the beautiful vista of Silverthorne for granted.  One need only walk a few steps from the front door of their home on any given afternoon to bask in the growing shadows of the Gore Range mountains.  Standing proudest, in my mind, is Puppy Peak.

It would be a nice memory for me to treasure if I knew of how they all came together and decided to honor me with the tribute of an entire mountain.

Unfortunately, I don't believe that is actually how it happened.

Come to think of it.  I may very well have named it for myself.

What would you expect?

Any self-respecting, crazed person named "Bob" would have done the same thing!