Today is the second anniversary of the day Johnny died.
People have been very kind with their words and their "tiptoeing" around us.
Tommy woke up with an inflamed throat he's been developing for the past few days so I honored his seldom made request to allow him to stay home from school. Vitamin C, Omega-3 (fish oil), a dose of honey, tylenol alternating with ibuprofen and a few hours extra sleep and he is feeling better. Definitely school tomorrow.
Rick Carroll, brother of Chris and...(forget that litany...he has 13 brothers and sisters) emailed a saying that will stay with Tommy and me as long as we live: "When a loved one becomes a memory, a memory becomes a Treasure."
The thought then occurred that everyone at some time must put the past behind and look toward the future. That's not as simple as it sounds. Each experience you've had, each person you met was akin to a teacher adding something, for better or worse, to your life's education. Not progressing to the next "lesson" is where obsessions and other aberrations take form. So you keep a bit and leave a lot.
Of course somethings we must never forget: the horrors of the Nazis, 9-11, Bill Clinton letting our troops die for naught in Somalia, the evil hypocritical bastards hiding behind their positions as government officials or psychologists or clergy or peace or civil rights or animal rights activists, the demented acts of child rapists and murderers...you get my drift. If you are an evil, lying bastard, you are an evil, lying bastard period.
I truly understand the aboriginal hunter's prayer for forgiveness by the animal he's about to dispatch. I think it's more honest and realistic than the saying that we "must always forgive, but never forget." Some say that concept's origin is a play on the Biblical reference that in His forgiveness, God "forgets" our transgressions in that moment but never forgets what we are capable of in our imperfect human-ness. More likely it was some pious attempt to put an end to blood feuds between individuals, families, tribes and nations. It's a concept that always troubled me because for the most part I believe it's largely BS.
So there are persons and actions I will not forgive, nor forget.
On this day, I look back on what led up to Johnny's death in an effort to decide those memories that are to become treasures as well as those that are to be forgotten, forgiven and those for which I will do neither.
The search for Johnny's initial heart condition begins, for me, the night I woke up in a pool of my own blood.
I tend not to react as most do. The morning we rushed Johnny to Children's Hospital the first of many times, I was quiet and reflective. The night, more than a dozen years later when he was rendered a quadriplegic after his heart stopped and ambulances (two) arrived outside his mother's house, I watched in expressionless silence. When my mother died I displayed no outward emotion, a fact that a few idiots in my family grossly misinterpreted. So when I saw the spreading blood my reaction was pretty much a simple "What the F***?"
Johnny's mother was not forthcoming with information unless pressed...and then you had the option similar from choosing from a Chinese restaurant menu of deciding from the multiple explanations issuing from her of what was more or less accurate...most as it turns out were probably less.
Let me give you an example.
Six or eight months after Tommy was born, I asked her when plans for Tommy's Baptism in the church would be finalized. My sister, Elena, was to be his Godmother; her brother Dick the Godfather. I was brought up to believe a newborn should rarely leave the house before he or she was Baptized and that was at the latest within the first month or so after birth. As the weeks grew into yet more months from the designation of his Godparents, I was beginning to believe Ohio natives dwell in a universe separate from the rest of us.
So I pushed.
She blurted out the name of a friend who was an Amway distributor and apparently some sort of Elder in the Mormon or Mennonite or some such church. "He baptized him!" she said.
"No, he didn't," I replied. "He's not Catholic."
"I did it," she said in the next breath growing very agitated at having to come up with an answer other than the truth.
She must have forgotten that I went through 12 years of Catholic elementary and high school as well as four at a Jesuit college. "Sorry, but that only work's in an emergency if the baby's going to die."
She huffed off out of the kitchen leaving the question unanswered.
Some months later while she, the boys and their step sister, Emily, were on a trip to Ohio to visit her parents (I was not invited although sometimes I got the idea that her mother felt more comfortable around me than with her own daughter) I received a phone call telling me that Tommy was to be Baptized that morning with her sister, Jennifer, standing proxy for Elena. She said she didn't want to invite anyone from my family. Elena was in tears. My mother was furious.
Back to the night of blood-soaked sheets. When finally I discovered that she brought an STD (she completely failed to mention) to the marriage, I asked her about it. In rapid fire with one explanation quite literally following the other, she explained, "Oh, my first husband had the same thing!"
Oh joy. Somehow I did not feel a simpatico connection. I will say I found out much later he is quite different from the expletives included descriptions she used about him. In fact, nearly word for word, she painted me with the same accusations she used for him.
"Did he give it to you?"
"I got it from a JEW from New York I dated." She never mentioned a name, only that he was a "JEW" in capital letters.
That was quickly followed by: "I was raped by a date at gun point!" Different guy. She never mentioned his religion, only that he worked on Capitol Hill.
Interesting. So which one was it? She never answered. Although during the divorce proceedings she claimed that she did not know she brought anything of that nature to the marriage. So why identify ...oh, never mind.
I did a bit of google research through a variety of medical journals and found that one of the effects of this particular STD is a constriction in fetal blood flow. Fit the cause of the failure of Johnny's left ventricle to form. To this day I don't believe any study has been performed looking into the percentage of hypoplastic left heart babies who had parents with an STD. I believe more than a few lives would be saved if this vector is ever studied.
In my mind at least, that seemed a reasonable explanation for Johnny's initial heart condition versus a random or deliberate act allowed by a history-intervening God.
Still there were other acts, even other people who I believe played a role in the path toward Johnny's death.
(To Be Continued...)
Monday, March 12, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Part III: The Words and Memories are Getting More Difficult
Every parent is proud of his/her child/children. I am proud of both of mine: Johnny and Tommy.
Before Tommy appeared, Johnny could not have been a cuter, better, more mischievous toddler. And although his heart lacked the mass and chambers of his peers, it was huge (in the sense of embracing life and others) nonetheless.
By nature Johnny was cautious. I tell the story ad nauseam of how I would sit on the couch with my feet on the coffee table and my legs would form a barrier to both Johnny then pulling himself along standing upright by holding onto the sofa edge and later to Tommy when he was a toddler. Johnny would get to my "leg bridge" and stop. He'd look the length of my legs, then look over them at what might lay beyond, then scan them yet again. Finally, he would slowly start the climb over making certain that nothing harmful would meet him. Tommy, on the other hand, would scoot up to my legs and dive over headfirst without the faintest hesitation or concern of whether the floor, a boogie man or a thousand-foot drop might await him.
Both boys had their own charm. Johnny never met the first sunbeam that didn't turn his skin into a warm tan. Pushing him through the local Safeway in a grocery cart, I would be greeted by random Hispanic women who would stop us and comment on the beautiful tone of his skin. I would smile and thank them. Tommy has no skin pigment for the sun to warm and brown. But he was born with the most wonderous head of shimmering three-hued hair. It wasn't really red so much as intermingled layers of light orange, brilliant blond and shimmering gold. Both boys were very polite to those around them. To this day, Tommy is a hugger when bidding friends and relatives goodbye.
I will never erase the memory of one of Johnny's countless visits to the Children's Hospital cardiac clinic where they monitored his odds-defying progress. Johnny was barely a week or two into walking with confidence when we arrived. Across the room on a seat near the check-in window was a mother and her few month old infant. The baby was crying. Johnny watched intently. I watched him. He then turned to the bag every parent carries when they venture forth with a baby or toddler. It's always crammed with diapers, a change of clothes, wipes, plastic bags and at least one milk-filled bottle. Johnny took his bottle from the side pouch and with it held in his outstretched hand walked across the room to the crying baby. I didn't know whether to smile, laugh or cry. But I knew then as I feel now writing these words that I could not have been more amazed or proud.
This is a difficult time for me...and for Tommy. March 22, 1990 was the day Johnny was born. March 12, 2010 was the day he died. Maybe that is why I'm writing this now.
From the time of his diagnosis until the age of four, Johnny's life was a mix of typical infant and toddler experiences and visits to doctors and what seemed like a second home, Children's Hospital for invasive catheter checks and procedures dealing with the vessels coming from his heart and even more invasive heart surgeries I've already mentioned.
I remember a business trip to Georgia. I was standing in the headquarters office of Glock USA talking with Paul Jannuzzo, a good friend and one of the finest men I've had the honor of knowing. In came a bear of a man, limping a bit. He was the sales manager. I can't remember if he was a former policeman or military. He announced that was recuperating from a catheter procedure where they threaded a tube from his groin to his heart to have a looksee. He groaned that it was the most painful experience he'd ever had. I offered my sympathy but could not help but mention that my son, Johnny, already had four. I didn't mention that not once did he complain.
After every procedure it was my role to spend the night in the hospital with Johnny. I got to know the nurses and became pretty proficient at changing his diapers and bed linen. To this day, I marvel at the roll, tuck, unroll system they use in replacing soiled with fresh blankets and sheets without removing the patient from the bed. More than once a nurse would astound me with the complement that I was the only "dad" they knew who would change a dirty diaper. I really loved the personnel there. A number, as fate would have it, proved dear friends many years later as parishioners at St. Jerome in Hyattsville.
While waiting in the playroom for news of one of his procedures, I glanced up at the name tag on the nurse who had just come bearing news from the surgical suite. I saw the name "Mize" and got tongue-tied asking her if she was "Greg Mize's husband." After an embarrassed laugh, she admitted that Greg was her husband.
Greg, then a DC Judge, and I had a long history in Washington politics. I worked for the National Rifle Association. Greg worked as the right hand man to DC Councilman David Clark who was forever trying to pass laws and debate me and others on the evils of firearms. Despite being on opposite ends of the political spectrum, Greg and I developed a mutual respect that grew into a friendship. Turns out he and Marissa had a wonderful family including a teenage boy who played baseball for St. John's, my old high school where Johnny wanted to go and where Tommy is now a Senior. Greg and I played softball against each other when I was at NRA. I have no idea who won. I only remember hitting him with a cross body block that sent Greg somersaulting over my back in an attempt to get to first base and that Councilman Clark was playing in a pair of Bermuda shorts, black dress shoes and black socks...a total dweeb!
I remember watching with humor and awe how at age three or four Johnny responded hours after returning from either the Glenn or Fontan procedures. Can't remember which.
For weeks before an operation I was a mental, emotional and literally physical wreck. Suffice to say I literally lost a great deal of blood. No exaggeration. I mean physically, not figuratively.
This day as I walked up to Johnny's bed, he was lying on his back. His chest was bandaged but his legs were crossed as if he were watching the tide from a lounge chair at the ocean. All he needed was a huge cigar and I would have thought he was pretending to be his grandfather or Groucho Marx.
I think he actually looked forward to each stay at Children's. Not so much because he was into surgeries but because they had a terrific playroom and all he wanted was for me to let him stand on the wheeled base of the pole holding his IV bag and with him holding the pole with both hands push him down the corridor to one of the toy cars he would get in and drive around the room. Yours truly was the plastic auto's engine.
Traditional wisdom says having a child with a life-threatening malady drives many parents apart. I truly believe that if the match was built on solid personalities with two individuals committed in faith, trust, strength of character and love that it builds a stronger bond. Unfortunately I began to focus on the fact that things between us were not so sound or solid as I thought...on almost every level.
Early signs came during doctor visits when Johnny's mother would say and do things that simply clashed with reality.
I had the habit of personally thanking any doctor, nurse or med tech for whatever service they gave Johnny. I wanted Johnny to grow to appreciate and acknowledge kindness given by others by having him say "thank you" after each visit. One day after a nurse had a particularly difficult time finding a vein to take a blood sample, his mother scolded me for "forcing" him to thank the folks for their service. She said she didn't believe you should "thank" someone who "painfully tortured" your child. I had a very difficult time trying to figure out what was torturous about a sincere effort to keep Johnny alive.
Later when Johnny was showing signs of respiratory difficulties, I listened intently as the doctor asked about allergies. Not once did his mother acknowledge that a dog, two cats, and a cage full of birds resided with him. I collared the doctor outside the office and provided that information. Despite the doctor's recommendation that Johnny undergo the standard testing to identify allergens, she absolutely refused to allow him to undergo such a "painful procedure."
At his pediatrician's office, she said Johnny suffered from exercise-induced asthma. She asked when did that phenomenon morph into "real asthma?" I must haved winced at the question because the doctor, a very talented Vietnamese woman, glanced at me and said "it is real asthma." It turned out that the real motivation for the visit was to get the doctor to officially declare that Johnny needed to nap during physical education period at school, not exercise. The doctor said her daughter has asthma and that exercise is the best approach when dealing with the problem. His mother didn't like the response and changed pediatricians.
A few years later when she was lobbying for Johnny to get a pacemaker, his then cardiologist, Dr. Sharon Karr, stated on the record that the implant was a precaution and not dictated by a decline in Johnny's health under my care. His mother's reaction was to change cardiologists.
One day Johnny said he wanted to play basketball at St. Jerome School. His mother said they would have to check with his heart doc, the new cardiologist, Dr. Benheim who was part of the same practice. Dr. Benheim told her that basketball would be a great activity for him. As we left the office, Johnny was smiling...it was a smile of happiness. Outside she told him "I don't care what the doctor said. You are not playing basketball!"
Doctors who disagreed with her were not the only medical personnel with whom his mother clashed.
On one occasion, she told me I had to go talk to the office administrator at Dr. Karr and Dr. Benheim's office. She said she was treated abusively during the last visit. I was puzzled because the office administrator/manager always appeared very professional but also very helpful and cordial.
I drove to Virginia to see what the problem might be.
Once there, I explained the nature of my visit. The office manager was a no-nonsense individual. She got right to the point. Johnny's mother arrived about a half hour late for his appointment. She got irate when asked for the referral from his pediatrician. She did not have the necessary referral with her. The manager offered to call the pediatrician's office to have one faxed over. Turns out, if I was to believe the office manager (and I did), Johnny's mother continued to get very heated with her language and demands and acted as if it was the office manager's fault that she didn't have the paperwork. It was not the first time his mother was late for an appointment or lacked a referral.
During one of Johnny's hospital stays, his mother told me to tell the night nurse not to wake him to take his blood pressure etc. I decided to check with the nursing staff before making such a request. I was told that it would be impossible to honor such a request because of the demand of so many patients. On yet another stay, a male nurse, who like most of the nurses there had been administering to Johnny for years, pulled me aside and informed me that Johnny's mother was verbally abusive to pretty much all of the nurses on the floor but mostly to those of minority ethnic origins. I really was shocked.
Then I noticed that most of the nurses treated us differently. They all adored Johnny. The black nurses laughed and joked with me as if we grew up together. With her, they were a bit standoffish...as if she were an authority figure. I normally just wrote it off as a response to her acting more like a wannabe doctor than a mom. She had a habit of picking up medical jargon and using it in her everyday conversation. If you paid close attention, as did the doctors and nurses, you quickly realized that although the words sounded right, they were almost always used incorrectly...very much like asking if exercise or activity induced asthma would become "real" asthma.
(To be continued...yet again)
Before Tommy appeared, Johnny could not have been a cuter, better, more mischievous toddler. And although his heart lacked the mass and chambers of his peers, it was huge (in the sense of embracing life and others) nonetheless.
By nature Johnny was cautious. I tell the story ad nauseam of how I would sit on the couch with my feet on the coffee table and my legs would form a barrier to both Johnny then pulling himself along standing upright by holding onto the sofa edge and later to Tommy when he was a toddler. Johnny would get to my "leg bridge" and stop. He'd look the length of my legs, then look over them at what might lay beyond, then scan them yet again. Finally, he would slowly start the climb over making certain that nothing harmful would meet him. Tommy, on the other hand, would scoot up to my legs and dive over headfirst without the faintest hesitation or concern of whether the floor, a boogie man or a thousand-foot drop might await him.
Both boys had their own charm. Johnny never met the first sunbeam that didn't turn his skin into a warm tan. Pushing him through the local Safeway in a grocery cart, I would be greeted by random Hispanic women who would stop us and comment on the beautiful tone of his skin. I would smile and thank them. Tommy has no skin pigment for the sun to warm and brown. But he was born with the most wonderous head of shimmering three-hued hair. It wasn't really red so much as intermingled layers of light orange, brilliant blond and shimmering gold. Both boys were very polite to those around them. To this day, Tommy is a hugger when bidding friends and relatives goodbye.
I will never erase the memory of one of Johnny's countless visits to the Children's Hospital cardiac clinic where they monitored his odds-defying progress. Johnny was barely a week or two into walking with confidence when we arrived. Across the room on a seat near the check-in window was a mother and her few month old infant. The baby was crying. Johnny watched intently. I watched him. He then turned to the bag every parent carries when they venture forth with a baby or toddler. It's always crammed with diapers, a change of clothes, wipes, plastic bags and at least one milk-filled bottle. Johnny took his bottle from the side pouch and with it held in his outstretched hand walked across the room to the crying baby. I didn't know whether to smile, laugh or cry. But I knew then as I feel now writing these words that I could not have been more amazed or proud.
This is a difficult time for me...and for Tommy. March 22, 1990 was the day Johnny was born. March 12, 2010 was the day he died. Maybe that is why I'm writing this now.
From the time of his diagnosis until the age of four, Johnny's life was a mix of typical infant and toddler experiences and visits to doctors and what seemed like a second home, Children's Hospital for invasive catheter checks and procedures dealing with the vessels coming from his heart and even more invasive heart surgeries I've already mentioned.
I remember a business trip to Georgia. I was standing in the headquarters office of Glock USA talking with Paul Jannuzzo, a good friend and one of the finest men I've had the honor of knowing. In came a bear of a man, limping a bit. He was the sales manager. I can't remember if he was a former policeman or military. He announced that was recuperating from a catheter procedure where they threaded a tube from his groin to his heart to have a looksee. He groaned that it was the most painful experience he'd ever had. I offered my sympathy but could not help but mention that my son, Johnny, already had four. I didn't mention that not once did he complain.
After every procedure it was my role to spend the night in the hospital with Johnny. I got to know the nurses and became pretty proficient at changing his diapers and bed linen. To this day, I marvel at the roll, tuck, unroll system they use in replacing soiled with fresh blankets and sheets without removing the patient from the bed. More than once a nurse would astound me with the complement that I was the only "dad" they knew who would change a dirty diaper. I really loved the personnel there. A number, as fate would have it, proved dear friends many years later as parishioners at St. Jerome in Hyattsville.
While waiting in the playroom for news of one of his procedures, I glanced up at the name tag on the nurse who had just come bearing news from the surgical suite. I saw the name "Mize" and got tongue-tied asking her if she was "Greg Mize's husband." After an embarrassed laugh, she admitted that Greg was her husband.
Greg, then a DC Judge, and I had a long history in Washington politics. I worked for the National Rifle Association. Greg worked as the right hand man to DC Councilman David Clark who was forever trying to pass laws and debate me and others on the evils of firearms. Despite being on opposite ends of the political spectrum, Greg and I developed a mutual respect that grew into a friendship. Turns out he and Marissa had a wonderful family including a teenage boy who played baseball for St. John's, my old high school where Johnny wanted to go and where Tommy is now a Senior. Greg and I played softball against each other when I was at NRA. I have no idea who won. I only remember hitting him with a cross body block that sent Greg somersaulting over my back in an attempt to get to first base and that Councilman Clark was playing in a pair of Bermuda shorts, black dress shoes and black socks...a total dweeb!
I remember watching with humor and awe how at age three or four Johnny responded hours after returning from either the Glenn or Fontan procedures. Can't remember which.
For weeks before an operation I was a mental, emotional and literally physical wreck. Suffice to say I literally lost a great deal of blood. No exaggeration. I mean physically, not figuratively.
This day as I walked up to Johnny's bed, he was lying on his back. His chest was bandaged but his legs were crossed as if he were watching the tide from a lounge chair at the ocean. All he needed was a huge cigar and I would have thought he was pretending to be his grandfather or Groucho Marx.
I think he actually looked forward to each stay at Children's. Not so much because he was into surgeries but because they had a terrific playroom and all he wanted was for me to let him stand on the wheeled base of the pole holding his IV bag and with him holding the pole with both hands push him down the corridor to one of the toy cars he would get in and drive around the room. Yours truly was the plastic auto's engine.
Traditional wisdom says having a child with a life-threatening malady drives many parents apart. I truly believe that if the match was built on solid personalities with two individuals committed in faith, trust, strength of character and love that it builds a stronger bond. Unfortunately I began to focus on the fact that things between us were not so sound or solid as I thought...on almost every level.
Early signs came during doctor visits when Johnny's mother would say and do things that simply clashed with reality.
I had the habit of personally thanking any doctor, nurse or med tech for whatever service they gave Johnny. I wanted Johnny to grow to appreciate and acknowledge kindness given by others by having him say "thank you" after each visit. One day after a nurse had a particularly difficult time finding a vein to take a blood sample, his mother scolded me for "forcing" him to thank the folks for their service. She said she didn't believe you should "thank" someone who "painfully tortured" your child. I had a very difficult time trying to figure out what was torturous about a sincere effort to keep Johnny alive.
Later when Johnny was showing signs of respiratory difficulties, I listened intently as the doctor asked about allergies. Not once did his mother acknowledge that a dog, two cats, and a cage full of birds resided with him. I collared the doctor outside the office and provided that information. Despite the doctor's recommendation that Johnny undergo the standard testing to identify allergens, she absolutely refused to allow him to undergo such a "painful procedure."
At his pediatrician's office, she said Johnny suffered from exercise-induced asthma. She asked when did that phenomenon morph into "real asthma?" I must haved winced at the question because the doctor, a very talented Vietnamese woman, glanced at me and said "it is real asthma." It turned out that the real motivation for the visit was to get the doctor to officially declare that Johnny needed to nap during physical education period at school, not exercise. The doctor said her daughter has asthma and that exercise is the best approach when dealing with the problem. His mother didn't like the response and changed pediatricians.
A few years later when she was lobbying for Johnny to get a pacemaker, his then cardiologist, Dr. Sharon Karr, stated on the record that the implant was a precaution and not dictated by a decline in Johnny's health under my care. His mother's reaction was to change cardiologists.
One day Johnny said he wanted to play basketball at St. Jerome School. His mother said they would have to check with his heart doc, the new cardiologist, Dr. Benheim who was part of the same practice. Dr. Benheim told her that basketball would be a great activity for him. As we left the office, Johnny was smiling...it was a smile of happiness. Outside she told him "I don't care what the doctor said. You are not playing basketball!"
Doctors who disagreed with her were not the only medical personnel with whom his mother clashed.
On one occasion, she told me I had to go talk to the office administrator at Dr. Karr and Dr. Benheim's office. She said she was treated abusively during the last visit. I was puzzled because the office administrator/manager always appeared very professional but also very helpful and cordial.
I drove to Virginia to see what the problem might be.
Once there, I explained the nature of my visit. The office manager was a no-nonsense individual. She got right to the point. Johnny's mother arrived about a half hour late for his appointment. She got irate when asked for the referral from his pediatrician. She did not have the necessary referral with her. The manager offered to call the pediatrician's office to have one faxed over. Turns out, if I was to believe the office manager (and I did), Johnny's mother continued to get very heated with her language and demands and acted as if it was the office manager's fault that she didn't have the paperwork. It was not the first time his mother was late for an appointment or lacked a referral.
During one of Johnny's hospital stays, his mother told me to tell the night nurse not to wake him to take his blood pressure etc. I decided to check with the nursing staff before making such a request. I was told that it would be impossible to honor such a request because of the demand of so many patients. On yet another stay, a male nurse, who like most of the nurses there had been administering to Johnny for years, pulled me aside and informed me that Johnny's mother was verbally abusive to pretty much all of the nurses on the floor but mostly to those of minority ethnic origins. I really was shocked.
Then I noticed that most of the nurses treated us differently. They all adored Johnny. The black nurses laughed and joked with me as if we grew up together. With her, they were a bit standoffish...as if she were an authority figure. I normally just wrote it off as a response to her acting more like a wannabe doctor than a mom. She had a habit of picking up medical jargon and using it in her everyday conversation. If you paid close attention, as did the doctors and nurses, you quickly realized that although the words sounded right, they were almost always used incorrectly...very much like asking if exercise or activity induced asthma would become "real" asthma.
(To be continued...yet again)
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Part II of the Blog I'm Sure I'm Not Able to Write Just Yet
Johnny was not supposed to live as long as he did.
The day Johnny was born, Larry and friends hung a huge banner across the upstairs front of the restaurant proclaiming "IT'S A BOY!"
The day he was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (his left ventricle - the heart chamber that pumps oxygenated blood to the body - never formed; it was missing) the folks at Children's Hospital in DC assigned to hold distraught parents' emotions and hands provided a booklet on newborn heart maladies. The one page devoted to hypoplastic left heart syndrome, actually one paragraph, said, in effect, very little can be done. Take the infant home and make him/her as comfortable as possible. The end can be expected within four months. There was absolutely nothing comforting about that.
The banner at the restaurant came down that day.
Hypoplastic left heart babies, like Johnny, live a short while without medical intervention because God provided the fetal heart with an interesting little "tube" called the ductus areteriosus. Yes I said God because any idiot who believes in the chaos theory or any other such nonsense never studied science or the intricacies of life at any stage. The ductus areteriosus allows blood to flow around the fetal lungs. After birth when the lungs start receiving air, the ductus shuts down. It's not needed. In Johnny's case, as long as it remained open his body didn't notice the problem with his heart. Ironically a ductus that remains open (patent ductus arteriosus - where "patent" means "open") is a problem that needs medical attention to close it.
Johnny's ductus arteriosus was quite normal and started to close his first day home. I was working at my family's restaurant. When I arrived home, he was very very pale with shallow breathing and quite listless. The emergency advice from the HMO said to bring him to their facility at 19th and Pennsylvania Avenue NW near George Washington Hospital. That was about 20-25 minutes away. The drive led past Children's Hospital. At the entrance to Children's Emergency room, I made a fast right and pulled up to the door. His mother took him in and I drove off to park the car.
As I walked into the lobby entrance, people were running from every direction. They were running to save Johnny's life.
I learned years later that the concept of six levels of separation or however that goes is all too correct. In the emergency room at that time was the MD sister of a good friend who was visiting the cardiologist assigned to Johnny. The two sisters are cousins of my best friend from grade school, Kevin Callahan. The sister I knew from Kevin's wedding dated the cardiologist years before. The sisters' dad was at the time the head of pediatrics at Harvard Medical School.
Johnny had been literally drowning in his own blood. When the ductus shut down, the blood just started flowing into his lungs with no way to get to the missing ventricle where it was supposed to be pumped, fresh with oxygen, throughout his body. His veins had collapsed so badly that the docs working on him kept slashing at his ankles to gain entry to replace the precious fluid. They managed to stabilize him and diagnose the problem.
The cardiologist who labored so long to save him, appeared in the waiting room and asked the most basic question relative to the situation: "do you want to let him live?" The alternative was not an option. My "yes" opened the door to more open heart procedures than a grown man or woman can handle, much less a less a three-day-old infant. But it was the door we walked through.
Dr. Midgely performed the first of three surgeries Johnny was to have over the next three years. At barely a week old, Johnny's heart was about the size of my thumb nail. Dr. Midgely performed what's called a Norwood procedure where he switched Johnny's cardiac plumbing to allow a mix of oxygenated and oxygen depleted blood to mingle and flow throughout the body. Suffice to say, in the Norwood the blood flow is redirected by some very complex snipping of the main pulmonary artery and connecting it to the aorta. Tiny arteries and veins are stitched together and a shunt inserted to complete the new circulatory system.
Dr. Midgely was one of the kindest, most soft-spoken, gentle person I've ever met. He was also a jogger. One day as he did his daily jog around the questionable streets surrounding Children's Hospital an asshole of a DC policeman decided Dr. Midgely was endangering traffic and claimed Midgely was belligerent after wrestling the surgeon to the ground and nearly dislocating his shoulder twisting his arm to cuff him. I might add that it was during the tenure of the DC Chief who hired his pals from the streets who sported criminal records and who, in record numbers, became even worse criminals - armed robbers, murderers, and "enforcers" for drug dealers while in uniform. DC then was often described as a very corrupt Third World nation. I do not exaggerate.
About six or so months later, Dr. Midgely performed a second procedure called the bi-directional Glenn. It was developed to allow the infant and his/her heart to get stronger before the final Fontan operation is performed. It decreases the workload on the right ventricle by shunting oxygen-depleted blood from the upper body directly into the pulmonary artery bypassing the heart.
I suspected that God had something special in store for Johnny because the bi-directional Glenn was developed shortly after he was born. When he was born, it didn't exist. It would have been two to three years before he would have been given the final Fontan procedure. Without the bi-directional Glenn, chances are the pulmonary vein system would harden making the Fontan either impossible to perform or making it less likely to succeed for very long. Dr. Glenn's idea increased the survival rate of Fontan patients to 90 percent.
(At the time, the practice among East Coast pediatrics was to perform the Norwood, Glenn and Fontan to save Hypoplastic Left Heart infants. On the West Coast, they preferred heart transplants. In Canada, parents either came to the Lower 48 for life-giving surgery or watched their children die thanks to that country's socialized medicine.)
The Fontan completes the conversion of transforming the right ventricle into the vehicle that performs the chores of the missing left ventricle, normally the much more muscular of the two as it pumps oxygen-rich blood throughout the body versus the right ventricle's task of pumping it to the lungs for an oxygen recharge.
Not only was Johnny's timing right to benefit from the bi-directional Glenn but an even more ironic incident occurred at the family restaurant.
One day the head of pediatrics at Washington Hospital Center came into the restaurant with his wife for a late lunch. How they decided on our place, I used to call the "stealth restaurant" because you could pass right by it and never know it was there, I can't fathom to this day. I was out of the kitchen and struck up a random conversation with the two. I told them Johnny was born at WHC. I also mentioned his heart connection and that he was awaiting the bi-directional Glenn. Turns out the doctor's wife is a nurse who worked with Dr. Glenn and helped him develop the life-saving operation.
I couldn't believe it. Neither could they.
(to be continued...yet again)
The day Johnny was born, Larry and friends hung a huge banner across the upstairs front of the restaurant proclaiming "IT'S A BOY!"
The day he was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (his left ventricle - the heart chamber that pumps oxygenated blood to the body - never formed; it was missing) the folks at Children's Hospital in DC assigned to hold distraught parents' emotions and hands provided a booklet on newborn heart maladies. The one page devoted to hypoplastic left heart syndrome, actually one paragraph, said, in effect, very little can be done. Take the infant home and make him/her as comfortable as possible. The end can be expected within four months. There was absolutely nothing comforting about that.
The banner at the restaurant came down that day.
Hypoplastic left heart babies, like Johnny, live a short while without medical intervention because God provided the fetal heart with an interesting little "tube" called the ductus areteriosus. Yes I said God because any idiot who believes in the chaos theory or any other such nonsense never studied science or the intricacies of life at any stage. The ductus areteriosus allows blood to flow around the fetal lungs. After birth when the lungs start receiving air, the ductus shuts down. It's not needed. In Johnny's case, as long as it remained open his body didn't notice the problem with his heart. Ironically a ductus that remains open (patent ductus arteriosus - where "patent" means "open") is a problem that needs medical attention to close it.
Johnny's ductus arteriosus was quite normal and started to close his first day home. I was working at my family's restaurant. When I arrived home, he was very very pale with shallow breathing and quite listless. The emergency advice from the HMO said to bring him to their facility at 19th and Pennsylvania Avenue NW near George Washington Hospital. That was about 20-25 minutes away. The drive led past Children's Hospital. At the entrance to Children's Emergency room, I made a fast right and pulled up to the door. His mother took him in and I drove off to park the car.
As I walked into the lobby entrance, people were running from every direction. They were running to save Johnny's life.
I learned years later that the concept of six levels of separation or however that goes is all too correct. In the emergency room at that time was the MD sister of a good friend who was visiting the cardiologist assigned to Johnny. The two sisters are cousins of my best friend from grade school, Kevin Callahan. The sister I knew from Kevin's wedding dated the cardiologist years before. The sisters' dad was at the time the head of pediatrics at Harvard Medical School.
Johnny had been literally drowning in his own blood. When the ductus shut down, the blood just started flowing into his lungs with no way to get to the missing ventricle where it was supposed to be pumped, fresh with oxygen, throughout his body. His veins had collapsed so badly that the docs working on him kept slashing at his ankles to gain entry to replace the precious fluid. They managed to stabilize him and diagnose the problem.
The cardiologist who labored so long to save him, appeared in the waiting room and asked the most basic question relative to the situation: "do you want to let him live?" The alternative was not an option. My "yes" opened the door to more open heart procedures than a grown man or woman can handle, much less a less a three-day-old infant. But it was the door we walked through.
Dr. Midgely performed the first of three surgeries Johnny was to have over the next three years. At barely a week old, Johnny's heart was about the size of my thumb nail. Dr. Midgely performed what's called a Norwood procedure where he switched Johnny's cardiac plumbing to allow a mix of oxygenated and oxygen depleted blood to mingle and flow throughout the body. Suffice to say, in the Norwood the blood flow is redirected by some very complex snipping of the main pulmonary artery and connecting it to the aorta. Tiny arteries and veins are stitched together and a shunt inserted to complete the new circulatory system.
Dr. Midgely was one of the kindest, most soft-spoken, gentle person I've ever met. He was also a jogger. One day as he did his daily jog around the questionable streets surrounding Children's Hospital an asshole of a DC policeman decided Dr. Midgely was endangering traffic and claimed Midgely was belligerent after wrestling the surgeon to the ground and nearly dislocating his shoulder twisting his arm to cuff him. I might add that it was during the tenure of the DC Chief who hired his pals from the streets who sported criminal records and who, in record numbers, became even worse criminals - armed robbers, murderers, and "enforcers" for drug dealers while in uniform. DC then was often described as a very corrupt Third World nation. I do not exaggerate.
About six or so months later, Dr. Midgely performed a second procedure called the bi-directional Glenn. It was developed to allow the infant and his/her heart to get stronger before the final Fontan operation is performed. It decreases the workload on the right ventricle by shunting oxygen-depleted blood from the upper body directly into the pulmonary artery bypassing the heart.
I suspected that God had something special in store for Johnny because the bi-directional Glenn was developed shortly after he was born. When he was born, it didn't exist. It would have been two to three years before he would have been given the final Fontan procedure. Without the bi-directional Glenn, chances are the pulmonary vein system would harden making the Fontan either impossible to perform or making it less likely to succeed for very long. Dr. Glenn's idea increased the survival rate of Fontan patients to 90 percent.
(At the time, the practice among East Coast pediatrics was to perform the Norwood, Glenn and Fontan to save Hypoplastic Left Heart infants. On the West Coast, they preferred heart transplants. In Canada, parents either came to the Lower 48 for life-giving surgery or watched their children die thanks to that country's socialized medicine.)
The Fontan completes the conversion of transforming the right ventricle into the vehicle that performs the chores of the missing left ventricle, normally the much more muscular of the two as it pumps oxygen-rich blood throughout the body versus the right ventricle's task of pumping it to the lungs for an oxygen recharge.
Not only was Johnny's timing right to benefit from the bi-directional Glenn but an even more ironic incident occurred at the family restaurant.
One day the head of pediatrics at Washington Hospital Center came into the restaurant with his wife for a late lunch. How they decided on our place, I used to call the "stealth restaurant" because you could pass right by it and never know it was there, I can't fathom to this day. I was out of the kitchen and struck up a random conversation with the two. I told them Johnny was born at WHC. I also mentioned his heart connection and that he was awaiting the bi-directional Glenn. Turns out the doctor's wife is a nurse who worked with Dr. Glenn and helped him develop the life-saving operation.
I couldn't believe it. Neither could they.
(to be continued...yet again)
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Part I of the Blog I May Not Yet Be Able to Write
In 1984 my father died.
My dad was a pretty amazing person. For years before and after, I would run into people who knew either him or something related to him. Once, during a taxi ride to Capitol Hill for some NRA business, I had the feeling that the driver was part of Washington that was of my father's era...a time when the media meant the Daily News, The Washington Post, The Washington Time Herald and The Evening Star. Dad read them all faithfully. Back then despite the historians' accounts to the contrary, the social and racial "barriers" were not all that important. At least they weren't to real Washingtonians who grew up in neighborhoods that were Italian and Jewish and Greek and Black and Irish and the mutts who mixed a little bit of everything in their bloodlines.
The driver was black with an attitude we now see only in "comfort food." He seemed like an old neighbor or cousin with the only difference a bit more pigment than most of my family except during the summer months. At any rate I opened the conversation with "did you know Coolbreeze or maybe you knew him as 'Johnny the Breadman.'" The look and smile that came over the taxi diver could have been straight from Morgan Freeman in "Driving Miss Daisy."
"Most honest bookie in DC! Aways paid off if you won."
He donated bread or paid for the food for banquets honoring inner city kids. He got jobs for youngsters suffering physical or mental handicaps. Where "professionals" in the medical fields failed, he was able to get severely autistic kids to respond to the kindness in his soul. He ignored the black/white employment barriers in place when he drove a County Fair (now Wonder) Bread truck. Then Blacks were only allowed to load and unload the trucks and do janitorial type chores around the bakery. Dad said "bullsh*t" and trained the first Black truckdriver/salesman in the city. We knew him by the name "Diddie."
One of the stops he served (places where he delivered bread) was Georgetown University. Some students asked him for advice on how to set up a student run deli on campus. In return they named their Italian coldcut sub "The Aquilino."
During the riots, when DC police were standing guard against looters over Georgetown shops, he bought a few cases of glass bottle Coca Colas and ducked into, I think Clydes (also one of his stops). He poured half the content of each bottle out and replaced it with (my guess) bourbon or VO or Canadian Club then went outside and gave each officer lining the blocks a bottle. His way of making the best of a difficult time.
Oh, I might add this too. The County Fair Bakery was located off an alley near the old Griffith Stadium. I think it was "S" Street. As he drove his truck down the alley, one of the "rioters" spit on his windshield and let loose with some unflattering words about white folk. The truck had no doors so it only took a moment for the angry gent to catch a glimpse of the white guy driving the vehicle. When he realized it was my dad, the good fellow said something to the effect of "Scuse me, CoolBreeze" and used his sleeve to wipe clean the windshield.
That was my dad.
After the funeral and after I returned to work at NRA, I got a phone call from a retired DC cop. I won't mention his last name but he was one of the great ones...and I've known and admired more than a few. He was a friend of my father's. He became a friend of mine despite the age difference. His first name was George.
"John. It's going to take about three years before the loss of your father really hits you." We chatted about his father's death and my father's life.
I've always tried to emulate my dad in that I didn't and don't believe lying to anyone is worth the effort. I also don't tolerate pure BS from anyone no matter their status in life. Might explain my face-off with General Swartzkopf years ago and why I consider him a colossal ass today. But I digress.
George was right. About three years later, while driving God knows where and quite alone, without warning the tears began to flow.
But no one ever told me about the time line associated with the death of a child. No one told me whether it was right or wrong to become infuriated at the sight of a child whose embalmed flesh or at least what you could see unhidden by the burial suit looked exactly like the cadavers from the German death camps that I've viewed countless times over the past six decades plus. From the first time I saw those photos, I hated what the Germans did during the decade in which I was born. Those images stay with me whenever anyone mouths the word "Jew" in a demeaning way. They are part of the reason I will never buy into the gutless nonsense spewed by oh so nice people who "deplore" guns and military responses to those who do evil. The analogy is not a stretch. To use the socially acceptable term, his body was cremated without me or his brother being consulted or being able to voice our objections. Cremated...burned...what's the damn difference?
Johnny's fingers in the coffin were shrunken...the flesh missing with skin clinging to meatless bones.
I can't express the horror that swept through me at the sight the day of his funeral.
Today, two years later, the phone call I received the night he died continues to haunt me.
"Johnny's dead. He gave up. He just quit eating."
I can honestly believe Johnny "gave up." He was taken from his friends. He was taken from his family. He could not speak although his facial expressions were quite eloquent. He couldn't move. He was kept in a dimly lit room watching videos over and over.
But, the concept that "he just quit eating" made no sense. It made no sense in exactly the way that his mother described him liking, I believe, a chocolate flavored nutrition drink more than other flavors made no sense.
Johnny didn't eat. He couldn't distinguish flavors. He was fed via a machine/pump and a tube that fed directly to his stomach. No tastebuds there.
Johnny far outlived the years his physicians predicted he would thrive. (To Be Continued.)
My dad was a pretty amazing person. For years before and after, I would run into people who knew either him or something related to him. Once, during a taxi ride to Capitol Hill for some NRA business, I had the feeling that the driver was part of Washington that was of my father's era...a time when the media meant the Daily News, The Washington Post, The Washington Time Herald and The Evening Star. Dad read them all faithfully. Back then despite the historians' accounts to the contrary, the social and racial "barriers" were not all that important. At least they weren't to real Washingtonians who grew up in neighborhoods that were Italian and Jewish and Greek and Black and Irish and the mutts who mixed a little bit of everything in their bloodlines.
The driver was black with an attitude we now see only in "comfort food." He seemed like an old neighbor or cousin with the only difference a bit more pigment than most of my family except during the summer months. At any rate I opened the conversation with "did you know Coolbreeze or maybe you knew him as 'Johnny the Breadman.'" The look and smile that came over the taxi diver could have been straight from Morgan Freeman in "Driving Miss Daisy."
"Most honest bookie in DC! Aways paid off if you won."
He donated bread or paid for the food for banquets honoring inner city kids. He got jobs for youngsters suffering physical or mental handicaps. Where "professionals" in the medical fields failed, he was able to get severely autistic kids to respond to the kindness in his soul. He ignored the black/white employment barriers in place when he drove a County Fair (now Wonder) Bread truck. Then Blacks were only allowed to load and unload the trucks and do janitorial type chores around the bakery. Dad said "bullsh*t" and trained the first Black truckdriver/salesman in the city. We knew him by the name "Diddie."
One of the stops he served (places where he delivered bread) was Georgetown University. Some students asked him for advice on how to set up a student run deli on campus. In return they named their Italian coldcut sub "The Aquilino."
During the riots, when DC police were standing guard against looters over Georgetown shops, he bought a few cases of glass bottle Coca Colas and ducked into, I think Clydes (also one of his stops). He poured half the content of each bottle out and replaced it with (my guess) bourbon or VO or Canadian Club then went outside and gave each officer lining the blocks a bottle. His way of making the best of a difficult time.
Oh, I might add this too. The County Fair Bakery was located off an alley near the old Griffith Stadium. I think it was "S" Street. As he drove his truck down the alley, one of the "rioters" spit on his windshield and let loose with some unflattering words about white folk. The truck had no doors so it only took a moment for the angry gent to catch a glimpse of the white guy driving the vehicle. When he realized it was my dad, the good fellow said something to the effect of "Scuse me, CoolBreeze" and used his sleeve to wipe clean the windshield.
That was my dad.
After the funeral and after I returned to work at NRA, I got a phone call from a retired DC cop. I won't mention his last name but he was one of the great ones...and I've known and admired more than a few. He was a friend of my father's. He became a friend of mine despite the age difference. His first name was George.
"John. It's going to take about three years before the loss of your father really hits you." We chatted about his father's death and my father's life.
I've always tried to emulate my dad in that I didn't and don't believe lying to anyone is worth the effort. I also don't tolerate pure BS from anyone no matter their status in life. Might explain my face-off with General Swartzkopf years ago and why I consider him a colossal ass today. But I digress.
George was right. About three years later, while driving God knows where and quite alone, without warning the tears began to flow.
But no one ever told me about the time line associated with the death of a child. No one told me whether it was right or wrong to become infuriated at the sight of a child whose embalmed flesh or at least what you could see unhidden by the burial suit looked exactly like the cadavers from the German death camps that I've viewed countless times over the past six decades plus. From the first time I saw those photos, I hated what the Germans did during the decade in which I was born. Those images stay with me whenever anyone mouths the word "Jew" in a demeaning way. They are part of the reason I will never buy into the gutless nonsense spewed by oh so nice people who "deplore" guns and military responses to those who do evil. The analogy is not a stretch. To use the socially acceptable term, his body was cremated without me or his brother being consulted or being able to voice our objections. Cremated...burned...what's the damn difference?
Johnny's fingers in the coffin were shrunken...the flesh missing with skin clinging to meatless bones.
I can't express the horror that swept through me at the sight the day of his funeral.
Today, two years later, the phone call I received the night he died continues to haunt me.
"Johnny's dead. He gave up. He just quit eating."
I can honestly believe Johnny "gave up." He was taken from his friends. He was taken from his family. He could not speak although his facial expressions were quite eloquent. He couldn't move. He was kept in a dimly lit room watching videos over and over.
But, the concept that "he just quit eating" made no sense. It made no sense in exactly the way that his mother described him liking, I believe, a chocolate flavored nutrition drink more than other flavors made no sense.
Johnny didn't eat. He couldn't distinguish flavors. He was fed via a machine/pump and a tube that fed directly to his stomach. No tastebuds there.
Johnny far outlived the years his physicians predicted he would thrive. (To Be Continued.)
Monday, February 13, 2012
When Sh*t Happens to Good People
No, I'm not joining the crowd lamenting the passing of Whitney Houston. Certainly she had, at one time, a beautiful voice, a beautiful face and beautiful DNA. But, she pretty much made horrific choices on her own including creating the circumstances that led to her unfortunate demise.
I'm writing about a person who made good to great choices, who tried and is trying to lead an exemplary life - one that would humble even the most pious of saints living among us and that far out shines most in the clergy. I'm talking about a man named Tony.
Tony, by all measures, is still a young man. Good looking. Smart as hell. Married to a fine woman I've known and admired since my fumbling teen years. Successful in his profession. A full head of hair. A good man.
Tony was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few days ago.
Now for most of us, just the term "cancer" is an instant plunge into depression and terror. Add "pancreatic" to it and we believe, with good reason, that the end is all too near. That's not necessarily the case - if the cancer has not spread and can be excised from the pancreas. Don't know Tony's specifics. Can only hope for the best.
That said, let me tell you about what I've observed from my all too brief relationship with Tony.
We both served on the School Advisory Board for St. Jerome's Catholic School in Hyattsville when that institution of fine and family learning was run by the late Sister Joyce Volpini, SND and (not that it mattered a bit, Ph.D), a woman I truly admire, love and hold still in the highest regard.
Tony and I locked horns on many an issue while sitting across from each other at the conference table. Neither of us gave an inch to the other. Both of us felt we were right and since we are both of Italian heritage fought intellectually as if we were locked in a village or family blood feud.
The main issue over which we clashed was how best to create a capital campaign for the school and parish. We both wanted one. We just disagreed on how to achieve it. That battle was rendered moot after the idiots at the Archdiocese took off the table the option of individual parishes conducting such fund-raising efforts from among parishioners. Archdioceses within the Catholic Church and in Washington DC in specific are too often run by political types posing as spiritual leaders who, in fact, are more akin to smarmy (look up the definition online at "Urban Dictionary" where they really nailed it) politicians doling out patronage to campaign supporters. Now, again too often, this type activity is conducted by sanctimonious auxiliary Bishops with their own private agendas. Am I being too harsh in voicing my opinion there?? Tough ...t! If the shoe fits, wear it.
Don't know what Tony thought or thinks about me. I do know that I held no hard feelings and only grew in admiration for the lad.
During Hurricane Katrina, Tony took it upon himself to load up a truck of moving van size with food and drive it to New Orleans. He did it himself with no fan fare, no public or even private spotlight focused upon himself.
Tony set up the local chapter of the Catholic Business Network to bring together men and women of faith to investigate how they can use their professional expertise to help the community.
When wounded veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan began returning and the Wounded Warrior Project got started, Tony set up deer hunts for wheelchair bound vets. Of late, he created a sporting clays tournament for Wounded Warriors. Again, he did all of this operating with not the first hint of attention focused on his efforts.
I guess you could say that Tony is a prime example of the saying "No good deed goes unpunished" from the point of view of his being diagnosed with cancer. On the other hand, as my blog title suggests, he is also an example of my effort to insure that "No good deed goes unpublished"!
Tony is one of the best friends of a man I also admire and consider one of my best friends, Chris Carroll. Chris is one of 14 children and I've the honor of knowing his siblings (each as nice and fine as the next) and their incredibly wonderful mother who I believe is 91 and still an active stalwart of the parish and community. And, yes, they are direct descendants of the Carroll who signed the Declaration of Independence and the fellow of the same name who was, I believe, the first Archbishop in Maryland back in the day when even Irish folks over here were considered British citizens.
If there is anything about Tony that I don't know, and that I'm sure is a lot about the boy, then let me say this, the depth of quality of the man can be measured in value by the relationship he enjoys with his touchstone: Chris. (Look up touchstone while you are at it and you'll understand all the various aspects of my allusion.)
I'm not saying goodbye to Tony. I'm hoping he musters all his courage and faces this as he seems to have faced most of the challenges life's thrown at us all. A positive attitude when dealing with the big C is imperative. There are at least 15 research protocols in treating pancreatic cancer now being conducted at NIH with amazing progress towards thwarting cancers of all types at research institutions throughout the country and the world. So I have hope that Tony will beat this threat and we can enjoy him with us for many, many years to come.
I'm writing about a person who made good to great choices, who tried and is trying to lead an exemplary life - one that would humble even the most pious of saints living among us and that far out shines most in the clergy. I'm talking about a man named Tony.
Tony, by all measures, is still a young man. Good looking. Smart as hell. Married to a fine woman I've known and admired since my fumbling teen years. Successful in his profession. A full head of hair. A good man.
Tony was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few days ago.
Now for most of us, just the term "cancer" is an instant plunge into depression and terror. Add "pancreatic" to it and we believe, with good reason, that the end is all too near. That's not necessarily the case - if the cancer has not spread and can be excised from the pancreas. Don't know Tony's specifics. Can only hope for the best.
That said, let me tell you about what I've observed from my all too brief relationship with Tony.
We both served on the School Advisory Board for St. Jerome's Catholic School in Hyattsville when that institution of fine and family learning was run by the late Sister Joyce Volpini, SND and (not that it mattered a bit, Ph.D), a woman I truly admire, love and hold still in the highest regard.
Tony and I locked horns on many an issue while sitting across from each other at the conference table. Neither of us gave an inch to the other. Both of us felt we were right and since we are both of Italian heritage fought intellectually as if we were locked in a village or family blood feud.
The main issue over which we clashed was how best to create a capital campaign for the school and parish. We both wanted one. We just disagreed on how to achieve it. That battle was rendered moot after the idiots at the Archdiocese took off the table the option of individual parishes conducting such fund-raising efforts from among parishioners. Archdioceses within the Catholic Church and in Washington DC in specific are too often run by political types posing as spiritual leaders who, in fact, are more akin to smarmy (look up the definition online at "Urban Dictionary" where they really nailed it) politicians doling out patronage to campaign supporters. Now, again too often, this type activity is conducted by sanctimonious auxiliary Bishops with their own private agendas. Am I being too harsh in voicing my opinion there?? Tough ...t! If the shoe fits, wear it.
Don't know what Tony thought or thinks about me. I do know that I held no hard feelings and only grew in admiration for the lad.
During Hurricane Katrina, Tony took it upon himself to load up a truck of moving van size with food and drive it to New Orleans. He did it himself with no fan fare, no public or even private spotlight focused upon himself.
Tony set up the local chapter of the Catholic Business Network to bring together men and women of faith to investigate how they can use their professional expertise to help the community.
When wounded veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan began returning and the Wounded Warrior Project got started, Tony set up deer hunts for wheelchair bound vets. Of late, he created a sporting clays tournament for Wounded Warriors. Again, he did all of this operating with not the first hint of attention focused on his efforts.
I guess you could say that Tony is a prime example of the saying "No good deed goes unpunished" from the point of view of his being diagnosed with cancer. On the other hand, as my blog title suggests, he is also an example of my effort to insure that "No good deed goes unpublished"!
Tony is one of the best friends of a man I also admire and consider one of my best friends, Chris Carroll. Chris is one of 14 children and I've the honor of knowing his siblings (each as nice and fine as the next) and their incredibly wonderful mother who I believe is 91 and still an active stalwart of the parish and community. And, yes, they are direct descendants of the Carroll who signed the Declaration of Independence and the fellow of the same name who was, I believe, the first Archbishop in Maryland back in the day when even Irish folks over here were considered British citizens.
If there is anything about Tony that I don't know, and that I'm sure is a lot about the boy, then let me say this, the depth of quality of the man can be measured in value by the relationship he enjoys with his touchstone: Chris. (Look up touchstone while you are at it and you'll understand all the various aspects of my allusion.)
I'm not saying goodbye to Tony. I'm hoping he musters all his courage and faces this as he seems to have faced most of the challenges life's thrown at us all. A positive attitude when dealing with the big C is imperative. There are at least 15 research protocols in treating pancreatic cancer now being conducted at NIH with amazing progress towards thwarting cancers of all types at research institutions throughout the country and the world. So I have hope that Tony will beat this threat and we can enjoy him with us for many, many years to come.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
In Praise of Aldi's Pork Tenderloin
Of late I've been having quite a bit of success with meals I've fixed for Tommy and Mary. Of course, whether I cook well or have my usual near miss, Gia the boxer is right there staring as if she's a closet chef willing to take in all that I can teach (not much). More likely she's just hoping I'll have a catastrophic accident and dump whatever I'm cooking on the floor for her to clean and savor.
Tonight I decided to tackle my favorite piece of meat: the pork tenderloin from Aldi's. Certainly every grocery chain carries the individually wrapped wonderful morsels of piglet. They usually weigh around a pound. But Aldi's sells them for about a dollar or more less than anyone else. Love Aldi's.
Hyattsville has one. So does Germantown. Quality is excellent. Whole chicken frozen at 85 cents a pound. Double stuff cookies that look like and taste like Oreos. Even their own version of Velveeta...the food of the gods. Admittedly selection is a bit limited. So what.
I loved the debate among the city counsel when Aldi's wanted to locate in Hyattsville. One side led by Chris Currie objected mightily. I believe he and friends condemned Aldi's as a "big box" establishment that catered to the least common denominator of polite society. A bit pretentious to be certain. Last time I was in the Hyattsville Aldi's Chris' wife was pushing a nearly filled cart down the next aisle. I pretended not to notice...didn't want her to see me laughing. She sped down the aisle, and whether accidentally or on purpose, made sure our carts never met. Still brings a smile to my pea brain.
Anyway, I've tried to prepare said tenderloin every way imaginable and to date I must say it will not allow me to end up with anything but a tender succulent meal. I've cut it in chunks and served it with pasta and tomato sauce. I've split it and seasoned it with bizarre flavor combinations, seared it and shoved it in the oven. Came out great every time.
For some reason I've been thinking about a Middle Eastern influence. That means cumin as the main seasoning. Cumin is the basis for a lot of cuisines, not just Southwest/Tex/Mex fare. So I got out my trusty gallon plastic bag tossed in a few spoonfuls of brown sugar, a healthy sprinkle of garlic powder, some dried oregano, a couple of teaspoons of black pepper, a bunch of powdered ginger, and a few industrial size shakes of cumin. To that mix I put in about a half cup of apple cider vinegar, a couple of shots (who knows I just poured til it seemed right) of white rum, and about a quarter cup of soy sauce. Oops. Almost forgot the honey. Shake it up. Put in the tenderloin. Seal the bag and put it in the frig (frigidare for those of my generation...refrigerator for the rest of you).
A few hours later I put the porcine chunk into a cast iron skillet heated hot with a coat of oil...not much. The sugar gives it a blackened look. Sear it well on all sides, then put it in a chaffing dish (I guess that's what you call the metal oval shallow pan I found on my self) and stick it in a 475 degree oven for about 15-20 minutes til it's slightly pink in the middle.
While it's cooking, I made potato pancakes: grated potato and onion (3 to 1 in favor of the potato), salt pepper a tablespoon or two of flour and a raw egg. Fry in canola oil til golden brown.
In the pork skillet I poured in some Madeira to free up the browned morsels, then added the marinade. To that bubbling mix I dumped in a healthy chunk of butter and whisked in some flour. Kept adding chicken stock to keep the gravy loose.
Took out the pork...let it sit a few minutes, then sliced it (about half inch thick) and ladled the gravy over each slice. I particularly liked it with a bit of fruit salad. Tommy's only comment was "write it down" (I usually forget what I do to each meal).
I love Aldi's. Did I say that? For the food snobs among us...Aldi's is owned by Trader Joe's.
Oh, Tommy not only kissed my bald head thanking me for dinner, he also handed me his report card that has the notation above the A's B+'s B's and lone C+ "Achievement with Honor." I add this not just because I'm continually proud of him, but to set the record straight for his absentee mother and "Aunt Nasty" who are forever looking for the worst in life. His mother's last communication was "why is Tommy getting failing grades?" He's not. He's doing very well thank you! Did I tell you
he earned and achieved the rank of Captain (company commander) in the JROTC at St. John's? He carries himself like a Marine. Proud, confident and responsible.
Tonight I decided to tackle my favorite piece of meat: the pork tenderloin from Aldi's. Certainly every grocery chain carries the individually wrapped wonderful morsels of piglet. They usually weigh around a pound. But Aldi's sells them for about a dollar or more less than anyone else. Love Aldi's.
Hyattsville has one. So does Germantown. Quality is excellent. Whole chicken frozen at 85 cents a pound. Double stuff cookies that look like and taste like Oreos. Even their own version of Velveeta...the food of the gods. Admittedly selection is a bit limited. So what.
I loved the debate among the city counsel when Aldi's wanted to locate in Hyattsville. One side led by Chris Currie objected mightily. I believe he and friends condemned Aldi's as a "big box" establishment that catered to the least common denominator of polite society. A bit pretentious to be certain. Last time I was in the Hyattsville Aldi's Chris' wife was pushing a nearly filled cart down the next aisle. I pretended not to notice...didn't want her to see me laughing. She sped down the aisle, and whether accidentally or on purpose, made sure our carts never met. Still brings a smile to my pea brain.
Anyway, I've tried to prepare said tenderloin every way imaginable and to date I must say it will not allow me to end up with anything but a tender succulent meal. I've cut it in chunks and served it with pasta and tomato sauce. I've split it and seasoned it with bizarre flavor combinations, seared it and shoved it in the oven. Came out great every time.
For some reason I've been thinking about a Middle Eastern influence. That means cumin as the main seasoning. Cumin is the basis for a lot of cuisines, not just Southwest/Tex/Mex fare. So I got out my trusty gallon plastic bag tossed in a few spoonfuls of brown sugar, a healthy sprinkle of garlic powder, some dried oregano, a couple of teaspoons of black pepper, a bunch of powdered ginger, and a few industrial size shakes of cumin. To that mix I put in about a half cup of apple cider vinegar, a couple of shots (who knows I just poured til it seemed right) of white rum, and about a quarter cup of soy sauce. Oops. Almost forgot the honey. Shake it up. Put in the tenderloin. Seal the bag and put it in the frig (frigidare for those of my generation...refrigerator for the rest of you).
A few hours later I put the porcine chunk into a cast iron skillet heated hot with a coat of oil...not much. The sugar gives it a blackened look. Sear it well on all sides, then put it in a chaffing dish (I guess that's what you call the metal oval shallow pan I found on my self) and stick it in a 475 degree oven for about 15-20 minutes til it's slightly pink in the middle.
While it's cooking, I made potato pancakes: grated potato and onion (3 to 1 in favor of the potato), salt pepper a tablespoon or two of flour and a raw egg. Fry in canola oil til golden brown.
In the pork skillet I poured in some Madeira to free up the browned morsels, then added the marinade. To that bubbling mix I dumped in a healthy chunk of butter and whisked in some flour. Kept adding chicken stock to keep the gravy loose.
Took out the pork...let it sit a few minutes, then sliced it (about half inch thick) and ladled the gravy over each slice. I particularly liked it with a bit of fruit salad. Tommy's only comment was "write it down" (I usually forget what I do to each meal).
I love Aldi's. Did I say that? For the food snobs among us...Aldi's is owned by Trader Joe's.
Oh, Tommy not only kissed my bald head thanking me for dinner, he also handed me his report card that has the notation above the A's B+'s B's and lone C+ "Achievement with Honor." I add this not just because I'm continually proud of him, but to set the record straight for his absentee mother and "Aunt Nasty" who are forever looking for the worst in life. His mother's last communication was "why is Tommy getting failing grades?" He's not. He's doing very well thank you! Did I tell you
he earned and achieved the rank of Captain (company commander) in the JROTC at St. John's? He carries himself like a Marine. Proud, confident and responsible.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Idols and Ikons: Joe P, Ted K, and Newt G
Joe Paterno is dead. Now comes the hypocrisy of the press that Newt Gingrich denounced during his march to victory in South Carolina.
I was listening to Sally Jenkins talk about her time interviewing Joe Pa shortly before he died. She dismissed the pseudo-psychobabble most news and sports commentators suggested was Joe's undoing, namely, remorse and regret for being exiled from his beloved Penn State football coaching chores in the wake of the Jerry Sandusky child rape scandal. (I'm not calling it "abuse" or "molestation." Rape is rape and that's what the issue is all about.) Sally was blunt and down to earth. She posited that the chemo killed him. Joe Pa, she said, was a real man and he would not have surrendered to self-pity. He was too strong for that.
Sally is from Fort Worth, Texas stock. Good people are born and raised ...and some leave Fort Worth.
Sally's dad, Dan, wrote one of my favorite books: Semi-Tough. Very irreverent. Very funny. Blunt in its imagery but really on target. People in the North East, polite politically correct people can't take the Jenkins family brand of honesty or humor. They get offended.
Sally was very direct in her description of Paterno. And she described his take on what he did with regard to notice of the Sandusky depravity exactly as I posited in an early blog. He did his duty. He reported it up the ranks. Joe was not a cop. He was not a prosecutor. He was not a jury, nor a judge. He was not a vigilante. He was not a lynch mob. But the press pilloried him for failing to climb aboard a white horse and hang the bastard from the nearest goal post. To the man and woman, the national media pushed and heaved until the ikon known as Joe Paterno was trashed.
Joe Pa anguished over the plight of the violated and, as any true civil libertarian worth his or her salt, refused to trample the rights and reputation of Sandusky over something he did not see and over which no court had ruled. You can't blame him. McCleary who claimed to have intervened during the infamous shower incident involving Sandusky and a youth is hardly the paragon of truth or courage or character. Except for his interview with Sally and most probably with the writer cobbling together a biography on the man, Joe Pa never got to tell his side of the story publicly. The University silenced him.
Joe Pa did his duty. Unfortunately, those above him in the correct positions to put Sandusky where he belonged were less than men. They were a craven lot eager to show off their clean underwear rather than do their duty.
Sally painted a portrait of Joe Paterno as a stellar husband, father, coach, teacher, neighbor and human. His children she characterized as the sort of folk who make great company, friends, citizens. His home was filled with fun, food, family, and friendship. It was the type Italian family we all enjoy ...until that is when a few coins get tossed certain siblings' way.
Now, Sally's host said the lionization of Joe Paterno will begin. It should never have gone on hiatus. But that's the way the Media treats American ikons and heroes. Sometimes the post-mortem praise is just. Sometimes it's just plain hypocrisy. I give you Ted Kennedy.
If you listened to the commentary during his funeral, you'd think the nation just lost and buried a combination of George Washington and Abe Lincoln with a touch of Winston Churchill tossed in. We didn't. Ted was a farce and a fool. He was without doubt one of the worst legislators to ever disgrace Capitol Hill. He was, to someone's credit, smart enough to hire some impressive people whose ideas and initiatives he took for his own. Ted was a liar, a cheat and a coward whose family money kept him from prison or worse. And for those who are a bit light on history, that money came from supplying illegal hooch to the likes of Al Capone and friends during Prohibition. Plenty of people with more research credentials than I suggest in the strongest manner that family ties from those "good old days" played a pivotal role in getting his late brother elected President. Ted was the type national idol the Bible called "false."
So where does Newt fit into this?
He will be dangling at the end of a true media lynch mob rope by this November. Why? Because if he is true to form, he's not going to transform into a bowl of lukewarm flip-flop spit in an effort to get the media to love him. Unfortunately, a bit of honesty among our public figures is all too rare and a commodity the media just can't stomach.
Ask Coach John Thompson, the father, not the son. Big John is hated by any number of people who hear what they want to hear when he speaks...but who fail to hear or understand the words he speaks. I've heard countless invectives hurled his way by thick-skulled folks who claim he can't stand white folk. Forget for the moment that the mother of his children, his wife, is pink of complexion. I guess that's the hue of "white" folk. I wouldn't know. My father's World War II draft papers characterized him as "olive."
Listen carefully to Coach Thompson when he weighs in on social issues. His intellectual foundation is old school, Catholic school when the nuns taught and we listened. He weighs in against stupidity much like the Biblical tale of a young Jesus flogging folks who turned the Temple into an open market. He's dead right in flaming against the DC public schools for abandoning the athletic talent of its students, and of elected officials pocketing tax dollars earmarked for sports programs. And, don't let anyone play the race card in front of him. If your line of argument against a person or condition is based on skin pigment or ethnic derivation, he won't tolerate it from anyone of any color variation. As he so eloquently pointed out when one prize fighter of African descent was called not black enough by another of similar origins, John T simply called the man a racist. The race card is the last resort of the intellectually bankrupt.
So all I've got to say is Dan, Sally, Newt, John T. keep it up. Call 'em like you see 'em. Let our ikons stand tall but don't hesitate to topple the idols no matter how politically sacred.
I was listening to Sally Jenkins talk about her time interviewing Joe Pa shortly before he died. She dismissed the pseudo-psychobabble most news and sports commentators suggested was Joe's undoing, namely, remorse and regret for being exiled from his beloved Penn State football coaching chores in the wake of the Jerry Sandusky child rape scandal. (I'm not calling it "abuse" or "molestation." Rape is rape and that's what the issue is all about.) Sally was blunt and down to earth. She posited that the chemo killed him. Joe Pa, she said, was a real man and he would not have surrendered to self-pity. He was too strong for that.
Sally is from Fort Worth, Texas stock. Good people are born and raised ...and some leave Fort Worth.
Sally's dad, Dan, wrote one of my favorite books: Semi-Tough. Very irreverent. Very funny. Blunt in its imagery but really on target. People in the North East, polite politically correct people can't take the Jenkins family brand of honesty or humor. They get offended.
Sally was very direct in her description of Paterno. And she described his take on what he did with regard to notice of the Sandusky depravity exactly as I posited in an early blog. He did his duty. He reported it up the ranks. Joe was not a cop. He was not a prosecutor. He was not a jury, nor a judge. He was not a vigilante. He was not a lynch mob. But the press pilloried him for failing to climb aboard a white horse and hang the bastard from the nearest goal post. To the man and woman, the national media pushed and heaved until the ikon known as Joe Paterno was trashed.
Joe Pa anguished over the plight of the violated and, as any true civil libertarian worth his or her salt, refused to trample the rights and reputation of Sandusky over something he did not see and over which no court had ruled. You can't blame him. McCleary who claimed to have intervened during the infamous shower incident involving Sandusky and a youth is hardly the paragon of truth or courage or character. Except for his interview with Sally and most probably with the writer cobbling together a biography on the man, Joe Pa never got to tell his side of the story publicly. The University silenced him.
Joe Pa did his duty. Unfortunately, those above him in the correct positions to put Sandusky where he belonged were less than men. They were a craven lot eager to show off their clean underwear rather than do their duty.
Sally painted a portrait of Joe Paterno as a stellar husband, father, coach, teacher, neighbor and human. His children she characterized as the sort of folk who make great company, friends, citizens. His home was filled with fun, food, family, and friendship. It was the type Italian family we all enjoy ...until that is when a few coins get tossed certain siblings' way.
Now, Sally's host said the lionization of Joe Paterno will begin. It should never have gone on hiatus. But that's the way the Media treats American ikons and heroes. Sometimes the post-mortem praise is just. Sometimes it's just plain hypocrisy. I give you Ted Kennedy.
If you listened to the commentary during his funeral, you'd think the nation just lost and buried a combination of George Washington and Abe Lincoln with a touch of Winston Churchill tossed in. We didn't. Ted was a farce and a fool. He was without doubt one of the worst legislators to ever disgrace Capitol Hill. He was, to someone's credit, smart enough to hire some impressive people whose ideas and initiatives he took for his own. Ted was a liar, a cheat and a coward whose family money kept him from prison or worse. And for those who are a bit light on history, that money came from supplying illegal hooch to the likes of Al Capone and friends during Prohibition. Plenty of people with more research credentials than I suggest in the strongest manner that family ties from those "good old days" played a pivotal role in getting his late brother elected President. Ted was the type national idol the Bible called "false."
So where does Newt fit into this?
He will be dangling at the end of a true media lynch mob rope by this November. Why? Because if he is true to form, he's not going to transform into a bowl of lukewarm flip-flop spit in an effort to get the media to love him. Unfortunately, a bit of honesty among our public figures is all too rare and a commodity the media just can't stomach.
Ask Coach John Thompson, the father, not the son. Big John is hated by any number of people who hear what they want to hear when he speaks...but who fail to hear or understand the words he speaks. I've heard countless invectives hurled his way by thick-skulled folks who claim he can't stand white folk. Forget for the moment that the mother of his children, his wife, is pink of complexion. I guess that's the hue of "white" folk. I wouldn't know. My father's World War II draft papers characterized him as "olive."
Listen carefully to Coach Thompson when he weighs in on social issues. His intellectual foundation is old school, Catholic school when the nuns taught and we listened. He weighs in against stupidity much like the Biblical tale of a young Jesus flogging folks who turned the Temple into an open market. He's dead right in flaming against the DC public schools for abandoning the athletic talent of its students, and of elected officials pocketing tax dollars earmarked for sports programs. And, don't let anyone play the race card in front of him. If your line of argument against a person or condition is based on skin pigment or ethnic derivation, he won't tolerate it from anyone of any color variation. As he so eloquently pointed out when one prize fighter of African descent was called not black enough by another of similar origins, John T simply called the man a racist. The race card is the last resort of the intellectually bankrupt.
So all I've got to say is Dan, Sally, Newt, John T. keep it up. Call 'em like you see 'em. Let our ikons stand tall but don't hesitate to topple the idols no matter how politically sacred.
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