One typically harvests in the fall, not sows with seeds in autumn.
In my case, though, dumping about 80 radioactive titanium pellets - called “seeds” in official oncology parlance - into my slightly larger-than-walnut-sized prostate gland on Sept. 10 will be a good thing.
Finally, after week after seemingly endless week of visits with white-coated doctors talking about the black threat of cancer, a date with the surgery room was announced.
Only that Dr. Jon Prescott bulks at calling his seed-sowing work surgery. If anything, the good radiological oncologist fumes about surgery the way a surgeon might dismiss anything else but.
What’s going to happen on that date is something called a “brachytherapy,” a really fancy word with all kinds of Greek-to-me meaning.
In this hour-long procedure I’ll be wheeled into an operating room reserved just for me - and probably several other men in need of Prescott’s handiwork that day - and be conked out with some sort of happy juice.
Good thing, too, as what will come next is not really something that I have any desire to undertake while awake and kicking.
During a brachytherapy procedure the unconsciousness male (this is after all, a guy thing) is laid out on his back. His (my) legs are then spread-eagle-split-apart while the feet are harnessed into stirrups.
Yep, if you think this is just how a woman undergoes a pelvic exam you’d get a lollypop from a doctor.
It’s really the closest thing a man can get to experiencing child birth, though in all honesty us guys are fast asleep while the women folk are very much awake.
Yeah, we may be wimps but we’re SMART wimps.
For the next hour Prescott will work with my urologist Dr. Lawrence Wolcoff in a two-person tag-team. Their collective goal is to hunt down and search out the cancer during their seek-and-destroy mission.
A ultrasound fluoroscopic device will be inserted into my rectum, guided the short distance to the nearby prostate gland. This tool will help lead the doctors to the promised land where the nasty business of cancer is found.
Prescott will make a minimalist insision into what's called the "perineum," that piece of flesh located just down the street from the scrotum and slightly up hill from the rectum.
He'll then employ his dart gun, so speak. He’ll fire the 80 or so roughly rice grain-sized pellets, each of them strategically placed so as to maximize the power of the Iodine-125 radioactive isotope that is the delivery system’s warhead.
In brachytherapy’s Dark Ages of the 1960s and 1970s doctors would install seeds indiscriminately. That shotgun approach left useless gaps and seed overlays.
Such random, hit-and-miss procedures didn’t help brachytherapy’s reputation. That is, until starting in the 1980 and working through the 1990s the researchers hit on the capital idea of accurate targeting.
Seed implantation further blossomed in the full sunshine of the 21st Century.
Now, says Prescott, for men with early stage prostate cancer like what I have, the 10-to 12-year survival rate by undergoing a brachytherapy is equal to or better than the radical surgical removal of the prostate.
Thus, the one-time “gold standard” for curing prostate cancer - surgery - is being outrunned and outgunned by sending in the titanium canisters with their fully primed radioactive isotopes.
It’s going to take some time for the radiation to work, of course. What it does is not kill the cancer cells outright as much as the radiation destroys their DNA. This prevents the cancer cells from reproducing.
Then too, says Prescott, there are fewer adverse side effects than with radical surgery. Just as these side effects are less severe also, says Prescott.
What I can anticipate following the seed implantation is just a few hours of recovery in the hospital and more than likely I'll be discharged the same day. That compares to a several-day hospital stay when surgery is undertaken.
Also, says Prescott during his most effective sales pitch, very few men who’ve have a brachytherapy must likewise wear a catheter inserted into their penis for a period of days. Say “ouch” if you wish at this juncture. If you’re a male you are permitted.
At home a patient should take it easy for a few days, relax and not lift anything much heavier than a call to your wife to bring you a beverage and snack along with the television remote control device.
On the downside is that I’ll likely encounter frequent night-time urination, possibly on the order of every 90 minutes or so, for a couple of months. And this necessary bodily function will also probably come with some pain for a while, too.
But I encountered that condition a few weeks back when my prostate gland’s four nearby lymph nodes were removed for their biopsy. So I understand what’s ahead.
Considering that men who elect or must undergo surgery likewise must often wear a protective undergarment for up to several months, the brachytherapy further became a no-brainer.
Another goody: The odds for encountering erectile dysfunction and impotency are lessened via a brachytherapy than with the removal of the prostate gland through surgery. Besides, there's all kinds of stuff that a doctor can prescribe for those conditions.
About the only suggestion that a urologist offers is for a patient to wear a condom for the first few intercourse trysts. That's to protect against an escaped radioactive seed from being accidentally implanted into a woman's vagina.
Lessened as well is the risk of post-operative infection. That is because the brachytherapy procedure is minimally invasive, a term I’ve picked up during my Internet wanderings regarding prostate cancer and its various treatment options.
Is everything all bright, cherry and roses? Not at all.
Since we are dealing with radiation, the government has to stick in its regulating nose. The standard protocol says that young children can’t sit in your lap for two or three months and that you and a pregnant woman need a three- to six-foot diameter no-fly-zone for about the same duration. The government’s concern is radiation exposure to these at-risks groups.
I asked Prescott if this advisory includes dogs, since my two Labrador retrievers view my lap as their personal bed sheet.
His answer was “no.” Thank heavens, too. I was worrying that I would have to find a used lead apron of the kind radiologists use when giving X-rays.
Another item or two; the chances for temporary diarrhea exists along with possible fatigue due to the radiation, some Internet sites suggest.
Yet I consider all of these potential and probable short-comings to be trifling when compared to radical surgery.
Or, worse, doing nothing at all.
And that, alas, would have happened if I were living in Sweden with its government-run health-care program. Or any other similarly run state-sponsored health-care program, says Prescott.
The reason being is that such systems are far more stingy about doling out preemptive medical care than in the United States.
If I were in Sweden, says Prescott, the best I could hope for with my stage of cancer would be to undertake a watch and wait requirement that would track how fast the cancer grows with a likely seven-year wait until some sort of action is taken.
And that, I’m afraid, very well could have led to the cancer in my prostate spreading and becoming a truly life-threatening disease.
All without so much as a government “oops, we’re sorry” apology from a bureaucrat who thinks of numbers, risks and life expectancy odds more than the needs of a patient with a time bomb ticking away in his groin.
Thanks, but no thanks. September 10 can’t get here soon enough for me. After all, Ohio’s archery deer-hunting season is right around the corner.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Worst part is the waiting
You have your good news when the boss presents you with a $1 per hour raise.
Your great news comes when your daughter announces that in nine months you’ll become a grandfather.
And then you have your everyday variety of life-saving news; the kind you know means that you’ll have the opportunity to collect on your boss’ generosity and your daughter’s unspeakably wonderful gift.
Last Friday I was awarded the last of these news announcements, thanks to a cell phone call from my urologist, Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff.
(Amazing, isn’t it that when a person is bushwhacked by some sort of serious ailment that all of a sudden a physician becomes “my” doctor? Sorry, I digress.)
Wolkoff called to say that the four lymph nodes he extracted from around my cancerous prostate gland were all clear. Thus, that most horrible of all horrible diseases remains locked away in my slightly larger than average-walnut-size prostate. Consequently, the enemy is surrounded.
The lymph nodes were removed with precision care three days earlier, sent to a pathologist who was assigned the task of reading the organs’ tea leaves.
From this rather mundane procedure I was pronounced fit for active duty on an operating table at some point within the next several weeks. That is when Wolkoff will team up with radiological oncologist Jon Prescott to snipe away at the diseased prostate.
While Wolkoff will insert an image-making tool into my rectum and guide it to the nearby prostate gland, Prescott will arm and then man the cancer-fighting armament that will fire rice grain-sized radioactive titanium capsules into the two cancerous tumors and surrounding tissue.
With careful and deliberate motions Prescott will squeeze the trigger anywhere from 75 to 150 times.
All the while I’ll be slumbering thanks to some really potent happy/sleepy juice poured into my system by anesthesiologist John Hagopian.
Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not complaining about the medical equivalent of the Three Musketeers taking on my case. Just the opposite, in fact.
That last Friday I cleared a really tall hurdle to find myself in front of this next one leaves me happy. And thankful.
For half a week as I recuperated at home from the lymph node removal/biopsy phase of the process I was something of a basket case.
I’ve never been one to handle anxiety very well, and it showed as friend upon friend upon co-worker upon church brother/sister told me they were thinking of me, praying for me and more typically, both.
Finally the prayers had sunk in along with the observation that I’d have to deal with the cancer regardless of any actuary table on survival rates.
So on Friday morning when I awoke I found myself curiously - and refreshingly - at peace. Hopeful, of course, that the news would be rated AAA-grade yet as prepared for any bad news as one possibly could be under such circumstances.
Sometime around 10:30 a.m., I believe, Wolkoff called to say the pathology report was written as a clean slate.
With my eyes closed and a relaxed exhaling of air I silently said “thank you” to the One who delivers before verbally repeating it for the record to Wolkoff.
This trip is not over, of course. I still have to meet with Prescott, take in the actual two-hour “seed” implantation, face possible unfortunate and uncomfortable side effects as well as in the very long-term encounter a stretch of follow-up tests.
Yet now the trail appears not so steep nor the path ensnared by the vines of distress. I’m going to make it, this I believe.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
We're not alone
It was a bad day that ended well.
And any day when you’re troubled to the marrow of the bone that can catch a glint of sun through the shadows that haunt us all is by its very definition a good day.
Some 24 hours after having urologist Lawrence Wolkoff poke three holes into my gut to extract four lymph nodes I was anxious, nervous over the prospects that the cancer I’m feeding has begun to pillage beyond the two tumors contained within my prostate.
As if the pressure waiting for a reply as to the biopsy were not enough the stress of what the good doctor and his staff said regarding post-surgical ticks was becoming a heavy hammer blow. Small things, you know, like when you head for the loo to “make water” and the stream becomes a fiery icicle.
Not pleasant, I assure you. At least that plumbing was in order, however.
More uncomfortable to deal with – and not any easier to discuss – is the traffic jam backed up in the colon. This rather sad state of affairs is the dog that hunts me whenever I have to go under the knife and get some sleepy-time juice poured into my blood system by a smiling anesthesiologist like Dr. John Hagopian.
(As an aside Dr. John would later tell me that the whole operation was “rather boring,” which gives an entirely favorable meaning to the word, I assure you.)
In any event here I am with a bladder that sloshes to the point of being dangerously topped off along with a digestive system that is held hostage by one very nasty road block.
And still no word from Wolkoff as to what the pathologist found – or hopefully didn’t find - by examining a quartet of lymph nodes arrested from the prostate’s neighborhood.
The day, in short, stunk.
Fortunately God was not done for the day, or with me, as it turned out.
Enclosed by a chain-link network of people who have sent their best wishes and thoughts my way I am in good hands. And with countless prayers ascending heavenward as a sweet savor offering I consider it an honor that Bev and me are so bundled in such love.
First came dinner, prepared some time ago by a cadre of women who attend our church; Bible Community Church of Mentor, to be exact.
These women of the church’s Heart and Hands group anticipate that sooner or later a church family would undergo a trial and might like having a meal awaiting nothing more then being nuked in a microwave oven.
These fine ladies have a keen eye on such things.
So do the men and boys of the church’s congregation. The lads are part of Bible Community’s Christian Service Fellowship. They meet briefly on Wednesday evening and then launch themselves into some service opportunity, mating their grunt work with a member’s need.
In our case that invitation was to spread five tons limestone gravel; about two tons to be confined within a 9-foot-by-12-foot corral of landscaping timbers and the rest to gloss over the low spots in our driveway.
The frame is for the base to support a new shed that will occupy the space and assembled there by my two older brothers. No doubt Terry and Rich will argue as to how best assemble that shed as well as chase me away without even allowing me to supervise their work. Which is fine, considering that how older brothers are suppose to act.
As for the church lads they attacked the small mountain of dusty limestone, carting enough fill to flood the wooden frame to its brim.
At that point they worked to raise the driveway’s low spots.
Remember that scene in the 1960s movie “Cool Hand Luke” where Paul Newman leads his fellow chain gang inmates into feverishly tossing gravel onto a rural road’s freshly laid tar?
Well, that is what the lad’s tribal elders Scott Stabler and Alex Mclean had their six youngsters perform. A little late to arrive but still tossing some pretty mean-sized coal shovels of stone of his own was Dustin James.
Before one could say “what we have here is a failure to communicate” the team was finished. Not only was the shed’s future home prepared but better than one-half of the driveway was smoothed over with a fresh deposit of crushed limestone.
The kids especially enjoyed the grilled hotdogs, cans of soda and being able to grab fistfuls of chips, cookies and pretzels that Bev had made ready
Storms of tears began to well up as Bev and I thanked them, one and all.
Not just because of the cheap labor, either; rather because of their unspeakable gift of brotherly compassion.
It’s been a tough sled ride and I can still see a dark line of clouds out on the horizon. But at least I am comforted in knowing that somewhere behind it all is a silver lining, sewn there by Heaven’s Master and never forgotten by those who will never let me – or Bev – forget that we are loved.
Hopefully, prayerfully, I will have good news to report at the next meeting here.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Tests, answers needed to battle prostate cancer
Fresh-faced and all chipper-like the nurse invited me to sit down before she began asking the usual battery of pre-surgical questions.
The Q-and-A session is part and partial for any surgery. In my case, that carving knife work will take place next Tuesday within the bowels of Lake Health System’s TriPoint Hospital. In the “out patient” section to be exact, though I’m not entirely sure where that sterile venue is actually located.
I’m sure I’ll hunt it down, especially since I’ll have my wife as the accompanying blood hound. When it comes to my health Bev is doggedly determined to do whatever it takes to get me there and ensure that my medicines go down with or without a spoonful of sugar.
Even if it kills me, or her, if that becomes necessary. You gotta’ love a wife who loves you that much.
Tuesday’s surgery will entail the removal of a pair of lymph nodes, located on either side of the gland associated also with the bladder. These nodes will then make their short journey to a laboratory where a pathologist will poke the things and determine whether the cancer has spread into my lymphatic system or remains locked inside the prostate gland.
The latter would be a good thing; the former, not so much. That would mean the cancer has made a sneak attack and infiltrated the allied lines. Under such a circumstances I’ll be looking at a three- to five-year life expectancy with treatments to suppress the disease rather than one that would whip the medically criminal antagonist at its source - the prostate gland.
My urologist - Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff - says in my case the odds of the cancer having spread is 10 to 15 percent. He noted also that I’ve been quite a good lad in getting both an annual rectal examine of the prostate as well as a PSA test.
I’m praying he’s correct and I’ve got a whole regiment of prayers warriors backing me up as well.
Back to the examination, the kind nurse did her duty, asking a gurney of questions not only related to my health but also that of my immediate blood family.
She answered my questions, among which included the likelihood that the surgery will require the shaving of my pubic hair. Yep, as distasteful as that imagery may be it is still necessary to help prevent bacterial infection.
“You’ll probably be asleep when they do it,” the nurse said.
Passing me off to a physician’s-assistant the nurse said I’d been a right fine patient. She put it by saying I’ve got a really decent sense of humor.
Good, I thought, the nurse didn’t pick up on the fact that I was nervously whistling in the dark, trying to wrestle with demons of my own mind’s making.
The physician’s-assistant also was top-of-the-line friendly as was a young woman who sat me down in order to draw a vile of blood.
For the former I answered a few more questions and promised that I’d be a good boy by peeing into a plastic specimen cup.
“The doctor ordered it,” said the physician’s-assistant.
Good thinking, I figured, since when in doubt, always blame the physician.
Similarly the blood-taking vampire was superbly pleasant, going so far as to ask which arm I’d like to volunteer for the mission. The right, as is usually the habit for such work, I replied.
After nearly 90 minutes the process was completed, about the same length of time the surgery will take, as I’ve been told.
So now I’m in the chute, waiting for the gate to open and for me to ride the bull out onto the arena floor. The prayer is, of course, that I can stay on and not fall off.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
The Q-and-A session is part and partial for any surgery. In my case, that carving knife work will take place next Tuesday within the bowels of Lake Health System’s TriPoint Hospital. In the “out patient” section to be exact, though I’m not entirely sure where that sterile venue is actually located.
I’m sure I’ll hunt it down, especially since I’ll have my wife as the accompanying blood hound. When it comes to my health Bev is doggedly determined to do whatever it takes to get me there and ensure that my medicines go down with or without a spoonful of sugar.
Even if it kills me, or her, if that becomes necessary. You gotta’ love a wife who loves you that much.
Tuesday’s surgery will entail the removal of a pair of lymph nodes, located on either side of the gland associated also with the bladder. These nodes will then make their short journey to a laboratory where a pathologist will poke the things and determine whether the cancer has spread into my lymphatic system or remains locked inside the prostate gland.
The latter would be a good thing; the former, not so much. That would mean the cancer has made a sneak attack and infiltrated the allied lines. Under such a circumstances I’ll be looking at a three- to five-year life expectancy with treatments to suppress the disease rather than one that would whip the medically criminal antagonist at its source - the prostate gland.
My urologist - Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff - says in my case the odds of the cancer having spread is 10 to 15 percent. He noted also that I’ve been quite a good lad in getting both an annual rectal examine of the prostate as well as a PSA test.
I’m praying he’s correct and I’ve got a whole regiment of prayers warriors backing me up as well.
Back to the examination, the kind nurse did her duty, asking a gurney of questions not only related to my health but also that of my immediate blood family.
She answered my questions, among which included the likelihood that the surgery will require the shaving of my pubic hair. Yep, as distasteful as that imagery may be it is still necessary to help prevent bacterial infection.
“You’ll probably be asleep when they do it,” the nurse said.
Passing me off to a physician’s-assistant the nurse said I’d been a right fine patient. She put it by saying I’ve got a really decent sense of humor.
Good, I thought, the nurse didn’t pick up on the fact that I was nervously whistling in the dark, trying to wrestle with demons of my own mind’s making.
The physician’s-assistant also was top-of-the-line friendly as was a young woman who sat me down in order to draw a vile of blood.
For the former I answered a few more questions and promised that I’d be a good boy by peeing into a plastic specimen cup.
“The doctor ordered it,” said the physician’s-assistant.
Good thinking, I figured, since when in doubt, always blame the physician.
Similarly the blood-taking vampire was superbly pleasant, going so far as to ask which arm I’d like to volunteer for the mission. The right, as is usually the habit for such work, I replied.
After nearly 90 minutes the process was completed, about the same length of time the surgery will take, as I’ve been told.
So now I’m in the chute, waiting for the gate to open and for me to ride the bull out onto the arena floor. The prayer is, of course, that I can stay on and not fall off.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Just how old are you, anyway?
This blog has been pretty serious lately - and will be again tomorrow when I review my pre-surgical visit to TriPoint Hospital for the start of my prostate cancer work.
In the meantime here's a neat test provided by my aged cousin, Larry "Doc" Lee.
History Exam...
Everyone over 40 should have a pretty easy time at this exam. If you are under 40 you can claim a handicap. This is a History Exam for those who don't mind seeing how much they really remember about what went on in their lives. *** Get paper & pencil & number from 1 to 20. ****Write the letter of each answer & score at the end. Before you pass this test along, put your score in the subject line. Send it to friends so everyone can have fun remembering the good ol’ days. 1. In the 1940s, where were automobile headlight dimmer switches located? A. On the floor shift knob. B. On the floor board, to the left of the clutch.... C. Next to the horn. 2. The bottle top of a Royal Crown Cola bottle had holes in it.. For what was it used? A. Capture lightning bugs. B. To sprinkle clothes before ironing. C. Large salt shaker. 3. Why was having milk delivered a problem in northern winters? A. Cows got cold and wouldn't produce milk. B. Ice on highways forced delivery by dog sled. C. Milkmen left deliveries outside of front doors and milk would freeze, expanding and pushing up the cardboard bottle top. 4. What was the popular chewing gum named for a game of chance? A. Blackjack B. Gin C. Craps 5. What method did women use to look as if they were wearing stockings when none were available due to rationing during WW II. A.Suntan B. Leg painting C. Wearing slacks 6. What postwar car turned automotive design on its ear when you couldn't tell whether it was coming or going? A.Studebaker B. Nash Metro C. Tucker 7. Which was a popular candy when you were a kid? A . Strips of dried peanut butter. B. Chocolate licorice bars. C. Wax coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water inside. 8. How was Butch wax used? A. To stiffen a flat-top haircut so it stood up. B. To make floors shiny and prevent scuffing.. C On the wheels of roller skates to prevent rust. 9. Before inline skates, how did you keep your roller skates attached to your shoes? A. With clamps, tightened by a skate key. B. Woven straps that crossed the foot. C. Long pieces of twine. 10.. As a kid, what was considered the best way to reach a decision? A. Consider all the facts.. B. Ask Mom. C. Eeny-meeny-miney-MO. |
11. What was the most
dreaded disease in the 1940s and 1950s?
A. Smallpox
B. AIDS
C. Polio
12. 'I'll be down to get you in a ________, Honey'
A. SUV
B. Taxi
C. Streetcar
13.. What was the name of Caroline Kennedy's pony?
A. Old Blue
B. Paint
C Macaroni
14.. What was a Duck-and-Cover Drill?
A. Part of the game of hide and seek.
B. What you did when your Mom called you in to do chores.
C. Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15 . What was the name of the Indian Princess in the Howdy Doody Show?
A. Princess Summerfallwinterspring
B. Princess Sacajawea
C Princess Moonshadow
16.. What did all the really savvy students do when mimeographed tests were handed out in school?
A. Immediately sniffed the purple ink, as this was believed to get you high.
B. Made paper airplanes to see who could sail theirs out the window.
C. Wrote another pupil's name on the top, to avoid their failure.
17. Why did your Mom shop in stores that gave Green Stamps with purchases?
A. To keep you out of mischief by licking the backs, which tasted like bubble gum.
B. They could be put in special books and redeemed for various household items.
C. They were given to the kids to be used as stick-on tattoos.
18. Praise the Lord , & pass the _________?
A.. Meatballs
B. Dames
C. Ammunition
19. What was the name of the singing group that made the song 'Cabdriver' a hit?
A. The Ink Spots
B.. The Supremes
C. The Esquires
20.. Who left his heart in San Francisco ?
A. Tony Bennett
B. Xavier Cugat
C. George Gershwin
-----------------------------
ANSWERS
1. (B) On the floor, to the left of the clutch. Hand controls, popular in Europe , took till the late '60's to catch on.
2. (B) To sprinkle clothes before ironing.. Who had a steam iron?
3 (C) Cold weather caused the milk to freeze and expand, popping the bottle top...
4 . (A) Blackjack Gum.
5.. (B) Special makeup was applied, followed by drawing a seam down the back of the leg with eyebrow pencil
6. (A) 1946 Studebaker.
7. (C) Wax coke bottles containing super-sweet colored water.
8. (A) Wax for your flat top (butch) haircut.
9. (A) With clamps, tightened by a skate key, which you wore on a shoestring around your neck.
10. (C) Eeny-meeny-miney-mo.
11. (C) Polio. In beginning of August, swimming pools were closed, movies and other public gathering places were closed to try to prevent spread of the disease.
12. (B) Taxi , Better be ready by half-past eight!
13. (C) Macaroni ....
14. (C) Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15. (A) Princess Summerfallwinterspring. She was another puppet.
16. (A) Immediately sniffed the purple ink to get a high.
17. (B) Put in a special stamp book, they could be traded for household items at the Green Stamp store.
18. (C) Ammunition, and we'll all be free.
19. (A) The widely famous 50's group: The Inkspots.
20. (A) Tony Bennett, and he sounds just as good today.
SCORING
17- 20 correct : You are older than dirt, and obviously gifted with mental abilities. Now if you could only find your glasses. Definitely someone who should share your wisdom!
12 -16 correct: Not quite dirt yet, but you're getting there.
0 -11 correct: You are not old enough to share the wisdom of your experiences.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
A. Smallpox
B. AIDS
C. Polio
12. 'I'll be down to get you in a ________, Honey'
A. SUV
B. Taxi
C. Streetcar
13.. What was the name of Caroline Kennedy's pony?
A. Old Blue
B. Paint
C Macaroni
14.. What was a Duck-and-Cover Drill?
A. Part of the game of hide and seek.
B. What you did when your Mom called you in to do chores.
C. Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15 . What was the name of the Indian Princess in the Howdy Doody Show?
A. Princess Summerfallwinterspring
B. Princess Sacajawea
C Princess Moonshadow
16.. What did all the really savvy students do when mimeographed tests were handed out in school?
A. Immediately sniffed the purple ink, as this was believed to get you high.
B. Made paper airplanes to see who could sail theirs out the window.
C. Wrote another pupil's name on the top, to avoid their failure.
17. Why did your Mom shop in stores that gave Green Stamps with purchases?
A. To keep you out of mischief by licking the backs, which tasted like bubble gum.
B. They could be put in special books and redeemed for various household items.
C. They were given to the kids to be used as stick-on tattoos.
18. Praise the Lord , & pass the _________?
A.. Meatballs
B. Dames
C. Ammunition
19. What was the name of the singing group that made the song 'Cabdriver' a hit?
A. The Ink Spots
B.. The Supremes
C. The Esquires
20.. Who left his heart in San Francisco ?
A. Tony Bennett
B. Xavier Cugat
C. George Gershwin
-----------------------------
ANSWERS
1. (B) On the floor, to the left of the clutch. Hand controls, popular in Europe , took till the late '60's to catch on.
2. (B) To sprinkle clothes before ironing.. Who had a steam iron?
3 (C) Cold weather caused the milk to freeze and expand, popping the bottle top...
4 . (A) Blackjack Gum.
5.. (B) Special makeup was applied, followed by drawing a seam down the back of the leg with eyebrow pencil
6. (A) 1946 Studebaker.
7. (C) Wax coke bottles containing super-sweet colored water.
8. (A) Wax for your flat top (butch) haircut.
9. (A) With clamps, tightened by a skate key, which you wore on a shoestring around your neck.
10. (C) Eeny-meeny-miney-mo.
11. (C) Polio. In beginning of August, swimming pools were closed, movies and other public gathering places were closed to try to prevent spread of the disease.
12. (B) Taxi , Better be ready by half-past eight!
13. (C) Macaroni ....
14. (C) Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15. (A) Princess Summerfallwinterspring. She was another puppet.
16. (A) Immediately sniffed the purple ink to get a high.
17. (B) Put in a special stamp book, they could be traded for household items at the Green Stamp store.
18. (C) Ammunition, and we'll all be free.
19. (A) The widely famous 50's group: The Inkspots.
20. (A) Tony Bennett, and he sounds just as good today.
SCORING
17- 20 correct : You are older than dirt, and obviously gifted with mental abilities. Now if you could only find your glasses. Definitely someone who should share your wisdom!
12 -16 correct: Not quite dirt yet, but you're getting there.
0 -11 correct: You are not old enough to share the wisdom of your experiences.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Friday, May 25, 2012
Lord, teach me patience, please
Clearly it had become time to either cut bait or fish.
Weeks of intensive Internet searches about prostate cancer, its impact, its treatment and the consequences for doing nothing had built up to the point of agreeing to formulate a life-saving protocol.
With the praise-worthy word that my full-body bone scan was clear I had reached that juncture.
Besides, after sitting for well more than an hour and listening to urologist Lawrence Wolkoff present his case and all the options my butt was starting to get sore.
Much of what Wolkoff offered was material that proved to be a bedspread to the heavy blanket of material sewn by the threads of countless Google “hits” I’ve struck since first hearing the word “cancer.”.
Running through the rather substantial print-out document, Wolkoff pointed out any number of items. What’s a prostate, what’s prostate cancer, Gleason score, PSA ranking and so on; an entire lexicon of terms that dog a mature male who is side-swiped by the disease.
Questions were raised, answers were given; sometimes the former being posed before the latter had an opportunity to express itself.
It is my curse and that of everyone else in journalism, really. We are imprinted at our writing births to probe, investigate, prod and generally make a pest of ourselves.
At least Wolkoff has a great bedside manner. He took my inquiring jabs and thrusts in stride.
For her part my wife, Bev, was the quiet one. She sponged up the presentations that fell to the floor, asking about such affairs as what does radioactive “half life” mean and what about the side effects of radical surgery.
When the document’s menu was exhausted and Wolkoff had spoken his piece, he concluded by saying that Bev and I could take some time to review the material.
We could even seek a second opinion.
On that score I had pigeon-holed in my breast pocket a slip of paper scrawled with the names and telephone numbers of two other urologists.
“No,” I thought to myself.
And with a quick nod to my bride of 40 years I made my peace and gave the green light. My decision would involve the implantation of tiny radioactive metal pins, called “seeds.”
This option was plucked over radical prostate-removing surgery. There, Wolkoff would unsheathe his scalpel, carve away at my lower torso and extract intact the diseased prostate and its two cancerous tumors.
Along with such connecting tissue that includes a pair of lymph nodes.
Noting the advantage of radical prostate-removing surgery that includes once gone, always gone, Wolkoff did not object to my alternate selection of internal radiation treatment.
“You’re an excellent candidate for either one,” he said.
Told that if I were cloned (world: imagine there being two of me. Scary, huh?) and one of me were pried open by surgery while the other one would undergo being zapped by sub-atomic particles each would stand before Wolkoff 12 years hence.
Thus, it was actually a fairly easy decision. I took the fork that I did for several reasons.
For starters, with radical surgery I’d be laid up in a hospital for several days. And I would have to tend to a catheter installed in my penis for up to two weeks, endure likely incontinence and impotence for who knows how long, plus enjoy some other side effects equally too yucky to expound upon.
The placement of radioactive seeds in my slightly larger than walnut-sized prostate does come with a “do not remove” cautionary tag, however.
I’ll have to have my PSA level rated every six months. If it rises above “1” then the cancer has returned and I will have reached a point of no return where the radiation-juiced-up prostate could not be removed.
As a result, I’d have to go into containment/remission mode.
“If you were 52 instead of 62 I’s highly recommend surgery over radiation seeding,” Wolkoff said.
The thing is, says Wolkoff, my diligence at getting a PSA test every year along with my annual check-up in all likelihood saved my life.
For one simple reason, he says.
The recent rectal exams performed by both Wolkoff and my family doctor, Mike Baranauskas, showed only a slightly enlarged prostate. Absent were any lumps, bumps, protrusions, ripples or any other oddity that would point to a too-late, too-diseased organ.
By me assembling a 12-year-long spreadsheet of PSA numbers the doctors concluded that the last figure had spiked. It was as striking a red flag as ever there was one, Wolkoff said.
So this is what will happen next. On June 5 I’ll file myself into TriPoint Hospital. There I will get some sort of chemical poured into my blood stream that causes a dreamless episode of sleep.
During my drug-induced nap time Wolkoff will take up to two hours to remove the side-saddling lymph nodes. A pathologist will examine the nodes and determine whether they've been compromised by cancer, a 10- to 15-percent possibility.
If these nodes are cancer-free I’ll meet with Wolkoff’s partner on June 25 for a consult on how the seeds are to be implanted.
It’s actually kind of cool. In the past when doctors used the medical equivalent of a blunderbuss, rice grain-size radioactive “seeds” were scatter-shot into the prostate gland.
Some of these pellets would land next to each other. Still other seeds would fall by the wayside and not even hit the paper let alone strike the 10-ring tumor bull’s-eye. None of these misplaced radioactive lambs could then find their way home within a tumor’s corral.
On the other hand, today’s seed-planting methodology leaves no cancerous furrow untouched.
What is now the case is a two-person sharp-shooting sniper team that can launch radioactive projectiles directly into the enemy’s camp, taking out the cancer’s command and control center.
Neat, if you ask me. And I was by Wolkoff who said this was the perfect choice for me.
Bev agreed. And now I must wait once again. And pardon me if I say “wait on the Lord once again.”
They say there are no atheists in foxholes. Well, I’m here to tell you there are not too many on operating tables, either.
One step at a time, Jeffrey, one step at a time.
-Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Weeks of intensive Internet searches about prostate cancer, its impact, its treatment and the consequences for doing nothing had built up to the point of agreeing to formulate a life-saving protocol.
With the praise-worthy word that my full-body bone scan was clear I had reached that juncture.
Besides, after sitting for well more than an hour and listening to urologist Lawrence Wolkoff present his case and all the options my butt was starting to get sore.
Much of what Wolkoff offered was material that proved to be a bedspread to the heavy blanket of material sewn by the threads of countless Google “hits” I’ve struck since first hearing the word “cancer.”.
Running through the rather substantial print-out document, Wolkoff pointed out any number of items. What’s a prostate, what’s prostate cancer, Gleason score, PSA ranking and so on; an entire lexicon of terms that dog a mature male who is side-swiped by the disease.
Questions were raised, answers were given; sometimes the former being posed before the latter had an opportunity to express itself.
It is my curse and that of everyone else in journalism, really. We are imprinted at our writing births to probe, investigate, prod and generally make a pest of ourselves.
At least Wolkoff has a great bedside manner. He took my inquiring jabs and thrusts in stride.
For her part my wife, Bev, was the quiet one. She sponged up the presentations that fell to the floor, asking about such affairs as what does radioactive “half life” mean and what about the side effects of radical surgery.
When the document’s menu was exhausted and Wolkoff had spoken his piece, he concluded by saying that Bev and I could take some time to review the material.
We could even seek a second opinion.
On that score I had pigeon-holed in my breast pocket a slip of paper scrawled with the names and telephone numbers of two other urologists.
“No,” I thought to myself.
And with a quick nod to my bride of 40 years I made my peace and gave the green light. My decision would involve the implantation of tiny radioactive metal pins, called “seeds.”
This option was plucked over radical prostate-removing surgery. There, Wolkoff would unsheathe his scalpel, carve away at my lower torso and extract intact the diseased prostate and its two cancerous tumors.
Along with such connecting tissue that includes a pair of lymph nodes.
Noting the advantage of radical prostate-removing surgery that includes once gone, always gone, Wolkoff did not object to my alternate selection of internal radiation treatment.
“You’re an excellent candidate for either one,” he said.
Told that if I were cloned (world: imagine there being two of me. Scary, huh?) and one of me were pried open by surgery while the other one would undergo being zapped by sub-atomic particles each would stand before Wolkoff 12 years hence.
Thus, it was actually a fairly easy decision. I took the fork that I did for several reasons.
For starters, with radical surgery I’d be laid up in a hospital for several days. And I would have to tend to a catheter installed in my penis for up to two weeks, endure likely incontinence and impotence for who knows how long, plus enjoy some other side effects equally too yucky to expound upon.
The placement of radioactive seeds in my slightly larger than walnut-sized prostate does come with a “do not remove” cautionary tag, however.
I’ll have to have my PSA level rated every six months. If it rises above “1” then the cancer has returned and I will have reached a point of no return where the radiation-juiced-up prostate could not be removed.
As a result, I’d have to go into containment/remission mode.
“If you were 52 instead of 62 I’s highly recommend surgery over radiation seeding,” Wolkoff said.
The thing is, says Wolkoff, my diligence at getting a PSA test every year along with my annual check-up in all likelihood saved my life.
For one simple reason, he says.
The recent rectal exams performed by both Wolkoff and my family doctor, Mike Baranauskas, showed only a slightly enlarged prostate. Absent were any lumps, bumps, protrusions, ripples or any other oddity that would point to a too-late, too-diseased organ.
By me assembling a 12-year-long spreadsheet of PSA numbers the doctors concluded that the last figure had spiked. It was as striking a red flag as ever there was one, Wolkoff said.
So this is what will happen next. On June 5 I’ll file myself into TriPoint Hospital. There I will get some sort of chemical poured into my blood stream that causes a dreamless episode of sleep.
During my drug-induced nap time Wolkoff will take up to two hours to remove the side-saddling lymph nodes. A pathologist will examine the nodes and determine whether they've been compromised by cancer, a 10- to 15-percent possibility.
If these nodes are cancer-free I’ll meet with Wolkoff’s partner on June 25 for a consult on how the seeds are to be implanted.
It’s actually kind of cool. In the past when doctors used the medical equivalent of a blunderbuss, rice grain-size radioactive “seeds” were scatter-shot into the prostate gland.
Some of these pellets would land next to each other. Still other seeds would fall by the wayside and not even hit the paper let alone strike the 10-ring tumor bull’s-eye. None of these misplaced radioactive lambs could then find their way home within a tumor’s corral.
On the other hand, today’s seed-planting methodology leaves no cancerous furrow untouched.
What is now the case is a two-person sharp-shooting sniper team that can launch radioactive projectiles directly into the enemy’s camp, taking out the cancer’s command and control center.
Neat, if you ask me. And I was by Wolkoff who said this was the perfect choice for me.
Bev agreed. And now I must wait once again. And pardon me if I say “wait on the Lord once again.”
They say there are no atheists in foxholes. Well, I’m here to tell you there are not too many on operating tables, either.
One step at a time, Jeffrey, one step at a time.
-Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
What do you call a guy bushwacked by prostate cancer?
Okay, so later today I'll visit Lake Health's Tri-Point Medical Center.
Its radiological unit, to be specific. There I'll be injected with a radioactive dye that will take a couple of hours to blitzkrieg through my bone structure.
Then about 1:30 p.m. or so I'll return to the sterile environment, try to remain calm and steady and smiling attendants provide me with instructions on what will happen over the next 60 minutes or so. That's about how long it takes to undergo a complete bone scan.
As explained by my urologist, Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff, what an expert in interpreting this non-TSA-approved scanning gizmo is looking for is any area "that lights up."
Pray that no such illumination appears, please. The reason: Such bright areas indicate that the prostate cancer has spread to my bones, and bones (for whatever and still not understood reason) is where prostate cancer cells go to hide after leaving the walnut-sized organ.
A clear image would point to the cancer being confined to the prostate. That will greatly assist in achieving a 100-percent chance of beating the disease through any number of treatment options.
Those options and the results of today's bone scan will be released to my wife Bev and me on Friday.
Yeah, it seems that with a disease like this it's a constant battle of going to doctors, tests and fighting the urge to eat at fast-food joints between visits.
In any event, one thing that still bugs me is I'm not sure what to call myself.
I don't really consider myself to be a patient yet since I haven't submitted myself to the rigors of a hospital stay. I suppose that most people would say I'm this since I've seeing a physician specialist.
However, I do believe the word "client" is more accurate. No, I don't believe "customer" qualifies either, since that sort of gives the impression that the only reason so many doctors have seen me is so that they can keep up their membership in trophy golf clubs or gas in their Porsches. (Sorry, guys, I couldn't resist).
Maybe the best word to describe my current status is "cancer victim." Yeah, I kind of like that one.
I didn't ask for, nor did I want, to contract cancer. It snuck up on me like a thief in the night while I wasn't looking and distracted by another serious - but not life-threatening - set of physical problems.
So victim it is. For the immediate, anyway.
Sure I'll become a patient when I'm actually receiving treatment but it's still just a short haul down the road.
Ultimately there really is only one term that any prostate cancer victim wants to carry around. That being, "prostate cancer survivor."
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twiter: @Fieldkorn
Its radiological unit, to be specific. There I'll be injected with a radioactive dye that will take a couple of hours to blitzkrieg through my bone structure.
Then about 1:30 p.m. or so I'll return to the sterile environment, try to remain calm and steady and smiling attendants provide me with instructions on what will happen over the next 60 minutes or so. That's about how long it takes to undergo a complete bone scan.
As explained by my urologist, Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff, what an expert in interpreting this non-TSA-approved scanning gizmo is looking for is any area "that lights up."
Pray that no such illumination appears, please. The reason: Such bright areas indicate that the prostate cancer has spread to my bones, and bones (for whatever and still not understood reason) is where prostate cancer cells go to hide after leaving the walnut-sized organ.
A clear image would point to the cancer being confined to the prostate. That will greatly assist in achieving a 100-percent chance of beating the disease through any number of treatment options.
Those options and the results of today's bone scan will be released to my wife Bev and me on Friday.
Yeah, it seems that with a disease like this it's a constant battle of going to doctors, tests and fighting the urge to eat at fast-food joints between visits.
In any event, one thing that still bugs me is I'm not sure what to call myself.
I don't really consider myself to be a patient yet since I haven't submitted myself to the rigors of a hospital stay. I suppose that most people would say I'm this since I've seeing a physician specialist.
However, I do believe the word "client" is more accurate. No, I don't believe "customer" qualifies either, since that sort of gives the impression that the only reason so many doctors have seen me is so that they can keep up their membership in trophy golf clubs or gas in their Porsches. (Sorry, guys, I couldn't resist).
Maybe the best word to describe my current status is "cancer victim." Yeah, I kind of like that one.
I didn't ask for, nor did I want, to contract cancer. It snuck up on me like a thief in the night while I wasn't looking and distracted by another serious - but not life-threatening - set of physical problems.
So victim it is. For the immediate, anyway.
Sure I'll become a patient when I'm actually receiving treatment but it's still just a short haul down the road.
Ultimately there really is only one term that any prostate cancer victim wants to carry around. That being, "prostate cancer survivor."
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twiter: @Fieldkorn
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