Category Archives: Life

A date with Dr. Knee

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Usually I can find some way to tag my doctors and other practitioners by the impression they make. The orthodontist was Dr. Pain, the ENT Dr. Sadist (what else can you call a man who says, “Step into my torture chamber here”?) I’m not sure what to call the latest character, an orthopedist. He didn’t inflict pain or enjoy the thought, and he seemed genuinely kind. He has a lot of hair, but that doesn’t really suit his specialty — the knee. So he, like my dentist, has ended up with a literal alias: Dr. Knee.

I knew from the address roughly where his office is, but didn’t realize until the last minute at the Randolph bus stop that it’s the building on the northwest corner of Michigan and Randolph with the solar energy collector roof shaped like a fountain pen nib. I’d never been inside the building except to visit a drugstore that used to be on the ground floor and the ATMs, so it was interesting to see a floor layout (geometrical, with lots of angles).

After completing reams of forms (including several questions about my mental stability — no, my knee has not driven me into the abyss of insanity), I was taken to exam room 4, the view from which is a Millennium Park fan’s dream. As I waited I could see the Chicago Cultural Center’s green roof (now turning autumn colors); most of Millennium Park, with Cloud Gate (the “Bean”) reflecting the mid-morning sun’s rays; Shedd Aquarium plus Adler Planetarium at the end of the Museum Campus peninsula; and of course the sparkling blue and silver expanse of Lake Michigan. To the left lay the Jay Pritzker Pavilion, with the lawn structure resembling the intact metallic spine and ribs of an elongated dinosaur that died at rest in the park. Although I’m not fond of Millennium Park, I have to admit that it’s beautiful in a very formal way when seen from above, and I felt healthier for the new perspective.

Dr. Knee appeared so I could confuse him with the date of my fall; I kept saying September when I meant August, and I caught my mistake only when he said, “So this happened only a couple of weeks ago?” I proceeded to repeat my error several times. Apparently the glare of the sun off Cloud Gate had gotten to me, and both of our heads were spinning.

Finally we straightened out what had happened, when, and with what NSAID it had been treated. I added, somewhat as an aside, that the affected left knee is painful when I walk down stairs, which got his attention more than the small amount of swelling left from the fall and the NSAID treatment.

After straightening, bending, and feeling my knew, none of which bothered me, he indicated that the pain on stairs was more of a long-term concern and that, if not dealt with now, it would result in more serious problems later. He sent me down the hall for X-rays. By now, with the UFE, two sets of dental X-rays, and a screening and a diagnostic mammogram within the past month, I wonder if I glow in the right lighting or click near certain instruments.

The technician took front, side, and top views. For the side view, he mounted the stool and demonstrated the correct position while I tried not to laugh and failed. It was a classic artist’s model pose, one leg in front of the other like Mercury about to take off beautifully. I tried to repress another laugh as I imagined what I must look like, pant legs rolled up above the knee, an enormously fat Olympian captured on film mid-glide. The final view, from the top, required me to lie down with my knees bent and my fat thighs and ankles pressed tightly together. Owww.

Then it was back to the room with a view. The conclusions were simple: I have about 5 cc worth of prepatellar fluid, which to both of us is not worth worrying about in the absence of pain or infection. Physical therapy, which I signed up for beginning in early November, will strengthen the left knee and help to prevent or alleviate the future problems. He prescribed another month of meloxicam to help reduce the residual swelling. Of course he recommended weight loss. Apparently (even to me), my X-rays looked good except for some slight degeneration and loss of space probably due to weight — I won’t deny it. I was surprised mostly to find that, after all they have been through, each of my knee caps is intact. I told him I walk as much as possible, and, although I’m not sure why, he pointed out that extreme sports, marathons, and the like (which he must be able to tell are not on my agenda) are not the best way to build strength in a weakened or injured knee. I’ll remember that the next time I’m tempted to try a triathlon or climb a mountain.

So now I must give up my elderly woman crab walk down stairs. Coming up: finding out if physical therapy o a week knee is as painful as it is on a shoulder with impingement syndrome.

Dr. Knee ended by dictating his report as I stood there. The last orthopedist I’d gone to, Dr. Shoulder, also dictated a report, but not in front of me — I overheard him as I was checking out. Perhaps because I was right there, Dr. Knee was especially flattering, describing me as “young” and “somewhat overweight” (respective translations: “middle aged” and “extremely morbidly obese”).

My knees are in relatively good shape, and I feel like I have been granted second, even third chances, numerous times to preserve my health. Today, Sunday, despite what could be the monthly visitor and the discomfort it brings (since the UFE, I haven’t been quite sure if this qualifies as the monthly), I feel good and walked briskly (for me) to Bonjour this morning.

On Dr. Knee’s advice, however, I bypassed today’s Chicago Marathon. It’s not good for my knee.

Asymmetry

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I’m writing this at Argo Tea at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, where I just spent two hours in the Lynn Sage Comprehensive Breast Center for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound. I’ve finished eating cheese quiche and am enjoying the pumpkin chai far too much. (To my taste, almost anything benefits from pumpkin.) Life is better because after three additional views and the ultrasound, and pending obtaining past films from Mercy Hospital and Medical Center, the radiologist thinks my breasts are merely asymmetrical. This would not surprise me; I suspect my whole body is off. Even my ears, which are slightly offset, are different shapes. Nobody is perfect.

The verdict is: “Your exam shows findings with a high probability of being benign (non-cancerous). Short-term follow up is recommended.”

How reassuring.

While I was waiting in the chair nearest the door, an elderly Asian woman tottered in on the technician’s arm. I shifted over a chair so she could have the closest chair before she fell. She told me why she has trouble walking (broken hip). In fact, for the next 5–10 minutes, before she was called, she regaled me with her medical history and much of her late husband’s, down to which hospital (when she could remember). I listened sympathetically, without a word, which seemed to be an acceptable response.

But before I reach my neighbor’s age, I want to train myself in some interpersonal communications habits because I don’t want to fall into the same trap (which I’m stuck halfway in now):

  • Contribute no more than 50 percent of the conversation, whether measured in time, words, or subject matter. This should be easy for an introvert in a world of extroverts, but I can see how easy it is to forget.
  • Discuss health matters only if they are of interest to the other party, for example, if they are having or have had the same procedure, they want to know about the doctor or hospital, etc. It’s not necessary to explain every groan or ache.
  • Make sure that most of what I say is relevant to the other party and that they will take away something worth remembering or worth repeating.

After the mammogram, I returned to the waiting room, followed by the woman who had come in at the same time as I had. A woman reading a magazine on the sofa gave her several pointed, staring looks. I would have thought she recognized her as her husband’s mistress or first wife, given her facial expression. Then she looked down at the woman’s green patent leather shoes for several moments, followed by a perusal of her own zippered brown leather boots. “What is that about?” I wondered, as I observed the observer and the observed.

I was now sitting on the side opposite a wall magazine rack, where Time‘s “The Republicans” special issue caught my eye partly because John McCain’s head was floating against a dark background in the sinister way that too many graphic designers favor as “cool.” Even worse, however — the wooden slat of the magazine rack was blindfolding McCain, masking his face from his eyebrows to his nostrils. The effect? The perfect Ian Fleming/James Bond villain, about to sneer and say, “No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”

Never mind the woman glaring bitterly at the woman in green patent leather shoes. What goes through my mind?

Little Mr. Trouble

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The date: September 20, 2008

The scene: Courtyard at the Hyde Park Shopping Center

The event: Annual mum and bulb sale

Cast of characters: Couple with two boys in the 2 to 4 age range, two large dogs, and a pile of gifts: a couple in the 30something age range holding hands over a café table and nursing Nantucket Nectars; an elderly woman manning one of the flower tables; an observer (me)

I noticed the couple and their boys when one of the latter took off toward 55th Street. The mother, fussing over something next to me, yelled at him to come back. The father, who remained mysteriously useless during this entire episode, wandered in and out of the scene but didn’t contribute much. The mother did most of the talking, reprimanding, and worrying.

The boys, especially the would-be runaway, seemed to be out of control, taking advantage of the mother’s distractions. She kept up a loud, running series of orders like, “No, come back here!” “No, don’t do that!” etc., none of which had any teeth. Finally, the little Mr. Trouble ran up to the elderly woman’s table and ripped a display poster of flowers from top to bottom. Mom, still fussing with various things, told him she had asked him not to do that, then had him apologize to the woman, who by then, with the mother’s help, had re-taped the two pieces of the torn poster to the table. The boy didn’t seem to be particularly sorry or to find the admission all that punishing. A minute or two later he tried to rip it again, laughing with glee as his frustrated mother remonstrated with him.

In the meantime, someone with with a fluffy little white dog had appeared, which set off one or both of Mom’s big dogs. She tried to explain to little Mr. Trouble how difficult it was for her to manage so much — him, the other little boy, the two dogs, and the pile of presents. He remained nonplussed.

Because all this was happening next to me, I couldn’t resist noticing it. I would look over, look back, and find the 30something woman in front of me either looking at the mom or at me sadly as she clutched her lover’s hand. “That could be us . . . that could be me . . .” seemed to be passing through both their minds. From holding hands sweetly to yelling in a public display of harried parenting in just a few short years. Both she and her lover looked ahead and at each other soberly. Finally, after Dad had made himself useful by strapping little Mr. Trouble into the stroller the 30something couple got up and walked away wordlessly. Oh, to have true psychic powers . . .

That kind of a day

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Maybe I was looking for something mindless to concentrate on, so that’s why I decided to go through my jewelry boxes. I’ve gone back to wearing earrings and wanted to see if I could find some that had gone missing, plus I thought I might be surprised by finding some that I hadn’t seen in a while. (I was.)

As I dug through the drawers, I found a tangled mess of necklaces originally discovered when I moved to The Flamingo in 2003. I tried to separate them then, but it required more time and patience than I had. I was to find out how much last night and this morning.

The necklaces, obviously not worn for more than five years (and who knows how long before that) reminded me of Fanny in Mansfield Park. She is suddenly gifted with two necklaces, one from her rival Mary and one from her brother William, both given on the occasion of a ball in her honor. A necklace is a luxury to which she is not accustomed, and, baggage aside (her fear that Mary’s is really from Henry), she is excited to have them. Here am I , with two jewelry drawers (granted, mostly costume, but some sterling), neglecting what to a poor girl of Austen’s era was a treasure to be cherished. When I was a child, I shared Fanny’s situation and feelings perfectly.

It also reminded me of the boon of literacy, which most Americans take for granted, but which gave Prue Sarn nearly magical power in Precious Bane — the ability to communicate across the miles with the man she loved, at least obliquely.

Between last night and this morning, it took me five to six hours to untangle the seven necklaces and one bracelet. Yes — it really did take that long, working virtually nonstop once I started. Two of the chains were especially knotty and reluctant to give up the orgy. One had knotted on itself, which took another half hour to undo, while a second tangled on itself after I had put it in the drawer (away from the others so it couldn’t seduce any other chains). After trying to undo it for a while, I put it aside. Enough already. Even my OCD about finishing a job has limits.

To top all this effort off, I lost one of the necklaces. I stashed them in various boxes, I thought, but now I can’t find it anywhere.

Yes. It’s been that kind of a day.

The Berghoff Oktoberfest

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On Friday J. called to see if I wanted to go to The Berghoff Oktoberfest. The stage used to be set up on Adams Street, but perhaps because of construction and other issues this year the event was confined to Federal Plaza. I had gone only once or twice, ages ago, so I said, “Yes.”

J. met me at the post office, where I had gone in search of stamps. All the self-service machines were empty and bore stickers with copy about being slated for removal from service. I didn’t look closely, but I didn’t notice that they would be replaced. I hope they are, because removal of self service seems like a step backward to me. I observed a young woman who was even more interested in them; she was taking photographs of their hulking carcasses.

Outside the plaza was crowded, smoky, and loud — three circumstances that I rarely find conducive to fun. The entertainment was disappointing. The last time (ages ago) I had seen a band at Oktoberfest, it consisted of middle-aged and older Germans in lederhosen, playing the accordion and tuba, and singing German folk and drinking songs — just the thing for Oktoberfest. This time, the band (too loud) consisted of young men in brightly colored, strange hats performing 1970s covers badly. Oktoberfest had become a generic American festival with beer, food, and rock. I hope the German version of Oktoberfest is still German.

After fighting the crowd to get to the food, I suggested skipping the festivities and having dinner at The Berghoff. J. agreed, although I think he felt a bit cheated of the party atmosphere.

We hadn’t been to The Berghoff since the old restaurant closed a year and a half ago. The servers were dressed in Oktoberfest T shirts, but still wore formal black aprons. J. thought the woodwork looked lighter and that curtains had been removed so that more light was streaming in the windows. The tables didn’t seem as close together, and it looks like some were removed. I don’t even recall whether tablecloths were used in the old restaurant, but although my memory for detail is poor, something in the setting and atmosphere felt different. It seemed less crowded, more subdued.

The menu has been reduced considerably, with the various steaks that used to tempt me all gone. There seem to be fewer German selections, too. J. ordered the wiener schnitzel or sauerbraten, while I asked for a bunless burger. The side dishes are no longer included, so J. requested red cabbage. The service was pretty fast (not something the old Berghoff was noted for), but I was presented with J.’s plate, and J. got the burger.

I’d heard that, long before The Berghoff closed, the experience was no longer the one that long-term Chicago residents remembered so fondly. It’s hard for me to say; my first few visits were made long ago when I was young and easily impressed. Whether it’s because I’m older and jaded, or The Berghoff’s standard is indeed different, there’s nothing special about it anymore. The food is indifferent, the atmosphere bland, and the energy and buzz gone.

The things that made The Berghoff memorable have been forgotten.

Farewell to Bristol Renaissance Faire

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Monday, Labor Day, September 1, J. and I made our last trip to 2008 Bristol Renaissance Faire. This time we arrived earlier than usual — early enough to pay parking and admission.

Thanks to the luxury of extra time, the first thing I did was to drag him to the jousting/exhibition arena. The timing was perfect because master falconer Ray Pena was beginning his talk. Although I know a fair amount about falconry (even beyond T. H. White‘s failed effort recounted in The Goshawk), I’d never seen a demonstration of raptors flown to the lure.

Pena explained how the birds are caught, handled, and trained. He emphasized that the falconer doesn’t force the bird to do anything (other than to be captive, of course). Birds are hooded to keep them calm; then, as they become accustomed to their surroundings, the presence of people, and the falconer’s voice, the falconer will touch them. As training progresses, the lure is baited. Later, it is not.

He removed the hood from the first bird, a female African saker (I think — I am not sure I heard correctly) falcon. The falconer uses the bird’s name, which should rouse it. At that point, the bird is ready to fly. He mentioned the challenge of the area — trees and cables, not to mention unfamiliarity — and the possibility of a bird getting lost or tangled. Pena said he places a radio transmitter on their tails prior to flight just in case.

Both the female and male saker (I think) falcons flew out of my sight and back and forth several times before attacking the lure. The male’s smaller size makes him faster and more maneuverable, so it’s not necessarily a hunting disadvantage. By the way, Pena has a sense of humor — the male’s name is Hunter.

As part of his introduction, Pena had talked about the origins of falconry, its hierarchy, and the role of birds and dogs in the hunt, but we missed much of that part. I think of falconry as a sport, but he made it sound like, at least for some at one time, practicing falconry properly was an essential part of food acquisition.

The third and final bird was a peregrine — female, I think. I’ve seen only one peregrine in the “wild” — when a co-worker asked me about a bird that had landed on a ledge across a narrow courtyard. Not only was it close enough to be easy for me to identify as a peregrine, but after a few minutes it tucked its head under its wing and fell asleep. I wondered if it was an after-breakfast nap.

After contributing to the upkeep of Hunter and friends, we watched the strength game (where you try to ring the bell at the top of a column) for a while. The young man running it issued several challenges to specific men, but we didn’t see anyone make it to “king” (we heard the bell after we had moved on, so someone mighty must have taken him up on his insults). J. and I remained inconspicuous intentionally; neither of us wished to be a mere “pustule.” A little girl tried the child’s version, swinging the hammer like a, well, girl and delivering a weak, glancing blow. Is this really a feminine trait?

After that we looked into the shops. I bought silver and onyx earrings at the Black Pearl as my sole indulgence. I didn’t hurry J. (much), so by the gate we caught a rousing farewell to the faire song. I wonder if the participants are relieved that their work is done after eight or so weekends or if they find it sad that their opportunity to be bigger than bland modern life is over. Most likely, it’s a mixture of both.

After a little side road wandering and tension, we were in time for dinner at Apple Holler and to see the goats on the bridge outlined against the twilight. A white chicken was wandering in the parking lot, so I approached it to ask if it was okay. It rewarded me with that wonderful low clucking growl that chickens use as a warning.

I ordered turkey for dinner.

Promontory Point drama

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During the summer, it’s not unusual for me to see and hear helicopters. Some belong to individuals, others to hospitals. A few times I’ve seen three black helicopters pass by eerily. Mostly I see them during the day, and they pass by, or they hover over Promontory Point, the pilots determined to impress someone.

When I realize that the sound isn’t retreating, or I hear one at night, I know there’s trouble. Once, around 6:30 a.m., the noise proved to come from a series of news helicopters hovering ghoulishly around the scene of a fatal crash on Lake Shore Drive (it took firefighters more than an hour to cut one of the bodies out of the flattened car).

When I looked this time, Saturday night at 10:30 p.m., I saw a somewhat surreal sight. The police cars with lights flashing at Promontory Point weren’t out of the ordinary, but what appeared to be three or four police boats, with various lights, were. More than that, a helicopter hovered as close to the water’s surface as possible, shining a powerful searchlight onto it at about the buoy line. With no illuminating moon, the background was unusually dark. All I could see of the helicopter were its lights, searchlight, and the part of the belly lit by it. I could even discern the characteristic cigar shape against the darkness.

The sight was both unreal and unsettling — someone was missing or drowned. As it turned out, it was a man who had either gone missing while swimming off a boat or who had fallen off a boat during a turn (his friends changed their story from the former to the latter).

The helicopter disappeared after midnight, easing itself out of my consciousness, and the search was later abandoned until morning, when it was dispersed over a wider area. In the meantime, I found it even more difficult than usual to fall asleep, suspecting that, while I was comfortably sipping tea and reading, death had paid a dramatic visit just shouting distance away.

Magnetic personality

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I attribute the inanity of this post to the blood loss (at least six drops) suffered when a chef’s knife fell out of the drainer and poked a hole in the bottom of my left little toe. Accident prone or death wish? You decide.

After this incident, probably when I was putting the milk back (to ease the last of the naproxen down), I decided to take an inventory of my refrigerator magnet collection in use. I impress myself with how many I can squeeze on.

Magnetic personality

Functional

  • Kitchen timer
  • Dry-erase board
  • Dry-erase squares
  • Dry-erase circles
  • Powerful bar magnet, possibly from my dad

Promotional

  • Amazon.com: “A room without books is like a body without a soul” (Cicero)
  • Chicago Farmers Market 2006
  • Chicago Veterinary Emergency Services (one horizontal, one vertical)
  • Lincoln Park Zoo Icebreaker featuring a polar bear (for an ice-sculpting competition)
  • Northeast Illinois area code map
  • University of Chicago Alumni Weekend 2008
  • VTonly.com

Souvenirs

  • Art Institute Manet exhibit painting
  • Blue octopus with blue glass eye from the John G. Shedd Aquarium
  • Ravinia 2006 and “Find your inner lawn”
  • San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge
  • Shoreline Cruise photo of J. and me
  • USPS “Love” and “Neuter/Spay” stamps

Purely decorative

  • Cartoon birds (two) and insects (two) that were my aunt’s
  • Click magnets of four planets and aquatic wildlife (two frogs, two turtles); I also have butterflies that I haven’t put up yet and some from Moonstruck Café that I haven’t been able to find after putting them in a safe place
  • Erotic magnetic poetry
  • Floral magnets that came with the dry-erase board
  • Star Trek: The Next Generation cast photo
  • Ziggy, the once-popular cartoon character, which is probably the oldest magnet on the door, dating back to college

I have other magnets on top of the refrigerator, including fragile ones from Bristol Renaissance Faire and two powerful circular magnets from my dad. A PuppetBike magnet is on my coffee table, safe (I hope) from Hodge.

There goes the sun

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For me summer ends not on Labor Day but with the autumn equinox. I’ve been in a fall mood for the past couple of weeks, though. It’s more than the unusually cool weather and the early sunsets (now occurring shortly after 7:30 p.m.). It’s the retreat of the sun into the southern sky, imperceptible at first, but now impossible to miss. The angled light is somehow softer — still bright, but not as harsh to the eyes.

Today I realized that my current seat in the garden, which just a couple of weeks ago would be flooded with light by 1 p.m. as the sun rose above the trees and their shadows withdrew, is still in the shade; the sun is low enough in the sky to be behind the Flamingo.

Autumn may be one of my favorite seasons (spring is the other), but behind it lies the bitter, dreary Chicago winter, the winter that just a short time ago I longed to be over.

Reach out and touch someone

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If you feel like you must reach out and touch someone, please do. Except for the period between, say, 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. Call it the graveyard shift, or the dead zone for personal phone calls. There are two reasons for this voluntary blackout period: (1) Many people are asleep and don’t require an ill-timed wake-up call, and (2) it’s likely you are tired or drunk or both and are going to dial (or punch) incorrectly — several times. You may even become belligerent (yes, I’ve heard this happen) when the poor, sleepy, working soul at the other end of the line makes the mistake of not being the person you think you called, but didn’t.

To the person who punched my number at 12:04 a.m.: It was clearly a wrong number the first time. Was it quite necessary to call two more times to hear my answering message and to be satisfied?