Happiness is donating a kidney

   

Lisa and Ed Balcita

     Surging COVID-19 doesn’t mean other ailments take a holiday. People still cope with the usual range of illness, though the pandemic tends to add complications.
     Take Ed and Lisa Balcita, of Berwyn.
     Ed had kidney failure from decades of diabetes. In 2017, he went on the transplant list, where he did what people do on transplant lists. He waited.
     The average wait for a kidney is about four years. About 100,000 people are waiting, and each year, about 5,000 of them die waiting. Ed’s kidney function dropped to 10 percent of normal while he was on the list, waiting.
     Sometimes a spouse will donate a kidney. Ed’s wife certainly wanted to.
     “When the doctor told me, ‘Perhaps a living donor...’ I knew right away I was going to be tested,” said Lisa.
     But she wasn’t a match. Ed’s body would reject her kidney. Nor could Lisa be part of a chain donation — where one donor gives a kidney to a second recipient, paired with a donor who isn’t a match either, and that donor gives to a third recipient, whose donor gives to another, until they reach someone who can give to the original recipient in the first pair.
     Another problem: Lisa has AB blood. The rarest kind, found in just 4 percent of the population.

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Something to hope for

   
     Make no mistake.
     Even if Joe Biden wins Tuesday, there will still by a global COVID pandemic. Americans will still be dying, hospitals overwhelmed. California will still be on fire. Hurricanes will still slam into the Gulf coast with extraordinary force in unprecedented regularity. China will still be testing its strength, nationalism will still be on the rise, here and everywhere else. Russia will still be steadily working to undermine our nation in devious, unseen ways. The economy will still be in tatters, with many millions unemployed. Old industries will continue to totter while new ones grown enormous and unchecked. Deep institutional racism will still have its tendrils in every aspect of our national life, so longstanding and familiar that too many can't even see it. Too few Americans will have proper health care, or education. Drugs will be plentiful and treatment scarce.
     And Donald Trump will still have 10 weeks to make everything worse, by neglect and design.
     But what will happen, if Joe Biden wins Nov. 3, is that the clock will start counting down the days until we once again have someone in the White House who actually cares enough to try to effectively address all our nation's problems. And that would be something to celebrate.

Mikva could conjugate ‘democracy’

Abner Mikva, after having his South Side congressional district gerrymandered away, announced in 1973 he would run for Congress in the northern suburbs.

 (Sun-Times file photo)

     We’ve seen the damage one man can do. 

     To the national discourse. To our country’s health, institutions, honor. To the value of truth itself, and the freedom Americans enjoy, the latest threat being the installation on Monday of a rigid far-right fanatic onto the U.S. Supreme Court, who for a generation will steer the country in a direction most of its citizens do not wish to go.
     As the nation prepares to — maybe — spit out that one-man wrecking crew, Donald Trump, a timely reminder of the good one person can also do has its Chicago premiere on WTTW Thursday: “Mikva! Democracy is a Verb,” an hour-long documentary on the life of Abner Mikva.
     Mikva was the rare political figure to range across all three branches of government — legislative, judicial and executive. A liberal congressman from both the North and South sides. An appellate judge. And White House counsel for Bill Clinton.
     Mikva began his career as a lawyer, then cut his teeth for a decade in the Illinois House of Representatives, where he became expert at a quality that today has reached low ebb: the art of reaching across party lines to get things done.

     “People think, well, if you compromise, that means you don’t have any principles, you’re selling out,” Mikva explains in the film. “That’s not the way it works in a large society like ours. We ought to be able to find a way to compromise our differences, especially on the important issues.”

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German engineering? Great. German typography? Not so much.

     
     This doesn't happen often. You notice something done well then, taking a closer look, see that it is also done poorly.
     Look at the back of this Porsche I pulled up behind at red light the other day. My eye went, as it has before, to the word "PORSCHE" and I admired the font, the spacing, the neat elegance of the stylish typography. Very cool. You pay ... $97,000 for a sports car, the name of the maker should be nice. And it is.
     Now look underneath. At the figure under "PORSCHE." Kinda hard to read, right? I mean, not impossible. Not indecipherable. You squint, and you can eventually, as I did, see that it is "911," which makes sense, because that is an iconic, perhaps the iconic Porsche model number, used for decades. But the "9" is so compressed it looks like a rectangle. And the "11" almost looks like a lower case "n." You'd think at some point some German engineer, or designer, would look at the back of the car and say, "You know ..."

     But they didn't.

     Not the biggest deal in the world. We covered that yesterday. And will cover it again tomorrow. For today, I suppose there is almost a comfort, in knowing that even a huge German luxury carmaker like Porsche can fuck up the name of their own car in such a small yet noticeable way. Though it does make you wonder: if they get that wrong, what else did they get wrong? Oh well, join the club. If 2020 is remembered for anything, it will be the Year of Screw-ups, big and small. 

Will we escape from The Trump Zone?

 

      On Wednesday, Nov. 2, 2016, the Cubs won the World Series. The following Tuesday, Nov. 8, Donald Trump was elected president of the United States.
      Ever since, those two events have been paired in my mind.
      A Cubs championship was deferred for so long, it began to seem impossible. Maybe it was impossible. So it happening anyway, despite being impossible, somehow broke reality, ripping the fabric of space-time. We were all sucked through the tear, into an alternate universe, and have been trapped there ever since.
     That would explain a lot. Why we now stumble through this weird, 4th dimension. Like the child in that Twilight Zone episode “Little Girl Lost,” who vanishes through the portal that opens up in her bedroom. Or rather, like her father, desperately trying to find her, plunging into that skewed world, everything distorted, spinning, wrong.
     Ditto for our plane of existence, where the president’s personal lawyer can appear in a Hollywood movie, sprawled on a bed with his hand down his pants, and not only does it fail to shock, but it makes perfect sense.
     Like in “Alice in Wonderland” — of course, there is a large contemptuous caterpillar on a toadstool — this is the place where the talking caterpillar shows up. And of course the caterpillar is smoking a hookah. What else would a caterpillar smoke?

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Flashback, 2010: Am I smarter than my 14-year-old? Don't bet on it

     Today is my older son's 25th birthday. Happy birthday, boy! Thank you for the past quarter century. It has been a blast, in the main, and I only wish I could do it all again. I considered writing something fresh, but a wise parent draws the veil as children reach adulthood.  So as proud as I am,  I thought today I would dig into the vault and find a column from years past. This is the first one I saw and, frankly, it encapsulates the experience of being his dad far better than anything I could possibly write now. 

Ross at 14, in the New York Public Library's
42nd Street Reading Room

  
     'Is Ross around?" I called weakly. "I'm cleaning the litter now, if he wants to gloat."
     Though my wife and I are typical indulgent parents, the boys do have chores; the younger one empties the dishwasher, the older one cleans the cat litter.
     But there was this bet.
     I'm not sure how the subject came up—we all talk constantly, so it's hard to keep track. We were having lunch, and my older boy used the phrase "tonic clonic."
     "Tonic clonic?" I asked. "That's a new one." I told him I know that "clonic" describes rhythmic muscle contraction, like a person rocking. But I had never heard this phrase before.
     "It's a grand mal seizure," he explained.
     "No, it's not," I answered, with sudden conviction. A writer encounters lots of words. I not only know what onchocerciasis is—river blindness—but can pronounce it correctly.
     "Yes, it is,'' Ross said. "Common vernacular."
     "Then, it must be a slang term," I said. "Something used in chat rooms. It's not an official term."
     "Yes, it is."
     "No, it's not."
     "Wanna bet?"
     Now, I'm the opposite of Richard Roeper when it comes to betting—well, I'm the opposite of Richard in many regards, alas, but particularly when it comes to betting. Betting is almost always a bad idea, because—unlike Richard—I almost always lose. But there is a certain activity that my son, being 14 and growing in contrariness every day, has lately refused to do, a chore I can't in good conscience force upon him.
     "If you lose, we play Scrabble," I said.
     "And if I win . . . ?"
     "I'll clean the cat litter."
     His grinning air of triumph as we shook hands concerned me. But "tonic clonic"? Rhyming couplets are invariably slang: "chick flick," "cheat sheet," "space case." The patients might call it the "pus bus," but the doctors will refer to it as the "Mobile Infection Control Vehicle."
     We got home, and he flew to the iMac. In five seconds, he had the Epilepsy Foundation Web site and an article titled "Generalized Tonic Clonic Seizures (also called Grand Mal or a Convulsion)."
     Geez. Not only is "tonic clonic" a real term, but it's the preferred term. As disappointed as I was to lose my shot at a Scrabble game (one by one, life's joys are plucked off the table, but I thought I could cling to Scrabble a bit longer), I couldn't help but wonder if this was political correctness—what was wrong with "grand mal?" Could it be because "mal" is "evil" in French? Have seizures now become a lifestyle, something to be celebrated? Have people with epilepsy taken a page from the deaf—or is it The Deaf Nation by now?—who have convinced themselves, if no one else, that deafness is a culture and a superior culture at that, and hearing aids are a genocide?
     In a word: yes.

The Big Evil

     "Grand mal means 'The Big Evil,' " said Kimberli Meadows, of the Epilepsy Foundation. "Just as we don't call people 'epileptics,' as we try to get rid of the stigma associated with epilepsy, we use more positive terms."
     I'm all for being positive, though "tonic clonic" still strikes me as an odd term, not just for its sing-song quality, but also from a etymological point of view, since "tonic" generally means something that restores health and vigor (though I see now that, in physiology, it means the opposite). "During the tonic phase, breathing may decrease or cease altogether, producing cyanosis (blueing) of the lips, nail beds and face," the Epilepsy Foundation explains. This leads to the clonic phase, where muscles rapidly contract and relax.
     I found a reference to "tonic clonic" in the Miami Herald in 1984, and a total of 278 citations in all national newspapers in the quarter century since—about 10 a year; I didn't feel so clueless for not having encountered it before. It isn't as if we're bombarded with the phrase.
     Irked epileptics—whoops, "people with epilepsy"—or the proudly deaf should take comfort that my punishment was already visited upon me. Kneeling over the cat box, shoveling scoopful after scoopful of congealed litter into a garbage bag while my eldest son taunted me.
     "If you're going to write books," he sneered, "you should really know what words mean. I mean, Dad, c'mon, 'animadversion?' "
     I stopped scooping, stunned. A month ago, at least, I had walked into the office—my own flippin' office, for Pete's sake! He was vegged out at the computer.
     "Do you need this?" he asked; sometimes I toss them off the computer.
     "No, I'm just looking up a word."
     "What word?" he asked.
     "Animadversion," I answered. "Boswell uses it in Life of Johnson.
     "It's a criticism."
     "What's a criticism?"
     " 'Animadversion,' " he said. "It means 'a criticism, or complaint.' "
     I gave him a cold stare and flipped open the Oxford.
     "Animadversion," I read.
     "Censure, reproof, blame, a criticism."
     I wheeled on him.
     "How did you know that?"
     "I don't know," he shrugged. "Kids talk."
     I will leave you with a word that is not in the New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary: "contrapasso." An Italian word that literally means "counter-suffering" and refers to the way punishments in Dante's hell mirror the sins that damned souls committed in life. Adulterers are bound together for all eternity, fortunetellers are blinded by tears. A father who stresses the importance of words has them turned into darts and shot back at him. I am hoisted with my own petard.

                  —Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 5, 2010

Texas notes: Flags

     Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey speaks truth to Texas.

 

    Mr. "President" there is nothing funny about COVID. There is something very wrong with you to have made fun of Joe Biden wearing a properly fitted mask. It is surreal to watch you making light of an epic tragedy. Our only solace is that you will surely be kicked out of high office in the near future. Only then our “great” nation can cease to be the laughing-stock and horror of the world as you mismanage this plague and march your people to death. Once you are properly fired why don’t you do us all a favor and disappear? You’ve joked about leaving the country— please, please do.
     In mid-June on a COVID walkabout I noticed a hand painted wooden sign affixed to a tree in a neighbor’s yard. It boldly read “Texans Lost To COVID 19: 2,193.” The yard was peppered with 2,193 brightly colored flags. It brought home the gravity of the situation and I was moved to tears.
     As the weeks have worn on, I’ve watched the sea of flags grow in this lawn around an otherwise nondescript corner house. We are now nearing 17,000 Texans dead. This is not a soap opera or telenovela. None of those people are coming back.
     A few days ago I saw a brightly colored Fiat with 2 kayaks on the roof drivings towards me as I walked down the street; (we don’t have many sidewalks here). I recognized the car from the flag driveway. Instinctively I waved and the driver stopped and unrolled his window. He knew this was about the flags. He told me his name is Shane, and his wife Erin sat next to him. I asked if I could come by and learn more about his project, and he agreed. We set a date and a few days later Shane warmly invited me into their colorful and well-appointed backyard replete with a brand new chicken coop (with Lucy and Dinah pecking about), a fire pit, and modern wicker furniture. Large vinyl curtains with art prints from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art hung brightly on the wall behind him. Shane and Erin once lived in LA and both have backgrounds in film. 

Shane

    

     “When this all started everyone treated it like it was big vacation.” Shane described how he felt watching neighbors bike and walk around, and congregate in each others’ yards. He felt it was important to bring attention to the reality of what was happening. “It’s a real disease and people are dying from it. It was as though we were driving 100 miles per hour in a school zone. If we get hit, we get hit.”
     I knew exactly what he meant. Folks seem to think the virus picks and chooses people and will skip them and their loved ones. While on a walk with a neighbor the other day, she ripped her mask off complaining “it’s just so hot. Do you mind?” She is a healthcare professional so I asked her how this choice would affect me. She said “if you have a mask on but I don’t your chances of getting the virus from me increase by about 5%.” 

      “Um, YES. I DO MIND!” I told her to either stay at least six feet away from me, or put her mask on. For the rest of the walk she repeatedly pushed the boundaries and rather than a pleasant walk with a new friend the walk became a stress-laden game of dodge the germs for me. Frankly, I’d prefer to be alone than with someone who is not safe. She works in a medical practice, hangs out closely with people from at least four other households that I am aware of, and sadly cannot be one of my COVID buddies anymore. I’ll just decline the next invitations and maintain my inner balance that comes with impeccable safety standards during this stretch of the marathon.  

Now it's up to 18,000

   It felt good to be with Shane who put his mask on just to talk to me from his car during our first meeting. In his yard, we sat at least 10 feet away from each other if masks were off. As Shane put it, “most things in life are manageable.” He should know, as the father of a teen who had multiple heart surgeries before he was even 4 years old, thus a high-risk person. I stand with Shane and his family and all other at-risk people and I will not compromise these standards. 

     If we’d simply been mandated to wear masks and practice distancing, similar to mandates to wear seat belts and not to smoke in public indoor spaces, people like my dear former landlord Angelo Vouris who died on April 12th of COVID in Chicago would still be with us. For those of us who have the ability to follow simple rules, let’s just do our best to stay on course. It will be over before we know it and we can always say that we stood on the right side of history. Play this song for those who need a push: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltjBT_TuUVA.
     For more information about Shane and Erin: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/09/20/insider/front-page-200k-deaths.html.