It's That Most Very Strange Time of the Year

So tomorrow marks 37 years since the worst day of my life -- July 14, 1982, when my father died in my arms. I was 4 days from turning 21 -- looking forward to starting my college senior year, entertaining some ladies visiting from Wisconsin who were cousins of my co workers at my summer job at Jordan Marsh in Boca -- and then everything changed -- in a Delray minute, to borrow from Don Henley.

The first year after Dad's death I sort of slept walked through life. I remember sitting in class and feeling I was outside myself, literally, looking down on a version of me as I went about my day. Years later I read there was a psychological term for that -- separation something or other -- and I felt it first hand.

Eventually I came to myself, as my Mom would have said, and life went on, though as a man and not a boy. I applied to UM and UF Law, got into both, and was really ready for a change after 4 years in Coral Gables, and UF was much cheaper state tuition. But Mom was still pretty befuddled about things like paying bills and maintaining her car and condo, so I knew leaving for upstate wasn't too practical, and so I took out loans and planned to stay put.

It turned out just fine -- I met some new friends who are still like brothers -- just last night Norman joined an earlier brother Barry, and his boy Josh, and we had an absolute blast at a Marlins game. And most importantly, I met Wifey, who would become my life partner and give me the two most precious gifts of my existence: the Ds.

But there was a strange after affect: I call is seasonal hypochondria. Starting the year following my Dad's death, I developed chest pains. I hadn't been to a doctor during my entire years at college, except for two visits to the Health Center, for a mono check that was negative, and for painkillers after stupidly playing quarterback in a tackle football game we called the Hangover Bowl.  But these things felt real -- and I feared I might be leaving my mother both a widow and son-less. I called my friend and mentor Bob, a neurologist at the med school, and he referred me to a Dr. Lerner, a young internist and cardiologist in the Gables. I had my first EKG, and it was, of course negative, and Lerner said it was clearly just anxiety over the anniversary of Dad's death.

It seems I get visited by those demons every few Julys since that time. About 6 years ago I developed strange belly pains and pressures, and convinced myself it was pancreatic cancer. Thankfully it was cured by my scheduled colonoscopy -- the docs say it's a diagnostic test, but I know it chased away the lesion.

Another Summer I had bad headaches -- our wonderful neighbor Jose, a UM Neuro who trained under my previous savior Dr. Bob, saw me at home, watched by an eye rolling D2 who was home from UF, and in an abundance of caution, ordered a MRI. That cured what I suspected was a brain tumor -- and they played Velvet Underground while I was in the tube, which was pretty cool...

Two Summers ago, the day before my birthday and three days after Dad's death anniversary, it was chest pressure -- not pains this time. I called my brother Eric, who told me pressure was more concerning than pain, and had me rush to see his friend Harry, a cardiologist at South Miami. Harry was out of town, and I was seen by the senior guy Yale, who wanted to admit me to South Miami Hospital, since I technically had "unstable angina" -- chest discomfort that came and went without a known trigger. I begged off, but came the next day for a stress test with thallium, followed by a CAT Scan.

I knew I wasn't imminently dying as Dr. Yale let me leave the office, and Wifey and  I drove to meet D1 and Joey for dinner at the Capital Grille. But I was concerned he would call with SOME cardiac findings in the next few days. Instead, he called within the hour and said my  vessels were ALL clear. I cried -- I would make it to see D1's wedding, two months hence, after all.

This year the demons have returned, in the form of urological symptoms. I've been checked via a biopsy, MRI, and special PSA test, called a PSA3, for prostate cancer, and have been cleared, but I do have BPH, which is a not fatal but annoying condition common among aging men.

But the symptoms have gotten worse recently -- 2 bathroom trips during the stay last week at the ELO concert, and my strange, neurotic brain is convinced that THIS is the beginning of my end. I'm scheduled to see my Urologist, Bob, the day after we return from the Maine escape, and I'm just waiting for him to order new tests that show indeed it's really bad this time -- a combination of prostate, bladder, AND kidney cancer that have all decided to rear their ugly heads at the same time.

Of course -- my hope is he tells me none of those things -- just "hey -- you can take meds or even have surgery if the peeing thing gets too annoying," but such is my defective brain.

As my friend Kenny reminds me, it's all actuary science. As we age, more and more of our cohorts are going to drop off the planet. 455 of us graduated from MacArthur High 40 years ago -- I suspect there are around or fewer than 400 still enjoying the mortal coil.

So one of these times I fear the impending end, I will be correct. It'll be like that famous headstone in the Key West Cemetery inscribed "I TOLD You I was Sick!"

In the mean time, we have some serious vacationing to do. We leave Tuesday am, fly to LGA, and then to Portland, Maine. We'll spend the night, and Wednesday Kenny and Joelle will come to town to have dinner at some hipster restaurant in Portland, and then drive back to their beautiful lake house, for 4 days of pontoon boating, hiking, and great conversation about our kids and lives and politics and world trends.

That's assuming, of course, we're not done in by bears, or those killer psychopaths from all of the teen slasher movies who seem to favor lovely rural houses where people gather to have a good time, only to be killed, one by one, in brutal fashion. Those are a separate set of anxieties I carry - though much more manageable than the health ones.

So we all have demons -- even the luckiest among us, and I am among that number. Hopefully Dr. Bob will send me off on my 59th year on this planet with good news...and someday I can honor my beloved Dad's life unencumbered by these neurotic thoughts.