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The Real Genie in Genealogy

As new grandparents, we await the wondrous moments of human development to flow into our much loved grandson. It has also awakened our curiosity of what lies ahead during his lifetime after we are a forgotten footnote of family lore. Sensing our own sense of evanescence, my wife and I embarked on the worldwide pursuit of genealogy. Who are our ancestors? What were their struggles?  What can we learn about the past that we can pass on to the future members of our family?

I strolled through the American Museum of Natural History and came across the hominid tree. Australopithecus, Homo erectus, and Homo sapiens were primitive versions of modern man but broadly complex and contained too many branch points to fully understand and impossible, of course, to trace back to our grandson.  Lessons of life on the Serengeti may not be helpful in our grandson’s future. Consequently,  I narrowed the scope by 250,000 years by downloading MacFamily Tree 2019 and joining ancestry.com. 

Standing on the shoulders of prior family tree creators, I embarked on tracing my wife’s ancestors. A few clicks and I was back eight generations and landed in the 17th century in Scotland and Ireland. Her tree was historically stocked with five Revolutionary War heroes, an indispensable aide-de-camp of George Washington, and our 11th President, James Knox Polk. 

Documenting my dearly departed Ashkenazi Jewish brethren proved a more difficult challenge. I summoned wisps of memory from late relatives recalling a “Civil War soldier,”  an  “uncle with a battle injury,” and a “Wall Street merchant.”  The documents were sparse to non-existent until I summoned the meager Eastern European geography clues left in the U.S. census forms of my ancestors. One patriarch listed his origin as Poland Russia and emigrated to New York in 1865, returned to his native land and then returned again to the US in 1875 with a wife 30 years his junior. What were the circumstances that prompted this circuitous path? What made him leave the US so quickly after his perilous journey? Unlike my wife’s clearly documented centuries of ancestor life, including details of her Presidential cousin’s kidney stones in 1812, my great grandfather’s trail turned cold. Serendipitously, he showed up in a Civil War Archive as a private in the 41st Regiment in 1865. As a replacement soldier, he received $300 so that the wealthy could be spared the injury and death that the war bestowed upon its participants. His regiment consisted of European foreigners regaled in the New York press due to their “extensive experience” in wars fought in Eastern Europe. Their return to New York City in 1865, after 70% of the regiment had perished, was snubbed by the mayor who sent a city councilman to attend the ceremony. I could understand his return to  his native land and family after these events. But WHY did he return ten years later? History of Russian Poland filled in the explanation. Poland ceased to exist in 1795 and was carved up by the imperial powers of Russia, The Habsburg Monarchy (Austria) and Prussia. Numerous national uprisings against the occupying powers occurred in the 19th century. Russia was particularly brutal in suppressing the uprisings and singling out ethnic groups, especially Jews for punishment. The Pale of Settlement, enacted by Catherine the Great in 1791 and enforced by subsequent Tsars,  prevented Jews from migrating eastward to Russia and limited Jewish involvement in public life. Jews were forced to serve in Russian military service for 20 years and their children were coerced to participate in exchange programs with other ethnic families so that Jewish children could be “Russified” and  their Jewish heritage could be suppressed. With the assassination of the Tsar Alexander II in 1881, widespread pogroms that indiscriminately killed Jews were encouraged by the government.  Fascism, while not invented in Eastern Europe, thrived in the urban and rural areas.  This singled out the Jewish minority for the ills of society and excluded them from national life. Out of this maelstrom of terror and unrest came Jewish charity and unified cooperation amongst communities for survival and ultimately migration Westward.

With this background, my great-grandfather permanently emigrated to New York City. His children took jobs as clerks, shop girls, “fancy goods” peddlers and paper cutters.  One young relative was employed as a “lemon squeezer” in presumptively a bar. The family took in boarders to put food on the table. My great-grandmother, known to me when I was 8 and in the throes of advanced dementia, had many years earlier extricated herself from poverty and became a nurse-midwife.  Sacrifice for the family was evident when sifting through the detailed census information at the turn of the 20th century. Military records recorded service in the first and second World Wars with distinguished service and injuries incurred in battle.

Our hominid ancestors gave us upright walking, tools and reasoning. As my genealogy tree branched and diverted to other spurs, it became apparent that the accomplishments of my generation and my descendants had only been possible by the sacrifices and tribulations endured by my family. Gratitude, respect and knowing the inter-connectedness of the human condition is the take home lesson to  pass on to my new grandson who begins his story before our very eyes.

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Hope for My Grandson’s Future

The alarm blared at 6:00 AM wakening me from a deep slumber. An early message in retirement is never a good thing, I thought, as I brought up the message icon. Our ‘grandson to be’ had decided to arrive five weeks early. We booked our airline flights to the nation’s capitol and arrived, rumpled and tumbled by the Uber drive over the Potomac, to our hotel off the National Mall.

Too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing, we pondered, as grandparents with 70 lifetime years of pediatric and internal medicine experiences. Lung function, oxygen requirements, surfactant, feeding ability, brain development and infection risk percolated through our collective anxiety. Scientific probability tempered with prayer was the way to dispel these troubling thoughts.

He was born fully formed, loudly screaming and feisty. He entered the Neonatal ICU for warmth, feeding, oxygen and observation time for the next 10 days as we wandered around Washington, D.C. awaiting his discharge and arrival to his parents’ home.

My  anxiety was heightened by the present and past of the U.S.A.  A man with a train conductor’s hat sat in front of the White House blaring music and chanting, “We are on the train of destruction.” Placards in front of the Capitol declared the illegality of vaccination for union workers. We strolled to our grandson’s future home by passing the Garfield Statue (assassinated president) and Ulysses S. Grant on Horseback (Civil War with 600,000 dead). We continued on past well dressed legislative assistants (struggling to pass much needed infrastructure bills) coming out of the Richard Russell Building.  I looked up Richard Russell, who was a former Senator from Georgia who defended Jim Crow and obstructed Civil Rights legislation, and wondered how his name was chosen for an entire building in Washington DC. 

Our grandson was thriving, gaining weight and bonding with his parents. Relieved, we passed the time in our nation’s collective warehouse: the Smithsonian Institution. Endowed by James Smithson, a wealthy Englishman who dabbled in chemistry and mineralogy in 1820, who generously donated his inheritance to a country he never set foot in for the cause to advance science and knowledge.  The Wright Brothers started their research through the museum’s scientific holdings and solved the heavier than air flight conundrum that baffled the world’s best minds. Lieutenant Commander Philip Van Horn Weems, recruited by Charles Lindbergh to perfect a better aviation navigational system led to an era of safer air travel for all. We saw the art of Saul Bellows documenting urban life in the early 20th century and appreciated the genius of the early neoclassical architects such as James Renwick, Charles Bullfinch and William Thornton who shaped our Capitol and early federal buildings.

At the Library of Congress we saw a portion of the over 800 miles of library stacks and more than 25,000,000 volumes that are available to all Americans that wish to research any topic and can participate in a plethora of summer programs for kids to introduce them to learning and research. This spectacularly beautiful building was full of historical treasures and important information. For example, we learned of the accountability of a democracy, embodied by the Presidential Recovery Act of 1978 that transfers Presidential papers to the public domain after office. This Federal Act was prompted by the willful burning of presidential records by Grover Cleveland, Millard Fillmore and numerous other Commanders-in-Chief.  

Throughout our stay in DC we continued our US historical scavenger hunt: we saw the documents of Lincoln establishing agricultural/land grant colleges in the 19th century that created American engineering superiority, the bravery of Harriet Tubman guiding slaves to their freedom through the Underground Railroad and the bigger than life statue of Albert Einstein in front of the National Science Administration accompanied by his proclamation of free thought in his new country and safe harbor away from fascism.

Opportunity, American ingenuity, hard work and the limitless resources of art, science, politics and jurisprudence documented in our nation’s capitol left us truly humbled. The presence of such endless possibility that is freely bestowed upon every American Citizen— in the backdrop of our grandson’s birth— left us in awe and rendered us speechless.

 Our grandson graduated from the Neonatal ICU into his home now several ounces heavier, with healthy lungs and an animated disposition. We, as grandparents, are now in the grandstand joyfully watching every moment of his wonderful life. Just knowing that opportunity and choice are around the corner as he grows and prospers in our great country brings us comfort as US citizens and hope for a brighter future for our newest patriot and family member.

  • Library of Congress Reading Room
  • Protest Signs outside of Capitol
  • Original 19th Century Columns Nation’s Capitol
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Hidden Agendas in Medicine, Politics and Journalism

“You’re out,” shouted Matt.  Matt was the second baseman and bonafide schoolyard bully whose underlying goal was to win every game. “Fielder’s choice and I get to decide,” he declared as if he was a major league umpire.  With sweat dripping from my brow, I dutifully left 2nd base in the sweltering summer of the mid ’60’s in Queens. After the game, I consulted a higher authority (my dad) who informed me that fielder’s choice did not give infielders the right to choose who is or is not out.  It would be a conflict of interest, he told me.  I brought this enlightened info back to my stickball overlord and was greeted by scorn and a subtle threat of possible physical harm in the future. 

While learning about truth, honesty, civility and camaraderie in school, the real world of hidden agendas creeped in. New and improved Fruit Loops tasted  exactly the same as the old Fruit Loops. Two box tops and $2.00 did not get you “life sized action figures” but ant sized plastic toy soldiers. Reality only accelerated with age. “This VCR  is state of the art and will remain a standard for years,” the Circuit City salesman told me with a straight face in 1982 as I drained my bank account of $1,200.  Obviously, the advertising on cereal boxes and a stereo salesman suffered from hidden agendas or conflicts of interest.

The world of medicine brought its own litany of hidden agendas. Pharmaceutical representatives extolling the virtue of their brand name products when a generic and a lower cost substitute achieved the same goals. I entered the profession during the era of drug sponsored free Caribbean vacations, five star restaurant outings,  and “free” basketball playoff tickets. Was there a potential for bias in prescribing habits when you’re cutting into a filet mignon paid for by an acid reducer you haven’t used before? One would have to think so.

Transparency in medicine became clearer when government edicts regulated Pharma’s gifts to the medical profession. The trips, five star restaurants, and  sporting event tickets disappeared.  Finally, even complementary pens and trackpads were forbidden. Quite rightly, transparency in prescribing was demanded by consumers. Today, the consumer can check on their provider’s lunch reimbursements, Medicare payments, and Big Pharma consultant fees. A simple internet search will quickly reveal the truth regarding your doctors financial ties—if any— to pharmaceutical companies and the like.

Regretfully, most of the world operates with hidden agendas and conflicts of interest unbeknownst to the consumer or general public. However, to the world of medicine’s credit, regulatory agents have collectively required physicians to publicly reveal conflicts of interest.  For example, if you are a physician presenting a paper at a meeting regarding your research on a drug, you must disclose any conflict you have with the company making or marketing said drug.  Furthermore, your research paper must cite any conflict you have as well.

Certain areas of the field of medicine have escaped transparency and issues of reporting conflicts of interest.  Lobbying has produced the DSHEA Act of 1994 which stripped regulation and FDA oversight from over-the-counter pharmaceuticals. Many over-the-counter medicines have not been subjected to vigorous oversight or proof of efficacy.  Billions of dollars of products are bought that may have little or no assurance that they help or improve what it professes to do on the package information. Fortunes have been made from this lack of transparency to the patient slash consumer.  It would seem, in the public’s interest, that a warning indicating that a product that has not been rigorously tested and proven in its stated efficacy, should be placed on the product packaging.

It seems that physicians and some areas of medicine are leaders in self-reporting conflicts of interest and public available transparency of these conflicts should be the standard applied to all businesses that interface with the public at large.  For example, politics operates in the world of dark money facilitated by Citizen’s United and the death of campaign reform.  So when a politician publicly espouses a certain political opinion, why do they not have to disclose any influence or conflicts of interest they might have that would benefit from their political stance on an issue?  Doesn’t the American citizen need this transparency to be an educated voter?

Furthering this argument, Journalists in a variety of communication forums report information in the public’s best interest.  Under their by-line in a newspaper or in a chyron on the bottom your television screen there should be a clear statement of any conflict of interest the journalist might have.  If you own stock in a company that spilled oil into the ocean, I’d like to know that when you present information on the oil-spill.  

A rational world should apply the rules that govern conflicts of interest or hidden agendas in a schoolyard playground the same as they should in the world of medicine, politics and journalism to name a few.  Self-reporting, fairness, and truthfulness should be a minimal requirement for all who interface with the public who are purportedly looking out for your best interest.  

Let’s level the playing field. 

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City Circadian Rhythms Meet the Countryside

My pineal gland fired itself up on a foggy April morning in 1953. This is when my circadian rhythms met the cycle of life in the Bronx and Queens. A city dweller for most of my existence, I woke to the sounds of city and suburban life: the honk of the impatient taxi driver in Manhattan, the click of Melmac1 coffee cups deposited in the sink as my father scurried to make his subway commute, the nerve jarring wound up alarm clock ring and the WINS radio broadcaster reciting school closures after a winter storm propelled me from my nighttime torpor. Off to college in 1970, I had a  state-of-the-art “tech” alarm clock with a numerical display that flipped the numbers down from a spool and onto the window display (as seen in the movie, “Ground Hog’s Day”). As an upgraded item imbedded in this slumber interrupting device was the ultimate in modern technology of its time: A snooze button.  It woke me for years through college finals, the Medical College Admission Test, and hangover recoveries.  I held it in such high esteem that when the number 5 fell off the spool, I still kept it for years after. I reluctantly abandoned the alarm clock world with the advent of the iPhone in 2007. To have an array of sleep shattering choices that included a range from classical music to San Quentin’s very own “Prisoner Escaped Alarm” blasting me up from a dream filled night was just too tempting.  I had to give the iPhone a try.  It did not disappoint.

My mechanical sleep alarms were left home when my family and I traveled to Southeast Asia. Off to Chiang Mai, where we met a guide and hiked through jungle terrain to the self-subsistence rice farming Karen Tribe2 in Northern Thailand near the Myanmar border. After 4 hours of a grueling uphill journey, replete with mosquitoes, leeches and excessive sweat, we arrived at the encampment. My sense of accomplishment was dampened quickly when the Guide informed me, my wife and our teenage boys that the school children in the tribe make the same trip twice daily. With the livestock huddled under the stilt supported wooden abodes, our ‘farm to table’ chicken meal had a short transportation impact. Exhausted, we slept on the dirt floor in a tree house with paper thin mats.  We were fast asleep in seconds with our melatonin levels peaking from heat, food and altitude. 

The horizon was barely illuminated when a 110 decibel sound emitted from multiple moving sources around our elevated bedroom. I bolted upright, needing this noxious sound to cease to restore tranquility. Peering out the open window, I saw the parade of roosters crowing at unimaginable volume. This was no Loony Tubes Foghorn Leghorn3. “Could the rooster’s head comb serve as a snooze button?” I was fully awake within moments with multiple thoughts racing through my head. “Could this natural alarm clock be more effective than an Apple product?”

Many circadian driven mornings have since come and gone from that fateful trip to Thailand. The kids have moved on and now reside in a different time zone. My now retired self no longer has to get up in the morning and go to work.  My wife and I find ourselves traveling from place to place. During one recent trip to Utah, I was reminded of the roosters from our Thailand expedition.  Finding refuge in the Wasatch mountains,  one morning I awoke to the cacophonous chirping of Magpies foraging in the front yard. This scene was repeated each morning. To my surprise, the Magpies packed their bellies and beaks by 1 PM each day like clockwork and were replaced by an equally vocal group of Robins. Pecking and browsing for grubs and earthworms, this group departed in the gloaming and were followed by an aquatic band of mallards, Canadian geese and the occasional surprise appearance of Wild Turkeys (not the drink but the bird).  Nature’s circadian rhythm was outside my window and all I needed to do was listen and observe.

The light is dimming as I write these words from our home in San Diego.  I cannot fight the escalating melatonin levels impacting my hypothalamus and finding my eyelids growing heavy with the urge to sleep. I search frantically for the iPhone sound effects for the Magpies and come up empty handed.  I quietly crawl into bed with a glimmer of hope and a sense of confidence that I will be awakened by the sound’s of nature emerging for the new day.  I set the iPhone to “Do not disturb.”

1 Plastic dish-ware  popular in the 1950’s and ‘60s, manufactured by a now defunct company,  American Cyanamid Corporation.

2 The Karen reside predominantly in Myanmar and Northern Thailand and are linked by a Sino-Tibetan language heritage. They have practiced crop rotation agriculture for centuries.

3 A Warner Brothers Cartoon Rooster, appearing in Looney Tunes and patterned after a fictitious bombastic Southern Senator, Beauregard Claghorn. Foghorn often strolled though the chicken coop, humming Camptown Races.

Karen Tribe Abode Northern Thailand

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Cable TV Purgatory in the Desert

Interstate 8 from San Diego to Yuma, Arizona  is desolate with golden sand and small dry shrubs.  Soon, after heading into the Mojave desert, the dry foliage is replaced with towering Saguaro cacti.  It feels like you have entered into a different world.  As we pulled into Scottsdale, the information panel registered a temperature  of 106 which is more consistent with simmering meat than a summer day in the suburbs. Inside an air conditioned condo my wife had purchased years ago, my delirium lessened enough to turn on the cable TV. I was prepared to enjoy a multiple entertainment universe as I knew that the autopay extracted nearly $200/month from my bank account. Flipping through the guide, I found five C-Span feeds, four networks, ESPN and several hundred music channels. This was nothing more than basic cable I thought in disbelief. Clearly, a billing error had been made. I was a hardened Pay TV interlocutor, having been through campaigns with Verizon, AT&T, Frontier, Dish and DirectTV. Nonetheless, I put off the call for several days. Calling Cox TV was the equivalent of  experiencing the five stages of grief—the 5 stages being denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  I needed to prepare myself for the phone conversation with a representative whose main job was to keep the customer happy while maintaining the bottom line.  The day the outside temperature  matched my monthly cable bill charges, I decided to engage. The chat function on the Cox website was worth a shot. ‘Oliver,’ the AI chat bot was my contact. 

“I’d like to renegotiate my cable and internet bill” I typed earnestly. 

“I understand you want to add Hulu Plus to your service” Oliver calmly stated. 

“No, I believe my charges are excessive and I would like to change my service,” I pleaded.

 “You would like to add services to your package,” Oliver proclaimed. 

I was in a “Tower of Babel” loop! My only potential escape was to offer multiple pleas for human interaction. Finally, a human took over the chat function and perused my angst ridden communication. 

“I’m here to help, but I need to ask you a a few questions. What kind of entertainment do you like and how many devices will be on the internet?” 

Having been a veteran of prior aimless Cable Service queries, I politely asked for a reconsideration of pricing for the service. One hour had passed in my efforts already and when we were on the precipice of talking money, the chat abruptly ended. 

“You are not authorized to negotiate price on this account and you must call our Service line, goodbye.” 

The telephone queue serenaded me with easy listening tunes as empty minutes passed. A service representative interrupted my torpor, cheerfully asking how he could help. I summarized my case, explaining much lower rates for TV and internet in other areas from other providers and my desire to remain a loyal Cox Cable consumer. 

“I understand your frustration and I’m here to help you,” 

The same questions were asked— from the Cox script— eroding my patience and taxing my silent mantra. The minutes passed and ultimately, the  ‘cable to irked customer’ or ‘anger stage’ was in full force. 

“As a loyal and responsible customer, we can offer you a special rate. Doing some quick math, I calculated a $5/month reduction.” 

 Two hours into the beginning of my quest, I was as hot as the sidewalk outside my door.

 “Let me speak with your supervisor,” I insisted.  I was hoping to get to someone with authority who could respond as I moved from the anger stage into denial and bargaining.

 Calming music played in the background as I waited for the supervisor.  My managerial contact sounded like a bartender with a   marriage counseling background. I was assured that the litany of participants I had been with the past few hours were just doing their job and  I would ultimately receive fair treatment.  Nothing was going to change as the conversation proceeded and I decided to bring out the defining statement: “ I am going to cancel the service.” 

 “If you cancel your account you will need to return your 4 cable boxes.” 

“Wait,” I stammered, “I only have three TV’s and three cable boxes. I never received a fourth box and would have no use for it.” 

“We have an invoice from three years ago that we shipped you 4 cable boxes to your address and have charged you 4 cable box monthly rental fees for the past 3 years,” the manager insisted with a tone of authority.

 “This was an obvious error, I said, and I want a refund for the excess box charges for the last 3 years.’

 “Our invoice is the document we make decisions from. Cox is not   responsible for its delivery to you. If you did not receive four boxes, you should take this up with your home owner’s insurance company.”

 “So I have paid a monthly fee for 3 years for an outdated piece of technology that I never received and you are refusing to remove the charge?”

 “If you only want to pay for 3 cable boxes, you will have to return the 4th box or pay for its replacement.”

 By this time, 3 hours had elapsed since I started my ordeal.  I was clearly  moving through the depression stage. It was time to cancel and change providers. I scoured the internet for Scottsdale internet providers and regretfully found my answer. Cox had a virtual monopoly in Scottsdale. Their only competitor had a worse customer score. Checkmate, game, set and match, I thought, as I folded my cancellation strategy and sheepishly accepted the $5 dollar/month saving and agreed to pay for a ‘lost’ apocryphal cable box charge on my next bill.  Ultimately, I was now in the acceptance stage.

Could I abandon television and the internet for books?  Perhaps board games with the family and spirited discussions could be substitute entertainment? No! The pull of watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy in the Sonoran Desert was too strong of an urge. Maybe someday T mobile can outfit the Saguaro with cell towers and bring me QVC and C -span outside the Cox universe. In the meantime, I will contact my insurance company about that ‘lost box.’ I’m sure I’ll have better luck with them.

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Gasless in the Carolinas

Fayetville Gas

Roadtrip!” Visions of Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Vacation and John Belushi’s scream of “Roadtrip!” in Animal House jumped into my consciousness. The reality was a 1,300 mile car trip up the I-95 to a bat mitzvah in New Jersey. Armed with Google Maps, hotel booking websites,  speed trap detectors,  streaming music services, several bags of M and M’s and 14 gallons of gasoline filling the tank assured me of a well-planned trip that could not be marred with concern or interruption.  I guided the Subaru SUV onto the steaming Florida Highway Interstate and headed North. 

Rumbling past Jacksonville (Named for Andrew Jackson, who knew?) and over the St. Mary’s River into Georgia, the motels and the Loblolly Pines blurred together as we approached the South Carolina state line. A few hundred miles later, my smart car, uttered in a distinguished Bostonian accent, “your fuel levels are low, shall I search for a gas station?” I pushed mute, left the I-95 in Fayetteville and was ready for a quick fill up in the nearest Circle K. Soon enough, a station appeared that was empty of cars but thoughtfully the pump handles were ensconced with plastic. This was a nice Covid protection, I thought. As I squeezed the pump handle with ever increasing pressure, the fuel gauge failed to engage.  My wife stuck her head out of the passenger side of the window, and exclaimed in that know-it-all-tone, “The plastic on the handle means they are out of gas. I reminded you 200 miles ago that a computer hack shut down the Colonial Pipeline and gas would be scare in the Carolinas.”  “It’s a big town, we’ll find gas,” I stammered. Confident that all that fracking, gulf oil reserves and the assurances of Colonial Pipeline execs would lead to a full tank down the road. 

My swagger started to fracture after four empty stations and a “skull and crossbones” emoji appeared near the gas gauge. Limping into a Red Roof Inn on less than one gallon, I anticipated a long layover, minutes from Fort Bragg and the U.S. Army Special Operation Command. Was there a way out? Scrolling down GasBuddy, multiple stations appeared with a slash across the gas tank indicating dead pumps.   Logging off the internet and onto the sidewalk, we hiked a mile up to the nearest 7-11 in search of up-to-date information on gas shipments.  My wife brought a wad of 20s with her in case bribing would be required. “A tanker was spotted five miles away heading toward a Circle K,” the cashier said in a slow Southern drawl. We coasted to our destination and got in line with 50 other cars desperately fighting for fuel. The hour wait was filled with mathematics and history flashbacks. What is the fuel volume delivered by the standard tanker divided by the autos ahead of us?   Memories of the Arab Oil Embargo and waiting for my 1/2 tank of gas with my even license plate was a returning visual in my mind.  Now, 43 years later, I could not think of how I would tell my younger self that I would be gas deficient four decades later due to rogue computer hackers. The moment had arrived, the pump inserted and the sweet distilled hydrocarbon liquid flowed into the tank. I peered to the side and saw a guy in military fatigues pumping gas into his Mustang. Could Special Ops storm Russia and unplug every hacking computer network? Not so easy. Another thought entered my mind from my pumping experience: the leaf controlled the dinosaur kingdom millions of years ago and now oil and gas clearly controlled a trip up the Eastern Coast and dictated our potential absence or presence at a bat mitzvah.

We rolled out of the Carolinas the following morning while tracking the gas gauge every 50 miles and filling up before the fuel gauge got below 3/4. Never take gas for granted!  Shortages of gas delivery and panic buying is a real American response. Perhaps, I thought in a rare moment of self-reflection, i should listen to my wife (who did tell me in December 2019 that a global pandemic was about to occur from a virus found in Wuhan China) regarding human behavior and its defensive responses under pressure and fear. Finally, bring on the electric cars!

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Traveling In Pandemic Times

My parents provided me with the usual survival tactics in childhood: “don’t put your finger in the electric socket; “don’t play stickball in a busy street;” “look both ways when crossing the street;” “put a jacket on to prevent pneumonia.” But no pandemic advice. My father, born in 1921, had missed out on the Great Influenza pandemic by 3 years. He survived the depression, World War II, the Korean War, The Cold War and Stagflation, but he had no pandemic real world experience. 

Mastering COVID avoidance was easy. I didn’t go out the front door. I wiped down every delivery with Clorox wipes. I interrogated delivery workers at the front door from 6 feet away. I masked up and social distanced with friends who took science and survival seriously. My only brush with the outside world was beamed in with cable news and internet pictures.

With viral mRNA inoculated twice into my arm, the lure of travel beckoned and with it the reality and trepidation of return to the unknown. What would airports, big cities, seeing friends and family be like after a monastic-like life for almost a year?

Armed with an  N95, surgical mask and face shield barrier, I pushed the UBER request on my app for a ride to the airport. “Please roll down the front and back windows for cross ventilation,” I directed the driver, thinking viral kinetics and air exchange. He didn’t blink an eye. At the airport, Homeland Security officers donned face shields and stood behind window barriers. Driver license identity was self-swiped at a distance. The Starbuck’s line imprints on the floor were spaced 6 feet apart and baristas looked like they were part of a surgical OR team. Sipping coffee, a learned skill honed in the past, became a conundrum when faced with two masks blocking the oral route. Should I slip the masks down or up? Should I replace the mask after each sip? Should I take the masks off completely? Should I just gulp the coffee quickly and then replace the mask? Thoughts of Dr. Fauci and the CDC flashed through my head: 10 minutes of exposure, high viral load, ventilation and symptomatic patients. I headed to the far reaches of the airport terminal, separated myself from the unmasked masses, and bolted the coffee down, nearly incurring mouth burns.

Boarding the plane entered me into a strange world. The cheap seats in the back of the plane got first dibs on boarding to limit contact time. Finally, seated, I breathed a sigh of relief when the hotly debated middle seat vacancy was enforced. Anxiety returned, as the flight attendants distributed the snacks. Was it worth unmasking for a granola bar and a small package of chips? The lure of Pringles was too great and I succumbed to temptation, all the while contemplating my eulogy, “he gave his life for a a few plain potato chips.” 

The plane hovered over LaGuardia Airport awaiting the final approach. Built on a garbage dump used for Brooklyn’s excess waste, I pondered the early Queen’s denizens grappling over their microbe challenge: Salmonella and Shigella. The plane landed, the  gate opened and I marched single file, 6 feet apart, masked and into the terminal where multiple, camouflaged clad military awaited me. Did I take the wrong flight and land in Mogadishu, Somalia? No, New York City, where Andrew Cuomo’s quarantine rules were being enforced against the blasé non-Northeastern states where I was now residing. It seemed surreal to be approached by a military serviceman and servicewoman who were both armed with weapons and asked if I had a Covid 19 PCR test performed in the last 72 hours, and if so, what was the result? Things had changed.

After claiming my luggage, I entered a NYC taxi cab to the final push to Manhattan. As I gazed upon the the facial scowl of our driver, I thought it best not to bring up the cross ventilation directions again. As I entered FDR Drive, I fixated on the credit card swipe. Can COVID exist on the card? Can I Clorox the gap? “What would Dr. Fauci do?”

Walking in Manhattan, I could immediately sense the gravity and public health compliance of the borough. This pandemic was not some abstract chyron endlessly streaming on a CNN telecast. Families and friends had been stricken with serious illness and death at the beginning of the pandemic and this crystallized the importance of public health measures. Multiple restaurants had outdoor seating ensconced within a plastic dome. At night, the yellow and purple lighting from restaurant isolation tables provided an extra-terrestrial feel. 

The ordeal was worth it after ending a year absence from family. Hugging my fully vaccinated son and and elbow bumping my unvaccinated son and daughter-in-law in the social distancing expanse of Prospect Park (thank you ,Frederick Law Olmstead) was priceless.

Many years from now, when my grandchildren gather around me and ask about the Pandemic, I’ll reply, you have to carefully peel off your N-95 mask just like this, and then get the Starbucks lid under the face shield that protects your mask and..…”

  • Fortitude, NY Public Library Lion, Masked
  • Double Masked and Ready
  • Military comes to LaGuardia
  • Outdoor Dining Bubble
  • A bubble for Two
  • Social Distancing in Prospect Park
  • Atlas Masked in Rockefeller Center
  • Unmasked Dog in Upper East Side
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COVID and Nasal Memories

Pizza in my Olfactory Dreams

The Door Dash delivery was on the top of the steps, delivered from a  pizza service in San Diego that claimed “New York Style Pizza.” After the ritual disinfection of the pizza carton, the lid was lifted and I was delivered into another time and place. Scotty, the owner of a Queens pizza restaurant 60 years ago, was ensconced in my olfactory memory. He was flipping the dough as his octogenarian mother was lovingly molding a veal parmigiana hero that could make a grown man cry. Melted mozzarella, oregano, sausage and mushroom fumes reawakened a gustatory experience that I experienced for the first time, many years ago. With hops entering my nostrils from my Dad’s 1965 Miller High life, I left the COVID virus prison and entered a happier time when New York City  was a palace of gustatory delights and my childhood garden was in full bloom.

Through my nose, to the ethmoid sinuses, onto the olfactory epithelium and 60,000 smell neurons directed my pizza delivery directly to the frontal lobes and limbic system where Scotty’s still lived in vivid memory. This ecstatic experience is being stolen from millions by a renegade virus which has shut down the world for the last year. Expunging the smell and taste in some of the 25 million who have had COVID, which may have long lasting and permanent damage of the olfactory system. Malnutrition, depression and the loss of warning symptoms to natural gas leaks or tainted foods may be the legacy of sufferers of nasal COVID injury.

The least regarded of the five senses, smell and taste have taken a back seat in medical training and in popular culture. Medical school has few lectures on the proper function and diseases of smell and taste. Medical history taking neglects inquiry of one’s nasal and lingual capabilities. Olfaction has been a butt of jokes for generations of comics from the Simpson’s “smell you later”, Hawkeye Pierce’s ridicule on food sniffing in M*A*S*H and  Mel Brooks flatulence scene in “Blazing Saddles.” 

The dismissal of this forsaken sense is belied by its prominent location. The olfactory nerve, the shortest of the cranial nerves, sits in the front of the brain and sends projections to multiple areas including the emotional hub, the limbic system. Our evolutionary ancestors and current mammalian brethren rely on scent to distinguish friend from foe and food from poison. Our beloved canine, Millie, the Jack Russell Terrier from times past would apply the sniff test and rarely made a bad decision on food or domicile choices.

Obscure medical jargon has entered the mainstream with anosmia (lack of smell), parosmia (smell that fails to correctly match the odor) and phantosmia (phantom smells) appearing on long hauler COVID social sites. “Everything smells like burnt coffee” I heard a patient exclaim. “No longer can I taste the citrus in my tea,” another laments. “I ate a hamburger and I miss the onion smell and taste.” Essential oil kits are hawked on Amazon in the hope that olfactory re-education may hasten recovery. While the long term outcomes are not apparent in so recent a disease, it appears that up to 5% of smell sufferers may not  regain perception at 6 months.

“Don’t it always seems to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til its gone,” Joni Mitchell’s ballad went in the ’60’s.  And so it goes with Scotty’s appetizing, fragrant pies from the same decade. Enjoy your senses and don’t forget to stop and smell the pizza.

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Media Distortion Syndrome: The Baby Boomer Edition

It was 1963, the Yankees were swept by the Dodgers in the World Series, the Kennedy assassination was to be a month later and the Jetsons were on network TV. My upstairs neighbor, a wise old soul, a year ahead of me in 5th grade, casually predicted the future as he was downing his second Twinkie. “By 2000, all of the Jetsons things will be there for us.” The flying cars, the robot maids, the vacuum transport to Europe and the 2 day work week. 

Fast forward to New Years Eve, 2000 as I anxiously turned on the TV to watch the Times Square Ball drop to usher in the new millennium. Car commercials came on, all terrestrial vehicles, United Airlines ads promising low fares to Europe at subsonic speed and no robots in sight in my Southern California home. How could Joel, my upstairs neighbor, be so wrong?  A case of media distortion syndrome, baby boomer edition, no doubt. 

Social media is replete with opinions and conspiracies that pass as truth and shape our world today.  My generation, spared from the early influence of the internet, was a product of broadcast television. The three networks (CBS, ABC and NBC) and local New York City stations, WNEW channel 5 and WPIX, channel 11, raised us through the ‘50s and 60’s and shaped our proclivities, biases and sense of reality. Through the writer’s scripts, we were raised on the magical, the ingenuity of the white male, the geological time slips, bigotry-lite, and anthropomorphisms. Here is a sampling of television education gone wrong:

  1. The Magical
    1. Bewitched: A corporate advertising executive who marries a witch that can twitch her nose and change reality.
    2. I Dream of Jeannie: An astronaut finds a magic lamp and releases an attractive genie who alters reality and discombobulates authority.
    3. The Flying Nun: Self explanatory.
  2. Ingenuity and Family Glue: The White Male
    1. Family Affair: A wealthy, N.Y.  bachelor engineer becomes surrogate father to two prepubescent 6 year olds and a female teenager, assisted by his English valet. No problem!
    2. Bachelor Father: Bachelor attorney adopts his adolescent niece and live happily ever after. 
    3. Sky King: Rancher and aviator raises his niece and extricates her from all sorts of perils.
    4. My Three Sons: Widowed engineer raises three sons with the help of his father-in-law and later invites his daughter-in-law to live with the extended family. No problem!
  1. Geological Mayhem
    1. The Flintstones: Stone age family lives in Bedrock with their pet sauropod dinosaur. Humans: Pleistocene epoch, Dinosaurs: died in Late Cretaceous: 65 million year gap; a rounding error to the networks.
    2. The Jetsons: Flying cars, humanized robots and push button jobs but no physicists consulting on the show..
  2. Anthropomorphisms
    1. Mister Ed: A debonair horse who only talks to his owner and has an egotistical streak.
    2. The People’s Choice: Politician’s basset hound makes wise cracks about the hi jinx experienced by his owner.
    3. My Mother the Car: Self Explanatory.
  3. Bigotry-Lite
    1. The Real McCoys: An Appalachian grandfather moves with his grandson, and his family to cast aspersions on California natives. Starring  Walter Brennan, a John Birch Society member and avowed racist. 
    2. All in the Family: A Queens cabdriver, Archie
      Bunker, spins prejudice at home but his persona softened by his work ethic and his financial and housing support of his liberal son-in-law.
    3. The Beverly Hillbillies: Appalachian family moves to California where rich, wealthy Californians belittle the rural immigrants. A mirror image of The Real McCoys.

What we digested from those 3 networks and local feeds was entertainment to some and truth and dogma to others. Twitch your nose, rub a lamp, consult your single male engineer/attorney about child rearing or converse with your horse or your loquacious canine and prepare for a blissful life.  As to our current world, with each more outrageous conspiracy theory espoused on cable and social media, the Senate ready to discuss disenfranchisement of  millions of voters I can only shake my head and utter the insightful and comforting words of an equine star of yesteryear, “Oh Wilbur.”

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Understanding Oxygen and the Apple Watch 6: A Primer on Oxygen Saturation 101

The tech world has had a hold on the imagination and pocketbook of Americans for decades, improving our day to day communication, entertainment and educational options, all contained in the device we hold in our hands. More recently, tech companies have entered the multi-billion dollar health and wellness market, claiming a roseate outlook on life quality by revealing a wealth of “health” data populated on our iPhone or Android phones for us to peruse. For those that majored in business, art, political science or philosophy in college, watched “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” instead of “Mr. Wizard” reruns and did not take a physiology or human biology course, these numbers may be bewildering. It is time to let some “air into this room” and provide a background for understanding tech and health devices.  After 4 decades around EKG’s and pulse oximeters attached to humans and a user of Apple products for almost as long, I will provide the introductory course on the latest Apple foray into health: oxygen saturation and the pulse oximeter.

Oxygen is a key to human health. Before it’s atmospheric debut, we had bacteria for a billion years with few tech inventions during this period, save for the flagella, a whip like structure that could take you a few inches across a scum filled pond. Queue the plants (algae and other photo-synthesizers) and oxygen enters the atmosphere allowing for multicellular organisms and ultimately us (now is the time to hug your house plant out of gratitude). What did oxygen do for us? It unlocked the ability to generate much more energy from food sources that allowed us to dig a ditch, launch a satellite or use your TV remote. As any biochemistry or medical  student knows, ATP, the powerhouse chemical we use to store and release energy, is manufactured 16 fold in the presence of oxygen (for the curious, see oxidative phosphorylation and electron transport chain for more details).

The engineering dilemma that evolution was faced with for us multicellular beings was a supply and distribution problem. How to get oxygen from the air to each of our cells?  To move a substance, you need a pressure gradient to drive the work and the atmosphere pressurizes oxygen to move from high to low pressure zones. But this does not get the prized element to deeper tissues. For that obstacle, we evolved the lungs, blood vessels, blood and heart to circulate oxygenated blood to tissues to bypass this problem. 

Yes, blood, that substance thicker than water. Oxygen can dissolve in blood but at very low concentrations. To improve on the quantity of oxygen, we inherited the red blood cell and its key constituent, hemoglobin. Hemoglobin is the main oxygen carrier in the blood and allows pick up and delivery of 02 to the tissues. Oxygenated blood is bright red (usually arterial) and less oxygenated blood (usually venous) is blue. We can exploit this light absorbing property to determine how much oxygen is bound to hemoglobin at a particular moment by shining a frequency of light at a blood vessel and checking how much is absorbed and reflected at one time in the heart beat cycle.  The ratio of oxygenated to  de-oxygenated hemoglobin is measured, and reported as  oxygen saturation.

Do you need a device that warns you of oxygen shortage? Shouldn’t you feel short of breath, breathe faster and get yourself into an emergency room in time? Not always, as your brain, highly dependent on oxygen, can go haywire with  confusion, lethargy and poor judgement as a consequence. This is why the flight attendant always directs you to put your oxygen mask on first before your children. What about turning blue (cyanosis) from low oxygen? Unfortunately, this is a late occurring sign which occurs when fully ⅓ of the hemoglobin is devoid of oxygen.

Is there an early warning device to warn us of oxygen deprivation?Cue the pulse oximeter:  oxygen saturation can be measured by a pulse oximeter, or more recently with tech watches that have similar technology. Healthy lungs at sea level usually allow for oxygen saturation over 95%. As with all technologies, certain pitfalls apply. If your hemoglobin is abnormal it may not be measured properly. Carbon monoxide poisoning, for instance, renders hemoglobin incapable of binding to oxygen but is not registered by the pulse oximeter. Yes, you can asphyxiate with a normal pulse oximeter reading. The sensors must be close to the skin and not moving or else a faulty reading could result. Even expensive devices can be subject to error. Many a time in the surgery center, a reading of 60% could appear in an awake, non sedated patient. Repositioning the sensor, recalibrating the device or wheeling a new machine into the OR solved the false reading.

So what can you glean from the result? High altitude can lower oxygen saturation due to lower oxygen pressures. Altitude sickness can result with headaches, shortness of breath and in extreme circumstances, flooding of the lungs with fluid. Severe pneumonia can lower oxygen saturation and in the case of COVID 19, may not result in air hunger which would normally warn you of severe lung infection. Severe asthma could also cause a drop in oxygen saturation. Apple has started a research trial examining the usefulness of the Apple Watch 6 in this circumstance.

 The most important use of this technology may be in screening for obstructive sleep apnea. This condition is quite common in the U.S with a prevalence up to 30% of males and 15% of females).  Celebrities such as Rosie O’Donnell, Shaquille O’Neal,  William Shatner, (aka Captain Kirk of Star Trek fame), Quincy Jones, Randy Jackson (of American Idol fame) are afflicted. Luminaries whose death may have been influenced by sleep apnea include William Howard Taft (former 27th President), Jerry Garcia (of the Greatful Dead), Justice Antonin Scalia, Carrie Fisher (of Star Wars fame) and James Gandolfini (of Sopranos fame). Sleep apnea has severe health consequences and has acceptable, effective therapy. With the increase in risk factors such as adult obesity and sedentary nature of the population, obstructive sleep apnea is becoming epidemic, resulting in upper airway obstruction at night with snoring, interruption of breathing and dangerous reduction in oxygen saturation. This condition often results in headaches, daytime fatigue, hypertension, acceleration of cardiac disease and premature death. A continuous positive pressure mask can ameliorate this condition. A convenient, readily available screening tool such as a reliable pulse oximeter for nighttime use could potentially save multiple lives by directing those into the office of sleep specialists for definitive diagnosis and treatment.

So should you climb on board the day and night pulse oximetry tech train?  With certain caveats (a device that has reproducible results and matched to gold standard testing, FDA approval and  that works for night-time monitoring) this metric may benefit you when hitting the ski slopes and when your significant other has had it with your snoring and asks you to “do something about it.” Take a deep breath and ponder that.