'Twas …

A thank-you poem (with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

by David Goldman

'Twas four years ago December, when  given the news,

My transplanted kidney had blown its last fuse.

Judy’s kidney worked well for so many years.

But now it was dialysis, or a kidney from a peer.

Within a short time I could no longer pee,

I’d attach to a box that filtered poisons from me.

 This process wasn’t awful, I’m not one to complain,

but thinking long term, a new kidney was my aim.

You can’t ask someone to fork over one of theirs,

Though it can be done, since they do come in pairs.

No, you just tell your story and explain your need,

then hope that someone does a really great deed.

I was touched and overwhelmed by the offers received,

but very few matches were actually gleaned.

Those that matched me could not be used.

Their owners were unfortunately, medically disapproved.

With my friend Roberta's help, whose name just won’t rhyme,

we made a short video, then put it online.

It was shown on TV by the nightly news anchors

and yielded an offer from one total  stranger!

Again it turned out the match was incompatible,

but she offered to do something some thought was radical.

“What about a paired exchange? I’ll give to someone, and on down the line.”

Through this process I’m guaranteed one, in a short bit of time.

That’s how it happened, two and a half years from beginning.

I received a new kidney, it felt like a lottery winning!

From so many people the help and support came.

I’d like to take a moment, to thank them by name.

Thanks Debbie. Thanks Lenny. Thanks friends and my family.

Thanks Stuey. Thanks Lisa. Thanks Andy and all you who drove me.

Thanks both Patty and John, my donors. Yes two.

This swap was complex, another time I’ll explain it to you.

Thanks Nancy Radke. Thanks Dr. Nora and Dr. Jon Odorico.

Thanks to all the nurses and aides for the thankless deeds that you do.
Past the bumps in the road, you've safely steered me.
From the bottom of my heart, I thank you all dearly.

And whether it’s Christmas or Hanukah, or no special observance toward which you’re keen,

Happy holidays to you all, and a happy and healthy 2015!

The Kindness of Strangers

by David Goldman

Last Sunday I went for a trike ride. I wanted to get video of the fall colors. Unfortunately, the colors on the trail I ride were all pretty subdued and bland, especially compared to some of the trees I see on the streets. Thus, there are only a couple of pictures here.

However, as it turned out, the ride became into something far different than a ride with nothing to show for it but disappointing  video.

On each of my last four rides I had experienced a flat on the same wheel. I changed them, inspected them, got home, inspected them with a magnifying glass, ran my hand against the inside to feel for something sticking through, and could not figure out what was going on. I checked the rims, the spokes and everything else I could think of. Fortunately, when I brought the trike into the shop they figured it out and bolstered my ego because it was something I never would have found without the proper tools and equipment. Okay, and maybe a bit more knowledge of trike and bike mechanics.

Now that my flat problem was fixed I was all set to head out for a ride on my usual trail. The weather was okay – it was sunny and in the low 50s. I’d much prefer the 80s or 90s, but it was October so I’ll take what I can get. I was having a good time as always just rolling along the trail. Being somewhat paranoid though because of my recent spate of flats, I stopped every few miles just to double check and make sure I didn’t have a tire with a slow leak. Each time I stopped, all was well. When I got to the 10 mile mark, the underpass I needed to pass through was flooded due to the rains we had over the past few days. This made my decision to turn around and head home easy. I turned around and headed back.

I was about six miles from home when it happened. I suddenly felt a higher resistance to my pedaling and a slowdown. No, I told myself. It can’t be. A sinking feeling hit me as I applied the brakes and slowed to a stop. I reached over to check the left front tire, the one that had been giving me trouble. No problem! I checked the right front tire and it was also fine. Without looking, because I didn’t want to see, I reached around behind me to feel the rear tire. Flat as a pancake, as the saying goes. Dammit! I had ridden over 3,000 miles on this trike and probably as many or more on my previous bike without experiencing a flat. Now, I’ve had flats on five consecutive rides. To say I was angry, frustrated and possibly cursed, wouldn’t come close to all the thoughts going through my head.

Oh well, I thought to myself. I’ll change the tube, see if I can see what caused the problem, and be on my way home.

I found the puncture in the tube and the corresponding tiny, sharp rock sticking through the tire that had caused the problem. I checked for any more leaks or piercing and found none. All was well. Now, I just had to remove the old tube, put in the new one, pump it up, and get rolling again. And I must admit, I was feeling quite proud of myself!

I removed the entire tube from both sides around the valve and was about to pull it through when I

The culprit

 remembered there was a small, nut holding the valve in place. No problem. These nuts are round and knurled and meant to be easily turned by hand. I started to turn it and … nothing. It was frozen solid. I tried several more times with no luck. I thought I needed a better grip so I put on a pair of thin rubber gloves I always carry in case I have to do something and I know my hands will get greasy. I thought the rubber of the gloves would give me the grip I needed. Nope. It would not budge. I needed a pliers and didn’t have one because it just isn’t something normally needed as a bike or trike tool. Yes, yes, I know. Until now.

But it was Sunday and there were plenty of people on the trail, walking, running and riding. Some overly prepared rider was bound to have a pliers with him or her.

As each rider passed I asked if they had a pliers with them.

“Nope, sorry.”

“A pliers? No.”

“No, I never carry pliers.”

A few people did stop and ask if I needed help but when they saw my predicament I saw a series of shrugged I-don’t-know-what-to-tell-you shoulders. One man did stop and say he didn’t have a pliers but he would try anyhow if it was okay. After trying unsuccessfully, he too said sorry and that he had to get back home. So here I was, about six miles from home and thinking I’d be taking that long walk while wheeling my trike behind me.

After about an hour of fighting with the locked nut and stopping helpless passersby, I was about ready to start hiking when a man rode up on his bike and in a mild Irish brogue asked, “Do you need some help?”

“If you have a pliers, the answer is yes,” I replied.

“Well, I don’t, but let’s see what’s going on.”

I explained and showed him my problem and he asked if he could try. My fingers were sore at this point from trying to turn the locked piece of metal so I gladly handed the wheel over to him. He tried but had no success either. As I took the wheel back and continued to try and solve the problem, we sat on a nearby bench and talked. He was here from Ireland for two weeks on business and staying at a nearby hotel. He told me he was thrilled when he found the trail located so close to the hotel, and as an avid cyclist back in Ireland, he was even happier to find a nearby bike shop that would rent him a bike for the two weeks he was here. We introduced ourselves, his name was Michael, and continued talking while taking turns trying to come up with a solution.

At one point when I was fumbling for a grip he noticed my hands were shaking. “Are you cold? Your hands are shaking.“ This with a mild look of concern on his face.

“No,” I responded. “It’s a side effect of a medication I’m taking.”

“Do you mind if I ask what medication? I do adverts and sometimes work with pharmaceutical companies.”

I told him what the drug was. It was one of my anti-rejection drugs and I was just put on a higher dosage of it because of a rejection episode with a transplanted organ. He knew the drug and immediately said it by it’s brand name rather than the generic name I had used.

With that he said, “You shouldn’t be doing this. Give that wheel to me, and practically snatched it away from me. He stood up, braced himself for leverage, and forced the nut free!

“Oh man, thank you SO much!” almost shouting.

As I took out the old tube and replaced it, we continued to talk. Mostly about cycling and the trail we were on. He had ridden close to 60 miles that day and said he was going to figure out a way to ride it every day he was here.

I pumped up the tire to its correct pressure and went to remove the pump’s nozzle from the valve. Don't you know it, it was stuck like glue to the valve. I made sure the nozzle was in the unlocked position and tried again. It wouldn’t budge. I tried moving the lock/unlock lever to what I thought was the locked position with the same result.

“Don’t tell me it’s stuck,” Michael said.

With a forced chuckle I said, “You got it.”

We both tried twisting it, gently pulling it, and pulling it with more force. It just was not my day.

After several minutes of both of us doing this Michael asked if I minded if he just gave it a good yank. I told him to be go ahead.

He did, and the entire valve ripped out of the tube, instantly deflating my only spare and rendering it useless. The valve was still stuck in the pump’s nozzle and now of course, easily twisted out.

“I don’t suppose you have another spare do ya?” Michael sheepishly asked.

“No, and don’t feel bad,” I told him. “I would have done the same thing pretty soon anyhow.”

Now I was really left with only one option. I told him I was going to start walking home. Without hesitation he said, “No, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to ride back to the hotel, get my car and meet you up at the next street. Do you know how far we are from it? Can you walk there?”

I told him it was about a mile and a half but reminded him he didn’t know where I lived. “For all you know I could live 40 miles from here," I told him.

With a smile he said, “So? It will be an adventure for me!”

I asked and asked again if he was sure he wanted to do this and he assured me it was fine as he had

nothing else to do. He asked me for directions from his hotel to where we were to meet. I gave him the directions and he repeated them back to me. He headed off while telling me he would be there and if he arrived before me, he’d wait. I told him once again he really didn’t have to do this. I could walk. In truth I certainly didn’t want to endeavor on a walk that long while holding the rear wheel of the trike up in the air behind me and wheeling it along. He insisted on doing this and I thanked him and told him I’d see him at the street. With that, he was gone.

I put the wheel back on the trike, put my various blown tubes, gloves, tire levers and pump back where they all belonged and started walking, trike in tow.

The walk wasn’t bad although it certainly would have been easier had I not been schlepping my trike

behind me. I walked along and people coming toward me stared at me as I wound my way south on the trail.

It didn’t take too long until I got to the street. There, I removed the seat from the trike and folded the trike (yes, it folds) for easier transport and began to wonder how long I’d have to wait.

Did I give him the right directions? I reviewed them in my head and was pretty sure I had. Besides, he repeated them back to me and they were correct. I think.

How long do I wait? I guess until I feel certain he isn’t coming.

These questions and others buzzed through my head as I stood there watching traffic go by.

Gladly, I didn’t have to wait long. Within three minutes at most, he pulled up and over. I walked to the car and he popped open the trunk. Looking at it, we both knew immediately that even folded, the trike wasn’t going to fit. “We’ll put it in the back seat he said.”

“Okay, but we have to be careful not to get grease on the seat of a rental car,” I reminded him.

I turned and headed back toward the folded trike but Michael sprinted ahead of me.

“Please,” I implored him, “let me carry it or at least we’ll carry it together!” I shouted after him.

He got there first and started to pick it up and realized that at least for this task, two of us would be a much better idea. We carried it over to the open rear passenger door, turned, twisted and cajoled it to get it partially in. I said I’d go around to the other side to lift it and pull it in from that side while he guided it.

“No need,” he said as I was opening the other rear door. And with that he gave it a shove just in time for me to see a large smudge of grease being generously applied to the back seat.

“That was why I wanted to lift it,” I said.

“No matter, it’s in. That’s the important thing.”

“They’re going to charge you for it,” I reminded him.

“The company will pay. It will be fine,” was his instant response.

“Are you sure? Won’t they be mad?”

“No, it’s my company.”

With that I got in the car and gave him directions toward my house. Driving down the straight road and moving at about 45 mph most of the way made it a quick ride as opposed to the zigzag path of the trail while moving at 10 mph. We were at my garage in under 10 minutes. We got out, and this time he allowed me to help him get the trike out and set it on the ground. I got out my garage door opener and wheeled the trike inside.

As I turned to say goodbye and thank him it occurred to me that I had no idea how to thank him, which was exactly what I told him. “Can I offer you money? Something to eat or drink? I don’t know how to thank you for this. It’s not often that a complete stranger would do something like this.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Hopefully if I’m ever in a rough spot, someone will help me out. That’s how I look at it” We shook hands and he got back in his now grease stained car and was gone.

I thought about what he had just said, that if he’s in a rough spot, one day someone would help him out. I smiled to myself because I realized that was almost exactly what I would say if the roles were reversed.

A moment later I laughed as it dawned on me that maybe our mutual thought process had just worked out for me.

Why I Ride

by David Goldman

The doctors said if I felt up to riding, I could ride. They even said it would be beneficial. So, after being disconnected from my chemo pump last Wednesday after my first two-day treatment, the first thing I did was head out for a ride.

A little background: I go in for my treatment on Mondays and get one drug infused into me for a while at the hospital before going home with a pump attached to my port and a second drug cocktail slowly dispensed over about 46 hours. On Wednesday, a home healthcare nurse comes and disconnects me and I am free to do as I wish. Of course, this is within any physical limitations I might be feeling as a result of the chemo.

The first treatment went smoothly and as I was getting disconnected from my pump on Wednesday, I was feeling good, and the urge hit me. It is the urge I get so often when the weather is nice. Go take a trike ride. I double-checked with the nurse to make sure it was okay. She said if I felt like it, I could. So I did!

While I was riding I started wondering about just what it was that I enjoyed so much about riding. What was that pull that so often took hold of me, especially on warm sunny days? Why am I struck with this need to pedal myself from here to there and back again? I ride a trike with two wheels in front and one in back. These are referred to as tadpole trikes or recumbent trikes. I know part of the appeal for me is that it’s just fun to ride these things. But that’s not the whole reason.

It’s not speed. I don’t ride very fast. Twenty years ago I was always riding to try and improve. Improve what? My average speed! That’s what most bike riders are constantly trying to improve through interval training, power output measurements, VO₂ max capacity, and a host of other methods. If you don’t recognize these terms, it’s probably good. Non-comprehension of them means you’re not a cyclist looking to gain more speed. I used to do these things looking to gain a quarter mile per hour of speed, but I don’t anymore. I’m content just pedaling along at whatever pace my legs are moving on that particular day. That said, I do enjoy the speed of the descents. Here around Chicago, things are pretty flat and zooming down a long twisting or straight road or path at warp speed is pretty much out of the question. But there are some spots where I can get up to 30 or even 35 mph, which for me, is fast! And because I’m on a trike I feel and indeed am, very stable. This means taking a spill at high speed isn’t really a concern. But those faster speeds are infrequent and short-lived when they do occur. Again, my 10-14 mph speeds suit me just fine.

It’s also not discovering new places to ride, although I do enjoy doing this as well. Because I don’t drive, almost all of my rides begin and end at my home so I’m confined within whatever confines time and distance place upon me. As a matter of fact, I do almost all of my riding in one place, the Des Plaines River Trail. It’s a multi-use path that runs along the Des Plaines River in northern Illinois for approximately 31 miles, stretching from the southern border of Lake county up to the Wisconsin state line. It’s a crushed limestone path and being multi-use means it’s open to cyclists, walkers and runners, equestrians, and in the winter, cross-country skiers. This is my preferred spot to ride for a couple of overwhelming reasons. For one, it’s easily reached from my house. It’s less than a mile away and almost all of that route allows me to ride on a very wide sidewalk that is almost always completely devoid of pedestrians. The other section is along an approximately 500 foot stretch of street that I have literally seen cars on twice in the past year. In that year I’ve gone for 146 rides on my trike and at least 120 of them have been on the DPRT.

And like wanting to ride faster, riding in different locations is great. But because of the limitations of where I can go, I’m fine spending the majority of my time on this trail. It’s like being a kid and exploring the neighborhood. I used to know every square foot of my neighborhood. Every street, alley, and shortcut from here to there in my neighborhood were as familiar as the back of my hand. But even so, during my years as a kid it seemed I was always discovering something new – a way to cut across the train tracks at a certain spot in order to get to the drug store where I’d buy my comics. Or discovering an alley that curved differently than the street that it ran somewhat parallel to. This enabled me to get to the record shop about 27 seconds faster than my friends who were walking at the same speed as me but were unfamiliar with the way the alley curved and thus missing this “secret” shortcut. Whether you were just going to a friend’s house, playing a hide-and-seek type game on a several square block area, or looking for a new place to catch grasshoppers and other insects, there was always something new to be found in the old neighborhood and that’s just how I feel about the DPRT. I always see something new and different that had gone unnoticed in all my other rides.

But I think that’s just it. That’s what attracts me. This explains what I enjoy so much about riding. It is why on these beautiful summer days that urge hits and I have to get out for a ride, and it’s why in the brutal winter months I daydream about the summer finally arriving and getting out on the trike. It is why while riding, I sometimes realize I must look like a fool, because I can tell I’m riding with a grin on my face for no apparent reason.

It is because it makes me feel like a kid again. It’s that plain and simple.

It’s the freedom that comes with not worrying about or barely thinking about life’s day-to-day challenges. It’s not that I want to escape my life. I’m quite happy! Actually, it’s quite the contrary. I want to do what I can to enhance my life as much as I can, and I think opening the vents of my mind and letting the wind rush through for a while refreshes me. For just those two or three hours, there are no concerns about work, financial matters, or difficult pending decisions. My mind stops running through HTML code and CSS variations. I don’t think about needing to replace carpeting, fighting with the health insurance company, or a million other questions, thoughts or scenarios. No, those concerns all temporarily disappear and are replaced by a free-flowing stream of consciousness. The environment triggers a thought based on a sight, a smell, or a sound and I’m instantly transported to another place in time. Most often it’s my childhood. Everything is sharp and vivid. My mind’s eye once again sees with two good eyes instead of one fair one. Faces and voices are all as they were all those years ago. Perhaps my brain idealizes some of it because the sun always seems to be shining and the weather is perfect. Even if there’s snow in my thought bubble, it doesn’t feel cold.

While riding, I pick up the smell of burning wood off in the distance and suddenly it’s an October Sunday. I’m trying to get the leaves raked up and put in a pile in the street next to the curb so they can be burned before the football game begins. Others on the block are doing the same and the smell of burning leaves is pleasant and pungent. Cappy, the neighbor’s dog, wanders over to lift his leg and anoint the pile of leaves I’m constructing. Our front lawn is small: probably no more than 300 square feet if even that much, but when you’re 10 years old it looks to be about the size of the football field you can’t wait to go see on the TV. And every leaf has to be cleared off of it. Of course, we happen to have the biggest, oldest tree on the block which means its branches shed an inordinate amount of leaves.

My thoughts of Sundays, burning leaves and football are suddenly interrupted as I approach the only, albeit short break in the trail. For about 1500 feet I have a choice of either riding on a very busy four lane road or on a dirt and grass path just a couple feet beyond the right lane marker. Being on a wide trike and the vision of a hawk not being one of my assets, I always opt for the latter. Riding along next to this traffic often brings me back to one of my first bike rides on a busy road.

It was the summer of 1967 and I’m 11 years old. Two of my friends and I decide we’re going to ride our bikes to the JCC, a boys and girls club of sorts, to go swimming. We are each wearing our swimming trunks, a tee shirt, and flip-lops on our feet. We each have our heavy, rusted bike chains wrapped around our waists and secured with a padlock an armor piercing bullet couldn’t dent. We double and triple check to make sure we each have the padlock key in a pocket. We’re all set for our two-mile ride. Back then, our bikes were our main source of transportation so the distance wasn’t intimidating. But the busy, shoulderless road was. Where we were going required us to ride a little over a mile on that stretch of road, sharing it with cars that all had V8s and heavy chrome bumpers. None of us tell our parents where we’re going because we know they would instantly stop us. As we approach the turn to get on the road we are all scared, but being 11 and 12 years old, we certainly can’t let on to each other that we are.

As it turned out, the ride wasn’t bad. It was a weekday and traffic was light. As we start riding we gain confidence. We don’t weave. We don’t take chances. We get there quickly and without incident. We lock our bikes and head inside. When we get in we can hear music playing – music that we know from the radio. We all recognize it at once. It’s I Got Rhythm, the George Gershwin classic that is currently enjoying a rebirth as a pop hit by a band called The Happenings. We listen for the source of the music and soon realize it’s coming from beyond a pair of closed doors that lead into the small auditorium. It sounds like it’s being played live and the singer sounds like the singer from The Happenings! We approach the doors and see a sign saying The Happenings are playing there tonight in a concert. We’re here and they’re in there practicing! We’re all really excited that we might get a chance to see this band play. But just then, a worker walks up and tells us not to go in. We tell the him okay, walk around the corner toward the pool, and carefully look back until he is gone and the coast is clear. Quickly we head back for the door. We slowly open it and peek inside. There, on the stage is the band practicing the song we’d been hearing on the radio the whole summer! Swimming was forgotten. It was my first taste of live, popular music and I loved it. It was the first of hundreds of live concerts I’d get to see. We all sit down in the back in a dark section as the band practiced. I am transfixed.

Unfortunately, the excitement is very short-lived and quickly ends. Within two or three minutes at the most, the door we had snuck through opens and in walks the same man who just moments ago had told us not to go in. He hoists each of us up by our shoulders and unceremoniously shoves us out the door of the auditorium and then the main door. He gives us a firm warning that makes it clear we would not be welcomed back. But that was okay. Those few moments have given me a memory that has lasted 47 years and will undoubtedly last until the end of my days. Not only did I get to see live music, but I learned that my bike could take me places I had once thought unreachable on my own.

Back again on the DPRT in 2014 I start wondering if that day had the same effect on my two friends as it did on me. One of them died when he was very young and the other moved away a long time ago. I haven’t spoken to him since high school. Did the boy who died also remember that day for his entire, short life? Does the one who moved away ever think about that day?

As I continue rolling along my thoughts linger for a moment on the friend who had died and the others in my life who are gone. Inevitably, I think about Krissy, my pancreas donor whose life ended in an instant when she was just 17. This leads to an area of thought that I know will not provide me with any answers, definitions or truisms. As I ride through these old forests and prairies I wonder what happens next. Does anything happen next? Is Christianity right and we either go to heaven or hell? Maybe the Hindus have it right and we are constantly being reborn in a cycle. Or, do the Jews have it right: you die. It’s over. End of story. Maybe it’s a combination of these and/or others. Maybe it’s not. Personally, I like Albert Brooks’ point of view in the movie Defending Your Life. In short, after you die you wake up in what ranges from a cheap motel to a five star luxury hotel and for the next few days you must appear before a small panel that has been assigned to you. They’ll show you video clips of your life and you explain what you did and why. While you’re visiting for those few days, you can enjoy all-you-can-eat, delicious, zero-calorie food that’s served 24/7 at no charge. After your hearing the panel decides whether you are worthy to move on to “the great beyond” to enjoy eternity or to be sent back to start a new life and try again. Seems reasonable to me!

But that, in a nutshell is why I love to ride. For me, it’s therapeutic, refreshing, and invigorating. It lets me clear out bad thoughts and fill them in with more pleasant possibilities. It helps me put things in perspective. And riding helps me retain pleasant past memories. Yes, yes, quite possibly with some unintended enhancements, but hey, they’re my memories. So even on some days when I might not be feeling 100%, I know that once I start riding I’ll soon feel much better.

There are days I go for a ride specifically to make myself feel better and it always works. I always finish a ride feeling better than when I started. And on a warm, sunny summer day, it’s pretty hard for me to find a reason not to go for a spin.

Random thoughts during my first chemo session

by David Goldman

This time, I will not let a disease define me.

I am a husband.

I am a father.

I am a friend.

I am a web developer, computer geek, and a dog lover.

I love music, sports, reading and riding my trike.

These are what define me.

I did allow myself to be defined as a diabetic.

I was young and did not possess the capabilities to combat it from happening.

Now, I am older, wiser and more capable.

I've had surgery and when I am done with chemo, I will not consider myself a cancer survivor.

To me, a survivor sounds like someone who is less coming out than they were going in.

When I am done with this I will not be a survivor,

but I will be whole and complete: the same as I was before cancer.

I believe what doesn’t kill you does make you stronger

I will be stronger, wiser, and more appreciative.

I will be alive and I will still be a husband, father and everything I was before.

 And if I’m lucky, a bit more.