1984

1984

I love to read, and usually dislike reading a book again. For me, even favorite books lose their excitement the second time around. That made studying a little difficult in college. My vision of studying included going over the same material again. This boy wouldn’t do that, much to the chagrin of my study partners.

1984-b-and-nDuring my junior year of college we had a particularly difficult test coming up, and my buddy Dean felt that he needed some help. I knew that my recollection of the material was not good enough, too. We decided to spend the evening studying. I couldn’t do it. Going over the material again was too boring. We had lots of other things to talk about, so we did. Dean didn’t do well on that test.

Back to the books. I can count on one hand the number of books I’ve reread. There are only a couple that I’ve been through more than twice. As I think about that short list of books, I’m drawn to reading some them again. Other favorite books (Phi, for example) changed how I view the world, but I don’t need to go back.

Allow me to take another diversion here. I love reading, but I don’t like to reread a book. Movies usually bore me. We go to a movie every couple of years. Not interested. The interesting part? I can watch my favorite movies or television shows a dozen times. I can bring up scenes and dialogue from Casablanca in an instant. My biggest television addiction (addiction being something I must do that has no direct benefit) is M*A*S*H. I’ve seen every episode a half-dozen times over the last forty years. Judy leaves the room when I’m watching M*A*S*H, because I can speak most of the lines with the cast.

How do I reconcile the difference between books and television? Hold that thought while I return to a book I just reread, again. Continue reading

Crohn’s diagnosis

Camping near Flin Flon

Camping near Flin Flon

There had been signs for years. My buddies always thought I was hungry, as my stomach growled so often and so loudly. On camping trips the guys in the next tent would comment on the noises coming from my tent. Then there was that mysterious illness that kept me out of school for a couple of weeks when I was about thirteen. The small town doc in Jamestown, North Dakota in the early sixties wasn’t able to give us a good diagnosis.

My first ten years at my new job in Rochester were medically normal. Then minor trouble, diarrhea the morning after an evening meal of popcorn. That was a problem, as I was playing a lot of league racquetball in those days, which often meant missing the regular dinner. A huge bowl of popcorn was a perfect substitute for a balanced diet. It was just the morning after that was an issue.

Other foods began causing trouble, too. Then one night we had ribs for dinner. Wonderful, greasy ribs. They were great! Until the next morning. Oh, my, maybe it wasn’t the popcorn, it was all the butter I put on the popcorn? It must have been a big deal, because this thirty-something man went to the doctor to talk about a pooping problem.

He sent me to several humbling tests and eliminated a lot of easily treated problems. He finally got to the point where he suspected Crohn’s disease. I had no idea. Confirmation of the diagnosis would come from a barium follow through X-ray. This is where I discovered the serendipitous benefit of living in Rochester, Minnesota with the Mayo Clinic.

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