All results / Stories / Kenneth B. Lourie
Opinion: Column: Hopping and Hoping
As I approach my four-week anniversary of "the burning," I do so with cautious optimism that one day soon, I'll be walking upright once again and doing so without the assistance of my walker.
Column: Just Wondering
Having never attended medical school (and not really having had the grades or commitment to do so), and having only completed 10th grade biology and freshman year astronomy, and rarely even driven by a medical school growing up, my understanding and/or instincts regarding how a medical professional plans and/or prepares for his day is as foreign to me as sugar-free chocolate (if I’m going down, I’m going down swinging; in truth however, considering the anti-cancer, alkaline diet I’m following, I do need to swing a little less frequently).
Team On Going
In anticipation of my next face-to-face appointment with my oncologist, the first in three months (as per usual) and considering a breathing issue I’ve been experiencing the last month or so, my wife, Dina (original Team Lourie member) asked if I wanted my brother, Richard (the other original Team Lourie member), to attend. Not that he wouldn’t attend if asked (he’s local); it’s more that I’m wondering if he really needs to attend, as in whether there will be life-changing, cancer-related decisions where all hands need be on deck. Of course, a week before the appointment I have no legitimate clue – nor have I received any suggestions from my oncologist – that anything of substance/recent changes that have occurred (I have also recently completed my quarterly diagnostic scans and am awaiting those results as well) will be discussed; and that’s the point of this column: how frequently, how/when does the patient/survivor know when team members should be present at these appointments?
Where Am I?
"I’m sitting in the rocking chair, good buddy," (a "Smokey and The Bandit" reference, if you’re not of a certain vintage), between two 18-wheelers where the police radar can’t find me – further referencing the C.B. radio days. Updating to the "Kenny-with-cancer" days, I’m a month or so past my last very encouraging CT Scan, the one I wrote about when my oncologist offered me a congratulatory handshake, a gesture he had not made in the five-plus years since we’ve been tangling with this damn disease; and I’m approximately seven weeks away from my next CT scan, "intervaled" every three months at present. Seven weeks is far enough away where I’m not even thinking about it, or the possibility of its discouraging results that I’ll know about on or about June 9th. I am cruising, emotionally, and savoring the excellent results from the last scan and not yet worrying, wondering, hoping, praying (too much) about my next scan. This means, at the moment – or moments, I should say, I am enjoying a relatively stress-free and blissful ignorance to what may – or hopefully may not, be happening in my lungs. I am, to quote a Three Stooges line: "as safe as in my mother’s arms."
Father and Son "Twogether"
As a born, bread and buttered Bostonian (Newton Centre, a suburb, to be specific), one of my enduring and genetic passions has been to live and die (figuratively speaking; this is not a cancer column) for The Boston Red Sox. My father sold concessions at Fenway Park (the stadium home of the Bosox since 1912), during the Depression when he was a little boy (not yet an adolescent even). He was nicknamed "Beezo," (his given name was Benet, although he was always called Barry) so he could gain full acceptance to a local knothole gang. Named after the wooden planks which surrounded the old Braves Field in Boston (a National League team called Boston its home as well back in the day), the kids ("gangs") would stand and peer through the knotholes in the wooden planks which otherwise blocked their view. It was a privilege and an honor for my father to be so connected to the game this way. He grew up loving baseball, and as a parent, he passed his love of the game on to me – and my brother.
Column: Apparent, Now More Than Ever
I last celebrated my father’s day six years ago, in 2006. Six months later, in early December, he finally succumbed to that which had been ailing him: old age for sure, the effects of two strokes for certain and the realization that it was, as we like to say in our family: “Enough already.”
Opinion: Column: Being Driven Only Slightly Crazy
So this is what it's like to be out of the house and driving around: mask on, surgical gloves in the console, hand sanitizer in the glove box; not so different than before my two Covid-19 vaccinations.
Opinion: Column: A Question of Time
Let us presume, for the sake of this column, that I only have papillary thyroid cancer stage IV, and that my years as a non small cell lung cancer patient, also stage IV, are over.