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Congressman Lee Zeldin. File photo

Last week, Congressman Lee Zeldin (R-NY1) formally announced that he is now in remission from leukemia. 

The Shirley native said that back in November 2020, he was diagnosed with the illness and after nine long months he’s now cancer-free.

It’s impressive. Zeldin has done quite a lot while battling cancer — and keeping it quiet from the public. 

He won his reelection the same month he was diagnosed; he was in Congress when the insurrection in the U.S. Capitol happened in January; he announced his run for governor and has been campaigning for that office since.

While he has been busy at work throughout his treatment, he also has done some things that a typical cancer patient would absolutely steer away from.

We’re happy to hear that he’s healthy again and he has beaten a disease that has taken thousands of lives. But what’s most concerning is that while going through chemotherapy, he chose not to wear a mask and, in fact, has taken a strong stance against them. 

Masks are protecting others — such as Zeldin now — who have compromised immune systems, and who are most at risk. 

It was discouraging to know now that the congressman has held several anti-mask and Unmask Our Kids rallies, where people were in close proximity to each other. 

Zeldin was the lucky one — other people are not always so lucky and with new variants spreading, immunocompromised people could be hit harder.

According to a new study published by University College London, cancer has become an increasing public health priority in the U.K. after vaccines and other measures continued to contain the spread of COVID-19. Findings from the study showed 40,000 late diagnoses of cancer due to a lack of emergency referrals by general doctors and fewer face-to-face appointments. Delays caused by lockdown could result in 10,000 people dying of cancer “significantly earlier” than would otherwise have been the case.

Could the U.S. follow suit? 

We hope that representatives such as Zeldin, who now has personal experience to relate to, will reconsider their stances on anti-masking, vaccinations and general public health. 

The cold months are coming, and germs will be everywhere — we need to keep each other safe. 

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

In a fractured and uncertain world, the skill sets that make us marketable to potential friends, employers and neighbors have shifted.

Sure, competence, professionalism and experience can and do come in handy in the context of numerous environments. These days, though, getting along with others and navigating through the cacophony of frustration beamed into our living rooms and phones on an hourly basis seems to have elevated what otherwise might seem like trivial skill sets in another time.

I have come up with a list of skills or, perhaps more appropriately, qualities that might be helpful in the modern world.

I don’t overuse the word “literally.” To emphasize a point, people often literally throw the word “literally” into phrases, as in “I literally hate tofu.” I’m not sure you can figuratively hate tofu, but I don’t overuse that word.

I keep a straight face: even when confronted with outrageous claims in which others hold fast to ideas, to heroes or to patterns I find questionable or even objectionable, I don’t wince, roll my eyes or shout them down until I’m in the safe space of my home with my wife.

I know how to write a handwritten note. Electronic communication has become so ubiquitous that sharing a personal touch that comes from writing something by hand has scarcity value.

I have trained my dog to do exactly what he wants. Sure, other people have trained their dogs to sit, roll over, fetch the newspaper and come to them when they call, but my dog does exactly what he wants. That means when he wags at me, he’s genuinely excited to see me and he’s not just wagging because he’s expecting some immediate reward or punishment.

I can find almost anything in a supermarket. Having spent an embarrassing amount of time searching the supermarket for foods that satisfy four diets and that take the place of in-person dining and social interactions, I can find most items sooner than supermarket employees.  

Through a hard-target search of every bed sheet, blanket and pillowcase, I can find the remote control. While that may seem trivial, it shows a willingness to go the extra mile to avoid having to take a few extra steps to change the channel.

I speak teenager. Yes, they are wonderful people who not only have a shorthand way of speaking, but also have a tendency to multitask while they are talking, looking at their phones or speaking through a mouthful of food. I can interpret much of what they say even when they appear to be offering disconnected sounds in a guttural and frustrated language.

I can finish an entire chapter in a non James Patterson book without checking email or texts. That means I can concentrate for longer periods of time. Patterson is excluded because the chapters in his violent novels are often shorter than this column.

I can make myself laugh. Every week, I enter the New Yorker cartoon contest. The captions I write never win, but they make me laugh.

I have a wealth of untapped ideas. I look at all the masks around me and think, “Hmm, I could come up with so many new mask products.” For example, how about mood masks, which change color depending on the person’s mood? Or, perhaps, masks with the outline of states, presidents of the United States, or images of abolitionists, important women in history or slogans? Masks could become the equivalent of educational posters hung on the walls of classrooms or, if you prefer, facial bumper stickers, giving someone starting at our covered mouths a chance to read or see something new.

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Otto Heinrich Warburg

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

There are two good stories in “Ravenous: Otto Warburg, the Nazis, and the search for the Cancer-Diet Connection.” The newly released book, by Sam Apple, is about the Nazi’s hunt for the cause of cancer and the remarkable support Hitler gave, before and during World War II, to Otto Warburg, a premier scientist, homosexual and Jew.

Hitler’s mother, possibly the only person he loved, died a painful death from breast cancer. Hitler, reportedly a vegetarian and a hypochondriac, periodically thought he was dying of cancer. Otto Warburg, who won the Nobel Prize in 1931 and had been nominated repeatedly for the prize during his career, did in-depth biochemical research on the metabolism of tumors, especially cancer cells. Despite Warburg’s several obvious drawbacks and outspoken criticism of Nazi values — he refused to have Nazi flags in his lab or offer the Nazi salute — Hitler protected him and allowed him to do his work.

Otto Heinrich Warburg, born in 1883 into a prominent family of bankers and scientists, first distinguished himself in the elite cavalry regiment, the Uhlans, during WWI. He won the Iron Cross for bravery and was still fighting at the front in 1918 when Albert Einstein, a close friend of his physicist father, wrote him a letter urging him to come home. Einstein told him that science needed him. That, combined with his breakthrough research before the war on sea urchins, and his aristocratic family, did much to solidify his lifetime arrogance.

He did return home, continued his distinguished work, and was named director of a Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin founded by the Rockefeller Foundation, designed by him in the Rococo style, in 1931. He proceeded with his investigations into the causes of cancer, which had been relatively rare until the 19th century but was exploding in numbers in the early 20th century. The German people, along with people in the United States and elsewhere, were terrified of the disease.

Warburg’s hypothesis was that cancer growth was caused by tumor cells generating energy (to reproduce) mainly by the anaerobic (no oxygen) fermentation of glucose. Healthy cells, by contrast, generate energy mainly from oxidative breakdown with the salt pyruvate in the mitochondria (part of the cell responsible for producing the cell’s energy.)  If you don’t understand those last sentences, it doesn’t matter. The point is that Warburg believed the primary cause of cancer was the replacement of the respiration of oxygen in normal body cells with the fermentation of sugar. Therefore the culprit: SUGAR. 

Today the understanding of the cause of cancer is mutations in oncogenes and tumor suppressor genes that lead to a malignant transformation. The metabolic changes in cells that Warburg observed were not causative, today’s scientists believe, but the result of those mutations.

Warburg’s work offered support for the role of metabolism in the mitochondria in aiding tumor suppression. He oversimplified the complex interactions between the mitochondria and the cell nucleus, between metabolism and mutations.

After the war, Warburg did come to the United States, but his self-important personality, his tyrannical behavior in the lab, his imperiousness with his peers and finally his inability to admit error, all helped to push his research out of sight. He ultimately returned to Switzerland.

In the 1960s, scientific attention turned to the newly defined DNA and cancer-causing genes. Only with the new century has there been a metabolism revival and attention to the role of insulin and the link with obesity.

The book offers us interesting history, both about the Nazis and scientific research into the causes of cancer. Reading it will certainly make us think about what we eat.

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Holly Signoretti picks out a book at the Book Revue in Huntington village. Photo by Kimberly Brown

People are continuously told that change is inevitable but sometimes those changes can hit a human right in the heart, especially if it involves a goodbye.

Many residents along the North Shore of Suffolk County and surrounding areas were saddened to hear of the closing of Book Revue in Huntington Sept. 10. After more than 40 years of being the go-to place for book lovers, like many other businesses, the owner struggled during the COVID-19 pandemic.

The store had to shut down for three months during the pandemic, and once the owner reopened the doors, the Book Revue struggled to get back on its feet.

Despite talking with the building landlord to come to a compromise, in the end the back rent was impossible to pay back, and it was initially announced last month that the store would close Sept. 30.

With inventory starting to thin out, the store was closed Sept. 9 for employees to organize the shelves, and on Sept. 10 people were invited to come in and take books for free. By the afternoon, the store was cleaned out and Book Revue doors were closed for business permanently.

Its owner Richard Klein posted on Facebook that while the store was now closed to the public, he would be in touch soon. Customers hope so.

Not only was Book Revue the place to go to pick up some literature, but it was also a social center. Many residents remember going to the store as a child or a parent to enjoy Toddler Time with stories, live music and dancing. There were groups to discuss favorite reads, and celebrity book signings with authors such as Alan Alda, Hillary Clinton, Whoopi Goldberg, Clinton Kelly and more.

The store also offered a diverse selection of books with extensive arts and music sections as well as a section dedicated to local subjects written by Long Island authors. 

More than a place to shop or socialize, the Book Revue also drew people to Huntington village. When people come to shop at an iconic store, they usually will stay a while in the area and stop by other shops or get a bite to eat. The closing of such a business could lead to a domino effect in the village.

Our communities need more independent book stores like this former Huntington staple, ones that flourish and elevate the quality of life in a village. It’s a shame that the landlord and Klein couldn’t come to an agreement. However, the community will be forever grateful to Richard and his brother Bob, who retired from the business earlier last year, for their service to the community and providing years of happiness to Long Islanders.

Here’s hoping that another vibrant business that hosts events will come into the building to keep one of our bustling villages alive with the excitement Book Revue once did.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Joe, the gentleman at the supermarket register, asked me the routine questions.

“Did you find everything okay?”

“Do you have a rewards number?”

I nodded and typed in my cell phone number.

At the end of the order, I carefully watched the total, waiting for the moment he asked me whether I wanted to donate a dollar or round up my total.

Instead, it looked like the cost declined, even after applying all the discounts. In order to be sure, I had to remove my glasses, which allow me to see at a distance, but not to read.

Yes, the total decreased by 5%. Just as I was about to thank him, I went slack jawed behind my mask. Staring closely at the total in the register, I realized he had given me the senior discount.

I pondered what to do. I could tell him I’m not a senior. Then again, maybe anyone over 35 was a senior. Okay, fine, 40. Alright, 50. 

Anyway, I thanked him for ringing me up, told him to stay safe and headed to the car, where I promptly checked the age for a senior discount at my supermarket. Yup, just as I suspected. He gave me the discount well before I was eligible.

As I loaded the groceries in the car, I wondered whether this was a freakout mid-life crisis moment. Maybe this was the universe’s way, through Joe, of reminding me that I’m not a kid anymore.

Then again, I thought, steadying myself behind the wheel, maybe Joe had just typed that senior discount button by mistake. Maybe he felt generous or, perhaps, he was giving everyone a senior discount, just to stick it to his bosses. 

I have an image of myself that doesn’t align with what other people see, or even what I notice in the mirror. Somewhere along the lines, my brain imagined that the younger, fresher, more energetic version of me continued to type on my computer, yell at the TV when the Yankees lost, and maneuver through my life.

My body, and the unwelcome hair that seems to wave from my ears, has offered reminders about the passage of time. Recently, my son, who is still waiting for his freshman year to start in earnest after New Orleans recovers from Hurricane Ida, asked me if I wanted to have a catch.

Excited for some father-son bonding that doesn’t involve electronics, I readily agreed. Besides, it’s been a few years since he asked. I am no longer his coach and he has numerous athletic friends and former teammates who can launch balls across a field.

The first few throws felt comfortable, as my fingers reached for the familiar seams and tossed the ball back at his chest.

“Okay, move back,” he instructed.

A few throws later, he asked me to move back again.

“Wait, what?” my arm begged, to a brain that tried to hit the mute button on muscles, tendons, bones and rotator cuffs begging me to stop engaging in such unaccustomed activity.

Pretty soon, he was throwing lasers from the next county and I was trying to figure out if I could strap the ball to a nearby bird to return it to him.

Instead, I ran 20 steps, rotated my hips and snapped my shoulders in an effort to minimize the strain on my arm.

“Good idea,” he yelled. “You should soft toss it back to me.”

Soft toss? That was one of my hardest throws!

Two days later, we repeated the same routine. The second time, my arm instantly hurt. I might imagine that I’m 25 or even 35, just as I might imagine I can fly.

I can enjoy some consolation: the senior discount saved me enough money to buy an ice pack for my throbbing shoulder.

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METRO dinner

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Here are some ways to spice up our lives. I’ve done this all my adult cooking life, and I recommend the concept. I have added store-bought sauces to otherwise bland foods, like eggs, chicken and some fish. Please read on as I explain. 

How did I happen upon this technique, you might wonder? It was a solution born of desperation over 50 years ago. I was to be married in two weeks, and my roommate at the time asked me what I was going to cook for my new husband the first night. Cook? I only knew how to boil water. It hadn’t occurred to me, although tradition at the time had it, that I was to be the cook in this pairing. 

When I panicked, she calmed me down by asking what my fiancé’s favorite meal was. “Breaded veal cutlet,” I remembered, and for the next 10 days, at dinner, she tutored me on the fine art of making that, along with a salad of greens with store-bought dressing, and spaghetti with some bottled red sauce. I then sailed into marriage prepared and duly impressed my groom with my culinary skills. 

Soon enough, we came to the menu for the second night. Again panic. I had to sit down and figure this one out. I was working and didn’t have time to digest the thick book, “Joy of Cooking,” that some kind soul had given us as a wedding present — at least not yet. Prepared foods for takeout were not invented. There were Swanson frozen dinners, but that suggested I was really inadequate.

What to do?

I thought about how I had made that first meal. I used bottled dressing to flavor the salad and also bottled sauce for the spaghetti. I wondered what other sauces might be available on the supermarket shelves. That’s when I found duck sauce. Reading the label, I saw their suggested uses; one was with chicken. Inspired, I rushed to buy a whole chicken that I brought back to our new apartment, poured all the duck sauce over it, and popped it into the oven at 375 degrees as instructed by the amused man behind the supermarket meat counter. I kept checking it, and when it looked like it was done, I served it, along with more salad.

“Wow!” my new husband exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could cook!” I was launched.

I will confess to having learned a few more things about cooking since then, including how to read a recipe, but my affection for bottled sauces continues to this day. To further my repertoire, I have gleaned the following information from a consumer publication called, “Bottom Line,” that has proven its value sufficiently to earn my ongoing subscription dollars. The article, written by Jay Weinstein, a member of the Institute of Culinary Education, is headlined, “Make Mundane Meals Instantly Exotic, with these international bottled sauces,” offers nine suggestions, and pretty much all of them appeal to me.

First, there are some Asian possibilities: banana sauce, “the ketchup of the Philippines, … usually sweet, with subtle tropical flavors,” good on any foods from omelets to whatever comes off the grill. Anther is gochujang, a dark red paste made of red chili peppers, rice powder and fermented soy beans — tangy, spicy, salty & slightly fruity — good added to eggs, noodles, dumplings or ham. Then there is kecap manis, “an excellent marinade or glaze for meat, seafood or vegetables.” Oyster sauce will add “an unmistakable Asian flavor” and will transform hamburger. Ponzu is tangy and bright and offers “a lively citrus note” to dishes. Thai peanut sauce is a particular favorite of mine. It is a good marinade, and I happen to like it on noodles. 

Then there are what the author classifies as European Sauces: aioli, “a Mediterranean mayonnaise with garlic … drizzled over vegetables or seafood”; ajvar (pronounced “aye-var”) of “roasted sweet red peppers, eggplant and … tomato.” Use atop baked potato, meatloaf and pasta or for potato salad; and Maggi seasoning, for noodles or roast chicken “or mix a little into soup.”

There are lots more, but I think I should stop. While I probably have incurred the wrath of gourmet cooks, who make everything from scratch, perhaps I have helped some new brides … or grooms.

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Photographer Bolivar Arellano was on the scene when the World Trade Center’s south tower was imploding. Photo by Bolivar Arellano

When 9/11 happened, I was only three years old, and at such a young age, I had no idea what was going on in the world — the only thing that mattered to me was my stuffed animals and food. 

As I grew up in elementary school, I was always reminded every September about the attacks with an assembly my district put together. 

We always were given little American flags to place outside the front yard after the presentation was over. 

I was born in a time where it was no longer safe to walk around by myself like it used to be. I remember my mom telling me about her time as a young child, and how she’d walk all around the neighborhood with her close friend Sue Hill from morning until dusk, no cellphone, no contact, relying on complete trust in her community and town. 

Kimberly Brown

However, when 9/11 happened, that trust broke completely. I asked her why I wasn’t allowed to do the things she did as a kid, and she told me that “times have changed.”

I didn’t always see the big picture as to why things were the way they are, because it’s the environment that I grew up in. It’s something that I’ve been accustomed to since I was born, but as I grew older and moved onto middle school I started to understand more.

I’m not sure exactly what age I was when I found out why my next-door neighbors, Timmy, and his brother Tommy weren’t around anymore, but I remember they were dedicated to their jobs as firefighters and were always very friendly to me and my family.

My mom had told me that Timmy rushed into the North Tower while Tommy, who was a Battalion Chief, led his men into the South Tower. Both of them tragically died whilst trying to evacuate 25,000 people from the World Trade Center.

When Timmy was younger, he planted pine trees next to our house that continued to grow for decades after his death. To me, it served as a memorial, remembering how free-spirited yet brave these two brothers were.

To some people around the country, 9/11 is a distant memory, but for me, it has been prevalent in my community since the day it occurred. Neighbors, friends and family members, all have people they hold dear to their hearts, serve in our local fire and police departments. 

In one way or another, regardless of age, 9/11 has touched everyone in some form. It truly is one of the most important events of our American history to remember, as well as commemorating our brave service members who gave their lives to save others. 

Kimberly Brown is a reporter with TBR News Media and a recent graduate of Stony Brook University.

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Stock photo

I honestly don’t remember a whole lot from elementary school, but I still remember September 11, 2001. 

I remember it was a beautiful, warm day. There was not one cloud in the sky and we were all so excited that we would be able to play outside for recess and gym class. 

At just 8 years old, I was in the fourth grade at East Street Elementary School in Hicksville — just a little over an hour away from one of my favorite places, Manhattan. 

My dad was a truck driver back then, and he was always in the city making deliveries. He’d take me and my brother out there every other weekend and show us his favorite spots. One of them was the World Trade Center. 

“Isn’t it amazing?” I remember him saying, “They look like Legos from far away.”

Back at school that Tuesday morning, I remember simply going about our day. Things eventually got weird, though. My principal came to speak to my teacher out at around 10 a.m. outside of the classroom, and I remember her face when she came back inside. She was white as a ghost. 

Throughout the day, my classmates started to get pulled out one by one. I remember being mad that I couldn’t go home, like everyone else. I remember being jealous but, looking back, they were being taken out because their fathers and uncles were first responders and their families were scared.

When our parents picked us up later in the afternoon, I remember everyone just feeling so sad. The sky wasn’t that pretty blue anymore — it felt like a dark cloud washed over us, which on reflection might have been smoke heading east. Everyone’s energy was low. The news was the only thing we watched for hours.

My dad made it home later that night and he was shell shocked. From his truck route in Queens, he said he saw the smoke. He was on the parkway, sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, fleeing with the rest of the people trying to evacuate Manhattan. 

My family was lucky — we didn’t lose anyone that day, and being so young I don’t know if I was able to recognize what happened until much later in life. 

I knew it was a sad day. I knew that something bad happened. I knew that I had to wear red, white and blue on Sept. 12 and that a lot of people were missing and dead. 

But when I became a journalist, I started to talk to more and more people who were impacted on the anniversaries of the attacks. Every year since the age of 8, it began to become more real to me. 

After college, I met my best friend, Nicole, who’s aunt worked in the first tower. She died on impact when the plane crashed through her office. 

Hearing these stories opened my eyes more. I grew up with 9/11 and felt it firsthand. But growing up, I started to learn more about the actual people whose lives were lost that day. I heard their stories and they eventually became real persons to me — not just numbers in this crazy story. 

It’s amazing to think that 20 years have passed since the events which took place that horrible day. It’s amazing to see what has happened since then —wars, recessions, other bombings and a pandemic. And it’s amazing to believe that families, like my friend Nicole’s, have been without their loved ones for two decades.

No matter what age you were when the events happened — or even if you hadn’t been born yet — I think the anniversary of 9/11 should remind all of us to hug our families a little harder. Tell them you love them, and never forget the thousands of people who were impacted that day. 

Julianne Mosher is the editor of the Port Times Record, Village Beacon Record and Times of Middle Country. 

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Cars try to navigate through flooding on Reynolds Street in Huntington Station. Photo from Town of Huntington

When the remnants of Hurricane Ida made her way last Wednesday to the North Shore of Long Island, residents weren’t prepared for what was coming. 

Two weeks ago, meteorologists got everyone ready for Henri. Gas stations were empty, the supermarket lines went out the door and stores in villages on the water boarded up their windows. 

But nothing happened. It was ultimately a light rain. 

So, when Ida made her way up the coast, we all thought nothing of it. Boy, we were wrong. 

There was flooding all across the North Shore, and people didn’t think to prepare the same way they were going to be for the previous storm.

Port Jefferson village was a muddy mess. Northport was practically under water. Stony Brook University had students sleeping inside the Student Activities Center because dorms became pools. 

According to the United Nations’ latest climate report published recently in The Washington Post, warming from fossil fuels is most likely behind the increase in the number of high intensity hurricanes over the last 40 years. 

Long Island has seen quite a few of those storms, including Sandy, Irene and Isaias. According to the Post, five more tropical systems are currently sweeping over the Atlantic so the hurricane season has only just begun. Will they be just as bad?

What will happen if we keep making poor choices when it comes to the environment? If burning fossil fuels is one of the biggest influencers in climate change, then what can we do to alleviate that stress? We need to collectively do better to eliminate waste and save energy. Consider an eco-friendly vehicle, energy-saving lightbulbs and using more sustainable household products.

But it isn’t just the increases in sustainable living that are important. 

Long Islanders need to ask their elected officials for help. For communities across the North Shore, we need to invest in ways to prevent damage to homes and businesses that sit by the water.

We need to ask PSEG Long Island to consider and create ways to move power lines underground, so when high winds attack we won’t lose power for days.

These are tall orders, but while the rest of us work toward doing better on a smaller level, we hope that Ida showed us all that we need to treat Mother Earth the way she should be treated — if we don’t, the flooding on Main Street will be the new normal.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

The pain in my abdomen climbed from a relatively mild one, which pediatrician’s offices usually represent with a slightly puzzled but still pleasant stick figure face, all the way to a 10, with a crying stick figure in extreme duress, in under five minutes.

Doubled over, I shuffled to my wife’s working station in our house and sat, uncomfortably, in a chair next to her.

She started to talk and then looked carefully at my face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as I twisted in my seat.

“I have serious pain in my abdomen and back,” I said.

We knew what that likely meant. We’d been through this before, although last time was much more terrifying because we had no idea what was going on. Also, six years ago, the mysterious symptoms, including searing back pain, uncontrollable nausea and vomiting and extreme discomfort, appeared and disappeared. I might have had some reaction to bad food, we thought, or I might have inadvertently consumed my food kryptonite, dairy.

“It’s probably kidney stones,” my wife said, as she stood on my back to try to relieve some of the developing pain.

I twisted on the floor, hoping I wouldn’t have to go to an emergency room that was likely overwhelmed with the latest Delta variant wave of COVID-19.

I did the I’m-okay-and-can-tough-it-out-at-home-but-wait-maybe-I’m-not dance for about 10 minutes before I gave in and shuffled towards the car.

As soon as I got in the garage, I made a quick u-turn and headed to the closest bathroom, where I knelt next to the toilet and vomited.

“It’s another kidney stone,” I sighed in between heaves.

With a bucket in the backseat on the way to the hospital, I contorted my body into different positions, hoping to find one that would offer some relief. The last kidney stone episode taught me that wasn’t likely, as I did everything but stand on my head in the basement all those years ago to ease the unrelenting pain.

Fortunately, the emergency room only had two people waiting on a Friday morning. My wife spoke through a plexiglass shield with the receptionist, sharing my details while I disappeared beneath the counter into a crouched position.

The receptionist directed my wife outside until I had a room. I waited on the floor, with the same bucket at my side, for a nurse to call me.

During the 20 minute wait, the pain eased up just enough to allow me to breathe more normally and to sit on the floor. A chair was still not an option. The two other people in the waiting room were too engrossed in their phones to notice me.

Once I was in an examining room, I called my wife, whose sympathetic eyes and encouraging words eased some of my discomfort. She answered questions from the nurse as I stood on the floor and leaned the top of my body over the hospital bed as if I were praying.

The nurse promised to return with morphine. In the few minutes he was gone, I felt closer to a four on the pain scale.

I considered not taking the narcotic. The roller coaster ride along the pain pathway makes managing kidney stones, and so many other types of discomfort, difficult. Each moment of comfort is like a sliver of sunlight between heavy rain clouds.

The doctor confirmed our kidney stone diagnosis. He thought I’d pass the stone that night or the next day. I didn’t have any such luck, as I fought through symptoms for 10 days.

Finally, the obstruction exited. I was so elated that I jumped up and down in the garage with my baffled son, who was returning from an errand.

As others who have had kidney stones can attest, the experience is extraordinarily uncomfortable and painful. I feel fortunate for all the support from my wife, children, brothers, mother and friends. I can only imagine what people hundreds of years ago must have thought when these stones made their painful journey.

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