Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Pumper Cells Part II
It appears scraping the back of the cornea and then wallpapering it with new cornea cells is a bit painful. But the patient is doing well despite discomfort and having to keep his head back and his eye focused on the ceiling above for 15 minutes four times a day.
The surgeon declared his handiwork successful and Ken's recovery on track.
I was a bit alarmed when he couldn't see the very big E on a cursory eye check yesterday morning, but he could tell that a hand was being held up in his line of vision if not the number of fingers.
Not a surprise since there's an air bubble in his eye placed there to hold the new layer of cells in place until they adhere to the cornea and voila, sight is resumed. Or so my understanding of this procedure goes.
We'll lay low this weekend waiting for the air bubble to dissapate and sight to resume and our fragile routine to return.
The surgeon declared his handiwork successful and Ken's recovery on track.
I was a bit alarmed when he couldn't see the very big E on a cursory eye check yesterday morning, but he could tell that a hand was being held up in his line of vision if not the number of fingers.
Not a surprise since there's an air bubble in his eye placed there to hold the new layer of cells in place until they adhere to the cornea and voila, sight is resumed. Or so my understanding of this procedure goes.
We'll lay low this weekend waiting for the air bubble to dissapate and sight to resume and our fragile routine to return.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Pumper cells
We have another surgery today. We meaning Ken.
This time it's the eye. And here's where my shallow knowledge could be a problem. I'll try to confine this to my dim understanding of what's happening.
It appears that his optical pumper cells (who knew) have aged and those remaining can't adequately pump. The result is dim vision that means he has to squint to see. He got Kindle. The e-reader lets you enlarge type and it's his most favorite possession. He's gone through three. But now, even with his good eye, it means he has to squint to read.
Today, he will not only have a small cataract removed, because why you are there why not, but he will also have a kind of re-wallpapering of the lining of his cornea with healthy donor pumper cells. The procedure takes up to four hours. And it's a 1 in 10 chance it will all go well and he'll be reading his Kindle squintless next week at this time. I take him at noon and I'm gathering we'll be home in time for the semi-final rounds of Dancing with the Stars. (Ken called to vote for Kelly last night.)
Tomorrow, we return to the doctors to check the stitches and within the next few days we'll know if the surgery was a success.
This time it's the eye. And here's where my shallow knowledge could be a problem. I'll try to confine this to my dim understanding of what's happening.
It appears that his optical pumper cells (who knew) have aged and those remaining can't adequately pump. The result is dim vision that means he has to squint to see. He got Kindle. The e-reader lets you enlarge type and it's his most favorite possession. He's gone through three. But now, even with his good eye, it means he has to squint to read.
Today, he will not only have a small cataract removed, because why you are there why not, but he will also have a kind of re-wallpapering of the lining of his cornea with healthy donor pumper cells. The procedure takes up to four hours. And it's a 1 in 10 chance it will all go well and he'll be reading his Kindle squintless next week at this time. I take him at noon and I'm gathering we'll be home in time for the semi-final rounds of Dancing with the Stars. (Ken called to vote for Kelly last night.)
Tomorrow, we return to the doctors to check the stitches and within the next few days we'll know if the surgery was a success.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Jonathan
On Oct. 14 at 12:30 p.m. on an unseasonably warm day in Arizona, I watched as my godson's casket was lowered into the grave and his family and friends each dropped a yellow rose into his grave.
It is inconceivable that Jonathan Zinsli is dead.
His mother had called me a week earlier at 5 p.m. on Oct. 7 sobbing, asking me if I could come to her home. What's wrong? Can you come to my home, she repeated. I had never heard such anguish in her voice. Yes.
The police had reached them to say that their 21-year-old son had been killed in a motorcycle accident earlier that day in Daytona Beach. Jon had moved there shortly after graduating from high school to attend Daytona State College. The school had a top-rated photography department and Jon was a talented photographer. His mother helped him move to Florida. He worked at Best Buy while he established residency and had enrolled in the school. He'd also bought a motorcycle. And on that morning, as we later learned from his legion of friends, co-workers, professors and exquisite girlfriends, he had ridden that motorcycle on his way to or from a photo shoot. A short distance. And an 80-year-old man in a red Toyota, driving the opposite direction, had made a left hand turn in front of him and Jon had hit the car, been thrown from his vehicle and died probably at the scene.
A young woman at the scene was with him and in the way information now gets shared these days posted on the Orlando Sentinel site that Jon's bravery in his last minutes of life had changed hers forever. She and Fran would wind up emailing back and forth in the first days that this crushing, unbelievable news seeped into the marrow of his mother's and father's bones, forever changing them.
On Oct. 14 in the Chapel of the Chimes mortuary those who love the Zinsli family and Jon, came to pay their respects. We filled the room. All there to weep and mourn with this remarkable family because the death of a vibrant, beautiful, smart, talented 21-year-old son full of life, of aching potential is an incomprehensible thing.
There was Rachel, Jon's first friend and co-worker, then fellow photography student, who Best Buy flew from Florida to attend the funeral. The family would learn that Best Buy had to bring in a grief counselor when word of Jon's tragic death spread. Photography professor Eric Breitenbach brought some of Jon's exquisite photoraphy and a message board students and professors had signed during a standing-room-only memorial service they held on Thursday morning after Jon's death. "He brought us all closer,'' Eric said.
Fellow students and Jon's roommate, Lukas, were there. His high school friends. His Boy Scout leader. His high school photography teacher who'd first scene Jon's talent and challenged him to step aside from his adolescent rage and self-absorption to first learn this craft before he explored its fringes.
His sweet sister. His two older brothers. His grandmother who held his newborn body in her arms when he was born at home with his grandmother, two brothers and the Glendale firefighters in attendance. His grandfther who took him on numerous deep sea dives and would have given him more camera equipment for underwater photography this Christmas. HIkers who, with Jon's family, had hiked most of the trails in Arizona and beyond.
The members of the B'Hai community and the Swiss community who watched him grow. The former sang piercingly aching songs at his funeral and at the gravesite. They read prayers.
And his family: his father, brothers Peter and Phillip, his sister, Katya, his uncle Michael and his mother each eulogized him. Unbelievably, eloquently, painfully standing before all of us talking about Jon. Their brother, son, nephew, grandson. And his professor, his girlfriends talked about his love, his talent (the most talented student I've seen in 29 years), his passions, his kindness, his loyalty, his wit, his mind, his hope.
And the story that lingers is the story his mother told of a fig tree the family had brought back to the desert with them from their two-year sojourn in Switzerland when Jon was a kindergartener.
She'd planted the tree and it had born sweet, full, delicious fruit. This remarkable family savors all things of the earth, most especially its fruit. They had enjoyed this fruit for many years and then the tree had begun to wither. It had seemingly tired so they cut the tree down. But Fran said that lately she had noticed a small, green shoot from the stub of its trunk. She'd begun watering the tree. Nurturing its tender green signs of life as I've watched her do with her children, her students, with all of us that gather round this remarkable woman.
And in that story, told at the funeral of her youngest son, Fran led each of us to the barely visible blades of hope.
It is inconceivable that Jonathan Zinsli is dead.
His mother had called me a week earlier at 5 p.m. on Oct. 7 sobbing, asking me if I could come to her home. What's wrong? Can you come to my home, she repeated. I had never heard such anguish in her voice. Yes.
The police had reached them to say that their 21-year-old son had been killed in a motorcycle accident earlier that day in Daytona Beach. Jon had moved there shortly after graduating from high school to attend Daytona State College. The school had a top-rated photography department and Jon was a talented photographer. His mother helped him move to Florida. He worked at Best Buy while he established residency and had enrolled in the school. He'd also bought a motorcycle. And on that morning, as we later learned from his legion of friends, co-workers, professors and exquisite girlfriends, he had ridden that motorcycle on his way to or from a photo shoot. A short distance. And an 80-year-old man in a red Toyota, driving the opposite direction, had made a left hand turn in front of him and Jon had hit the car, been thrown from his vehicle and died probably at the scene.
A young woman at the scene was with him and in the way information now gets shared these days posted on the Orlando Sentinel site that Jon's bravery in his last minutes of life had changed hers forever. She and Fran would wind up emailing back and forth in the first days that this crushing, unbelievable news seeped into the marrow of his mother's and father's bones, forever changing them.
On Oct. 14 in the Chapel of the Chimes mortuary those who love the Zinsli family and Jon, came to pay their respects. We filled the room. All there to weep and mourn with this remarkable family because the death of a vibrant, beautiful, smart, talented 21-year-old son full of life, of aching potential is an incomprehensible thing.
There was Rachel, Jon's first friend and co-worker, then fellow photography student, who Best Buy flew from Florida to attend the funeral. The family would learn that Best Buy had to bring in a grief counselor when word of Jon's tragic death spread. Photography professor Eric Breitenbach brought some of Jon's exquisite photoraphy and a message board students and professors had signed during a standing-room-only memorial service they held on Thursday morning after Jon's death. "He brought us all closer,'' Eric said.
Fellow students and Jon's roommate, Lukas, were there. His high school friends. His Boy Scout leader. His high school photography teacher who'd first scene Jon's talent and challenged him to step aside from his adolescent rage and self-absorption to first learn this craft before he explored its fringes.
His sweet sister. His two older brothers. His grandmother who held his newborn body in her arms when he was born at home with his grandmother, two brothers and the Glendale firefighters in attendance. His grandfther who took him on numerous deep sea dives and would have given him more camera equipment for underwater photography this Christmas. HIkers who, with Jon's family, had hiked most of the trails in Arizona and beyond.
The members of the B'Hai community and the Swiss community who watched him grow. The former sang piercingly aching songs at his funeral and at the gravesite. They read prayers.
And his family: his father, brothers Peter and Phillip, his sister, Katya, his uncle Michael and his mother each eulogized him. Unbelievably, eloquently, painfully standing before all of us talking about Jon. Their brother, son, nephew, grandson. And his professor, his girlfriends talked about his love, his talent (the most talented student I've seen in 29 years), his passions, his kindness, his loyalty, his wit, his mind, his hope.
And the story that lingers is the story his mother told of a fig tree the family had brought back to the desert with them from their two-year sojourn in Switzerland when Jon was a kindergartener.
She'd planted the tree and it had born sweet, full, delicious fruit. This remarkable family savors all things of the earth, most especially its fruit. They had enjoyed this fruit for many years and then the tree had begun to wither. It had seemingly tired so they cut the tree down. But Fran said that lately she had noticed a small, green shoot from the stub of its trunk. She'd begun watering the tree. Nurturing its tender green signs of life as I've watched her do with her children, her students, with all of us that gather round this remarkable woman.
And in that story, told at the funeral of her youngest son, Fran led each of us to the barely visible blades of hope.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Travel notes
In no particular order of importance, some snapshots from our recent trip to London to visit Amanda and Michael:
It's very disconcerting to be in a country where they speak English, although sometimes it sounds like a foreign language, and drive on the wrong side of the street. You never know where to look for oncoming traffic when you are walking. And when you are a passenger in a car it seems equally confusing figuring out where you are headed and where the round-abouts are really directing y ou.
Amanda and Michael's flat is on Kensington Gardens Square, near Bayswater, Hyde Park and a 15-minute walk from their old flat in Notting Hill. It's a first-floor flat which means that you look out their living room picture window that's at least five-feet high with white wooden shutters that fold into the wall right onto the sidewalk and narrow street that amazingly accommodates parked cars, city buses, delivery trucks and cars sometimes simultaneously. Two doors down is this hip neighborhood bar and restaurant where you can get eggs, coffee and pastry in the morning and martinis and tapas at night. The laundromat is less than a block away and there are a series of hair dressing, waxing, nail places within spitting distance. Across the street is Nandos where you can wave at the person taking your grilled chicken order over the phone.
It's, as they say, bustling with a steady stream of Moslem women in scarves , everyone talking on cell phones and a lot of people smoking.
As Michael says, there's a lot of energy. You could literally sit at the window and watch an all-day drama. It's like a day at the beach without the sand and sunscreen.
You can step out their front door and most times of the day can hail a taxi within five minutes.
You can also walk down the street and take the No. 23 bus and be on Bond Street next to Sufridges, the large, local-favored department store, within 10 to 15 minutes.
I now can identify the Marble Arch from a bus window two blocks away.
Last year we went to the races at Ascot, a sublimely British thing to do.
This year we went to the last night of the Proms at Hyde Park where Barry Manilow was the headliner. Really.
Think the 4th of July meets tailgating at a Steelers/Bears game. Thirty-seven thousand people with their picnics spread out on blankets (some had brought tables, tableclothes, candelabras , sliver, china and crystal) most waving the Union Jack flags, sipping champagne and ale and dipping into salmon pates, cheese plates and other nibblies. By the end of the evening, which celebrates music and patriotism -- you heard this random mix of Handel's Water Music, Copacabana and Auld Lang Syne.
At the end there were fireworks and this unforgettable scene of a park full of Brits -- we were with alumni of USC -- singing a full-force rendition of Britannia, God Save the Queen and then linking arms and singing Aud Lang Syne.
At the end, magically there appeared black plastic garbage bags near each blanket pad. People bent down, grabbed a bag and began disposing of their rubbish. All very civilized, sensible and efficient. Brilliant.
It's very disconcerting to be in a country where they speak English, although sometimes it sounds like a foreign language, and drive on the wrong side of the street. You never know where to look for oncoming traffic when you are walking. And when you are a passenger in a car it seems equally confusing figuring out where you are headed and where the round-abouts are really directing y ou.
Amanda and Michael's flat is on Kensington Gardens Square, near Bayswater, Hyde Park and a 15-minute walk from their old flat in Notting Hill. It's a first-floor flat which means that you look out their living room picture window that's at least five-feet high with white wooden shutters that fold into the wall right onto the sidewalk and narrow street that amazingly accommodates parked cars, city buses, delivery trucks and cars sometimes simultaneously. Two doors down is this hip neighborhood bar and restaurant where you can get eggs, coffee and pastry in the morning and martinis and tapas at night. The laundromat is less than a block away and there are a series of hair dressing, waxing, nail places within spitting distance. Across the street is Nandos where you can wave at the person taking your grilled chicken order over the phone.
It's, as they say, bustling with a steady stream of Moslem women in scarves , everyone talking on cell phones and a lot of people smoking.
As Michael says, there's a lot of energy. You could literally sit at the window and watch an all-day drama. It's like a day at the beach without the sand and sunscreen.
You can step out their front door and most times of the day can hail a taxi within five minutes.
You can also walk down the street and take the No. 23 bus and be on Bond Street next to Sufridges, the large, local-favored department store, within 10 to 15 minutes.
I now can identify the Marble Arch from a bus window two blocks away.
Last year we went to the races at Ascot, a sublimely British thing to do.
This year we went to the last night of the Proms at Hyde Park where Barry Manilow was the headliner. Really.
Think the 4th of July meets tailgating at a Steelers/Bears game. Thirty-seven thousand people with their picnics spread out on blankets (some had brought tables, tableclothes, candelabras , sliver, china and crystal) most waving the Union Jack flags, sipping champagne and ale and dipping into salmon pates, cheese plates and other nibblies. By the end of the evening, which celebrates music and patriotism -- you heard this random mix of Handel's Water Music, Copacabana and Auld Lang Syne.
At the end there were fireworks and this unforgettable scene of a park full of Brits -- we were with alumni of USC -- singing a full-force rendition of Britannia, God Save the Queen and then linking arms and singing Aud Lang Syne.
At the end, magically there appeared black plastic garbage bags near each blanket pad. People bent down, grabbed a bag and began disposing of their rubbish. All very civilized, sensible and efficient. Brilliant.
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