Twilight of the gods?

I have been listening to the testimony of Dr. Blasey Ford today, and found her account of her assault to be very credible indeed. But I have had enough--the hearings are still taking place as I write this, but I repeat: I've had enough. The hearings are a farce. The  committee of senators, dominated by Republicans, refuses to have an FBI investigation of the claims made by Dr. Ford, as well as of those of other women who have made accusations against Judge Kavanaugh. In addition, the senators, dominated by Republicans, refuse to permit--or in Mr. Judge's case, demand--testimony of persons who would be able to corroborate or disprove Dr. Ford's testimony. 

Even if some of the Republicans truly believe that this is a smear campaign against Judge Kavanaugh, suspiciously brought up "at the last moment," one has to, or at the very least, one is obliged by a sense of decency to investigate Dr. Ford's  claims. 

Furthermore, the fact that the Republicans choose not to question Dr. Ford directly, but have deferred this task to a prosecutor--(Female? of course!)--reveals them to be the cowards that they are.

I repeat: the hearings are a farce. It's as if a victim of sexual abuse by a priest had to present his case before a committee that consisted entirely of bishops. 

If the Republicans are able to railroad through a confirmation of Judge Kavanaugh, it will be but one more example of the serious damages the Republicans, from the President on down, have been inflicting on our country. 

Enough is enough! I think it likely that Kavanaugh will be confirmed, but even if he is, I predict that this will be a Pyrrhic victory.

I am cautiously optimistic about the good this will do for women, although I am less optimistic about the good this will do for working-class women and men.

Why am I cautiously optimistic in the first regard? Women have had enough. They are energized; there are many female candidates running as Democrats, etc.

It is an obvious fact that women are every bit as capable as men in virtually everything except fathering a child. They are not going back to the kitchen. It is inevitable--and a very good thing-- that capable women will obtain coveted positions. To do that, it is absolutely necessary that they be treated as equals.

There are signs--better late than never--of a much overdue decrease of support for Trump among women. If Kavanaugh is confirmed, this tendency should continue apace.

My view is that the Republicans know that their behavior--that is, their unwavering support for Kavanaugh--will cost them at the polls in November. I believe they are willing to take a beating in order to get their man on the Supreme Court. I am convinced that they are much less concerned with such things as abortion rights as they are with having a man on the Court who will favor corporate rights over workers' rights. Yes, it's always about money and power, but it's not always completely about money and power--there is such a thing as decency; if Republicans get their way, however, it would come very close to being about money and power and about nothing else. 

Why am I less optimistic regarding the working class? If confirmed, Kavanaugh will attempt to do to workers, metaphorically, what he has almost certainly done to Dr. Ford: attempt to screw them. While still presenting himself as a man of integrity? You betcha.

Dr. Ford states that she suffered years of anxiety and shame from what happened to her. She deserves our utmost respect and sympathy. Without diminishing that sympathy, we must extend our support for countless workers who are losing their health care; who are willing to work hard, and yet do not receive a living wage; who are sometimes unable to feed and shelter their families, etc. What about their anxiety? What about their shame?

Judge Kavanaugh is an elite privileged male among whom mistreating women is widespread. Judge Kavanaugh is also an elite, privileged, rich male, among whom ignoring and mistreating workers is perhaps even more widespread.

(An aside: Why is Trump's support among white men the only demographic group the majority of which still vote Republican? A toxic combination of economic insecurity and racism is, I'm convinced, the answer to that question. My message is this: as surely as women are not going back to acceptance of subservient roles, neither will blacks and other minority members. America is becoming diverse; white folks, get used to it--¡Caramba! it's not a bad thing).

Women are waking up, no longer content to vote against their own interests. Why do so many members of the working-class, Trump's base, continue to vote for hands that bleed them?

I am cautiously optimistic in both regards. All those white faces cheering Trump; Trump himself; his cabinet--all have their parts in the final act of an atavistic, malevolent opera called the twilight of (self-proclaimed) gods.

The curtain is--perhaps--beginning to fall. When will it come down? It depends on you and me. Support women's rights; oppose racism in all its forms; demonize no group, including undereducated white men, who are as human as everyone else; demand justice; demand that all Americans be treated fairly; support workers' rights, etc.  

Things will get better--with your help. Vote! Vote! Vote!

A Trip to New York with a Stopover In Israel

Fall is a busy time for pediatricians. Law requires that students have received age-appropriate vaccinations, and often a physical examination as well, before they are permitted to attend school. Every year it's the same thing!--Many parents wait till the last minute or even after the last minute. As soon as school starts, there is a respite--until the colder weather comes.

Nirmala needed a break, so we decided to take a day trip to New York on August 29th, 2018.

1. Getting There

There are, of course, many ways to get to the Big Apple from Baltimore, bus, train and car are the usual modalities. We used to drive often to New York--we were younger then, and had family--including a mother whom I sorely miss--in Union City, N.J., just across the Hudson River from New York City. We would drive up on Friday after work. Once we arrived, my stepfather would come down from their tenth floor apartment, and let me into the multi-level garage, the open balconies of which afforded, and presumably still afford, a spectacular view of the New York City skyline. Nirmala and I would push off to Manhattan the following day, and usually attend a performance at the Metropolitan Opera in the evening. My mother and stepfather would entertain our son, Philip, in the meantime. We miss those fun times. They will never come again.

If I had shone a flashlight into the heavens on the first night after my mother passed away, the photons thus released would have been traveling at the speed of light for over seventeen years. They would have passed by now a few dozen stars that are our closest neighbors; they would soon be approaching, if the flashlight had been pointing directly toward it, a star called Sigma Draconis, a sun about 77% the size of ours. It possibly has at least one planet, estimated to be the size of Uranus. It's as if part of me lives on that planet, receiving the news of my mother's death as if it happened now. Fond memories ride those photons; perhaps imagination will receive their dismal message on a planet an additional ten or twenty light-years away, who knows? I, however, know this: The photons must eventually become riderless, as I and my memories turn into interstellar dust.


I apologize for the diversion; let's get back on the bus.

After a three-and-a-half hour journey spent reading on a luxurious bus, we arrived in Manhattan; on Eighth Avenue between 45th and 46th street, to be precise. We immediately headed to Times Square, a.k.a. Duffy Square, on 47th and Broadway. Under the red steps of the square, as the advertisements have it, the line for discounted tickets for Broadway shows forms every day.

An aside: When Nirmala and I lived in New York years ago, we never knew that the name of this square was Duffy Square. The large bronze statue at the center is of Chaplain Duffy, who served in World War l. Before that statue was dedicated in 1939 by Mayor Laguardia, a hideous fifty-foot statue occupied its place, which depicted a fiery angel with a shield. It was called The Defeat of Slander. Standing at the heart of Broadway for years while listening to the idle gossip of passers-by, the poor thing must have admitted defeat of its Defeat well before it was razed in the 1930s. At the front of the square George M. Cohan looks out into the distance, remembering himself, presumably, to Herald Square.

The line moved rapidly. Young assistants, whose day job is to hand out leaflets of various shows and to answer our questions, while dreaming, no doubt, of a night job in a Broadway theater for themselves. One of those very pleasant young persons gave us a leaflet advertising a musical--there was only one choice for a play available, namely Straight White Men--which didn't sound  interesting. We intended to watch the confirmation hearings of Judge Kavanaugh, during which we will undoubtedly get our fill of the machinations of (presumably) straight white men. The musical we chose was The Band's Visit, which received an array of awards.

Our enormous bus driver had made several infelicitous jokes during the trip about New York City, predicting that it would be a Baked Apple during our visit, due to high ambient temperature. We usually do a lot of walking, but it was just too hot to walk about on the day of our visit. We had a few hours to kill before the show started; we found a fairly good Chinese restaurant on 47th Street, a few blocks north of Times Square. We had a tolerable lunch of Ma Po Tofu and eggplant with garlic sauce. The waiter, who spoke little English,  did, Holy Cow!, finally understand our vociferously expressed demand of No Meat! No Meat!

2. Our Stopover in Israel

Shortly after our meal, it was time to enter Israel, where the musical we attended, The Band’s Visit, takes place. Nirmala and I were soon delighted that we took the flight to Zion; in this case, the journey consisted of a few steps off 47^th Street into the exquisite Ethel Barrymore theater. Before the show began, the scrim over the stage announced that we must switch our cell phones onto vibrator mode—in English, and presumably, in Arabic and Hebrew as well.

I can write in all sincerity that The Band’s Visit was one of the best musical experiences I’ve had in a long time. The book, based on a 2007 eponymous Israeli film, was written by Itamar Moses, who was raised in California; the fabulous music and the impressive lyrics are by David Yazbek, who hails from New York City.The venue has been the Barrymore since the musical's Broadway premiere in November of 2017. Every member of the cast was first-rate. The Band’s Visit has won many Tony Awards, including best musical, best book, best score, best actor in a musical, best actress in a musical, and best director.

First, a brief summary of the plot. The Alexandria Ceremonial Police Orchestra, consisting of about a dozen Egyptian musicians, has arrived in the tiny desert town of Bet Hatikva. They are in the middle of nowhere, as it were; they ask directions on how to get to the local Arab cultural center, at which they are to perform the following day. Due to the thick Arab accent of the band member who bought the bus tickets, they wound up in Bet Hatikva instead of their destination, Petah Tikvah. They will have to wait until the next day, when there will be a bus to take them to Petah Tikvah.

Dina, the owner of the only café in town, invites some of the members to stay overnight at her place, and helps arrange accommodations for the other guests as well. In one sense, nothing really happens as we follow how the band members share an evening with their Israeli hosts; in another sense, the spark inside everyone ignites and rises to a crackling fire, before receding to embers by the next morning. This is especially true of Dina, (played by the fabulous Katrina Lenk), and Tewfiq, the leader of the band.

What moved me so much is that the theme of the musical is music's ability to provide us with a sense of wonder and even with a sense of fulfillment—at least while the music lasts. I see the desert town as a metaphor for life without music in the broadest sense; a life without art, a life without love, a life without life.

The book centers on the relationship between Dina and Tewfiq. Both have had unhappy lives; the childless Dina was once married, a marriage that dismally failed. Tewfiq once had a wife he adored and a son whom he adored as well, although he regretted never having been able to show it. He confesses that he had never appreciated his son, who was good, gentle and kind—and as one suspects, gay. The latter, Tewfiq informs Dina, committed suicide; his wife died of a broken heart a little later.

Dina reports that she and her mother would often listen to Egyptian television during Dina’s childhood. She loved listening to the famed Egyptian singer, Umm Kulthum—whom one wag described as an Egyptian Ella Fitzgerald with the stage presence of Eleanor Roosevelt—mother and daughter loved watching Omar Sharif movies as well. In her song, Omar Sharif, she described how those movies and music had often moved her to tears, briefly transforming her drab life into the Garden of Eden.

During their evening out, Dina takes the shy, broken Tewfiq to the "local park,” which consists of a park bench in the middle of town. She admires Tewfiq, who lives a life of music. Does he like anything else? Yes, fishing. He invites Dina  to imitate his arm movements as he conducts an imaginary concert, which she does with great animation. Tewfiq proceeds to sing a classical Arab song.

At this point,Dina sings a very beautiful song, Something Different. “Is this Hafez", she sings, "is this Rumi, is this my Omar Sharif?" Is he singing about love, she wonders—or is he singing about fishing? In any case, it’s Something Different, a joy-bringing dove flying over the desert with an olive branch in its beak.

Fire is now burning inside Dina; fire, perhaps at a somewhat lower pitch, is now burning inside Tewfiq. But they are broken vessels--Their internal flames are unable to pass through the shards, sadly incapable of passing from one broken vessel to another. The song is not only beautiful, but a beautiful symbol of life as well: Fulfillment occurs, but often only while the music lasts, as it were. After the music is over, Paris turns into Bet Hatikva once more.

The music sounded a deep chord within me. I understand very well the contrast between the over-the-rainbow Ozworld of music, compared to the black and white doldrums of Kansas.

On more than one occasion, I have imagined traveling back in time to Saint Thomas’s Church in Leipzig during the eighteenth century, listening in ecstasy to a performance of a Bach cantata. While the music lasted, all my questions were answered, and all my doubts resolved, that is, there was no longer an I to seek answers, just music listening to music. Then, after the cantata finished, the Lutheran minister would begin his sermon. “What the hell is he talking about? I gotta get outta here!,” I would say to myself and wake up. The magic was over, replaced by hackneyed prose.

There is an absolutely glorious chorus which begins Bach’s Christmas Cantata; Bach, however, had not originally composed it to a text celebrating joy becoming manifest inside us, but to a text honoring the visit of a local politician! I thought of this as Dina sang, Is this a hymn, is this a love song, is this Hafiz, is this Rumi—or, as she later muses, Is this a song about fishing?

Music is poetry; it has its own language, independent of prose. If Tewfiq’s words centered on love or fishing for trout, the emotional effect of the music would remain largely undiminished. (There is nothing comparable to the marriage of great words and great music, however). 

Sometimes it’s best to forget the words. I understand German, and sometimes think it’s better not to know the meaning of the words of certain Schubert songs, where the music is a soaring eagle and the words are an aleatory scattering of murine scat.

After Dina and Tewfiq part the following morning, the band plays a brief concert of classical Arab music. It was an electrifying performance; it almost moved me to tears. Music thus got the last 'word'.

Music provides hope, music provides ecstasy. We glimpse eternity, however, only while the music, in the broadest sense of the word, lasts--and, alas! it almost always doesn't. This is both the glory and tragedy of life; this is also the theme of one of the best musicals to have come to Broadway in a long time. It should not be missed.

Two Cases of Heatstroke: Jordan McNair and Thomas Dorsett

"Too hot, too hot!," is spoken at the beginning of  Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale by Leontes, who comes to the (false) conclusion that the courtly flirting, acceptable at the time, between his wife and his old friend Polixenes, had gone too far. This is a classical example of figurative heat; in this little article, we will discuss two examples of the real thing, excess body heat, occurrences of  which killed one man and almost killed another. The two incidents of heat stroke occurred nearly four decades apart; the most recent event resulted in the tragic death of a young athlete. If the second event had had a similar outcome, there would not have been subsequent decades of shared love and shared struggle experienced by a man named Thomas and by a woman named Nirmala. In other words, there would be no words here, words written by a person who considers himself lucky to be alive.

Let us begin with the tragic death of a young football player.

1. The Case of Jordan McNair

Young Jordan had been an excellent student at McDonough High School, a prestigious private school in the Baltimore area. He began his first year at the University of Maryland in 2017. Not only gifted academically, he was athletically gifted as well. Standing at six foot four and weighing about 300 pounds, you can guess the sport at which he excelled. 

During football practice on a hot day at the end of May, McNair was noted to be having difficulties at around 5 p.m.. At 4:15, the team members  performed about fifteen minutes of aerobic exercise, followed by a period of conditioning, which consisted of several 110 yard sprints. After completion of these tasks, around 5 p.m., McNair was in trouble. He was taken into a team room to recover. At around 6 p.m. an ambulance was called; the young man was having a seizure. His temperature at his arrival at a local hospital was 106. After a crucial lapse of an hour during which little had been done to help him, his temperature was brought down by cold water immersion, the standard treatment for heat stroke. He was subsequently airlifted to Maryland's prestigious Shock Trauma Center, but it was apparently too late. Brain damage had already occurred; after struggling for two weeks, he died.

This death should not have happened. There was a so-called strength coach on duty at the football practice, who quite possibly pushed the players hard, too hard. This harshness, which sometimes might cross the border from harshness to abuse, is apparently a frequent aspect of the macho world of football.

The well-known football coach Vince Lombardi was fond of repeating Red Sanders famous dictum, "Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing." Winning brings prestige--and a lot of money--to colleges whose teams are victorious. Not only coaches, therefore, but many college and university presidents tacitly support this dictum as well, although they might be hesitant to admit it in public.

I imagine that McNair, fearing to appear wimply, did not complain until it was too late--that is, after indications of impending collapse appeared.

During the eighties, I was the Director of School Health for the Baltimore City Health Department. Our team made sure that coaches understood that athletes must be allowed, without shaming, to take liquids whenever they felt it was needed. We also identified the dangers of practice during hot days. This was apparently not the policy the "strength coach" followed on that fatal day in May.

Treatment for heatstroke is well established: rapid cooling by immersion in cold water. This would have saved Mr McNair, and should have been available, if not immediately, then after only a brief delay.

The University of Maryland is responsible for the gross negligence of delaying necessary treatment for a crucial hour. The institution will have to pay the family millions in damages, no doubt about that.

How could the staff have been so ignorant, so indifferent in their handling of a true medical emergency? I should talk!

2. The Case of Thomas Dorsett

In the summer of 1978--hardly the coolest time to be in India--my wife, Nirmala, and I traveled to Calcutta. We were exploring the possibility of adopting a child from India; we also planned to meet my brother-in-law, the late and great Lieutenant Colonel Vijayan Gopalan, who was stationed near Calcutta at the time.  We met him on the morning of a hot day. We visited Mother Teresa's orphanage, and saw a child we wanted to adopt--she was about six months old. It didn't work out, since neither of us are Catholic. We also visited the famed Loreto School in Calcutta.

Toward the end of the day, we toured the Calcutta Botanical Gardens.  We were walking along a long path in the gardens, which stretched straight ahead of us for almost a mile. Nirmala and Vij were lost in an animated discussion. Unnoticed, I began to drop behind. I just couldn't keep up; I began to feel quite ill.

By the time they noticed that I hadn't kept up with them, I had fallen quite a distance behind, maybe a half kilometer. They turned around and waited. They thought I had been busy smelling jasmines, or something like that. 

We had become tortoises and a debilitated Achilles, characters  from the ancient anecdote which supposedly proves that no motion is possible. Zeno, the author of the anecdote which since has been known as Zeno's paradox, asserted that for Achilles to reach a tortoise, he must first reach half the distance between them, then half of that, etc--There would always be a divisible portion left--Therefore the hapless god will never reach the tortoise.

In my case, I, a debilitated Achilles who had weaknesses beyond those of his heels, could only proceed at a tortoise's pace.

When I finally reached my wife and brother-in-law, they gave me an annoyed what's-the-matter with-you look. Annoyance quickly turned to concern when they noticed that something indeed was the matter with me. I could hardly talk; I could barely walk.

We thereupon entered the Botanical Gardens canteen, where they had been waiting for me. They bought me a cold drink, but I could only take a few sips, lest I vomit. My head lay on a table; I couldn't sit up.

They realized I was quite ill. Vij called for the army jeep to take us to Barrackpore, about 30 kilometers north, where Vij was stationed.

The jeep came; I sat in the front. I don't know how long the journey took, maybe about an hour. The roads were unpaved and the ride was bumpy.

I asked a few times, with a weak voice, are we almost there? Yes, Vij replied. I remember this jeep ride as the worst time I felt in my entire life. I was barely conscious.

When we arrived, Vij and Nirmala still assumed that I could walk to the barracks, but I couldn't. (This was my fault--I never told them how sick I felt, and by this time, I couldn't talk at all). I exited the jeep and collapsed. I was helped to the barracks. Upon arrival, my oral temperature was over 106 degrees Fahrenheit.

I don't think I seized, but I writhed about on the bed. Clothes were removed down to my undershorts.  Nirmala brought wet sheets and wrapped them around me. Boy did that feel cold! This had to be done several times, as I  defervesced.

I survived. and was damn lucky that I did. No one at the time realized that the heat stroke I suffered could easily have been fatal. In fact, my aha moment came forty years later when I read about what happened to Jordan McNair.  

There are eerie similarities between the two cases. We both had temperatures of 106. Fever doesn't get much higher than that; at this temperature, brain damage is a distinct possibility--in McNair's case it became a tragic reality. We both remained untreated for at least an hour after severe symptoms first appeared. 

Regarding the young football player, there had been an egregious error.  In my case there was an error as well: After all, I was a doctor and should have recognized my symptoms as that of impending heat stroke. But I didn't--I thought I merely needed fluids and some rest, until, quite suddenly, I had become too ill to talk.

What brought about the death of a promising young athlete? Negligence. Inexcusable negligence. What brought about the survival of an older man, thus enabling him, as it turned out, to write on into old age? 

Plain, simple, and inexplicable luck!