Putting My Worst Foot Forward

(Published in the Janesville Messenger, 12-15-2013)

During my 51 years of usefully creating carbon dioxide, I have been fortunate to avoid major medical problems and hospital stays.

So it was with great hesitation and fear of the unknown that I approached my recent foot surgery for bunion and hammertoe. Not only was it the first time I was seriously scalpeled, but also my first long recovery and rehabilitation period.

It was also my first experience on Vicodin, the drug whose mention immediately conjures up the name “Brett Favre.” Unlike Favre, however, I was unable to throw touchdown passes on the drug. The only thing I could throw ... was up.

For at least six weeks, I will be walking around in a surgical boot. Getting used to this contraption is a major adjustment, but at least I can get around now. The first two post-operative days were spent glued to a couch except for bathroom breaks. But even that lack of mobility was revelatory; I now know what’s it like to be a Minnesota Vikings fan.

Four days after the surgery, I had my first post-operative checkup to change the bandages and make sure the wound was healing properly. Dressing removed, I finally saw my “new” foot for the first time. The multiple stitches and the pin sticking out of one toe didn’t get my attention as much as what appeared to be an entirely new shape.

Instead of the widened Donald Duck-like nightmare it had been morphing into, this actually looked like a foot, almost like I was looking at someone else’s. I stared at it for a few solid minutes trying to take it all in until the new bandages were applied.

After recuperating at home for several days, the time came to return to work. But first, there were a couple of interesting issues for which I had to find solutions.

There was the issue of walking semi-comfortably in the surgical boot. The boot adds well over an inch to your height ... on one side. When I first started walking with it, the sensation was like penguin waddling, or worse, an overserved college student stumbling down State Street.

For ladies, there are fashionable options with heels to wear on their unimpaired foot to even things out. In the post-disco era, there are few of those options for men. The shoe I own that came closest to leveling my gait was a hiking boot. But even that didn’t quite match up, so with every step I took, I counted down the minutes until the inevitable call to the chiropractor.

Plus, going to work in a hiking boot didn’t feel right. So I went into WWRGD mode (“What Would Red Green Do?”). My solution was to duct tape a thick coaster to the heel of one of my dress shoes and then stuff it inside a rubber overshoe. To my shock, it worked.

Red surely would be proud, because the solution to the other problem also involved duct tape. In the first few days after the surgery, my cleanliness ritual consisted of sponge baths and washing my hair in the sink. That’s fine, but I really missed my morning shower.

The problem is that you absolutely cannot get the bandage and dressing wet. But thanks to the miracle of the Internet, there is no question that cannot be answered.

It required a hand towel stuffed into the top of the surgical boot, a plastic grocery bag wrapped and duct taped tight around the boot, and a garbage bag placed over the boot-in-the-bag and duct taped tight around my leg. I was so terrified that it wouldn’t work that double-bagging it was actually my idea. It worked.

So I will be spending my Christmas with the ultimate stocking, a big bulky gray surgical boot. What I really want from Santa is to see it hanging from a mantle next December instead of at the bottom of my left leg.

Whatever Happened to Thanksgiving?

(Published in the Janesville Messenger, 11-24-2013)

Walking through town on an early November morning, I discovered an interesting phenomenon. My town is bipolar. And one of the poles is the North Pole.

In a span of five houses I walked past, two still had Halloween pumpkins on their front steps. Two already had Christmas decorations. The other house apparently was owned by the Swiss.

For the record, my home at this writing is behind the times, still displaying pumpkins. This is one time, however, when procrastination could turn practical. If I add a few corn stalks, voila! The pumpkins now are Thanksgiving decorations. 

And that would be rather unique. Because not on that street I walked nor any other have I thus far seen a pilgrim, turkey or cornucopia. Not that Thanksgiving was ever a big holiday for decorations, but once Halloween is done, we seem to dismiss its aesthetic possibilities so we can hang the icicle lights before we get actual icicles. Thanks to this year’s Veterans Day snowfall, the early Christmas decorators have every right to look smugly upon the rest of us.

The early snowfall seemed only appropriate because Christmas ads greeted us before Halloween this year. Some radio stations (including one in Milwaukee) switched to all-day Christmas music on Halloween. "Christmas creep" has now conquered the entire month of November, swallowing Thanksgiving whole but not falling asleep on the couch after the meal.

Once upon a time, Macy’s declared the unofficial start to the Christmas season when Santa Claus showed up at the end of its Thanksgiving Day parade. This year, Macy’s really means it, as they are one of a growing list of retailers that will open for business Thanksgiving evening. They’re pikers compared to Kmart, though. While the folks from Macy’s are spending Thanksgiving morning flying balloons down 34th Street, Kmart will be welcoming shoppers starting at 6 a.m. 

I am a little sad to see Thanksgiving become little more than a shopping holiday. Like a football team looking past a lesser opponent on the schedule to focus on a big game, Thanksgiving seems now to be simply the opening act for the main event a month later.

For Christians like me, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of our Lord. And when I view the day in that intended context, it is indeed sublime. But when it comes to the type of Christmas season that even Charlie Brown decried, well, no thanks, I prefer Thanksgiving. No commercialism to speak of, no worrying about gifts and shopping, the only tradition is to eat yourself into unconsciousness. And when there are no other distractions associated with the holiday, one can focus on what’s really important -- spending time with family and being thankful for our many blessings.

The only potential interruption to the festivities is when the Packers play on Thanksgiving, a tradition that I wish would go away. I am a devoted fan of the Packers, but I don’t like to see them intrude on one of the rare days when most of my family is together. If any Packers fan needs yet one more reason to love Vince Lombardi, he prevented the Packers from playing on Thanksgiving for 21 years. If only Ted Thompson could wield that kind of influence on the league office.

It appears that this year’s Lyke family Thanksgiving will include, out of a possible 28 attendees, 27 members representing four generations, our biggest gathering in years. I am not one who is fond of crowds, but I am greatly looking forward to this one. The opportunity to gather in this way is why I like Thanksgiving so much.

As for decorations, I have the perfect plan for next year. In October, I intend to put up a turkey dressed as Santa carrying a jack-o’-lantern. That should cover me for three months.

The Voodoo You Do For Your Team

(Published in the Janesville Messenger, 10-20-13)

You're watching an NFL game on television, and there is a break in the action for commercials. You hear the opening notes of Stevie Wonder's “Superstition.” You see Bud Light advertise beer by poking fun at diehard fans and the Game Day rituals that they believe, through some sort of karma, magically help their favorite team's performance. It's an amusing campaign that has stayed alive simply because there is an element of truth to it. And Bud Light's message is simple: drink our beer to help your team win.

And that hypothesis is no more preposterous than, say, wearing your lucky jersey or sitting in the same spot you occupied the last time your team scored an important victory. I admit, I have done that. And when I think logically about it, I know it's absolutely ridiculous or worse yet, unbecoming a Christian. But I am not deluded enough to actually believe that my actions or clothing or choice of seat contribute to a Packers victory or loss.

But you would be surprised how many actually do. Bud Light did an online survey of fans' Game Day superstitions. Over one-third of Steelers fans surveyed (36%) believe their superstitious activities actually affect the outcome of a game. And down in Houston, Texans fans believe that not doing their Game Day superstitions has resulted in a Texans loss (31%) or the opposing team scoring (28%).

That's a pretty heavy responsibility for a fan to take on. Who wants to be blamed for your favorite team's loss?

When it comes to sports, my superstitious tendencies come naturally, handed down by family not unlike an heirloom that passes through the generations. Though I broke this habit, I used to participate in the “if I turn the game off, my team will stop playing poorly” routine that I learned growing up. But I still possess other idiotic idiosyncrasies.

My worst offense is keeping a mental note of wins and losses tied to certain behaviors. For example, when I attend a Brewers game at Miller Park, the team's won-loss percentage is stellar. I am 10-2 in the last dozen games I have attended in Milwaukee. If I catch the team on a road trip, however, then my results are not so good. Witnessing the Brewers play in Chicago or Minnesota, the team is 0-3. And each loss was particularly painful – one extra-inning walk-off, one huge lead blown, one good old fashioned butt-kicking. Does that mean I will never again venture into another team's stadium to watch the Brewers? Of course not. I'm a sucker for punishment.

When it comes to the Packers, clothing and not location seems to make the difference. I own two Packers jerseys. One is a green John Kuhn that I bought prior to their Super Bowl victory a couple of years ago. This tends to be my “lucky” jersey. When worn, the jersey has only experienced one loss but it was a killer – the playoff debacle versus the 49ers last January. My other jersey is a blue and yellow throwback, an Aaron Rodgers. The blue jersey is now 0-5. Its juju is so bad that I actually removed it during halftime of a game the Packers were losing – and they promptly came back and won. Maybe those Steelers and Texans fans are onto something.

So one might ask (that is, if they believed in such nonsense), why on Earth would I ever wear the Rodgers jersey again? Because now I'm on a mission. The jersey needs to get a win. So I am waiting for a game the Packers simply can't lose to break its unlucky streak. It's too bad we don't play the Jacksonville Jaguars this year.

Not that it would make a difference. Right? Right??

This Too Shall Bypass

(Published in the Janesville Messenger, 9-15-2013)

I was in North Dakota when the word on the street reached me in the form of a Facebook post:

So, don't know if you've heard, but Milton disappeared. I was driving north on 26, same as I have for 23 years...and without turning, exiting, or noticeably merging, suddenly found myself...on [County]N. It was one of the most disorienting things I've ever experienced in my life. I expected David Copperfield...to jump out like,..."I did it!!!!"

Hearing that magic was happening in my hometown from 720 miles away got my attention. We all knew the new Highway 26 Bypass was opening, but meetings and maps just can't prepare you for actually navigating the route. My interest was piqued enough that even after a tiring 12-hour car ride, I felt compelled to drive over to the new road before completing the trip home.

Milton wasn't exactly like a vanishing Brigadoon, but I was still surprised at the view from the new route driving northbound. Depending on your level of attentiveness, your impression of the city could be little more than an ethanol plant and a grain tower. Going southbound with Milton on your right, the city is more obvious, but the vantage point feels oddly foreign. Even though Highway 59 was re-routed a couple of years ago, with roundabouts placed at the spot where the new 26 would have exit ramps, it just never dawned on me how far those roundabouts truly were from Janesville Street, the former Highway 26. In a sense, I'm surprised that I'm surprised.

Adding insult to injury, Milton doesn't even get top billing on the exit sign at Highway 59. Whitewater, 12 miles away but 9,000 residents more, is listed above the city whose boundaries you are driving through. Since neither proximity nor alphabetical order was considered in its decision, one can only conclude that in the Department of Transportation's eyes, size does matter.

I can't blame our neighbors to the north if they react with a sarcastic snort. Fort Atkinson and Jefferson have already been there and done that when it comes to rerouting Highway 26 around their cities. In fact, leading up to the opening of the bypass, Jefferson was frequently mentioned by some Miltonites as an example of what we didn't want our city to become - virtually invisible from the new route.

But is being less obvious to passing motorists a bad thing? A newspaper article earlier this year quoted business leaders from Jefferson and Fort Atkinson as saying that their downtowns have done just fine post-bypass, with foot traffic and customers increasing due to the elimination of big trucks rumbling through town. Fort, in particular, is an example worth examining because it's been nearly two decades since their big change. Sure, like a lot of downtowns, some cool stores have come and gone, but there's a lot to like about Fort. There is a great bike trail that I love to ride into the city. I've also driven there to see concerts, eat dinner, or enjoy their riverwalk. Heck, even the taco truck that once frequented Milton loves its new home there. Fort didn't die when 26 skirted past it. Bypass, schmypass.

That's not to say that some Milton businesses and residents don't have legitimate gripes about some of the decisions that were made by the DOT. Highway 26 Version 2.0 is by no means a win-win for everyone involved.

But like Fort, Milton won't disappear. Big changes take a lot of getting used to, so we'll do the only thing we can do - adjust. We'll adapt to our new route to work, our Google Maps will eventually update, and someday your GPS will stop going into “Danger, Will Robinson!” mode because it thinks you're driving crazily through a field. In other words, this too shall bypass.

If only we can figure out those darned roundabouts.

Striking Out For Jesus

(Published in the Sabbath Recorder, Sept. 2013)


“This field, this game... It reminds us of all that once was good and that could be again.” - Terrence Mann in “Field of Dreams”

There are those that claim football has overtaken baseball as America's pastime. Those people have not participated in church league softball.

And until this year, neither had I. Church league softball is an interesting concept, especially when your last experience playing organized softball was nearly two decades ago in a hyper-competitive league sponsored by a tavern.

At that time, it was difficult for us to find 10 athletic guys in their 20's and 30's to field a competitive team. But when our manager (the ever-cheerful and encouraging Neil Lubke) spread the word around church that a men's softball team was forming, he had little trouble filling 20 roster spots.

Despite thinking I was well past my prime – if indeed, I ever had one – I signed up because I thought it would be fun to publicly display my decreased stamina, combined with ineptness in a sport I haven't played since the previous century.

The good news was that I was not alone in this. Our church softball team was an interesting stew of teens, young adults, and “mature” men ranging from 18 to 56. One last participated in an organized league in junior high school...in 1971. To put that in perspective, he last played softball the year after the Beatles broke up. Being multi-generational teammates may have worked for Ken Griffey Sr. and Jr., but I didn't see either of them on our ball diamond.

If softball is baseball’s simpler, less genteel cousin, then church league softball is the kindler, gentler version of that. There were obvious differences between playing in the church league and a “regular” city league. These included:

1)  Swearing. At the beginning of the year, a rules sheet was distributed to all of the teams scolding us that swearing had gotten out of control last year and ejections would be enforced for foul language. I thought to myself, what kind of church league am I joining? I did not realize that the rules sheet was distributed to ALL city league teams, not just the church league. So unlike previous leagues I had experienced, I only heard one foul word all season long, and it came out of...ahem...my own mouth. Forgive me, Lord.

2)  Celebrations. From the Brewers untucking their shirts after big wins to guys mobbing each other at home plate on a game-winning run, teams get darned excited when they win. Except in church league. When our team pulled out a rare walk-off victory, I mobbed the kid who got the game-winning hit, chest-bumping him, slapping his back and generally hooting and hollering that he had done it. Until I noticed everyone else on the team telling me to tone it down. So I did and went politely through the handshake line, expecting that as soon as we left the field, we would be jumping up and down and whooping it up. Not really. Sure, we were all grinning from ear to ear, but the celebration was basically, “Who wants to go get custard?” Which brings me to...

3)  Postgame refreshments. A win (or more often, a valiant effort) is celebrated at a local dairy treat establishment. It was different at the league sponsored by a bar.

4)  Pre- or post-game prayer. We ARE in a church league, after all.

As you may have gathered, we were not exactly the New York Yankees of our league. If anything, we were more like the Jekyll and Hyde. At one time late in the season, the only two teams below us in the standings each had one victory – both against us. Meanwhile, the first-place team had only one loss – also against us.

While winning was a mostly unmet goal, equally important to us was fun, fellowship and setting a good Christian example. Or as Sabbath Recorder editor Kevin Butler put it, we succeeded as bearers of Good News, even though on the field, we more often resembled the Bears of Bad News. 

Four Words No Parent Wants To Hear

(Published in the Janesville Messenger, 8-18-2013)

Your child has leukemia.

I sat numb in the hospital room as the doctor explained that my 21-year-old daughter's blood test from earlier in the day contained cells that 95% of the time are an indication of acute leukemia. He assured us that the diagnosis wasn't a death sentence, that treatment had advanced in the last decade, that there were lots of reasons to be optimistic. Of course, there was still a 5% chance that her illness was an infection of some sort, so an MRI was scheduled for the next day, along with a spinal tap and a bone marrow biopsy. The bone marrow biopsy was the critical test, the one that would positively confirm (or rule out) leukemia.

Various thoughts swirled. How do we tell our son? How do I tell my mother? If she needs a bone marrow transplant, can I be the donor?

How quickly things had changed in the span of about 60 hours. Two days before, she had been at a farm in northern Minnesota, the site of her summer employment, when she suddenly passed out. It was the culmination of a week in which she progressively experienced symptoms that included headaches, fatigue, insomnia and night sweats. My wife and I dropped everything on a moment's notice and drove over 13 hours to bring her home.

Obviously something was wrong, but leukemia? We weren't prepared for that, and we are a family that's had our share of cancer. My mother-in-law lost her battle with it last fall. It also struck my children's other three grandparents, with only one surviving the ordeal. And just the week before, my wife's sister had a melanoma removed from her leg.

Leaving our daughter at the hospital, my wife and I went home, scared, tired and stressed. We stood together and prayed. I stood hand-in-hand with her as she prayed that the bad blood cells would disappear. I'm a believer in prayer, but I found myself doubting that such an outcome was possible, that we needed to be concerned now with healing. I kept those thoughts to myself as she prayed and then emailed our church's prayer chain, requesting that everyone ask for the same miracle.

The following day, the bad cells disappeared.

All of her subsequent blood tests showed no evidence of the cells that led to the initial leukemia diagnosis. We didn't know for certain until the biopsy results confirmed it, but within a day of that terrible news, several signs gave us confidence it wasn't cancer. Instead, it was a nasty virus that should have no long-term effects.

So was it a miracle? Did God answer the prayers that we and so many others had made on my daughter's behalf?

Non-Christians – and perhaps many Christians - will say it was pure coincidence; that it was simply a case of medical personnel misreading the initial blood test and drawing an incorrect conclusion. Others may say we're being presumptuous. Why are we so special that God would answer our prayers and not those of others? Only God can say why some prayers are answered with a yes, and others are not. We don't know His plans for us, but the Bible is peppered with verses that encourage us to pray and to offer petitions. Those passages are obviously there for a reason.

Some think I should be incredibly incensed that on the basis of one initial test, a doctor told us with almost absolute certainty that my daughter had cancer. It would be easy to feel that way. His explanation and his delivery of the news was not handled well. Based on what he had seen, however, that was the logical conclusion.

Regardless, what he said to us in that hospital room is not important now. What is important is that my child does not have leukemia.

And that 95 percent is less than 100.

Remembering Dennis

(Published in the Janesville Messenger, 7-21-2013)

The Janesville community lost a giant last month.

Dennis Vechinsky touched countless lives in his 74 years on earth. He had a trio of passions - education, theater and music - and through whichever of those outlets you knew him, you knew he brought talent, dedication, wisdom and his amazing wit.

Although he and I were most connected by our love of community theater, it was through his position on the Janesville Board of Education that I first met him when I was the education liaison at Forward Janesville. Before long, he and I ended up regularly having our own post-meeting conversations where he would share his unfiltered and often side-splitting opinions.

I arrived too late to the community theater scene to witness him playing what everyone agreed was the role made for him, Tevye in “Fiddler on the Roof.” But I got a taste of it when he sang his signature song, “If I Were A Rich Man,” during “Janesville In Stages,” the opening night show at the new Janesville Performing Arts Center in 2004. (You can find this performance on YouTube.) My young children were mesmerized by him and when the DVD of that show arrived in my home, they repeatedly viewed his performance.

It was during the play portion of that show that Dennis and I had our lone true stage experience together. I did not intend to act in that show, but the opportunity to share a scene with him, just he and I, was something I was not going to miss. Fittingly, his character was a school teacher, a job he held and loved for 21 years. A scene where he was conducting his final class before retiring was a highlight and so typical of the magic Dennis could conjure. Along with Dennis' dead-on performance, the young people in the scene rose to the occasion, no doubt because Dennis had that quality about him, the ability to bring out something special in you when you were around him. From the comments I have heard about him as an actual teacher, that talent was not limited to the stage but also evident in the classroom.

Dennis urged everyone to “keep smiling,” and he managed to do so, even when incredibly painful back and leg troubles, numerous operations, and extended cancer treatments gave him every right to curse the world.

When Laurel Canan was JPAC's executive director, she wanted to pair Dennis and I up in the two-man stage version of Mitch Albom's “Tuesdays With Morrie” as a fundraiser for local hospices. By this time, Dennis' back and leg issues were becoming a problem, so he joked that the role of Morrie (a dying ALS patient) was perfect for him because he could lie in bed for most of the play. We were chomping at the bit and had even begun rehearsing, but the plan was squashed when we were unable to obtain the performance rights to the show. It was one of those projects that we were always going to do “someday.” But someday never came, which will always be a great regret.

The awful irony is that my last conversations with Dennis were, indeed, as he was lying in a bed proceeding toward his death. In one of those hospital visits, he was unable to communicate much, but he was still Dennis. When I threw a good-natured gibe at him, he responded with a smirk and a shake of his fist.

In “Tuesdays With Morrie,” when Mitch's visits with Morrie came to an end, he would kiss his former instructor on the forehead for “extra credit.” That thought crossed my mind on June 14 as I prepared to visit Dennis at his home for what I assumed would be the final time, only to get a call that he had already passed away.

So this column is your kiss, Dennis. Keep smiling, my friend.