Tis the Season

“He was trying to dress for work... in the dark…no lights.”
“Why?”
“So he would not wake me.”
“How sweet.”
“But he was grumbling, ’Bargains! Arghh! Can’t get these darn socks on!
"I said, 'Dave, you’re trying to put on my evening gloves.'”

I recall holiday visits from Uncle Harry and Aunt Gloria. Harry, my mom’s brother, was a government worker who liked to smile, was short of opinions, and suffered his wife’s bitterness about my mom’s suggestion that they consider institutionalizing their Down’s syndrome daughter. They would travel from the Bronx to our large, suburban New Jersey house bringing my mom’s father, who was called Zayda. Zayda’s real name was Peter Herman. A former carny, Zayda specialized in telling jokes to bring in the rubes. When I knew him, he worked in a department store selling wallets and ladies handbags. He still liked to tell jokes even though he never got over my mother having stopped taking care of him when she left his household – despite having lost his wife - to marry my dad. Uncle Dave, my mother’s other brother, and Aunt Doris would arrive from Brooklyn to also share the holiday meal. They were a good-natured, fun-loving couple who taught their two sons to resent their relatively wealthy relatives. Grandpa Joseph Friedlander, my dad’s father, would arrive by himself, having figured out how to take a train from Manhattan. He was a strong, silent, cigar smoker who never forgave his wife for having first taken his sons to live separately and then dying. Despite their family history, we would gather around the dinning room table and, like a scene from Annie Hall, the conversation rollicked. Jokes, stories, remembrances, and family misadventures flowed with the Manischewitz wine. Offenses, hurts, and hard feelings were put aside during those raucous meals while they related to each other as they had while growing up during the Great Depression. In those growing up years, their survival depended on caring for each other.

I’ll admit the big-screen TV is great. The latest video games and gadgets are cool. However, the chance to put those aside, along with an entire year’s worth of self-righteous anger, for a few hours of enjoyment with family and friends are what we remember about the holidays.

Live Donor Organs

Organ Talk
"Is Chinese cheaper?”
"Yes, but you have to go after each hour."

Platform Programme at Conway Hall
South Place Ethical Society, London, England.

Ethical Doubt About a Market in Live Donor Organs. Dr. Simon Rippon asks if we should be permitted to sell our unnecessary organs. £3 on the door/ free to SPES members.

As evidenced by the advertising blurb listed above, England is having a lively debate about the ethics of a commercial market involving human organs. Some argue that permitting the buying and selling of body parts will expand availability, lower costs, and can be regulated to avoid exploitation. Others argue that it will exploit the poor because who else would be willing to trade a kidney for cash?

In the United States, about 7,000 people die each year for the lack of an organ transplant. Kidneys are the primary organ in demand. Some 17,000 kidneys are transplanted annually. However, some 90,000 individuals need kidney transplants. The waiting list for all organs is over 100,000. In 1984 Congress outlawed the commercial trade of organs through the National Organ Transplant Act. Congress also established the "United Network For Organ Sharing," the country's monopoly provider of organs. This organization maintains the national waiting lists under an exclusive contract with the Department of Health and Human Services. For example, organ donors in Virginia can register with DonateLifeVirginia.org.

We can legally sell our blood and hair because, I suppose, blood and hair are capable of being regenerated. Why can’t I sell my heart or liver or lungs should I experience an untimely death? I suppose the answer is that some unscrupulous persons may be willing to help me toward completing the transaction. So, why can’t I sell just one eye? Why can’t I sell just one of my kidneys?

I do not know the answer. What I like about the English is their willingness to engage in this type of public debate that makes us Americans somewhat uncomfortable because it deals with death and disease.

Rah! Rah! Rah!

“My Sport?”

“Competitive eating is not for everyone.”

The St. Louis Cardinals recently won the World Series baseball championship. My spouse, a transplanted St. Louis native who has lived in the greater Washington, D.C. area for over twenty years, was joyous. Her brother living in Norfolk and sister now residing in Wisconsin were equally thrilled. I asked whether she received any tangible benefit because that particular business consisting of professional athletes prevailed. “No, that is not the point,” she responded. Then I saw an online posting where a Facebook friend pointed out to another former St. Louis native (who had been enthusing over the Cardinals) that by excluding the Japanese, the contest between American and National League teams was not a bona fide “world series” contest. Like my dour complaint, her comment also came across as churlish. I accept the fact that I feel slightly better on Monday morning if the Redskins win. I prefer the Nationals to win more games than they lose. I like the Wizards to work magic once in a while. On the few occasions that our local – academically superior - high school wins a sports event, I am slightly pleased. Why? Why? Why?

Here is my theory of the proxy. As a child, I can remember daydreaming about being a superhero or at least a person with special powers of flight, invisibility, or strength. In my fantasies, people would fear or admire me. At a minimum, life would become exciting. My imagination could create endless stories about rolling over bullies, surviving on a deserted island, or capturing the charms of a lovely damsel. No matter how much pee wee football I tossed around with Jay, stickball I played with Jeffrey, or basketball I played with Jack, I would not make the Columbia High School football, baseball, or basketball squads. Wrestling, track, swimming, golf and tennis were not available for an enthusiastic but mediocre athlete. In addition to wanting individual recognition, we are also herd animals. We want closeness with others with whom we seek mutual protection. True, we like to believe on some level that we are unique individuals (Mr. Rogers told us that we are special); however, conformity provides its own strength and safety. When a local team wins, we feel like we are part of that effort.

By proxy, we prevail.