January 19, 2018--Rx Trump: GirthGate

Donald Trump finally had a physical and the results are more or less known. More or less because there is already chatter that he and his doctor are not telling the truth about the results. 

Two things--

In spite of what the doctor said, his LDL, "bad cholesterol" numbers are sky high and suggest he has not insignificant heart disease.

And he is borderline obese, which is not good for the health of his heart, especially in combination with the LDL numbers and lack of exercise. Riding around in a golf cart doesn't qualify as exercise.

Take a look at this picture from two weeks ago. Does it suggest that Trump is only, as White House doctor Ronny Jackson claims, 10 to 15 pounds overweight? I'd say, it's more likely 50 pounds. Some are criticizing the doctor for fibbing about the president's actual weight. Skeptics are calling it Girthism or, I prefer my name for this--GirthGate.

In other words the president could be a ticking time bomb. Maybe in a bipartisan gesture presidential candidate Oprah Winfrey could help him out with a gift membership to Weight Watchers. 

In the meantime, what's one-heartbeat-away-from-the-presidency Mike Pence up to these days? In addition to standing behind Trump, nodding and smiling. That should tell us something about his boss's true medical condition. 

I hear he's staying away from carbs and working out.

Then there is the senility test. The Montreal Cognitive Assessment (MoCA) Trump took. It takes 15 minutes to administer, not the half hour they claimed. Unless Trump needed the extra time in pursuit of a perfect score--30 out of 30.

Speaking of mental tests, we had a wonderful Aunt Madeline who was a great character, but during the last years of her life was in and out of hospitals. Occasionally, to take a brief break from the rest of her life.

One time when helping her check into Beth Israel in New York City they gave her a cognitive test to see, at her age, if she was showing signs of dementia. Among other things they asked her to repeat "Car, cat, tree."

She was great at that and everything else. She more than had all her marbles.

"Car, cat, tree," she said over and over again. Not because she was senile and thus repeating herself, but to show them and Rona and me how good her mind still was.

They also asked her to reverse it--"Tree, cat, car." 

"No problem," she said before rattling it off. Again repeatedly, grinning proudly. 

That became a mantra. Whenever one of us would forget a name or an event from years ago, rather than being frustrated we'd chant, "Car, cat, tree" to show we were OK. Still do even though she's no longer with us.

This reminded me of the test Trump asked to take to counter the assertion in the Michael Wolff book, Fire and Fury, that Trump is losing it. Or, has already lost it.

They also asked Trump to repeat car, cat, tree as well as take a paper and pencil test. Below is a sample. It's self explanatory.

What do you think? Is this the kind of test to use to see if our commander-in-chief is fit for office? That he should be trusted with the nuclear codes?

Or is it more appropriate to see if a first grader is fit for promotion to the second grade?

On the other hand, I do want my president to know his hippos.

December 3, 2014--Car, Cat, Tree

Aunt Madeline liked attention. Including occasionally checking herself into hospitals to make sure her nieces and nephews would visit. Otherwise, they made their way to Brooklyn maybe once or twice a year.

One time, she was having real issues. From the panicky phone call to us, seemingly psychiatric ones. She called to see if we could meet her at Beth Israel's admitting office. Out of consideration for us, she picked the hospital nearest where we lived so we wouldn't again have to schlep to a Brooklyn hospital.

It took 15 minutes for us to get there and we waited nervously nearly an hour until the ambulette arrived. Madeline was frazzled and disheveled. Not her usual state and so we were concerned.

From her appearance alone it was clear we needed to get her to psychiatric admitting.

When we did, Madeline asked the nurse who took her history if we could sit with her. "Of course," she said with compassionate understanding.

Among other things, the nurse administered a brief cognitive test--"Can you repeat," she asked Madeline, "car, cat, tree?"

"Car-cat-tree," Madeline shot back full voiced.

"Very good. Can you also repeat car, cat, tree in reverse?" Madeline looked puzzled. "Backwards."

"Oh, that, yes, tree-cat-car," Madeline, proud of herself, smiled as if to say, "I'm not that crazy."

"If I may," I asked the nurse, "what are you trying to determine?"

"If your aunt has dementia, Alzheimer's."

"And?"

"From how she did, I think not."

"You see, I told you," all smiles Madeline said, "I'm not crazy. I'm just having a nerve attack." And from that I felt her hospitalization would be brief. Which indeed it turned out to be.

We visited every day, which gave our wonderful aunt great pleasure; and from then on, for more than 20 years, whenever either Rona or I have been confused about something, not able to recall a name or date, I say car, cat, tree and Rona responds with the more challenging tree, cat, car. This assures us we're still all right. No need yet to get checked into Beth Israel.

Though at 4:00 a.m. yesterday, fitfully sleeping and lying wide awake staring at the ceiling, I could have used a little help and assurance that I hadn't overnight caught a case of Alzheimer's.

For some inexplicable reason--but that's the middle of the night for you: inexplicableness--I couldn't for almost an hour remember who wrote "It's De-Lovely."

I know, crazy. But not being able to remember Cole Porter made me really crazy.

Sweating and tossing, I went down the list of songwriters from that era I could remember--Rodgers and Hart, Rogers and Hammerstein, George and Ira Gershwin, Johnny Mercer, Irving Berlin. None of them I knew wrote "It's De-Lovely."

At least that was something. My memory of songs and composers was still partially intact. Those PET-scan images of brains of old folks with Alzheimer's that show shadowy hollows and vacancies must have just begun to eat away at that part of mine where the names of songs and songwriters are retained. So maybe, I thought, tomorrow night at 4:00 a.m. I no longer will remember who wrote "Thou Swell." At my age, who cares about songwriters.

But try me--Rodgers and Hart.

And of course cat, car, tree.