The Change of Life, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“Jim is out front and wants to talk with you about that radio transmitter tower that he was talking about yesterday, Sandy said. “He says he has some new information.”

“Jim, how are you doing today,” I said as I offered my hand to shake.

“Sandy says you have some more information.”

“Yes, I found a tower that we could lease space on for a repeater,” Jim said. “This is a hundred-foot tower on Marks Ridge, and we can get a space at the forty-foot level for twenty-nine dollars a month. That removes all the upfront cost for tower construction that I was talking about yesterday.”

“Jim, I know you are excited about this repeater, but I’m not sure that it will help me out a lot. For the initial expenses and then monthly tower fees, it just seems like too much expense for my needs.”

“Don’t worry about the monthly tower fees,” Jim said. “We will have plenty of people using the service to cover those costs. They will also allow us to repay the money you put out to get things started. And then when we are at full steam, we will have a steady revenue stream for income and to cover any operating and maintenance expense.”

“Check with me next week,” I said. “I am going to talk with a couple of the loggers and forestry guys around here to get a feel for their experience with the repeaters they use.”

“Okay, but don’t take too long to make a decision. I have to push ahead, and if I come up with another investor, I will have to go with them.”

“Don’t let me slow you down, Jim,” I said. “I have to be careful with my capital. A veterinary clinic in a small town doesn’t make a fortune.”

***

Every Tuesday, I attended a Rotary lunch meeting. It gave me a good break from the office, and I could mingle with other business people in town. This Tuesday, I grabbed a seat beside Jack. He would be the most knowledgeable about the use of radio communications in the area.

My experience in the Army was closely tied to radio and radar reception all over the world. I knew from that experience that the tower and repeater Jim was pushing would have definite limitations in the many little valleys around Sweet Home.

“Jack, I want to pick your brain a little today,” I said as I slid into the chair beside him.

“That might not take very long,” Jack said with a big smile.

“I have a guy wanting me to go in partners with him to install a radio repeater on a tower on Marks Ridge,” I said. “You have guys out and about all the time. What is your experience with radio reception around Sweet Home?”

“If you think you’ll have a functional radio connection with your office from a single tower on Marks Ridge, you’ll be disappointed,” Jack said. “We purchase usage on multiple towers around the area, many towers really. We do pretty well, most of the time, finding one that we can use. But there are areas that we have no reception. And that is with the use of many repeaters and multiple frequencies.”

“That is what I was afraid of when I was looking at the map,” I said. “Line of sight frequencies don’t tend to go through ridges very well. I think I will just have to continue doing things the way I’ve done them since I came to town.

***

It was some years later that the cell phone was thrust upon the world. The first models were large and cumbersome, and reception in the Sweet Home area was limited. But things progressed.

Bob Lester joined my practice for several years, and we needed to have a little better communication when on farm calls. Finally, Motorola came out with a handheld cell phone. It was still large but smaller than the old walkie-talkie that the Army used. It didn’t fit in your pocket, but it was functional for us.

***

Thursday golf was a big event for me most of the time. I liked it mainly because the phone never rang on the golf course. This one Thursday, Bob was gone, but I had this new cell phone.

Sandy came out of the office as I was getting in the truck to head to the golf course.

“You need to take this with you,” she said, holding the cell phone out to me.

“I guess it will fit in my golf bag,” I said as I took the phone and unzipped the side pocket of my golf bag. I switched the phone on and zipped up the bag, not giving it much thought.

The game went well. I golfed with the same group of guys most of the time. This week, we were in the Men’s club game and played a skins game amongst our group.

In our skins game, the skins that were not won on a hole carried over to the next hole. It was one tie, all tie game, and you had to have the low score on the hole to win the skin. This day, everyone was playing well, and when we came to the seventh tee, no one had won a skin yet. This hole was worth seven skins. At two bits a skin, this hole was worth seven dollars.

The seventh hole at Pineway Golf Course was a par three hole that played about a hundred and fifty yards to a small, sloping green. I hit a hard eight iron and stuck my ball about four feet from the hole.

Everyone was on the green, but I was closest to the pin. The others all putted and had tap-ins for their pars. I had the stage with the only realistic birdie putt.

I carefully addressed the putt.

“What is that,” Gil said as he looked around.

I thought he was trying to distract me from concentrating on the putt that was facing me.

“There it is again,” Jim said. “What the heck is it.”

Then it happened again. I heard it this time.

“It’s coming from Larsen’s bag,” Mike said.

Oh no! It was that damn phone, and it kept ringing.

“Just a minute,” I said as I walked over and unzipped my golf bag. I picked up the phone. The ringing stopped, so I returned it to the bag and zipped up the pocket.

“What’s that thing,” Jim asked again.

“It’s a new cell phone,” I said.

“You better get rid of that before it takes over your life,” Mike said. “We can’t play a game with that thing ringing in the background.”

I addressed the putt again, and the phone started ringing. I concentrated on the hole and stroked the putt. 

The putt broke to the right. The ball rolled up to the edge of the hole and seemed to stop for a moment. The phone rang again, and the ball fell into the hole.

“So that how it works, the damn phone pushes the ball into the hole,” Jim said.

“Seven skins,” I said. “Not bad with the phone ringing in the background.”

Everyone picked up their bags and headed for the eighth hole. I took the phone and called Sandy.

“I was just wondering when you were going to be home for dinner,” Sandy said.

Photo by Tyler Henry from Pexels.

Smoked Steelhead

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The letter was still on my bunk where I had tossed it earlier. I sat down on the bunk and carefully opened the letter.

I had been in Korea for several months, and letters from home often would bring a brief pang of longing. I seldom wrote home. In fact, I probably wrote just enough to keep Mom from complaining. 

This letter was from my brother, Gary. Actually, from the writing, it looked like it was from his wife, Kathy. I pulled the picture out from between the pages of handwritten notes. There was my brother with his kids and a nice fish. It will be good to get back to fishing someday.

The activity in the barracks was increasing as guys were filtering in from a night out in the village. Everyone was back shortly after midnight because of the curfew in the country.

Steve Brown stuck his head into my room.

“I see your lights are on,” Steve said. “What’s going on?”

“I was reading a letter from my brother before hitting the sack,” I said as I handed the photo to Steve. He looked at it and then moved in to be under a better light.

“This can’t be real,” Steve said. “They must have made a trick picture.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “That’s a seventeen-pound steelhead. That’s a large steelhead, but they are not uncommon.”

“I guess I have heard about those fish,” Steve said. “But I have never seen a picture before. Are they good eating?”

“Good eating?” I asked. “Yes, better than salmon, in my opinion. And they are great when they are smoked.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Steve said. “I’ll probably never get a chance to taste any.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I think I will write a letter back to them and ask them to try sending me some smoked fish.”

“Sometimes it takes more than a week for a package to get here from the States,” Steve said. “I would think that fish would spoil in that amount of time.”

“Good cold smoked fish will last quite a while out of the refrigerator,” I said. “I’ll send a note and have them try it.”

Knowing myself, I knew if I waited until morning, I would never write the letter. So, I got my box of letter-writing stuff and wrote a brief note.

It wasn’t much of a letter. I couldn’t write much better than I could carry on a conversation. I was usually bored after the first couple of sentences. But I complimented them on the photo, the fish, and the kids. And I told them how much I missed fishing. At the end of the letter, I asked if they would try sending me a little smoked fish. After all, there should be plenty from a seventeen-pound fish.

I placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and put a stamp on it. Now all I had to do was take it to the orderly room tomorrow so it would catch the outgoing mail in the morning. 

A week for the letter to get there, and day or two to get the fish packaged, if there was any left, and a week to get back here. I should have some fish to eat in two or three weeks. That would be something to look forward to.

We were always busy with operations. Korea, in 1967, was a hotbed of infiltrators from the north, and our job of trying to keep track of all that activity was a hard one.

I had tossed the photo onto my bookshelf, and I glanced at it a time or two, but other than that, I had forgotten about my letter and my request to my brother.

Then suddenly, on a mail call, I had a package. It was from my brother. I quickly opened the wrap. It covered a one-pound can of Folgers Coffee. I popped off the plastic lid. The can was stuffed with smoked steelhead.

“Hey, Steve,” I hollered across the hall. “Come over and try some of that smoked fish I was telling you about.”

Steve popped into the room and looked into the can with a skeptical eye.

“How did you get that so quick?” Steve asked. “You just sent your letter last week.”

I pulled a chuck of smoked fish from the can and smelled it. 

“It smells fine,” I said as I broke off a small piece and slipped it into my mouth. “Tastes just like it should.”

I held the can out, offering it to Steve. He carefully pulled a piece out of the can and took a bite.

“Say, this is really good,” Steve said. “I’ll get Roger and see if he wants any.”

In no time, the room was full of guys, and the contents of the can dwindled. When I finally sat it on my bookshelf, only one piece remained.

“When did they mail this stuff?” Steve asked.

I pulled the outer wrap out of my trash can and looked at the postmark. 

“It looks like it was mailed about a week ago, at eight in the morning,” I said. 

Steve looked at the postmark. 

“You know, if you look at the date and the time, you wrote that letter at about one in the morning, and they mailed this package at eight in the morning the day before, with the time and date difference, they were mailing this stuff at the same time you were writing that letter,” Steve said. “Now, that has to be more than a coincidence.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We probably just think a lot alike. I’m not into believing in all the stuff about mental telepathy.”

“But you have to admit, it’s a little odd,” Steve said.

“And the fish was good,” I said.

“Yes,” Roger said. “Tell them thanks a lot.”

Photo by Kathy Larsen.

Itsy’s Lymphoma

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

I looked again at Itsy’s tonsils. They were huge. Large tonsils and diarrhea equaled salmon disease in my mind until I proved otherwise.

But Itsy’s tonsils were not simply enlarged; they were huge. Opal stood wringing her hands on the other side of the exam table. She knew me well enough to know that I was concerned about something when I was quiet during an exam.

I started checking Itsy’s lymph nodes. They were all huge, even nodes that were not obvious in many dogs.

I looked at Opal. “She hasn’t had any salmon?” I asked.

“No, there hasn’t been any fish in our house for months,” Opal said. “What do you think is wrong, Doctor Larsen?”

Opal was an older lady, and she liked to keep her relationship with me on a somewhat formal basis. She had no problem calling me at night when Itsy spit up on the carpet, but she always addressed me as Doctor Larsen.

Before I answered Opal, I palpated Itsy’s abdomen. I could feel large lymph nodes all along her intestinal tract.

“Opal, I am going to look at an aspirate from one of these lymph nodes,” I said. “All of Itsy’s lymph nodes are very large. We just have to figure out why.”

“This is something bad,” Opal said. “I can tell. When it is bad, you get very quiet and serious looking.”

“Opal, I am going to do an aspirate first,” I said. “Then, if necessary, I will collect a biopsy from this lymph node.” I pointed to the left prescapular lymph node.

“Biopsy,” Opal said. “You think this is cancer. Oh, my God, what will Bitsy do without Itsy?”

“We don’t have a diagnosis yet,” I said. “Let’s make sure we have something to worry about before we get upset.”

Itsy and Bitsy were litter mates, adopted by Opal the day after Mucho died. I looked at them the same day. A couple of puppies that would fit into a coffee mug. They were not much to look at, but they have become Opal life.

I clipped some hair over the large prescapular lymph node. Prepped it with Betadine and stuck a twenty-gauge needle into the node. I twisted the needle a couple of times and withdrew. Then, with a syringe attached, I squirted the sample onto a microscope slide. After a quick stain, I put the slide under the microscope.

It was bad. In my mind, a definite lymphoma. I knew from experience that the pathologist would not make a diagnosis from a smear of an aspirate. He would want a biopsy.

When I returned to the exam room, Opal had Itsy on her lap and hugged her to her chest. Opal’s eyes were moist, but no tears were evident.

“Opal, this looks like Itsy has lymphoma,” I said. “The pathologist will want a biopsy to confirm that diagnosis.”

“I don’t know what you mean when you say lymphoma,” Opal said.

“Lymphoma is a cancer of the lymphatic system,” I said. “It is lymphatic leukemia. Lymphoma is a serious disease Opal. A dog with lymphoma will die from that disease. We can do things to make her feel better and to buy some time, but that is all.”

“I want to do what is best for Itsy,” Opal said. “I want to buy as much time as possible.”

“Okay, then we need to get a biopsy,” I said.

“If we know what it is, why do we need a biopsy?” Opal asked.

“If we are going to do what is best, I will send you to Eugene for treatment,” I said. “They will require a diagnosis from a pathologist, and the pathologist will require a biopsy. The biopsy won’t take long. I can do it right now with local anesthesia. That way, we can get an answer from the pathologist by the end of the week and start treatment at the same time.”

“Can you give Itsy something to make her feel better until then?” Opal asked.

“Now we get into some serious questions,” I said. “Chemotherapy is not the most pleasant treatment in people and dogs. We could give Itsy some prednisone now, and it would make her feel better right away. But the downside is that it often makes the chemotherapy less effective. So that is sort of a quality of life issue. We can make Itsy feel better, but that may reduce the time we can buy for her.”

“How much time are we talking about, Doctor Larsen?” Opal asked.

“I’m afraid not much time,” I said. “You never know, but if we use prednisone, we seldom buy more than a month or two. With chemotherapy, they use a nineteen-week treatment program. That usually gives Itsy a remission. How long that remission lasts is always variable. It might last six months or more if we are lucky. I have not seen it last a year. When the lymphoma returns, the second course of treatment is seldom as effective as the first treatment. My patients who have gone for treatment have all survived the nineteen weeks of treatment. Some remissions have lasted only a week or two. And in those cases, the patient did not survive the second course of treatment. I have only seen one patient survive nearly six months following diagnosis.”

“That’s not much time, Doctor Larsen,” Opal said. “I don’t know what to do. If you send me to Eugene, I would guess it will be expensive.”

“Yes, I don’t know how expensive, but the last couple I sent down there gave up their second car and their cell phones,” I said. “Their dog went into remission, but it only lasted a few weeks. And the dog died a couple of weeks into the second treatment.”

“What would you do, Doctor Larsen,” Opal asked, tears streaming down her face.

“I can’t answer that question for you, Opal,” I said. “You know your finances, but more importantly, you have to understand what Itsy means to you and Bitsy. It can’t be an easy decision, but you must make it.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” Opal said. “You do the biopsy, and I will take Itsy home and wait for your call.”

We took Itsy to the treatment table and clipped a wide area around her left shoulder blade. After prepping the site, I injected some lidocaine for local anesthesia. Itsy looked at me out of her left eye as Terri held her down on the table. I made a short incision over the swollen prescapular lymph node. Then with a six-millimeter biopsy punch, I collected a good sample and placed it in the formalin bottle.

There was no significant bleeding from the biopsy site. That was probably an indication of the unregulated growth in the lymph node. I closed the incision with three simple sutures.

“I wouldn’t expect Itsy to have any problems with this incision, but call if she does,” I said as we returned Itsy to Opal’s lap. “If you haven’t heard from me by Thursday afternoon, you should call. I am going to build a fire under everyone, so I expect you to have an appointment in Eugene on Friday, and the pathologist should have his work done by then.”

***

The diagnosis came back as an aggressive lymphoma. Opal took Itsy to Eugene, and they went through the nineteen-week treatment protocol. 

Itsy did go into remission, but after almost five weeks, Opal called the clinic in tears.

“Doctor Larsen, Itsy is all swollen up again, and she is not feeling well,” Opal said. “She looks at me, and her eyes say, please, don’t do that again.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked. 

“Maybe you can give her some of that stuff buys a week or two of good days,” Opal said. “If we can have a few good days together, I think we will be ready to say goodbye.”

“That sounds like a good plan, Opal,” I said. “You bring her over, and I will start her off with an injection and then send you home with some pills.”

Opal and Itsy were in the clinic within the hour. I gave Itsy a large dose of dexamethasone for an initial dose and sent them home with some prednisone tablets.

“Opal, this is a good plan, but for it to work well, you will have to decide to say goodbye while Itsy is still feeling well,” I said. “If you try to wait too long, she will be sick again or even die suddenly.”

“We just need a few good days, Doctor Larsen,” Opal said. “I just want to see her eyes dance with joy one more time. And Bitsy so enjoys it when Itsy is feeling well.”

Only a few days later, Opal brought Itsy in for her final visit. Everyone was at peace. Opal and her husband Bill sat in the exam room holding Bitsy as we placed a catheter and said goodbye to Itsy.

Photo by Wallace Chuck on Pexels.