Showing posts with label Dr. James R. Kennedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dr. James R. Kennedy. Show all posts

Monday, January 02, 2017

Chicago Will Cure Cancer Decades Before It Does an Accurate Prognosis on Killings

Sunday's Chicago Sun-Times will be wrapped with a special cover featuring the faces of hundreds of homicide victims from 2016.

Editor’s note: To memorialize the victims of Chicago’s most violent year in two decades, the Chicago Sun-Times wrapped Sunday’s print editions with 618 faces of the 780 people murdered citywide in 2016 — every victim’s photo that the newspaper could obtain. Columnist Mary Mitchell offers her take on steps to address the city’s violence problem here. To read more stories of homicide victims, go to the Homicide Watch Chicago website: homicides.suntimes.com.  Chicago Sun Times
"You're not the only mother------- out there with guns," - the late Joshua Beal
 What's the cure to Chicago's homicides?  An accurate diagnosis would be a great start. However, compelling narratives are the rule of the day.  People kill people.  They will use a gun, a 2 X 4, a tire iron, a rock, a blade, or  broom to effect the demise of some person who has something the killer wants, or to send a message, or to quiet a witness, or burnish one's street cred, or just playing.

White people kill, black people kill, even Alsatian Quakers kill, if they are accustomed to bad behavior, have no moral core, or happen to be psychopaths. People tend to work their way up the gradus of bad behavior, before becoming killers.

Compelling narratives frame people with very bad behavior as victims of systemic racism, economic exploitation, or identity frustration.  But that is not why people kill.  People kill when they believe that they can get away with it.  If one gets away with misbehavior at every turn, be it jaywalking, disrupting the classroom, intimidating weaker people, stealing, spitting,littering, raping and looting, why not light some one up?

Shopping Malls are up for grabs as mobs of kids act out, just as they do during the school day.  Dots remain unconnected.

We see the problem as a chalk outline and not the previous few hours and minutes of the life outlined and its encounter with a gun owner.

When we are sick and hurting we need good, no-nonsense physicians attending our problems.

 My son was three years old and one morning he could not walk.  " My legs somehow can't work."  His older sister cried, "Conor can't walk!" Terrified his mother and I scooped him up and darted to La Porte Hospital ER.

There the child was examined for hours.

In the mean time, I had called Dr. James Kennedy, M.D. recently retired surgeon who was himself in the early stages of the Parkinson's Disease that would take his life, far too soon. Dr. Kennedy spent all of his free time either going to swimming meets for his seven  athletic children, or attending burn seminars, or surgical methodology demonstrations.

My two physician pals, Doctors Rick Clark and Mark Manning trained under the gimlet eye of Dr. Kennedy.  They told me of a mass shooting that flooded victims into the St. Mary's Hospital ER in Kankakee, Illinois one summer's night.  Dr. Kennedy was off and the ER was a madhouse.  Dr. Kennedy happened to be walking west on Court Street when he saw the all of ambulances charging toward St. Mary's.  Doc went straight there.

Into the chaos, panic and blood appeared Dr. James Kennedy - deus ex machina!  Quiet, order and efficiency saved a dozen lives.

Doc Kennedy counselled, " Don't sign off on anything.  Stay calm like your wife, Mary.  She never panics.  I 'll be there in an hour."

The doctors ran a series of blood tests on the little guy. They were very concerned. Recently, a three year old in Long Beach had been diagnosed with cancer and the first sign had been an inability to walk.

Mary and I clutched hands and prayed.

Dr. Kennedy arrived and needed no introduction as his reputation preceded him even here in Indiana.

" What's the trouble Conor?"

" I can't somehow walk."

Dr. Kennedy examined his feet and legs, " He has been wearing cowboy boots," he stated and not asked.

Mary told him that her mother had bought Conor and his two cousins cowboy boots at Lighthouse Square the week before.

" They're too tight."

No cancer.  no Byzantine pathology required.  No extended stay, or observations necessary.  Conor went on to play every sport but baseball, never dropped a snap as a football center in four years of play at St. Rita and La Lumiere.  He is walking to the Cotton Bowl to watch the Broncos of Western Michigan challenge the Badgers and walks proudly.  He never again wore cowboy boots.


Chicago's murder scores sit at 795.

Here is current wisdom from activists, politicians and the go-along Chicago Media and my rejoinder.

  • It's Guns - inanimate objects; pencils do not fail exams
  • It's Gangs - Old Homies no longer run the show
  • It's Poverty -guns are not free
  • It's Unemployment- guns are not free
  • It's Racism - what isn't?
  • It's Policing - Policing has been outlawed by City Hall, the Peoples Law Office, Black Lives Matter, Carol Marin, Eric Zorn, The Chicago Tribune and Sun Times and WTTW
  • It's Not Policing - Depends upon which side of the compelling narrative the media got up on
My Dr. Kennedy-esque empiricism tells me that wrapping the Sunday Edition in photos of the murder victims, Pastor Pfleger Photo Ops, Mag Mile Marches, Blue Ribbon Panels, ACLU studies with pre-cast conclusions, and weeping and wailing for the cameras are all very nice, but will not stop the killing.

Checking behavior at the root, just might.

Acting the fool, playing the Cell Warrior, just playing, cutting in line, playing chin check, just playing, passing in the imaginary right lane, and working the gums 24/7 are very early indicators of a person capable of riding the 9 down on some chump. See - the late Joshua Beal*

Bad medicine.

Until the Chicago death diagnosis recognizes the true cause of the problem - an inability to realize that getting over on people is not getting by - our 'legs won't somehow work.'

* Ed Komenda's DNAinfor account was the only media piece to exactly report the incident. 


Saturday, July 13, 2013

The Providential Diagnostician:Dr. Kennedy and the Kinky Boots



Dr. James R. Kennedy, M.D. was no Justin Bieber and certainly no Dr. Oz. He was the last man an incompetent wanted anywhere near whatever half-assed anything is being performed.  Kennedy's thick eyebrows and soft eyes could cut deeper than any scalpel crafted by the most exacting  Präzisionsstahlrohre Handwerker.

Dr. Kennedy beefed me when one of his kids turned over an essay that I had graded.  " You gave this paper a B?" I nodded.

" You had better hold the paper closer to your eyes next time.  I found three spelling errors, any number of glaring grammatical errors and the punctuation stinks."

I kopped a plea that sometimes getting near to the assigned task was more encouraging for . . .

" You are not here to make kids feel good. That's my job as parent.  Imagine if I got close to doing a good job with your mother's liver, or father's bowels with my knife?"

Message received (circa 1976).   I hope I did better.  Seemed to anyway.

While working at La Lumiere School, Mary and I had added Conor* to the family Hickey in 1989.  He was healthy little guy and as happy as a baby at a boarding school full of homesick kids could be.  In 1991,  our neighbors three old baby died of an odd form of childhood cancer that manifested itself with the toddler's inability to stand.  The entire La Lumiere School and Notre Dame Parish of Michigan City was heart-broken by the parents' grief.

Almost a year after this tragedy,  I was lining the football field for an upcoming loss to South Central. Father Jay, Pat Mulligan, Head Coach Mike Hall and I were pulling the lines and walking chalk.  Soon our we saw my blue Ford Taurus come tearing ass down the hill between Becket House and Newman House.  Mary was driving, daughter Nora (8) in the backs et and in the baby seat Conor (3). Mary was devasted -" Get in!  Now. Drop the Goddam, liner and get in this car!"

I hopped in.  " Conor can't stand up! Oh, God."  We headed to the ER at La Porte Hospital.

We had been in the ER and an examining room with two doctors and three nurses for the better part of an hour and understood exactly nothing.

As in any medical emergency, everything moves like a kaliescope and sounds like the Sgt. Pepper album and nothing makes sense but prayers.  I had the presence of mind to call Betsy Kennedy at their house in Long Beach. " Jim and I will be there - I'm driving."

Long Beach near Michigan City and La Porte Hospital are about twenty minutes apart - Betsy was driving and that meant a fifteen minute trip.

Ten minutes later, Dr. and Betsy emerged from an elevator.

Doctor Kennedy consulted with the medical staff.  They wanted to run some blood tests, scans, probes and etc.

Doctor Kennedy greeted Conor -"How you doing, old buddy!  What's the problem, Conor?"

The little man looked up at his friend who always let him eat scads of KeeWee Frupes, " My legs can't somehow work."

Doctor Kennedy examined the boy's feet.

He asked Mary, " Wasn't your Mom up here last week?"

Mary told him that Alice, my sister-in-law Gail Cleary and her two boys Pat and Danny had spent the weekend with us.

Dr. Kennedy nodded,  " Did Alice buy these three cowboy boots?"

Grandma Alice had indeed bought the the three lad cowboy boots and summer sun suits cut to make them look like railroad men with caps to match.  I still fail to associate cowboy boots with railroad man wear, but then again I am no Grandma.

Dr, Kennedy announced, " Conor's fine.  He won't need the exams, unless you feel it would be good, but they won't find anything.  Betsy and I bought cowboy boots too."

Further examination and probes were not performed.

A great surgeon only applies the knife, after holding the patient very close to his eyes.

A great soul misses nothing.

We miss a great soul.

* Conor played football on that very field for the La Lumiere Lakers; l remains healthy and happy as member of Local 399 Stationary Engineers.