If I Never Get Back

Written in Q&A format, A Gynecologist's Second Opinionanswers all the questions that patients need to ask, but doctors don't have the time to answer. In this newly revised edition, Dr. Parker has added up-to-the-minute and crucial information on new treatments, techniques, and therapies for a wide variety of gynecological concerns. With a special focus on younger women's issues, this comprehensive guide provides detailed information on: Fibroids Hysterectomy- including new treatments that only necessitate a partial hysterectomy Bladder Problems Endometriosis Pelvic Pain Ovarian Cancer Screening Cervical Cancer Menstrual Problems and much more... Including case studies from across the country, this is the essential guide for every woman.

Dr. William H. Parker is a board certified OB/GYN and a Clinical Professor at the UCLA School of Medicine. He is the former Chair of the Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology at Santa Monica-UCLA Medical Center, and the immediate past President of the American Association of Laparoscopists. He is an editor for the Journal of the American Association of Gynecological Laparoscopists and a reviewer for the New England Journal of Medicine, Obstetrics and Gynecology, and Journal of Gynecologic Techniques. He is also listed in Best Doctors in America and Top Doctors.

1THE AMTRAK crawled out of Cleveland. I sat sweat- ing in my new dark suit, staring out at the blackened brick walls from which milky light was beginning to ooze. Maybe I could hold it off. What had I been thinking about: The TV. Concentrate. She opens her mouth wide: NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! But I have no intention of hitting her. I shoulder past to the console squatting near the vaulted window of her hog-rich parents' Burlingame home. On-screen is Anchorman, her lover, smarmy voice and trademark eyebrows embellishing the tripe he intones from the TelePrompTer. I get my back into it, thrust upward with my legs, muscles knotting ... no workouts for too long ... a frenzied snatch-and-lift ... I stagger sideways and heave ... picture window explodes ... shards of glass cascading ... TV in flight ... cabinet folds inward as it crashes on the flagstone ... muted cracklings precede one large red spark ... the long rumble down the hill, pieces flying ... Stephanie screaming ... for an instant ... one pure rushing instant ... I was King Fucking Kong.... Milkiness encroaching. I reached for the pint of Scotch in my coat. Almost empty. The pale light was seeping in through my ears. Rock bottom. If not here, couldn't be far off. What I didn't know was whether to feel scared or relieved. The TV ... Maybe she picked him on purpose, knowing how I detested the breed: electronic jackals in symbiosis with their brain-dead viewers. Mincing on the scene, crews running interference. Checking makeup. Asking their two stupid questions. Broadcasting the shoddy results hours before our stories hit the streets. It was when she told me she was moving in with him that I assaulted the tube. It proved costly. With the divorce came a custody judgment barring drunken violent me from seeing our daughters more than once a week. Booze gradually came to fill a lot of empty places. I was a wretched part-time father. I alienated my friends. Jeopardized my job. Screwed up everything. Strangely, my father's death had seemed to offer a certain opportunity, a rite of passage to manhood. "I can't imagine how they tracked you down." Stephanie's cool measured words-her telephone voice-sounding in my brain. "They called here for you. I told them our situation. If you need to miss a visit, I'll think of something to tell the girls." By burying him I would ascend some pinnacle of maturity. There, viewing my thirty-two years with new wisdom, I would find significance and a tenable position. "Take a month if you need, Sam." City Editor Joe Salvio giving me a fishy smile, significant look. "Pull yourself together ... skimpy interviews ... facts not checked ... get back to your old form!" Or your ass is dead. So this morning I had picked up the suit I'd ordered, flown to Cleveland, and cabbed to the Cuyahoga County Morgue. Without ceremony they slid the cold-storage drawer out and raised the sheet. Shivering in the refrigerated chill, I peered into the sallow face for the first time, seeking traces of myself. There was no cosmetic work: skin sagged from his neck, hair sprouted from his nostrils, snowy stubble matted his jowls and collapsed cheeks. Did you fill your days? Did you love anyone? I stared at the swollen nose. It was bulbous-like mine before college boxing flattened it-and purplish, crosshatched with tiny broken vessels. Did you ever think about me? "... like a chunk of pumice...." The voice of the man from the coroner's office buzzed. "... enlarged twice normal and severely cirrhotic ... yellow and fibrous as dry sponge ... sure as putting a gun to his head, just slower...." I had a fleeting urge to reach down and lift one of the wrinkled lids. What color were his eyes? Shouldn't a son know? Burial was expensive. I opted for cremation, my hand shaking as I signed as "nearest surviving relative." I asked where he'd been