Ten year-old Sarah Murnaghan is dying. For the past three months, she has been at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia with end stage cystic fibrosis, a disease which causes great scarring of the lungs rendering the victim unable to breathe. End stage anything is just that—the last step in life before the great crossover.

Nothing will save her except a lung transplant. For that, she was on a children’s organ transplant list since she is under twelve years old. Since, thankfully, children die at a much slower rate than adults, harvested organs are very hard to obtain. Things weren’t looking good for Sarah.

They look a little better now. Not great, but better. There was no experimental drug developed to buy Sarah time until a donor could be found, but her family filed suit to move their daughter onto an adult transplant list. Judge Michael Baylson heard the case and suspended her transplant age restriction for 10 days putting her on adult transplant list until June 16. This opens up a very nasty can of worms.

Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius absolutely did the right thing and kept the government out of the decision. I don’t want to sound cruel and that a part of me is not in pain for Sarah, but transplant protocols are in place for a reason. They give the donated organs the best chance to keep a patient alive for as long a period as possible. Adult lungs do not work that well in pediatric patients. Typically, a piece of lung is used instead of a whole lung; that makes it makes it a more difficult procedure and less likely to work. That is a fact.

People want the government out of their healthcare; well, Secretary Sebelius did just that. She’s not a healthcare professional by any stretch of the imagination, and she deferred to said professionals to make the best medical decision possible. Judge Baylson, who decided to go rogue, scrapped decades of transplant protocols in seconds.

I can already smell the plethora of lawsuits. The ambulance-chaser-attorney types are buying new running shoes. I’m not saying that all lawyers are opportunists, but there is a certain sector of the field that borders on shameless.

Organ transplants are, by nature, a dirty business. Not in the back-alley-mob-surgery way, but, for every person who gets an organ transplant, someone does not and will die. For every chance of life given, a death blow is dealt. Heaven forbid that I, or any one in my family, ever wind up on a transplant list—I would hope and pray for the best and accept any fate given to me. I understand that people will do anything to save their child, but this was a step too far. This is what happens in a society that hands out trophies for participating and everybody wins. Not everybody can win all of the time. It’s sad, but true. It is, however, what it is. Peace.

Jay Sochoka, R.Ph. is praying for Sarah.

The criminal mind fascinates me. I guess it takes just the right imbalance of neurochemicals, or mental illness if you will, to become a criminal. There are varying degrees of this illness as well. It goes anywhere from lifting a necklace out of a great-aunt’s jewelry box to serial murder.

Crime-fighting is an amazing science. From criminal profiling to crime scene evidence collection, it will, properly and legally done of course, seal cases tight as a drum. A left-behind finger print is the least of a criminal’s worries.

Take what happened at the, as my son put it, “Boston Massacre II.” It took four days from the explosions to having photographs of two suspects posted all over the Internet and television. The Tsarnaev brothers went from John Q. Public to America’s most wanted suspects in four days.

In those four days a pressure cooker and an exploded back pack was found. There was video of the suspects carrying back packs, which the pressure cookers were presumed to be in, and even footage of the younger brother placing a backpack close to where one of the explosions took place, as well as him using a cell phone shortly afterwards. Forensic teams went through thousands of hours of different perspective videos and constructed a scenario. That is simply mind boggling.

Even more mind boggling is the fact that once the Tsarnaev brothers were identified, they went on a spree including a murder of a cop, the as-close-as-you-can-be-to-death-but-survive shooting of another one, a carjacking with hostage taking, and a pipe and pressure cooker bomb laced, 200-round shoot out with the cops in the middle of a street. (Allegedly, of course.)

Tamerlan, the 26 year old, decided that he had lived long enough, 72 virgins were waiting for him, and that he was going to go out on fire. He charged the cops firing away with a bomb supposedly strapped to his chest. He died of lead poisoning.

Law enforcement then became involved—including 9,000 troops of local police, state police, SWAT, FBI, and military. I would never want 9,000:1 odds against me, especially after allegedly killing a cop. The 19 year old, Dzhokar, went on the lam and had one last day of freedom when a home owner went out for a smoke and noticed his boat cover was askew, took a look under it, and found a profusely bleeding Dzhokar inside it. Thermal imaging confirmed that he was there. He is being thoroughly interrogated and his trial is pending.

I’m glad they got him alive. His thought process fascinates me. I want to know what he was thinking and why he went through with it. Peace.

Jay Sochoka, R.Ph. is the author of Fatman in Recovery: Tales from the Brink of Obesity.

Boston. The name used to give me chills of elation. The fact that I had trained hard enough and raced fast enough to run the Marathon above all other marathons was a moment of immortality. It felt like the New York Rangers winning the Stanley Cup, the Boston Red Sox winning the World Series, the New Orleans Saints winning the Super Bowl, and Dale Earnhardt winning the Daytona 500…simultaneously. It capped the Fatman journey. I reached the summit of my Everest. Ahab got the whale. Pure Victory.

Now, it just gives me the chills. Someone destroyed something sacred. Some barbarian(s) desecrated the sanctity of the Boston Marathon. Someone planted two bombs down the home stretch on Boylston Street killing (so far) 3 people, including 8 year-old Martin Richard, and maiming anywhere between 117 and 130. This is simply appalling.

I remember seeing the sign for Boylston on the course. April 16, 2007, was a nasty, bone-chilling, rainy day; in fact, this was the year the Boston Marathon was nearly canceled. One day earlier, a brutal Nor’easter hit the city. Yet, to me, it felt like 85 degrees and sunny. I came down the left side. The people were still there, even in the slop. I high-fived my way down the entire stretch. I crossed and, although far from my best time, celebrated the victory. Reuniting with my wife and two of my best friends, Frank Krantz IV, and his wife, Beki Kosydar-Krantz, was a moment of celebration. A festive afternoon and evening with food, drinks, laughter, and fun ensued.

Yesterday, runners were trying to reunite with family and friends, wondering who would be there. About 125 were not. Death, lost limbs, and compound tissue and bone injuries inundated the fans. The helicopter shot of the blood stain in the sidewalk said it all. All Hell had broken loose.

A marathon is a celebration of life. It is a milestone (pun intended) in one’s time on this planet. Marathon competitors, from the elite to the seven-hour runner, breathe rarefied air. When we cross a finish line, we celebrate the air in our lungs. I thank the Lord as soon as I stop running. This time, people called on The Lord for completely different reasons. Boston will never be the same.

The Super Bowl trophy of the non-elite running crowd is the Boston Marathon official jacket. I don’t know of a non-qualifier who wears one. When people see the jacket, they know that you have a story to tell. Mine is the Nor’easter, and it takes up three chapters in my book. In 2013, they have a story that will never be topped in Boston Marathon history.

My heart goes out to every runner, family member, and fan of this race. Forever, their jackets will be stained with blood, pain, and suffering—but make no mistake; the running community will rally, and Boston will return stronger than ever. Runners thrive on transforming agony into victory. In the end, good always bests evil in the race of life. Peace.

Jay Sochoka,R.Ph. is going running.

trying Jay’s login

My spirituality is a very import note in my mental health harmony. When you have a God (or six if you’re into it) to turn to, a lot of problems go away. He got me through some rough times.

I pursue Him through the Roman Catholic faith, as I have since Baptism. It is what I know, and I absolutely love The Mass. I even play bass for the church as part of my tithe. My method of worship is at a crossroads. It appears the most Senior Vice President of Catholicism has retired instead of dying in office like they have been doing for the past 600 straight years. The next Pope will indeed prove interesting. I’m praying for a more progressive Pontiff.

Catholic Law clearly states that ANY baptized male Catholic can become Pope. I am throwing my Beretta into the ring. I want a common Catholic to become the next Pope. The Church needs it. We are seen as a very aloof sect. Women are second-class citizens and having “the gay” is looked upon in the way that the Pharisees looked at the lepers. They would be the first things to change. Celibacy would be third, and any priest who wanted to do so could marry.

I have seen Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary preside over “communion services” because for some unknown reason a Mass can only be celebrated by a male priest. Their passion for the Lord is unmistakable, and they would make amazing Mass celebrants. Any woman would.

One of my favorite Catholics is a gay friend of mine. He is actually multi-cultural about his God, but expresses it through the Catholic faith. I pretty much do the same thing. His philosophies about the afterlife are enlightened, but he can’t openly be his true self in the church. It is shameful. We need to change that.

The music would get a lot better too. Christian Rock has some absolutely amazing music that needs to be heard and the standards (most of which are awesome) could use some rocking up and be played through modern band instruments. We used an organ for the past hundreds of years because it was the only thing loud enough to fill a church. Amplifiers and public address systems do the same thing today and there is no reason that more Catholic churches don’t have in-house rock bands. I would see that each church had two.

I am old school about one thing; I do believe life begins at conception. However, I believe in contraception over abortion any day of the week.

I know I won’t win unless my Facebook page goes viral. I’m pulling for an African or Latin-American Pope. We could use the shaking up. Peace be with you.

Jay Sochoka, R.Ph. likes the sound of Pope Jay I.

Sometimes junk food is referred to as “addictive.” In truth, it is. Modern day junk food and soda is as over-produced as a Disney boy band and a hundred times more palatable. There are food scientists, chemists, technicians, and even psychologists teamed up to design the perfect morsel. Think you can eat just one? You don’t stand a chance.

In The Extraordinary Science of Addictive Junk Food, New York Times writer Michael Moss uncovers the design mastery of food development teams through corporate memos turned over by junk food company executives who, in later years, felt guilty about what they did to contribute to the obesity epidemic. While no one is shoving the food down a person’s throat, food and soda companies are making products that are nearly impossible to resist.

The article refers to the “bliss point.” This is the ratio of salt, sugar, and fat that add up to make the most pleasurable experience possible in your mouth. My personal prime example of this is the Dunmore Candy Kitchen’s chocolate-covered ridged potato chip.

That potato chip absolutely explodes in your mouth. First, you get a sweet/salty crunch. Then a creamy fattiness dances on your tongue, followed by sweet chocolaty goodness. I can eat a pound in one sitting. You might as well tack that fat bomb right to my muffin top (which has gone down a size since January, I’ll have you know).

While I highly doubt that the Dunmore Candy Kitchen has a team of food scientists, they definitely hit mouth-feel gold. From the time that George Crum, on August 24, 1853, in Saratoga Springs, New York, heated some oil, thinly sliced some potatoes, threw them in the oil, and salted them when they came out, the game was on. These days, food companies even know the most pleasurable breaking point of a chip. Incidentally, it’s four pounds per square inch.

So, the question is, “How do we stand a chance against the science?” I work in a place that has a zoo of chips, soda, and other snacks. I manage, on many more days then less, to subsist on black coffee, fat-free fruit-on-the-bottom Greek yogurt, and peanut, almond, and dried cranberry trail mix bars. It’s a choice I make for each meal, each day, and it does require a bit of will power.

Also, I can do more with a pan, a heat source, and whole ingredients (yes, including butter) than any team of scientists could ever create and throw on the market. My wife and I make succulent, high-protein, low-carb meals for each other that are completely satisfying. Sure, it takes planning, time, and a little bit of work, but it is better than that absolutely processed poison that people are throwing down their traps. I am pleased with how my nutrition intake is going these days, but suddenly I have a taste for chocolate-covered potato chips. Peace.

Jay Sochoka, R.Ph. is a Fatman in Recovery.

The world is a crazy place. It seems like we are good for one high profile killing a week since Sandy Hook. The fact that the killers or hostage takers are mentally ill is the first thing thrown out there. It is a stereotype that I don’t appreciate. Are these portrayers of mass violent crimes mentally ill? Absolutely. Is every mentally ill person in the country going to shoot up a school? Absolutely not.

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, 26.2%, or just slightly over 1 in 4, Americans have a diagnosable mental illness. That’s about 75 million people. Obviously the majority of us are law abiding citizens. Only a minuscule percentage consists of the Adam Lanzas and Christopher Dorners of the world. The rest of us run the gamut from “Nervous Nelly” to megalomaniac. We call some of the latter “politicians.”

As a generally Type II bipolar (the perpetually happy type), I am somewhere in the middle of it all and let me tell you something: I absolutely thrive with my mental “illness.” I am not debilitated in the least, and I would go as far to say that I benefit from it. My book? Written after a one-week stay in First Hospital. I wrote it in 20 days over two months. This column comes from my high-energy mind on a weekly basis. To cite Hedley Lamarr in the iconic Mel Brooks epic, Blazing Saddles, “My mind is aglow with whirling, transient nodes of thought careening through a cosmic vapor of invention.”

Others are admittedly not as fortunate. I have met Type I bipolars that want to do nothing more than stay in bed all day. I have seen schizophrenic homeless people plan how they are going to make a fortune…out loud on a Jersey Shore boardwalk. I haven’t seen him in a while, but I will never forget extreme germophobe “Billy Bags” repeatedly crossing Dunmore Corners covered in garbage bags and holding his ears. I saw these people decades before my diagnosis and unlike others, I NEVER made fun of them. I always felt sorry for them, wondering what demons were chasing them.

The media is bringing mental illness to light, but in all the wrong ways. Showing the psychopaths of society is only going to push the mentally ill back in the darkness, not wanting to be associated with that class of person. Silver Lining Playbook, from what I understand, shows a young man wrestling his demons and pinning them on occasion. Unfortunately, that is in the minority.

What they need to do is focus on a person who has a mental illness, but manages to live an everyday life as a good father, better than average husband, and productive professional worker. They need to look into people’s lives and see why their illness is working out for them, be it through medication, therapy, or both. I’m ready for my close-up Mr. DeMille!

Jay Sochoka, R.Ph. is not crazy…he’s bipolar.

The year 2004 was the peak of my personal civilization. I ran a 3:11.38 marathon, which would be the fastest I would ever see. The amazing thing about that time is that I was 208 pounds and took third place in the Iron Horse division of the Steamtown Marathon that year. I would have broken the elusive 3:10 except I had a delayed excursion into the bushes. I ran that time on my own guts and self-training. I never had a coach, and I most certainly never blood doped.

Lance Armstrong ran a 2:46.43 in New York, so full of juice that I’m surprised it wasn’t coming out of his nose. Oprah Winfrey recently got Lance to admit that he took EPO, testosterone, other people’s blood, and pretty much anything else that would give him an advantage throughout his entire endurance sports career. This was a charge he would deny the whole time and would destroy naysayers who tried to tell the world otherwise.

I looked up to Lance. He was without a doubt my endurance sports hero. People told me that I looked like him when I had my hair close-cropped. That was high praise for a former 300-pounder. When I had a stress test, the cardio-tech told me that I had an “Armstrong-like heartbeat.” Again, my inner-athlete beamed with pride. When he was stripped of his titles, I defended him in print. Now, he has made me look like an idiot for doing so.

Every so often, that Tom & Jerry-like demon pops up on my left shoulder and asks, “How would you have done if you doped?” If I had the unlimited time to train, the sponsorship to pay me, and the drugs to take, I probably would have given Lance a run for his money in the marathon and may have even beaten his times outright. He was only a minute per mile faster than me. Hopped up on doped blood, that is a makeable putt. Who knows, I may have even won seven Tour de France titles.

I always wondered why EPO was never discussed in Lance Armstrong’s cancer chemotherapy recovery. It seemed like a legitimate reason to be taking the drug. It also would have opened this can of worms much earlier in his career. He couldn’t have that happen now, could he?

I forgive Lance for cheating in a sport where you pretty much have to cheat to be competitive. I forgive him for making me look stupid for defending him all of these years. Those he destroyed may not be as forgiving. I have made some pretty grievous mistakes in my life, and those I hurt forgave me. He deserves that much. However, he has to look at himself in the mirror for the rest of his life and see a ruthless cheater. Only time will tell if he can forgive himself. Peace.

Jay Sochoka, R.Ph. needs to find another hero.

We are a couple of weeks into the new year, and you have either made a resolution, not made a resolution, are keeping it if you made it, or have broken it already—so far, so good with mine. My resolution you ask? I want to get back to my marathon weight of around 200 pounds.

I hopped onto a scale when I went back on Weight Watchers (the only thing that has EVER worked for me) and clocked in at a staggering 255. I have gained a tick over half of my weight back. I would have gnashed my teeth and rent my garments, except for the fact that my front teeth are crowns, and I don’t want to see myself naked. Instead, I just cried on the inside. The idiotic eating I have been doing over the past five years has to stop.

I know you have read this before from me. I also know that I haven’t held up my end of the bargain. I would start tracking my food until the weekend and then just stop for no good reason other than I wanted to eat like an idiot. I also have not done serious exercise for what is now about three months. I turned an eating holiday into a holimonth, and, for the most part, a “holi-five-years.” I have paid the price of gaining about 10 pounds a year.

I am happy to say that there is already slack in my middle-of-the-road 36-inch expandable waist pants. My goal is to get back into normal waist 34s. I am on my way. My wife said that my pierogi-eating butt already looks smaller.

The funny thing is that nobody realizes that I gained that much weight. That is what happens when you stop tucking your shirt into your pants and wear track pants on the days that you are not at work. I have MANY tricks of the trade. I may have invented the “open button-down shirt over the t-shirt tuck in.”

So how will I stay on the straight and narrow? Accountability is now the driving force. As you know, I proposed the introductory run/walking course “How to Run a Mile” to the North Pocono School Board. It is looking like it’s a go. Community Education director Kim Bocchichio asked me for information because she was putting together the spring/summer brochure. Awesome.

I need to be in shape to teach it. I can’t be a “roll model” for this course—I need to become an actual role model again. I need to be well on my way to my goal by the time the course starts on April 1. It will be fun working my way there with my students. The course will be offered no charge, save for the cost of purchasing a weighted hula hoop for some core strength drills. Hope to see you there! Peace.

Jay Sochoka, R.Ph. re-read his book for motivation. You should too.