A tale of good fortune, with thanks to Minnesota's immigrants

After 24 years of being "cured" of prostate cancer, it came back. My PSA number shot up from less than 0.01 to 16.5. My urologist, who did the original surgery, said this was virtually unheard of.

He ordered six different scans. Nothing showed up. Finally, he called his buddies at the Mayo Clinic, who — believe it or not — saw me the next day. A team at Mayo had devised a new scanning device that was especially suited to detect the undetectable — the C-11 Scanner — and they wanted me as a test case. Could they detect the undetectable? Here's where the real story — the one about immigrants — begins.

As I wait anxiously in his office, Dr. K bursts through the door. He's Korean. My anxiety shifts to wondering: What's his education, qualifications, etc.? I've never had a "foreign-born" physician. As it turns out, he's one of the lead inventors of the C-11 Scanner, the only one in the U.S. He grew up in Indiana, son of professors, who obviously migrated here during the Korean conflict. America took them in.

Dr. K directs my attention to his computer screen. The scan shows I have metastatic prostate cancer in six places, scattered throughout my body. I felt like a knife had just pierced my chest. The good news is: We start therapy immediately! Bend over for your first shot. Uff da! He then says to go home and work with an oncologist who will provide chemotherapy at a local cancer care center 10 minutes from home. I go.

Soon I'm again seated anxiously, this time on the oncologist's soft sofa, when quietly the door opens and in slides Dr. C. Immediately, I think, "Oh God … he's from India!" He sits down close to me. He's well-dressed. His eyes are warm; his face, compassionate. He's chief of the oncologists. He has received all of the information from Mayo and agrees with the therapy. "Shall we proceed?" Yes.

Before I leave the sofa, I discover he's the same guy who brought my son-in-law back from Stage 4 cancer just two years ago. And he's a Packers fan! My lucky day. This guy is all-American.

Dr. C walks me out of his office to his scheduler. She's an Egyptian woman, and she says, "We'll take good care of you." I think Cleopatra. She's really helpful. Perfect English. Well-dressed. Friendly. I want her to handle my case. We get all papered up, my Medicare is working beautifully and I am now directed to get my blood tested.

I'm back to Mayo after two months of chemo and hormone therapy near home: In bursts the guy I'm affectionately calling My Crazy Korean Cowboy, because Dr. K is so full of confidence. "We're out to cure prostate cancer and we think breast cancer, too," he says. "We're onto something very important with the C-11. We think we can spot cancer years before other scanners can detect it."

I'm proof-positive, because that's exactly what happened to me. And now the good news: The radiologists say your cancer is undetectable. He points to the computer screen, which shows his first scan (a bit like a Christmas tree with bright lights) and the second scan. Nothing! My mind starts humming "Hallelujah" by Renée Fleming.

The only bad news is that I have to stay on my chemo for three more infusions. Hair will continue to thin, so I'll wear my slouchy captain's hat. But there is no whining. In the Mayo parking ramp, I call my wife, who is so distraught she can't sleep at night. She's overwhelmed with joy, but quickly reminds me that she expects me to "step it up" at the usual chores.

As I drive home from Rochester, I reflect on my life here in Minnesota. This is the second time Mayo has saved my life. We are so fortunate to have this remarkable center of excellence so close to home. I've encountered episodes of care in other states. Believe me, it is almost pathetic compared to what we enjoy in Minnesota.

A second realization is that immigrants are on the front line of this excellence. I have no idea of their religious beliefs, but I do know they are top-notch — not just at Mayo, but at each place I've been treated.

But the faces of Minnesota have changed. My story tells you something about that change. Secretly, many of us have nativist tendencies, especially those who grew up in a small town, as I did, and never saw a "Negro" until we watched a professional baseball player like Hank Aaron or Ernie Banks. Sports have gone a long way to break down color barriers in many minds — more than church, political party or the legal system.

Each ethnic or immigrant group arrives with its own story. Mine came to western Wisconsin seeking opportunity in the 1840s, fought in the Civil War and produced its share of bachelor farmers, some "shellshocked" by World War I. But every family that had kids sent them off to schools and colleges with the simple message: Make something of yourselves.

That directive is not peculiar to my family. It permeates our society. And frankly it is most evident in recent immigrants to America. They are driven. If you don't believe me, go to a high school graduation, or a school concert, and see who is in the top ranks.

So this is a tale of good fortune. Mine, to be on the mend. And Minnesota's, in welcoming legal immigrants. Take that idea to the ballot box.