A Blue Thanksgiving

This is the third Thanksgiving in a row that's been really rough. Not because of family feuds, as is the case with a lot of people. No, it's been my body that's been the rogue.

In 2006, I had stent surgery the day before Thanksgiving. I was not given the medicine to protect my kidneys from the dye that is used for the angiogram, even though I asked for it. Then in the operating room, I told the doctor, "I'm not feeling the drugs," but he went ahead and cut into me anyway. This was a torturous experience to feel the incision and be powerless to do anything about it. I guess they were all so eager to get out of town for Thanksgiving that the needs of their patient didn't enter into the mix. I wrote a formal grievance, which was simply an exercise in frustration, lies, and falsified medical records. The surgery was followed by months of acute blood loss, transfusions, and severe anemia.

Then last October, I was fitted with an insulin pump. This was very difficult for me to accept--having a device attached to me 24/7. I also had several life-threatening insulin reactions while getting used to the pump, one of the most severe the night before I left for Wisconsin to spend Thanksgiving with my mother. In an attempt to get to the kitchen in the middle of the night and find some juice to raise my blood sugar, I knocked into walls and pulled myself along the floor, getting carpet burns in the process, inching my way to normalcy. I got on the plane early the next morning completely exhausted and feeling estranged from humanity.

This Thanksgiving is even worse than the past two. My son is in Oakland with his girlfriend and her family. I am very happy he has this vacation, as he's been working very hard at two jobs. I'm glad he's getting a break from me too. Not that I'm a sad sack around him--I do my crying when I'm alone--but my health is always hanging over him nonetheless. I am weak, tired, headachy, losing hope, and quickly headed toward dialysis. At this moment I'm sitting in my little apartment, wondering how I ever got here.

How is it that such a nice gal, the one who remembers birthdays, sends acquaintances sympathy cards when their parents pass, calls friends when they break up with a boyfriend or are experiencing some minior, short-term illness or injury, how is it that I should be sitting here alone?

During the past two months since I sent out my request for prayers, I have only received two phone messages from friends. Beverly, bless her soul, gave me three healing sessions, and Othman stopped by for a visit. A few others have sent an email, but though I suppose this is better than nothing, emails are so cold. Most friends did not respond even with an email.

I know that other people have friends they can count on to be physically present. Not just when they need a pick-me-up, like I so sorely need, but just in general to have a meal with or get together for a walk or a coffee. Heather, for example, who lives in Denver but is in town to see her mother for Thanksgiving--and with whom I will be spending tomorrow afternoon--has friends she can count on to be physically present. I remember when she fell down the stairs in her apartment building when she was living in San Francisco and broke her ankle or her leg. She told me of the support system she had to help her get dressed and do the things one has to do. Why is it then that my friends are not available?

The bottom line is I just don't know as if I can do this alone. All the stories of recovery are those of people with support systems--loving spouses, a circle of friends who don't just send emails but are physically there, family that encircles the ailing person with daily hugs, affirmations, and hand holds. How wonderful it would be if in this moment my husband were smiling at me from across the room or rubbing my feet. How beautiful if a friend and I were laughing in my kitchen, cooking dinner. How amazing if I had a brother or mother who weren't self-absorbed and could give a little juice to me.

Yes, of course, there is always my dear son. How could I have surviced this far without him! But I need to protect him. I can't put all my sadness on him. I don't even want to put any sadness on him.

I just looked at my most recent lab results. My kidney function is now at 12 percent, down from 13 percent last week. As I told my cardiologist today, I just don't see what there is to live for--further isolation; an endless stream of doctor appointments; no hope for love or romance; fewer and fewer friends, since they will feel uncomfortable being around me; not even the companionship of a dog, as dogs bring the risk of contamination of the dialysis tubing.

Dear Dr. Phan, my cardiologist, did something I have so needed from a friend these past two months--a hug. He also held my hand. Thank you, Dr. Phan.

In all fairness, Aaron has given me a few good hugs, and Bev gave me a nice one too. And Daniel, someone I have known for a long time but not very well, gave me probably the best hug I've ever received. It went on and on, a real transfer of energy.

But except for these moments, I generally feel cut off from humanity. I look at other people and I think they all have a future, but I feel like a ghost, not part of this world.

So I'm having a blue Thanksgiving, blue that's moving into black.

Friends Close and Available

I've been dealing with some very difficult things lately, the kind of things most people never have to face, or if they do, they face in their 80s or 90s. I sent an email out to friends across the continent, informing them as to this challenge and thanking them for their good thoughts on my behalf. A few wrote back with words of encouragement. Two telephoned.

It's such a strange country we live in. I imagine if I lived most places in the world, my neighbors and family and friends, who all lived within walking distance, would come to my hut and give me their love in person. But we live in a land of emails, so instead, friends write a few words of support but are too far away or too busy for direct contact. Their words are beautiful, some of them very beautiful, but they are words, not hugs, not smiles, not embraces, not time spent, face to face, together.

How wonderful it would be to have a friend close at hand and available. Someone who could break away from his or her family, lover, spouse, or other friends for a visit. Someone I wouldn't have to schedule a time to meet with weeks or months in the future. Someone I could call and say, "Hey, why don't you come over tonight. Let's cook dinner together." I've never had a friend who is both close and available, but I've long had idealistic notions about such a person. I know people who have such friends, and I think that must be a grand thing.

Last night I had a taste of what that might be like. My son's friend from work, Mike, invited Aaron and me to his and his girlfriend's apartment for dinner. I had such a fantastic time! Mike is a funny guy and a wonderful storyteller. I laughed so much--just what I needed after a day of intermittent sobbing. After dinner, we watched a Cohen Brothers movie. Such a fun evening. So easy. So relaxed.

Ah! Thank you, Mike, and girlfriend Christina, two lovely, young people who know nothing of my challenges. It's rather beautiful how sometimes what one needs is provided through alternate channels. Of course it would have been grand to have spent the evening with one or more of my own friends, but these damn-near strangers gave me all that I would have wanted from a friend's company. What a blessing!

Foeden Party--Because I'm Not a Generic White Person

The first weekend in November I attended the annual Kuehl family foeden party in Minnesota. When I was a child, the family would gather for a summer picnic in Ormsby, Minnesota, but then attendance began to lag because so many relatives were living in the Twin Cities and not on the farm anymore. So the next generation--my generation--took the reigns and started holding a foeden-making party in the Minneapolis area during the first weekend in November. Though this tradition has been going on for about a decade, this is the first time I attended.

My ancestors are from the Schleswig-Holstein region of northern Germany, a chunk of * land that went back and forth between the Danes and Germans over the centuries. One of the culinary delights of the region is foeden, a round donut of sorts, sans icing and sprinkles. It is made in a large, heavy, cast-iron pan with round depressions. In fact it is so large and heavy that my mother's foeden pan--which had been my grandmother's foeden pan--was confiscated from my son when he attempted to carry it on board an airplane. A potential weapon, so the TSA officials said.

But foeden was not the main reason for the get-together. In fact, if you had been engaged in an engrossing conversation even a few yards away from the kitchen, you might have missed out on the foeden entirely. I had thought that the event was going to focus around foeden, but instead it focused on the people in attendance.

Of the eight siblings of my mother's generation, 25 children were produced or adopted. Only one cousin has died. Only five were missing from this November's celebration--my brother; Don Klassen, who was phesant hunting with his grandson; Becky; Nola; and Marilyn.

* Uncle Rollo and wife Bea had cousin Becky. Bea had had a daughter from a previous marriage, Nola, whom Rollo adopted.
* My mother, Arlyne, and my father, Eugene, had Tim and me.
* Uncle Harold and wife Bernita had Kathy, Phillip, Peter, and Paul.
* Uncle Max and wife Margaret had Vaughn, Mark, June, LaRayne, Liz, and Rhonda. Margaret had had Marilyn prior to marrying Max.
* Aunt Gilma and husband Boyd had two daughters who died as children and also had Jane and Nancy, who are alive today.
* Aunt Edna and husband Sam had Germaine (the only cousin who has died),Ruthie, and Don.
* Aunt Viola and husband Elmer had Rodney and Mary.
* Aunt Dorothy and husband Bill had Jerry, Mike, and Kay.

The cousins span quite a few years. Vaughn is the youngest at 48, and Rodney is the oldest at 72. Ruthie may be just about that age too.

There are only three survivors of my mother's generation--my mother, who now lives in Southern California and has no desire to travel; Aunt Bernita, who drove a school bus up until just a few years ago; and the matriarch of the family, Aunt Dorothy. I am especially fond of the photo that is shown here of Dorothy and me. When I hugged Dorothy good-bye, I was a bit emotional. Not sure why that is. It's just that, at 95, Dorothy has a sense of humor, a sharp mind, and a strong will that are truly inspirational.

All in all, I had such a good time! I flew into Minneapolis on Thursday night and stayed at cousin Rhonda's lovely home on Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis. She lives in a gorgeous old mansion across from the lake. On Friday Rhonda; her sister June, who had flown in from Seattle; and I explored the city. The art museum was extensive--and free every day. The university was lovely. So many of the neighborhoods, especially those along the Mississippi River, were so cute. In short, Minneapolis seems like a fantastic place to live.

On Saturday, after the foeden party, I joined sisters Rhonda, June, LaRayne, and Liz at Marilyn's house in Fox Lake. This was fascinating as Marilyn's late husband had a collection of thousands of pencils, all mounted in display cases. And Marilyn has all manner of bird statuary and art. We spent the night camping out in her living room and kitchen.

In the morning, we attended the beautiful country church on a dirt road surrounded by corn fields, not more than a mile from the family homestead. We were celebrities, to be sure. Though the minister was young and friendly, he certainly delivered a heavy dose of sin. A cultural experience, for sure. After service, Donald Kuehl, who is my mother's cousin, that is, my grandfather and his father were brothers, gave us a guided tour of the cemetary, a place I have always thought would be a restful spot to spend eternity.

I will have to make this an annual event. This was one of the best times I've had in a long time. Thanks to all my cousins, especially to Rhonda and her husband Dave, who were such gracious hosts, and Kay, at whose house the foeden party transpired.