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.