Three Blind Dates

Last month marked 19 years ago that I left my husband. In those almost-two decades, I have often asked friends, acquaintances, business associates, and students to set me up with someone. In all that time, I have only had three blind dates.

One had just gotten out of rehab. We met at a coffeehouse, but he didn't have money for coffee. Besides, as coffee is a drug, he wasn't going down that path. A second one lived in someone's garage. He had not eaten for a few days, so I made him a tunafish sandwich. The third was on house arrest, though it took a half-hour phone conversation to figure that out. He kept suggesting that I come over to his place for a first date. I kept saying that, that was not my policy--to meet men at their apartments on a first date. At first he said he was on call and could not leave his house. Finally, he admitted that his bracelet would alert authorities if he did. I turned down this third gentleman, so in truth I've only had two blind dates in 19 years.

Why is this? So many people I've met over the years have told me of how their friends or co-workers introduced them to their future boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or spouse. Don't my friends know any interesting, eligible men? Do they not believe me when I tell them I'd sure appreciate a recommendation?

And perhaps a more interesting question: Why did they send me these men? Do I look like a woman who wants a "project"? Do I present myself as a woman who wants to carry a man? That's sure not the way I see myself.

Or were they just having a good joke at my expense? I mean, in retrospect, there is certainly a laugh or two to be had here, but then perhaps they could have followed up with a viable option.

It's a mystery.

Chick Cabin Hug

This photo says chick cabin like no other (see May 17 post for more on chick cabin). Here I was among these wonderful women. What better place to break down and cry. And here are Lisa, Loriann, and Kim, giving me all kinds of love. Wow!

Goodbye, Cal State

On Monday the journalism department gave me a send-off party. After years of slights and shoddy treatment, the department rallied. Interesting how that is, isn't it! I guess people figure, She's out the door. Why not be nice?

And the send-off was very sweet. About 15 people stopped by. They were all very kind. They gave me a $100 Visa card, orchids, balloons, and a card. Four students also gave me heartfelt cards.




Here is the thank-you email I sent out just moments ago:


Thanks so much to everyone who attended my send-off party. Thanks, too, to all who contributed to my day at the spa--what I plan to do with my Visa card. And the orchids are lovely, still looking good atop my kitchen table. As always, thanks to Teri and Carolyn, the force behind so much kindness that issues from the department.

When I first learned that something was being planned for me, I felt my eyes get a little watery. You can't imagine how challenging the last decade has been, and especially the past six months. Acts of kindness--often from unexpected quarters--have done so much to boost my spirits--a neighbor helping me lift some boxes, my son's friends stopping by to say hello, a smile from a passing stranger.



Perhaps you already know this, and practice this on a daily basis, but perhaps, too, it bears iteration: Every day each one of you touches the lives of many. You choose whether your interactions will be ego- or other-centered. You chose whether you will treat each individual as a valuable human being, someone richly deserving of respect and consideration, or whether you will only treat others as vehicles to further your own goals. Ironically, it is when you choose the former path that beautiful things begin to happen, not only for the person to whom you show kindness, but to your own self as well.

The ancient Greeks spoke of a golden light that dwells within every soul and how it is each individual's moral duty to allow that light to shine forth to the world. If one has artistic talent, for example, he would be morally bankrupt if he instead became an accountant--for the money--and never picked up a paintbrush again. And someone who has a knack for numbers would be equally culpible should he waste years engaged in so-so art projects when he could be assisting hundreds of people with their financial woes. So, too, the best teachers have a golden light that they bring forth to their students; they reveal their excellence to the world through their work, and their students see this in their passion for their subject and their concern for their students' advancement and well being.

There is a golden light of kindness as well, a deep knowledge that everyone is a valuable human being deserving of the very best that life can give. I felt this golden light at my send-off party. For this I am grateful.

May this find you in good health and in good spirits,

Heidi

Earthquake--And I'm Alone and Hooked up to a Dialysis Machine!

A 5.0 earthquake just rattled my apartment. I could hear things falling and breaking in the kitchen and living room, but as I'm on a 12-foot leash, I can't investigate. In years gone by when a temblor struck, I would brace myself in a doorless door frame or scoot under my bed. But the only doors within 12 feet of the dialysis machine have doors, and the underside of my bed is loaded to the hilt with dialysis supplies.

So all I could do was sit still. When there's nothing that can be done, why get upset? I realize I'm in an extremely vulnerable situation, being hooked up for 10 hours every night, when it comes to quakes, fires, and any criminal who might enter my living quarters.

This evening's experience reminded me of a bicycle accident I had over a decade ago. I was making a left turn, and a car came racing around a corner into my path. The thought went through my head, "I'm going to hit that car." This acceptance brought with it a great sense of peace and surrender. I completely relaxed, which doubtless saved my life.

I felt that same kind of acceptance just now. In such a situation, I know I have only two not-such-great options--remain hooked up and vulnerable to injury or quickly disconnect in a dusty environment that would most likely cause a site infection or internal contamination. Since nothing big was falling, I simply took the experience calmly and waited for it to pass.

11th Annual Chick Cabin Weekend

Last weekend, as every third weekend of May for the past 11 years, was chick cabin weekend. An annual event in Green Valley Lake, near Big Bear, at the cabin owned by Heather's mom. Mostly it's women who knew Heather in high school or even since early elementary school. But thrown into the mix are a few gals like me who know Heather via different routes. There is a core group--Heather, the two Lisas, Dre, Kim, Debbie, and Diane. This year, Lori Ann, a firefighter in Albequeque; Kristin, whom I met as I was leaving; and Susie, who has been so encouraging in regards to me being kidney-wait listed, were also present.

Though I rarely see or talk with these gals any time except chick cabin, I feel so close to them. They are the only group of female friends I have ever known. In fact, I really haven't had too many female friends over the years, so the CCW gals are that much more special.

Last year--the big 10th annual extravaganza--I couldn't go. I was attempting a 30-day, all-liquid fast and cleanse to bring my body into health and avert dialysis. That didn't last, as I gained seven pounds of water weight in one day and became ill. Besides, my heart was taxed at sea level. I was concerned I would be unable to breathe at the cabin's 5,000-foot elevation.

So attending this year was a big deal for me. I left Long Beach around 2 on Friday afternoon. This was to be my first night away from home since beginning dialysis on Feb. 2. This was also my first experience with CAPD (continuous ambulatory peritoneal dialysis), in which I performed dialysis every six to eight hours. This didn't allow for much sleep, plus the dialysis bags were cold, so there was a bit of cramping during the fill. But it all went fine nonetheless.

About eight years ago, the Lisa who had been a professional dancer was pregnant and asked Heather and me to photograph her nude on the boulders that are scattered about this forested area. That was quite lovely, her breasts and big belly echoed in the roundness of the rocks. This began a tradition of nude photography. Some years it's only Lisa and me who photograph each other. Other years Heather joins in and perhaps Rachel, if she's around.

This year it was important for me to be photographed. Following the placement of the catheter, it took weeks for me to feel comfortable about looking in the mirror. I felt that stipping down would help my body image.

Lisa had brought scarves and a loose shirt for partial covering, but in some photos I opted to take everything off, everything, of course, but the tubing, dressing, transfer set, PD belt, and insulin pump! I guess it's impossible for me to get completely nude!

These photo sessions are so much fun! I enjoy being the photographer as much as I enjoy being the model. Of course, as Lisa is a dancer, she is adept at using her body to create sculpture-like poses.

Shown here are only a few of the tamest shots, as I'm not interested in having my breasts, my sex, and my behind for all the world to see.

Tomorrow You Will be Executed--Whoops!

Yesterday I received this curt, poorly proofed letter from UCLA Transplant Services:
"The patient was seen in Kidney/Pancreas Evaluation Clinic on 4/16/09. Patient current status is: Inactive. The patient is not a candidate at this time and will not be placed on the UNOS Wait List. Patient was seen as a consult only. Patient was seen as a consultation only. The patient is not a candidate for kidney & pancreas transplantation at this time due to inoperative, 3-vessel coronary artery disease. Pleasae see the dictation for detail. Other: Patient was hypertensive at the time of evaluation(170/100 bpm). Please follow-up with your physician."

I immediately got on the phone. I wasn't crying; I was angry. I didn't raise my voice, and I didn't use foul or offensive language. I was firm and direct, not accepting any PC, bullshit answers.

I had seen the UCLA cardiologist last Friday, and she had ordered another test, which I have scheduled for May 26 and 27. "I have a new heart," I told her, as I have told at least five other doctors. "Please don't judge me on the basis of an angiogram done years before I started dialysis." I also asked her not to judge me on the basis of my clinical blood pressure, as my twice-daily, at-home readings are in the neighborhood of 100/60. She said that patients are often nervous about these visits, and consequently, their BP shoots up. Nervous? My God, who wouldn't be! These people are deciding whether I'll live or die!

First I talked with the in-take nurse. How could UCLA send out a letter like this when I had been told by the cardiologist that her decision was dependent upon the results of a test I have not yet taken? She couldn't answer this question and went off to find someone who could. This meant quite a long time on hold. When she got back, I asked to speak with the cardiologist. Of course, one can rarely speak directly to a doctor! Oh, my God, we couldn't have patients talking directly to doctors outside of office visits! The whole system of elitism might come tumbling down. The nurse said the head nurse, Melissa Forest, would review my records and call me.

Melissa said the letter had been sent out prematurely. It had been based on the transplant surgeon and the director of the transplant program's recommendation--even though these two had referred me to the cardiologist. They had told me they would base their decision on the cardiologist's recommendation. Why, I demanded, had this letter been sent out? "Is this part of the psychological testing?" I asked. "Do you mess with patients and see how they handle it?" That question shocked her, and she didn't answer it. I persisted: "Because if messing with patients is part of the workup, then I've passed because I'm not crying and I'm not taking this sitting down."

I explained how I was feeling: "I'm on Death Row. I get a letter saying that my execution is tomorrow. 'But my lawyer has my case in appeal,' I say. 'How can you go ahead with the execution when my case is in appeal?'" She said she understood. I countered with: "So you've been a transplant patient?" She didn't answer. I asked again. "No, I haven't," she said. "Well, then you don't understand," I said.

I said that I am just starting out with UCLA, and if this lack of attention to detail is present at the onset, I'm concerned that such carelessness may pervade the entire process. I am concerned about the carelessness that seems to have gone into sending out this letter, without concern for accuracy or the patient's feelings. I said I worked as an editor and alluded to the carelessness with the language of the letter. Though I didn't specifically cite the errors, here they are--"pleasae," "follow-up" (no hyphen when used as a verb), two cases of redundancy, and the switch from third to second person. "If there is carelessness in the little things, it makes me wonder if there will be carelessness with the big things." I repeated this to help it sink in. Yes, the big things--making sure the organ is a good match and making sure the surgery is successful.

Melissa apologized, but I wanted to know what she was going to do to correct this problem. I asked if this matter would be taken up at a staff meeting. Perhaps people should think before sending out such letters. She assured me she would bring it up. Who knows if that will actually happen.

Now, I must attend to some important business--getting a match and burning the letter.

Yet Another Step in the Kidney Appeals Process

I met with the UCLA cardiologist on Friday. She is charged with determining my suitability as a transplant candidate. I was hoping and praying for a decision, but that has now been delayed. She wants me to undergo another stress test to assess my heart function. This is probably the best news I could have expected at this point, as she did not deny my request and she did not insist on an angiogram, which uses dye that is harmful to the kidneys. So it's yet another step in this long, involved, emotionally exhausting process.

I greatly appreciate all those who have been praying on my behalf, and I ask that you continue to do so. I know that prayer is very powerful, and it touches me deeply to know that so many people have my best interests in mind and in heart.

The One Word That Says it All

"Proswayed," a female student in one of my classes wrote. When I pointed this mistake out to her, she was befuddled. "It's spelled 'persuade,'" I said. "Oh," she replied.

This one word sums up much of what is wrong with education these days: carelessness, inattention, lack of pride in a job well done, unconcern about one's own language, rushing to finish one project in order to hurry through another.

The flip side is that my fellow educators seem unconcerned about the deterioration of standards. Over the years, I have seen such a steady decline, and this has been disheartening for me. I wonder how sloppy we will eventually become, how much further into the mud we will sink.

And that's one reason why I am glad to be leaving Cal State. Professors who don't care and students who care even less. I will certainly not miss either one.

The Mikes in my Life

A few days ago, it hit me that Mikes have figured prominently in my life. Mike Riek was the love of my life. Mike Cincola was my favorite massage client. (We had such a smashing repoire that his wife was jealous, and Mike abruptly ended our weekly massages with a $700 tip.) Mike Phan is my compassionate cardiologist, and Mike Butman is my dear nephrologist. (Perhaps doctors don't mean that much to you, dear reader, but for someone in my position, having doctors I trust and can relate to means the world.) And most importantly, Archangel Michael.

When this notion of the noteworthy Mikes entered my head, I wondered if this has been the archangel's way of telling me he's watching over me. Sending me Mikes to take care of me on Earth. Certainly Mike Cincola took care of me financially, and of course it did me a whole bunch of good to see a man once a week who I really liked and who really liked to see me. And I've written previously about how Drs. Phan and Butman are rooting for me, doing their damnest to get me on the transplant list, taking care of me physically and medically, as well as boosting my spirits.

But what about Mike Riek? In so many ways, Mike was a huge detriment. Psychologically and mentally abusive, neglectful, self-centered, self-absorbed, filled with rage, self-deprecating, self-destructive. But he certainly took care of me sexually for four years. So, sure, Mike too could have functioned as the archangel's emissary.

And now one more Mike has been added to the mix--Mike Leon, Aaron's artist friend whom I've commissioned to render the archangel as I saw him on that April day in 2000. Mike said he's long been interested in Archangel Michael. I hope to sit down with Mike soon and work on a sketch of that experience. Something like an artist who sketches a suspect from a witness's memory. A little more muscle. Hair a bit more tussled. Blinding light of his minions to either side and to infinity in back of him. I can see him so clearly, but I want so much to have the likeness rendered so that I can gaze upon it many times a day.

Good Energy for May 8

Round three in the transplant fight: a May 8 meeting with a UCLA cardiologist. The director of the program and the surgeon, with whom I met on April 16, will bow to her decision regarding my suitability as a transplant candidate.

The possible outcomes of this meeting:
* overturning the director and surgeon's decision to keep me off the pancreas list
* giving me her blessing for placement on the kidney-only list
* requiring me to undergo more tests before she can make a decision
* refusing to put me on the kidney list

The first is highly unlikely. The second is also a real long shot, according to Dr. Butman, who told me yesterday that patients who had no history of heart disease are often required to undergo an angiogram, so someone like me surely will have to do so.

The last outcome is the one that haunts me. I try to stay focused on 2 and 3, but 4 keeps creeping in.

If she hits me with 4, I will offer her this analogy: The doctors' hesitancy to put me on the list because of an angiogram done in 2006 seems analogous to a 35-year-old who applies for a job and is told he is not a candidate because he was arrested for shoplifting when he was in junior high. He tells HR that he's radically changed since then and is now an upstanding citizen--and he has church membership and community-service awards to prove it.

This seems to be the situation I'm facing. Why are the UCLA docs focused on my "arrest record" rather than on the miraculous transformation my heart has made since the onset of dialysis? (For the past month, I've been lifting weights and walking two to three miles four days a week.) Am I missing something? Are there flaws in my analogy? What more can be done to get them to see the "upstanding citizen" and not the "troubled youth"?

Literary devices worked wonders for Socrates and Jesus. Maybe this analogy will do the trick for me.