First-in-a-Lifetime Experience

As I have done at least a dozen times in my life, I worked hard for the last two days scrubbing my old apartment in the hopes of recooping at least some of my deposit. In the past, the landlord has always taken a good chunk regardless of my former abode's condition. This time, however, my work paid off. The landlord met me as I was completing the finishing touches on the carpet cleaning, looked the place over, and wrote me a check on the spot for the full amount of the deposit. Wow! Much gratitude and joy for the $900 in my pocket tonight.

Living Next to Monks Again--What Are the Chances?

I recently moved from 666 Molino Ave. Apt. 6 to my new abode on Freeman just south of Fourth Street. Despite my previous address's ominious numerology, it was a beautiful, sunny place right next door to a monastery. I hadn't known this until after I'd moved in. but I was just a few feet away from Morningland, a New Age cult of white-garbed, placcid-looking adherents to a mixture of Eastern and Western mythology with a little Star Trek thrown in. For an even-handed report on Morningland's search last summer for its sacred missing tortoise, see my former student Jennifer Stockdale's piece from the District Weekly.

The Morningland folk were always very pleasant and polite. When I asked them to please tone down the music after 10 p.m., they did so. I enjoyed the singing during the day and early evening; in fact, I have such beautiful memories of lying face up on my bed during a few summer afternoons as a light breeze entered my windows and I let the forceful voice of a Morningland soloist wash over me.

The chances of living nextdoor to a monastery once in one's lifetime are rather slim, I'd say. But now I find that, once again, my neighbors are monks, this time of the Tibetan Buddhist variety, complete with prayer flags, shaved heads, and maroon robes. At this moment I am looking out my living room windows, across the 10 feet that separate me from their plum-painted craftsman-style house.

I can't help but believe that there is some sort of divine intervention going on here. Unlike the Morninglanders, who I found nice but a tiny bit strange, the Tibetans are folks I'm eager to get to know. They are a quiet bunch, and I have not yet made contact, but would really love to develop a friendship. Since I was a very young girl, I have dreamed of visiting Tibet. Perhaps these monks are an answer to my prayers.

Prayers for Ron and Susie

Please see Ron's body accepting his new kidney. Please see Susie calm and rested and knowing that she absolutely made the right decision to give Ron one of her kidneys, no matter what the outcome. White light both of them, even though you have never met them. See them surrounded by pure, healing, revujenating light that nourishes every cell in their bodies and calms all their fears and second-guessing.

Susie is doing fine, physically. Ron, who initially seemed to accept his "perfect match" kidney, is now facing some challenges. Don't see these challenges but instead see the perfect outcome of Ron accepting the kidney as if it were his own and Susie remaining a forceful advocate for donation, a woman who will go on to write of her experience and so persuade many others to do the same. This is what Susie envisioned, and this is what I see her receiving.

A Spiritual Experience at a Strip Club

My friend Armando is a DJ at strip clubs. He's 33 and has been doing this for maybe a decade. The tips are good, and you sure do learn a lot about people, he says. For months now he's been offering to escort me to a club. This past Saturday we finally went.





The Caberet is located near the docks. A heavily industrial area. The interior was dimly lit with red-sconced candles on the tables, smoky stage lights, a disco ball, and plenty of mirrors. We arrived early--around 6:30--so things were pretty slow.

Armando and I sat ring-side for a few songs, but mostly sat at a table where we could see the girls but didn't have them dancing in our faces. Armando said that, unlike the clubs he's worked at, these girls were allowed to touch the customers and even do splits inches from their eyeballs. Hard for me to imagine how these men could control themselves, song after song.

As Armando had told me previously, about 30 percent of the clientele was women. Armando also told me that 80 percent of the girls prefer women.

Besides the sensuality of these dancers, what I found fascinating about them was their athleticism. Years ago I had massaged two strippers when I worked at Mr and Ms Day Spa. I was amazed at their musculature. As these gals slowly slid down the pole, I marveled at the grace and strength in their moves.

When the girls were off-stage, they mostly wore skimpy bikins. Danielle, however, wore a large-holed, black mesh top. All of the girls had good bodies, but there certainly was variety--from a slender Asian to a large-hipped, big-busted gal who must have been 160 pounds, but her curves were firm, not flabby. A surreal environment with beautiful gals cavorting about while we sat in velvet-lined easy chairs and drank club soda and non-alcoholic pina coladas.

Danielle came over and sat on my lap, bounced up and down a bit and stroked my arm. Armando told her I was a massage therapist, so I gave her a little sample, rubbing her tight neck and shoulders.

The girl Armando and I really connected with was Kimmie. She was 20 years old and from Virginia. She'd been doing this for two years. Unlike Danielle, Kimmie seemed genuine, talking to us because she was an upbeat person and not solely to get us to have a lap dance. In fact, as Armando noted, most of the girls were just sitting around when they were off-stage, saving their energy for the high rollers who'd arrive later. But Kimmie was doing well for herself by working the crowd. Armando was counting the number of customers she led into the curtained room for a lap dance. He had her gross at $150 during the two hours we were there, and she was working until 5 the next morning.

Armando had two two-song lap dances with Kimmie ($40 each plus tip). I figured I might as well do this too, since who knows if I would ever come back to a strip club again. Kimmie led me by the hand to the curtained room. I wasn't sure what exactly a lap dance entails, so I told her that I was wearing an insulin pump and tubing for kidney dialysis. I wear my pump inside a baby sock that I tuck into my underwear. I thought I had better tell her in case it got in her way.

Kimmie couldn't believe it: She, too, is a Type I diabetic, diagnosed at age 12. She said she wore a pump when she was in school, but it caused welts at the insertion points, so she had to discontinue its use and go back to taking shots. I asked her if it was difficult to work nights. Didn't that throw her schedule off? She said she tested her blood to make sure she was OK during her shift.

Kimmie and I were both noticeably touched. It's not often that I've met a Type I (juvenille-onset rather than adult- or obesity-onset) diabetic. I've probably only knowingly met a half dozen in my entire life. Kimmie hugged me after she'd finished her dance and said that she felt I'd been guided to her. I was nearly in tears. I gave her my business card and wrote my home phone number on the back. I admonished her to take care of herself now so that she can avoid dialysis in the future. (How I wish I had met an older Type I diabetic when I was 20. Someone who might have been my guide and support system.) I told her she could call me any time to talk about diabetes, that I'd be there to offer support.

Wow, how beautiful this was! God works in mysterious ways, bringing people together who might never have been brought together otherwise.

Now Kimmie (real name Erica) may not call, and I sure can't afford to go back to the club to see her. If you were really going to do it right, a night at a strip club would start at $200 if you tipped after every dance and bought a few drinks. If you wanted more than that, a one-song lap dance is $20, a two-song $40, 15 minutes in the VIP room $160 and a half hour $300. I'm sure some people burn through hundreds of dollars a night.

But even if Kimmie doesn't call, I gave her a forceful message. Who knows, maybe because of that one brief encounter, she will watch her blood sugar level and eat right so that 30 years from now, she won't be in the same situation I'm in.

Tears from Outer Space

Just a few days ago, my friend Susie donated one of her kidneys to her long-time friend's husband, Ron. Besides some severe pain caused by the pumping of gas into her system, Susie is fine. Ron, as I just heard from Susie's mom, is looking the best he's looked in 10 years. He now has some color, and his lab markers are normal. The transplant seems to have been a big success.

After I hung up the phone, I began weeping. Not just a little wet in the eyes but sobbing. I can't really say what these tears from outer space are about. Vicarious joy that someone I've never met has been given the gift of life? Is it because no one has said to me, "Heidi, once you get on that transplant list, I want to be tested as a possible donor"? Or is it that, the longer this process of getting on the waitlist drags on, the more I feel I'll be tied to a dialysis machine for the rest of my days?

I am happy for Ron, no question. It's the same sort of happiness I have often felt when I've seen people in love. I think that any love in the world makes love for others all the more possible. Though I may not be with someone, here in front of me is evidence that love and romance and passion are possible. Possible for me. So it is the same with Ron. Someone stepped up for him, so it is possible that someone will step up for me. He received a kidney, so it is possible that I may receive a kidney too.

But it is exhausting sometimes to remain positive, day after day, decade after decade, that healing and good health are coming my way. And it's a lot of energy to maintain the archetype of the happy person with health challenges.

Still Waiting

I sent an email to Fe, the Kaiser transplant coordinator for the Bellflower facility, asking when the UCLA transplant team would make its decision. I noted that Dr. Van Herle, the UCLA cardiologist, had told Dr. Phan, my Kaiser cardiologist, a week ago that she was recommending that I be waitlisted.

Fe wrote back today, saying that Dr. Van Herle has requested the results of my angiogram from November 2006 and the results of the stress test I took last month. Fe said she requested the former two weeks from the Sunset facility, where I had the stent surgery, but so far Sunset has not responded.

This is so typical of the mixed messages from Kaiser. Dr. Phan told me Dr. Van Herle said "yes," but Fe tells me Dr. Van Herle is waiting for additional information before she can make a decision. Which is it?

So in short, I'm facing more waiting: Sunset sending the records to Fe, Fe sending the records to Van Herle, Van Herle reviewing the records and making a recommendation, the transplant team making its recommendation, and UCLA sending out a letter of affirmation or denial. I had thought I'd get an answer this week, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen.

Another Move, A New Friend

I will be moving to a new abode as of the middle of this month. I found the place on one of my walks. It's the back half of a craftsman-style house about 10 blocks from where I'm currently living. It has more floor space than this place, though it too is a one-bedroom. It has a sunny extra room, though, that could be used as a dining room or an office. It has a shared back yard and an assigned parking place. That is one of three things I have long wanted in a residence: off-street parking, some dirt for a garden, and a place that will accept a dog.

That brings me to the big selling point: It's pet-friendly! As soon as I move in, I'm going to start looking for the dog of my dreams. I want the kind of dog I had as a child, one that will look at me with its big, loving eyes and pound its tail and wiggle its butt with joy when I come home. A dog that is smart and can be trained to sit up and shake its paw. A dog that is not high-strung, that only barks when it feels it needs to protect me. Not a sissy lap dog. A real dog. A mutt. Ideally, with some golden retriever in its genes to give it that beautiful honey coloring.

I told Aaron that I was much more excited about looking for a dog than looking for a man. He responded, "There are a lot more choices." A lot more good choices! About once every three or four years, I meet a man about whom I think, "Oh, hot damn! I could really go for him!" But I meet three or four dogs a week about whom I think, "Oh, what a cutie! I could sure live with you!"

UCLA Cardiologist Gives Her OK

I received some good news this week: The UCLA cardiologist is recommending to the transplant team that I be placed on the wait list. Since I had been told by the transplant surgeon and the head of the kidney-pancreas transplant team that they needed to hear from the cardiologist before making a decision, I am under the impression that they will go with her recommendation. Let's hope so.

In fact, just from a collegiality standpoint, I would think that the transplant team would have to go with her recommendation. If they said they needed to hear her opinion and then they disregard her opinion, that's a bit of a slap in her professional face. They wouldn't appreciate it if another doctor did the same to them. So I have a good feeling about this.

I had written several emails to my Kaiser nephrologist and cardiologist this week about the nuclear scan of my heart that was taken last week. In part, I asked that they ask their UCLA colleagues to stop "looking at the damn lab results and start looking at the person who is standing in front of them." I said that it is like looking at a student's failing grades and, on that basis, labeling him stupid, when all the while he's writing Nobel Prize-winning novels and findig a cure for cancer. This is analogous to my situation: The lab results paint a discouraging picture, but I feel great. I wrote that on Monday evening I walked two hours without stopping, without chest pain, without shortness of breath, whereas my walking companion, who is supposedly without health problems, was near-panting. I feel that I am in better shape than most of the women my age who don't have kidney disease. Certainly I am a better, healthier transplant candidate than someone who is 50+ pounds overweight and doesn't exercise!