Other Lives

Not often do I think of the images I have received of other lifetimes. After all, this life right here and now is the important one. It's the one that needs my attention.

Once in a while, though, I do give these images some reflection. Now before you start saying, "UGH, not another Cleopatra or Napoleon," I assure you that I remember no lives that were chronicled, much less deified. No, the lives I remember were outwardly simple, though I sensed an interior depth. This profound interiority is the primary reason why I so resonated with these others.

And who were they?

* A shepherd, seemingly in the Middle East. Perhaps Israeli. Dressed in tunic and sandals. Could have been 1,000 or 2,000 years ago.

* A Chinese apothecary, beloved by the local children, who giggled about him and tugged playfully at his long robes. He in turn smiled at them, considering them his children, though he didn't appear to have any of his own. No wife either. A gentleness about him, the compassion of a true healer. People would come to him with their problems because they knew he was discreet and that their secrets were safe with him. He would listen, then prepare a tincture to calm their nerves or lift their spirits or abort a sobbing child's unwanted child.

* A slender, nicely attired woman, circa 1930s. Brunette. Lived alone in a sunny, second-story apartment that was cheerful and tidy. Lots of plants. A comfy sofa upon which she leisurely sipped tea and read books, lots of books. Walked to work. Some kind of an office job, though more responsibility than was generally granted women in those days. Greeted by the shopkeepers and pedestrians she passed. Self-contained. Friendly, polite, but not close to anyone. Seemed quite calm, content with her life. Not at all lonely.

* A Catholic monk during the Middle Ages or perhaps later, but in a monastery that had not kept up with the times. This was by far the most powerful vision. I actually felt what he was feeling in my own body. I felt as if I were inside his body. I was there, kneeling on the cold, stone floor of an empty church, and felt I was descending into the earth, as if I had entered a trance that the monk had achieved through long hours of focused prayer. Through this experience, I received a valuable insight, which I crafted into the following poem:


Stepping Outside the City Walls

Five decades hauling water
to wash Christ's feet
and cook the abbott's supper.
Fifty years chopping wood
from forests beyond the city walls.
Pine and juniper, hazelnut, maple, and oak.
Trees felled by those who move in the world.

By day, the villagers left branches at our gate.
Sweet pumpkin bread,
apples, and candles, too.
Wildflowers and thick, coarse blankets
for men who sleep alone.

When only angels and devils stirred,
I brought the gifts inside.
A street filled with people would make me blush,
but darkened, it had no power over me.

Hours alone beneath the cross.
Bruised knees on a cold chapel floor.
Sarifices for the One who led me underground
to secret places where other lives were lived.


Thirty four years ago,
I awoke inside a girl's body.
Within her dreamy, preschool mind,
I was a thought:
How wonderful to be a monk,
a curator of God's soul!

She built altars of dandelions
and pillows of grass clippings for the Virgin's tender feet.
From the tulips to the weeping willow,
the Queen of Heaven floated on blue light beams,
winged garter snakes, and broken colored glass.

White leather prayer books and visions in the woods
kept the little girl content.
But as she grew, she soon discovered that monks were always men
and nuns were made for serving priests.

The convent doors closed,
she chose sickness instead, the secular path of withdrawal.
Insulin syringes and admonitions of "no candy"
formed walls against a world unannounced and uninvited,
a bothersome neighbor forever knocking at her door.


The little girl now seldom thinks of Mary's feet.
She's more concerned with wrinkles beneath her eyes
and her son's face in which she already sees a man.
At nights she prays to anything that may be listening:
"Spirit, God, Angel, Guide,
heal my body so that I might better reveal
my excellence to the world."

I'm yet a thought within her mind,
but growing smaller now.
Soon I'll be a relic of a thought
from some other life sleeping deeper and deeper underground.

The Final Decision

Two months ago, I was still wondering whether I should proceed with dialysis. I really didn't know if I wanted to go through with it. For about a year, whenever a doctor would bring up the subject, I'd say that life is hard enough as it is without a partner, but I sure didn't want to face dialysis alone. The doctor would then press me, asking me what I planned to do. "I am expecting a miracle," I'd reply. "And if that doesn't happen, I'll just die."

Around this time, I had a heart-to-heart with Aaron and told him I really didn't want to do this, that perhaps I'd be better off dead. I saluted and said, "Ready for re-assignment, Sir!"

But then I realized that my re-assignment would be a return to the same assignment. I've lived with chronic illness all my life and damn if I'm going to leave this life and be plopped down in another life of illness! No way! This message came through with such certainty, like a lightening bolt from heaven.

I continue to see myself as healthy and vibrant and strong. I sure as hell would love to manifest this during this lifetime, but I will not be denied in the next because I wouldn't see things through to the end this time around.

I can come up with hundreds of reasons to go on living--everything from sunshine and birdsong to my son, creative ventures, and the hope-springs-eternal possibility of romance. Hundreds of reasons to continue with dialysis. But even if all of these were to vanish, I have my ace in the hole: the card that says, "You can't fold yet."

Thank You, Cousins!

A big thank you to all my cousins in Minnesota who have been sending me loving, supportive e-mails. This means an awful lot to me.

Because I lived in Wisconsin as a child, I didn't get to see my cousins as much as I might have liked to, but the times we did spend together stick out in my mind, especially the annual summer picnic in Ormsby.

As our mothers and fathers grew older and died, our generation didn't continue with the family picnics. Instead, the November foeden party became the new get-together.

I attended my first foeden party this past November and had such a fantastic time. I so enjoyed all my cousins! I made a promise to myself that I would do everything I could to attend every year from here on in.

Right now, travel of any kind seems daunting, but I sure hope to see you all in November. I look forward to receiving in person all the hugs you're e-mailing me now!

Same Weight I Was in High School

A few days ago, I told Dr. Butman that I'm the same weight I was in high school. I was 126 then, and without the two liters (four pounds) I carry inside my peritoneum membrane between exchanges, I would be 126. Right now, with those two liters, I generally weigh in at 131 or 132.

I've probably been carrying around extra fluid for years because, before I went on dialysis, my weight fluctuated from 138 to 155. Extra fluid, of course, put a strain on my heart.

Dr. Butman responded by saying how his patients so often tell him that putting on weight is associated with aging. "But they haven't grown any taller since high school, have they?" he retorted.

Just as with so many things, weight gain is something people don't want to take personal responsibility for; they'd rather make excuses. All I know is that if I, who has exercised so little in the past several years because to do so gave me chest pain and shortness of breath, if I can be the same weight I was in high school, then certainly people who are able to exercise without chest pain can do the same.

Crazy Weight Swings

Yesterday I gained more than seven pounds from the time I got up to the time I went to bed. All I can attribute this to is eating two chicken sausages. Too much salt, resulting in water retention and fluid overload.

Last night I hooked up with one green bag and one red. Green is for when things are stable, and red is for fluid overload. (Yellow is for a dehydrated state.) Generally, I use one green and one yellow, and that keeps me fairly stable. Red is pretty powerful and draws out a lot of fluid and a lot of toxins. This morning I woke up seven pounds lighter.

I'm sure there are those who are reading this and thinking how wonderful it would be to drop seven pounds while you slept. Sounds like something you'd see on an infomercial. Well, let me tell you, it's definitely not the way to go.

First off, it stretches my skin. My belly becomes distended when I'm in fluid overload, and then when it's relieved, the skin is lax. And secondly, that stretching causes my whole body to ache. I just feel tired, worn out, almost beat up after such a swing.

No, folks, the best way to lose weight is to eat right and exercise. Not like this.

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Last night, March 16-17, I lost 11.4 pounds. I went to bed at 142.6 and woke up at 131.2. Really don't like how I feel after such a wild swing.