Poem Written in Nova Scotia

I am not exactly thrilled with this poem. It has its moments, but it's not my best. But here it is nonetheless.




A Year Ago

By Heidi Nye

A year ago I’d planned to leave my So Cal job,
live in my Nova Scotia cabin six months a year,
travel about the U.S. the other six,
sleep in the back of my truck,
save thousands in rent and utilities,
camp and hike and swim,
explore the back roads and little towns of America,
then head north for another six months,
repeat this cycle again and again,
stopping only for true love or death.
I’d make a living as I had in the summers of ‘05 and ‘06,
conducting interviews via cell phone,
using Internet connections and desk space in public libraries
to research, write, and e-mail articles
for trade journals, lifestyle magazines, and clients I‘d picked up along the way.

Perhaps I’d take an odd job here and there:
a waitress gig in Salt Lake,
a berry-picker season in eastern Washington,
a night-watchman month in Tennessee.

Everywhere I’d go, strangers would give me hugs,
keep me in their prayers,
invite me over for coffee or dinner,
let me use their backyards to set up camp
or their canoes for evening paddles on the lake.



Then, eight months ago, I was given a choice: dialysis or die.
I knew this meant the end of my wandering-Taoist dream,
hooked up as I would be 10 ½ hours in 24
to a machine that chugs and glugs, slurps and burps, belches and farts,
destroying the peace of my bedroom,
my sanctuary turned into a warehouse,
boxes squirreled under the bed, behind the file cabinet,
walls of cardboard halfway to the ceiling.

Thirty boxes every two weeks, I was told.
I’d have to rent a U-Haul and a driver
to tag behind me.
Surely not what I‘d had in mind.

I’d envisioned respite from the heaviness of this planet,
this dense realm in which I’ve been placed.
A lighter, freer way of being.
Instead, I’m now more encumbered than I ever imagined possible.

But when I’m quiet and apprehend the force that emanates
from every living thing (rocks, dead wood, and sunshine included),
I recall flight and weightlessness,
a place where bodies of light merge with one another,
each vibrating molecule of one field passing through the vibrating molecules of the other,
like scrambled transporter beams on the Starship Enterprise,
but in a good way.

The demands of surgical masks, insertion sites, sterile bandages,
aseptic techniques, tubing, exit-site care, blood-sugar tests,
meds, patient record-keeping, clinic visits,
tape, tape, and ever more tape too often cloud my mood,
and I make the mistake of thinking this is all there is,
all there will ever be.

It’s then I weep, shaking my fist toward heaven,
where I suspect Archangel Michael is hanging out,
doing his damnedest to avoid me.
The toughest of tough guys, he can take anything I can dish out.

“I am so tired of all this!” I rail at him.
“I’ve failed so miserably at my assignment.
I’m so very sorry.
So very, very sorry.
Please let me come home.”

He stands tall and resilient as ever, too far away for me to see.
But his message is clear enough: There’s no back-out clause in my contract.
And I must live up to his words to me, now almost a decade old:
“The strength that you see within me
is there inside of you.”


Aug. 21, 2009
Wrights Lake, Nova Scotia

Dialysis Has Given Me a New Heart

I wrote the following for the Renal Support Network's annual essay contest. This year's theme was "What Helps Me Lead a Joyful Life in Spite of Kidney Disease." Winners were announced Oct. 1, and winning essays can be read at kidneytimes.com.




Dialysis has given me a new heart, and I am using it to its full potential.

During the decade prior to beginning peritoneal dialysis on Feb. 2 of this year, I was struggling. There were many days when I wondered if this would be my last. Getting dressed or making my bed exhausted me. I would pause before attempting a few stairs, saying under my breath in a mind-over-matter mantra, “It is easy for me to climb these stairs. It is easy for me to climb these stairs.” I’d do the same when walking from my apartment to my van or from my van to my office: “It is easy for me to walk this distance,” I would assure myself. “It is easy for me to walk this distance,” though I would have to stop every few yards and catch my breath.

I had reprieves during which I was asymptomatic, but these were short-lived. For years I slept in a recliner in the living room, since lying prone or on my side put too much pressure on my heart. I was frequently hospitalized for fluid on the lungs, fluid overload, or when I’d gone out of whack in the other direction, dehydration, which would also tax my ticker. Compounding these challenges were severe anemia, which required three blood transfusions; juvenile-onset diabetes; and two heart attacks. My medical emergencies and heart-stent surgery conveniently occurred on the weekends or during vacation, so very few friends or coworkers knew I was anything but perfectly health. And as much as possible, I spared my son from too much information. I wanted the world to see me as strong and vibrant, and for the most part it did.

Through all this, I continued to work as an adjunct journalism professor and as a freelance writer and editor. In addition, I also spent long hours at spas and chiropractor offices as a massage therapist. Attending to my private clients was often at the upper limits of my physical ability, especially carrying the 45-pound massage table and 20-pound bag of gear up and down steps into their homes.

Last December I was told I had two choices: dialysis or death. I seriously entertained the latter course, knowing that I wasn’t interested in being hooked up to a machine that would simply prolong my life and not give me any respite from the ordeals of the last decade. In the end, I decided on peritoneal dialysis, as it promised the most mobility, autonomy, and freedom. I had spent the summers of 2005 and 2006 exploring the back roads of the U.S. and Canada, living out of my van, and backpacking through Malaysia and Thailand before that. These are the kind of adventures I still aspired to have. With PD, I was told, I would not have to confine myself to large urban areas with hemodialysis centers. If I wanted, I could camp 50 miles from the nearest dirt town in the desert, far removed from electricity and running water, and still perform manual exchanges, provided I maintained the aseptic techniques I had been taught. This sounded like the program for me.

So on Jan. 30, I underwent surgery for the placement of a catheter into my abdomen. Because I had put off dialysis for so long, I had to begin PD right away with no time for the incision to heal. Almost immediately I began to feel so much better. Not only could I walk across the room without getting winded, I could walk for two hours without stopping and without chest pain. I can now bound up stairs like someone half my age. And I can dance the night away at my salsa class. As I told my nephrologist, “Except for a few really fantastic kisses, I haven’t felt this good in 10 years!”

So, when I think of what makes me live a joyful life in spite of kidney disease, I have to say that dialysis has given me the opportunity to create my own joy. Prior to PD, every waking moment seemed as if it could be my last, and this put a tremendous drain on my body, my mind, and my spirit. Now, I’m walking for hours and dancing up a storm. I am so incredibly grateful, filled with joy.