Ever since returning from France in June, I have had a cold. The symptoms change--sometimes phlegm that can be expelled, mostly phlegm that's stuck in my throat and chest, sometimes a ticklish nose and a lot of sneezing, sometimes a bunch of coughing. But it never goes away.
I saw Dr. Mai, my acupuncturist, yesterday, and he said I have to take care of this or it will turn into chronic bronchitis or asthma. Well, I'm certainly ready to be rid of it.
I have been tired and weak for the last month or so. Perhaps the cold is really dragging me down.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Kuehl Family Reunion, 1987
Not this coming weekend but the next is the Kuehl family reunion. For many years now, it has been held on the first Saturday of November. Whereas during my childhood and my son's early childhood, the reunion was a picnic held in a Trimont, Minn., park, these days it's a foeden-making party. Foeden are donut-like treats made in a special skillet.
The following is an essay I wrote in 1987 and hoped to publish. It has waited in my document files until now to see the light of day. I am in the process of sorting through all my writing and separating the wheat from the chaff. This piece is part travel story of the small towns of southern Wisconsin and Minnesota, and part philosophical musings on the nature of family, connection to the land, and traditions.
Taking the Long Way Home
Over the Back Roads of Wisconsin and Minnesota
As a young child, the drive to Ormsby, Minnesota, had seemed endless to me, and so I could hardly blame my 14-month-old son for squirming in his car seat and occasionally wiggling his way out when we made the trip with my mother this past summer. At the end of our journey, relatives waited for us and for the Kuehl family reunion, an annual tradition that my mother had tried to make every year when my brother and I were children. Now that she has a grandchild, she feels the pull of time all the more strongly, and so seeing her "people," as she calls her sisters, is becoming more and more important.
I sat in the back seat with Aaron while my mother drove. Mine was the more rigorous detail. Keeping Aaron entertained for two days--five hundred miles--of driving was no easy task, but I quieted his cries and forestalled his screams with my shopping bag full of tricks: picture books of doggies and duckies, a yellow play phone for calling Daddy, a hedgehog hand puppet in a red bandana, Aaron's favorite teddy and, when all else failed, Goldfish crackers I fed him slowly, never more than one per mile.
It was a cool and drizzly June morning when three generations of Kuehl started out for the homestead in southwestern Minnesota, driving west from Racine via Highway 20. At Rochester, what must be one of southeastern Wisconsin's most picturesque towns, we turned north onto 83, on which we passed fences and barns of Kettle Moraine field stone, rain-sprinkled pastures and cows lazily grazing under overcast skies.
We stopped for mid-morning coffee and the best homemade poppyseed cake I'd ever tasted at the family-run Genessee Depot in the town by the same name. Dressed in blue-and-white-striped apron and hat, "Grandma" brought us mugs of hot coffee while her seven-year-old grandson took our order and my mother talked with the boy's father about Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, the Broadway stars who adored the Wisconsin countryside and built their estate outside of town.
At Wales we again turned west, this time on 18, which took us all the way to Madison. Before we reached the capital and what was to be the most congested leg of our journey, we stopped in Dousman, just long enough for me to photograph an unusual building at the side of the road--a barn or a storage shed, I wasn't sure which--painted a soft peach with white filigree woodwork along the eaves that made me think of a cake with elaborate icing.
When I had made this trip with my parents and brother, we had always taken 12 out of Madison, and farther on, 16, highways which have now been all but rendered obsolete for interstate travelers by I-90, which closely parallels them for many of their miles. This summer, however, we opted for a different path--14 and its meanderings through Black Earth, Mazomanie, and after it crosses the Wisconsin River, Spring Green, where we stopped at a roadside park for a picnic lunch. Huddling beneath an open shelter, my mother and I ate the Cornish hens I'd prepared the night before while Aaron played with the hand-pumped drinking fountain.
The skies began to clear in the afternoon as we headed north on 14 through Gotham, Richland Center and Readstown, and by the time we reached Viroqua, we had rolled down our windows for a chance at a cool breeze. Instead of continuing on 14 to La Crosse, I convinced my mother to head west out of Viroqua on 56. She said she had never taken this stretch of road before, and the mere three cars we saw along the 20 miles to the Mississippi River town of Genoa were evidence that not many others had either.
In sleepy Genoa we turned north on 35, a lovely road that made me wish we had more time to take 35 south along the river banks to Praire du Chien and then back north again to La Crosse, our motel stop for the night.
After a McDonald's breakfast the next morning, we crossed the Mississippi. I attempted to focus Aaron's attention on the river, so he could share in my excitement, but all he was interested in were the trucks on the bridge and the teddy in his arms. It was a perfect day for traveling--sunny but not hot, blue sky with plump clouds, not too muggy.
Our first hours were spent in the hill country of southeastern Minnesota, much of which is state park and forest lands. The few small towns along 16 are snuggled beside the Root River, which does much to give Hokah, Rushford and Lanesboro a sense of timeless peace. We detoured at Peterson and Whalen, the two smallest burgs. Located over an old bridge that crosses the Root, Peterson's only inhabitant appeared to be a lone dog. The shops were all closed, and looked as if they had been for some time. The houses didn't appear abandoned, yet there was no one around. We drove to the highest point in town, a steepled church. It was for sale.
Whalen appeared more optimistic, though not much livelier. A gift shop had tried to survive on Main Street, and failed. A grocery store was in the process of shutting down. But the town had a park with two picnic tables and a gazebo, and the historical society maintained a museum, which was closed when we were there. I left the hill country thinking how sad it is that the most beautiful places are usually the ones where it's so difficult to make a living.
At Preston the terrain abruptly turned flat; the vegetation changed from forests to farmers' fields. At Grand Meadow we attempted to piece together a path over county roads, but kept getting turned around, passing through Rose Creek three times before giving up and, reluctantly, joining with I-90. The long, monotonous miles of cornfields prompted my comment: "I bet a lot of farm kids look at this freeway and think, 'That road's my ticket out of here.'"
Just west of Welcome, we left the interstate and drove eight miles north on Minnesota 4 to the first settlement of Trimont. Over the years, my aunts and uncles had left Ormsby, where my Grandma Kuehl had lived until her death in 1965: Gilma, Dorothy and Viola now resided in Trimont; Bernita, in St. James.
We had supper that evening at Aunt Gilma's: pork chops, green-beans-and-Velveta casserole, jello salad with a dollop of Miracle Whip. After the dishes were done, I put Aaron in his stroller and walked along the deserted main street, past the cafe where retired farmers, like my uncle Bill, went to shoot the breeze about the price of corn.
I pushed the stroller to the very edge of town. Strange, but this town really did have an edge. Next to the implement shop, just beyond the railroad tracks, Trimont ended and fields of soybeans, lavender and pinkish in the last rays of sunlight, began.
I thought of all the cities and towns I have known in which the residents were strangers, and of my son who has logged more jet time than most of his Minnesota uncles and aunts have accrued in their lifetimes. Aaron has flown from Los Angeles to Milwaukee for two Christmases, two weddings and one family reunion. He's traveled the West Coast in his parents’ van, his first camping trip when he was not yet three months old.
The long-awaited family reunion took place on Saturday afternoon at the shelter in one of Trimont's two parks. Aaron wasn't yet walking, but I set him down as soon as we got there and didn't pick him up again until we left six hours later. He had plenty of great aunts who were more than willing to fuss over him, and he was pleased to explore on his own, getting dirtier than my cousin Nick's 1000-pound sows.
I hadn't been to a family reunion in nine years, when my husband and I had driven out from Chicago, where we lived before moving to California. Cousins I had remembered as delightful preschoolers were now in junior high, and those who had been fixed in my memory as insecure teenagers had become lawyers, small business-owners, middle managers and teachers in my absence. My cousin Heidi is a now wildlife biologist for the Minneapolis Zoo.
As I now put maps of Wisconsin and Minnesota in Aaron's baby book and mark our route in yellow felt pen, I think of my aunts and uncles in rural Minnesota, who, almost without exception, have never traveled abroad, indeed many rarely leave their immediate area. A shopping excursion to Minneapolis, a little over two hours away by freeway, is a major trip. I thought of L.A., where I now live, and how one city rubs right up against the next with only a sign to let you know you've left one for another.
Even the surrounding areas are not familiar. I had asked my Aunt Dorothy what she knew of Swastika Beach, a town less than 20 miles from her home in Trimont. "How did it get that name?" I wondered. She'd said she'd never heard of the place, yet, in over 70 years, she's never lived more than 50 miles away. "There are so many little settlements no one ever hears about," she had answered. "You only know the towns where someone you know lives."
I think of the traveling my son will do in his lifetime, the people he'll meet and befriend in far-off places and the towns he'll know even though he knows no one in them. I have only two wishes for my young traveler: that he'll also want to "know his roots," as his grandmother would say--the Kuehls who will wait for him every summer at family-reunion time in places like Ormsby, Trimont, St. James and Alpha; and that maybe someday he and I will both discover what goes on in Swastika Beach. Until then, youngest cousin Vonn and best-looking cousins Nick and Neal will continue to farm the rich black earth that provided a livelihood for my grandparents, Reinhold and Augusta, and so assured that their children would grow to adulthood and have children of their own, who would gather together for family reunions like this one
The following is an essay I wrote in 1987 and hoped to publish. It has waited in my document files until now to see the light of day. I am in the process of sorting through all my writing and separating the wheat from the chaff. This piece is part travel story of the small towns of southern Wisconsin and Minnesota, and part philosophical musings on the nature of family, connection to the land, and traditions.
Taking the Long Way Home
Over the Back Roads of Wisconsin and Minnesota
As a young child, the drive to Ormsby, Minnesota, had seemed endless to me, and so I could hardly blame my 14-month-old son for squirming in his car seat and occasionally wiggling his way out when we made the trip with my mother this past summer. At the end of our journey, relatives waited for us and for the Kuehl family reunion, an annual tradition that my mother had tried to make every year when my brother and I were children. Now that she has a grandchild, she feels the pull of time all the more strongly, and so seeing her "people," as she calls her sisters, is becoming more and more important.
I sat in the back seat with Aaron while my mother drove. Mine was the more rigorous detail. Keeping Aaron entertained for two days--five hundred miles--of driving was no easy task, but I quieted his cries and forestalled his screams with my shopping bag full of tricks: picture books of doggies and duckies, a yellow play phone for calling Daddy, a hedgehog hand puppet in a red bandana, Aaron's favorite teddy and, when all else failed, Goldfish crackers I fed him slowly, never more than one per mile.
It was a cool and drizzly June morning when three generations of Kuehl started out for the homestead in southwestern Minnesota, driving west from Racine via Highway 20. At Rochester, what must be one of southeastern Wisconsin's most picturesque towns, we turned north onto 83, on which we passed fences and barns of Kettle Moraine field stone, rain-sprinkled pastures and cows lazily grazing under overcast skies.
We stopped for mid-morning coffee and the best homemade poppyseed cake I'd ever tasted at the family-run Genessee Depot in the town by the same name. Dressed in blue-and-white-striped apron and hat, "Grandma" brought us mugs of hot coffee while her seven-year-old grandson took our order and my mother talked with the boy's father about Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, the Broadway stars who adored the Wisconsin countryside and built their estate outside of town.
At Wales we again turned west, this time on 18, which took us all the way to Madison. Before we reached the capital and what was to be the most congested leg of our journey, we stopped in Dousman, just long enough for me to photograph an unusual building at the side of the road--a barn or a storage shed, I wasn't sure which--painted a soft peach with white filigree woodwork along the eaves that made me think of a cake with elaborate icing.
When I had made this trip with my parents and brother, we had always taken 12 out of Madison, and farther on, 16, highways which have now been all but rendered obsolete for interstate travelers by I-90, which closely parallels them for many of their miles. This summer, however, we opted for a different path--14 and its meanderings through Black Earth, Mazomanie, and after it crosses the Wisconsin River, Spring Green, where we stopped at a roadside park for a picnic lunch. Huddling beneath an open shelter, my mother and I ate the Cornish hens I'd prepared the night before while Aaron played with the hand-pumped drinking fountain.
The skies began to clear in the afternoon as we headed north on 14 through Gotham, Richland Center and Readstown, and by the time we reached Viroqua, we had rolled down our windows for a chance at a cool breeze. Instead of continuing on 14 to La Crosse, I convinced my mother to head west out of Viroqua on 56. She said she had never taken this stretch of road before, and the mere three cars we saw along the 20 miles to the Mississippi River town of Genoa were evidence that not many others had either.
In sleepy Genoa we turned north on 35, a lovely road that made me wish we had more time to take 35 south along the river banks to Praire du Chien and then back north again to La Crosse, our motel stop for the night.
After a McDonald's breakfast the next morning, we crossed the Mississippi. I attempted to focus Aaron's attention on the river, so he could share in my excitement, but all he was interested in were the trucks on the bridge and the teddy in his arms. It was a perfect day for traveling--sunny but not hot, blue sky with plump clouds, not too muggy.
Our first hours were spent in the hill country of southeastern Minnesota, much of which is state park and forest lands. The few small towns along 16 are snuggled beside the Root River, which does much to give Hokah, Rushford and Lanesboro a sense of timeless peace. We detoured at Peterson and Whalen, the two smallest burgs. Located over an old bridge that crosses the Root, Peterson's only inhabitant appeared to be a lone dog. The shops were all closed, and looked as if they had been for some time. The houses didn't appear abandoned, yet there was no one around. We drove to the highest point in town, a steepled church. It was for sale.
Whalen appeared more optimistic, though not much livelier. A gift shop had tried to survive on Main Street, and failed. A grocery store was in the process of shutting down. But the town had a park with two picnic tables and a gazebo, and the historical society maintained a museum, which was closed when we were there. I left the hill country thinking how sad it is that the most beautiful places are usually the ones where it's so difficult to make a living.
At Preston the terrain abruptly turned flat; the vegetation changed from forests to farmers' fields. At Grand Meadow we attempted to piece together a path over county roads, but kept getting turned around, passing through Rose Creek three times before giving up and, reluctantly, joining with I-90. The long, monotonous miles of cornfields prompted my comment: "I bet a lot of farm kids look at this freeway and think, 'That road's my ticket out of here.'"
Just west of Welcome, we left the interstate and drove eight miles north on Minnesota 4 to the first settlement of Trimont. Over the years, my aunts and uncles had left Ormsby, where my Grandma Kuehl had lived until her death in 1965: Gilma, Dorothy and Viola now resided in Trimont; Bernita, in St. James.
We had supper that evening at Aunt Gilma's: pork chops, green-beans-and-Velveta casserole, jello salad with a dollop of Miracle Whip. After the dishes were done, I put Aaron in his stroller and walked along the deserted main street, past the cafe where retired farmers, like my uncle Bill, went to shoot the breeze about the price of corn.
I pushed the stroller to the very edge of town. Strange, but this town really did have an edge. Next to the implement shop, just beyond the railroad tracks, Trimont ended and fields of soybeans, lavender and pinkish in the last rays of sunlight, began.
I thought of all the cities and towns I have known in which the residents were strangers, and of my son who has logged more jet time than most of his Minnesota uncles and aunts have accrued in their lifetimes. Aaron has flown from Los Angeles to Milwaukee for two Christmases, two weddings and one family reunion. He's traveled the West Coast in his parents’ van, his first camping trip when he was not yet three months old.
The long-awaited family reunion took place on Saturday afternoon at the shelter in one of Trimont's two parks. Aaron wasn't yet walking, but I set him down as soon as we got there and didn't pick him up again until we left six hours later. He had plenty of great aunts who were more than willing to fuss over him, and he was pleased to explore on his own, getting dirtier than my cousin Nick's 1000-pound sows.
I hadn't been to a family reunion in nine years, when my husband and I had driven out from Chicago, where we lived before moving to California. Cousins I had remembered as delightful preschoolers were now in junior high, and those who had been fixed in my memory as insecure teenagers had become lawyers, small business-owners, middle managers and teachers in my absence. My cousin Heidi is a now wildlife biologist for the Minneapolis Zoo.
As I now put maps of Wisconsin and Minnesota in Aaron's baby book and mark our route in yellow felt pen, I think of my aunts and uncles in rural Minnesota, who, almost without exception, have never traveled abroad, indeed many rarely leave their immediate area. A shopping excursion to Minneapolis, a little over two hours away by freeway, is a major trip. I thought of L.A., where I now live, and how one city rubs right up against the next with only a sign to let you know you've left one for another.
Even the surrounding areas are not familiar. I had asked my Aunt Dorothy what she knew of Swastika Beach, a town less than 20 miles from her home in Trimont. "How did it get that name?" I wondered. She'd said she'd never heard of the place, yet, in over 70 years, she's never lived more than 50 miles away. "There are so many little settlements no one ever hears about," she had answered. "You only know the towns where someone you know lives."
I think of the traveling my son will do in his lifetime, the people he'll meet and befriend in far-off places and the towns he'll know even though he knows no one in them. I have only two wishes for my young traveler: that he'll also want to "know his roots," as his grandmother would say--the Kuehls who will wait for him every summer at family-reunion time in places like Ormsby, Trimont, St. James and Alpha; and that maybe someday he and I will both discover what goes on in Swastika Beach. Until then, youngest cousin Vonn and best-looking cousins Nick and Neal will continue to farm the rich black earth that provided a livelihood for my grandparents, Reinhold and Augusta, and so assured that their children would grow to adulthood and have children of their own, who would gather together for family reunions like this one
Slipping
About two months ago, I was at my peak. I was working at a good pace at cardiac rehab without any symptoms. I had no chest pain or constriction, no shortness of breath. If only I could have had transplant surgery at that time.
Since then, things have declined. This is the first I've admitted this to anyone, out of concern that, should I say anything, I will be taken off the transplant list. My performance at cardiac rehab has gone down. I have had to scale back on both the incline and the speed on the treadmill. At night I have to sleep almost sitting up because of the chest constriction I feel if I am lying prone.
I am hoping for a miracle or a quick transplant. I have to put my energy into mind over matter, telling myself even when I am symptomatic, "It is easy for me to climb these stairs. It is easy for me to walk this distance. It is comfortable for me to lie in bed."
Since then, things have declined. This is the first I've admitted this to anyone, out of concern that, should I say anything, I will be taken off the transplant list. My performance at cardiac rehab has gone down. I have had to scale back on both the incline and the speed on the treadmill. At night I have to sleep almost sitting up because of the chest constriction I feel if I am lying prone.
I am hoping for a miracle or a quick transplant. I have to put my energy into mind over matter, telling myself even when I am symptomatic, "It is easy for me to climb these stairs. It is easy for me to walk this distance. It is comfortable for me to lie in bed."
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
My First Sweater
Since February of this year, I have been attending a knitting group. I was invited by my massage client Carol (shown here on right; Mary on left), who has been attending for years. I have long wanted to advance beyond scarves and slippers, and so I took on the task of knitting my first sweater.Although I have missed many of the Tuesday sessions due to hospitalization, travel, or other commitments, I have become a regular. Definitely I am the youngest in the group. Some women have me beat by more than 30 years. For the most part, we avoid discussion of sex, politics, and religion, so all goes smoothly.
The meetings are hosted at Fern's house in east Long Beach. Fern has spent hours helping me, showing me new ways of casting on and giving me all sorts of tips. Here she is shown with me in the sweater I finally finished--whew! It turned out way too big, but Fern says that if I bring it next time, she'll block it for me, a way of ironing a finished product to make it lay nicer. We'll see.Despite the imperfections that can be seen in the sweater upon examination, I'm proud of my handiwork. I've learned a lot during these past nine months of working on it. My next challenge: socks.
Though the size and composition of the knitting group change every week, here are a few more of the regulars:
* Marcia (with book)
* Annie to her left, our right, who happens to be my next-door neighbor
*Mel on the right
Mel left for Barcelona today. She and her boyfriend are taking a Mediterranean cruise. Carol told me that years ago, she and her beau would split the travel costs until Mel told him that she could no longer afford to pay her half. The boyfriend said that was OK, he'd pay for everything. At least once a month, the two of them take a major trip. Wow, how do I get that kind of gig? Seems as distant as my shot at landing the presidential nomination for the 2012 election!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Nourishment of Acquaintances
Friday was my last day of cardiac rehab. I've been attending a one-hour workout three times a week since February. I had to take a few months off when I broke my hip, but then I got back to it again. I want to stay in the best possible shape for my eventual transplant surgery--and to keep my heart in good enough condition to stay on the wait list for a kidney.
For the most part, the other rehab patients have been of the World War II generation, though occasionally there has been a person my age or even younger. I especially bonded with Mary Jo, 83, a woman I wished were my mom. She was fun, funny, thoughtful, and "with it." She revealed things about herself as we were walking side by side on our respective treadmills, but she also asked questions about me. She's pictured here, the one with glasses. Lois, the other gal, was also part of the 10 a.m. group.
Lois said to me on Friday that she was a bit sad, leaving cardiac rehab. She had really enjoyed her time with everyone here. I said I have enjoyed it too, that I receive so much nourishment from my interactions with acquaintances and strangers, that on a daily basis, I receive so much more juice from them than from friends, whom I rarely see. She said this is her experience too.
Friends are wonderful, don't get me wrong. But they have always been rare treats in my life, not the meat and potatoes of my existence. For the most part, they just haven't been around. They're busy with work, relationships, family, school, housework, errands, travel, creative projects, dating, other friends and other social obligations. Or they live hundreds or thousands of miles away. Getting together is a real chore. Sometimes I email or phone a dozen times before I get a response, and then it is often that she or he can't see me. Of my So Cal friends, I have seen Susie and Daphne twice this year, Jose just once, and Othman perhaps a half dozen times. I haven't seen Diana since February. Bev and the other Diana maybe twice this year. I see Tom a few times a month, usually to exchange books. Chris and I have long phone conversations, but we only see each other in person every few months, despite the fact that he lives less than a mile away. When I go beyond a year without seeing a So Cal friend, I hold nothing against him, but I realize that he's moved on.
I always have a good time when I see my friends. Just last Sunday, for example, I had two passes for brunch at the Trump National Golf Club in Rancho Palos Verdes. It was a perk for writing an article for Long Beach Magazine that, in part, discussed the club. Susie and I had a great time, chatting over caviar, sushi, oysters, and all the other components of the nicest brunch I have ever attended--with the best view. But Susie is a busy gal, scrambling as she is to make a living. I realize that visits with her, though wonderful, are going to be infrequent. She, like my other friends, are creme brulee--fantastic, but not something I'm going to enjoy every night.
Every night before dropping off to sleep, I give gratitude for the things and persons of my day. Of course, Aaron and Rasputin always top the list. And then there are Janet and Dana, the best neighbors ever. So often, though, I say thank you for pleasant interactions with strangers, other neighbors, and acquaintances. Too often people think of these interactions as nothing special, that the stuff of relationships is found with lovers, family, and friends. I strongly disagree. A great deal of nourishment comes from those I hardly know or don't know at all.
Lois said to me on Friday that she was a bit sad, leaving cardiac rehab. She had really enjoyed her time with everyone here. I said I have enjoyed it too, that I receive so much nourishment from my interactions with acquaintances and strangers, that on a daily basis, I receive so much more juice from them than from friends, whom I rarely see. She said this is her experience too.
Friends are wonderful, don't get me wrong. But they have always been rare treats in my life, not the meat and potatoes of my existence. For the most part, they just haven't been around. They're busy with work, relationships, family, school, housework, errands, travel, creative projects, dating, other friends and other social obligations. Or they live hundreds or thousands of miles away. Getting together is a real chore. Sometimes I email or phone a dozen times before I get a response, and then it is often that she or he can't see me. Of my So Cal friends, I have seen Susie and Daphne twice this year, Jose just once, and Othman perhaps a half dozen times. I haven't seen Diana since February. Bev and the other Diana maybe twice this year. I see Tom a few times a month, usually to exchange books. Chris and I have long phone conversations, but we only see each other in person every few months, despite the fact that he lives less than a mile away. When I go beyond a year without seeing a So Cal friend, I hold nothing against him, but I realize that he's moved on.I always have a good time when I see my friends. Just last Sunday, for example, I had two passes for brunch at the Trump National Golf Club in Rancho Palos Verdes. It was a perk for writing an article for Long Beach Magazine that, in part, discussed the club. Susie and I had a great time, chatting over caviar, sushi, oysters, and all the other components of the nicest brunch I have ever attended--with the best view. But Susie is a busy gal, scrambling as she is to make a living. I realize that visits with her, though wonderful, are going to be infrequent. She, like my other friends, are creme brulee--fantastic, but not something I'm going to enjoy every night.
Acquaintances, neighbors, and strangers are much different. I'm not interrupting their lives to meet up with them. They are simply going about their lives and happen to bump into me going about mine. There is no planning or scheduling involved. They're not going out of their way to see me, and I'm not making an effort to see them. They are simply there, as I am, doing their shopping, walking their dogs, taking out the garbage, watering their lawns, going to cardiac rehab. We may exchange a smile and a few kind words, then we're on our way.
Every night before dropping off to sleep, I give gratitude for the things and persons of my day. Of course, Aaron and Rasputin always top the list. And then there are Janet and Dana, the best neighbors ever. So often, though, I say thank you for pleasant interactions with strangers, other neighbors, and acquaintances. Too often people think of these interactions as nothing special, that the stuff of relationships is found with lovers, family, and friends. I strongly disagree. A great deal of nourishment comes from those I hardly know or don't know at all. Thursday, October 21, 2010
Hooking Up
Every night I hook up for 10 ½ hours,
not with a supernaturally virile man
but a dialysis machine.
All night long it grunts, groans, and moans,
pushing clean fluids into me,
sucking dirty ones out.
Like an ideal man in some fantasy relationship,
my dialysis machine sustains me,
cleanses me, gives me another day of life.
Of course, it’s a life without hope
of romance, relationship, passion, or sex,
since every guy I’ve told so far
has immediately shunned me,
without even a good-bye call or first kiss.
All day long, I carry reminders of these hook-ups:
a foot of tubing that issues from the hole in my belly
and a penis-like transfer set by which I attach to the machine’s tubes.
Each morning after I shower and change the dressing,
I place the transfer set in a baby sock,
wrap the sock with a ponytail tie,
then slip all this inside my panties,
hiding the evidence under my clothes.
All day long, this artificial penis
rubs against my crotch,
the closest I ever get now
to what everyone else calls a hook-up.
not with a supernaturally virile man
but a dialysis machine.
All night long it grunts, groans, and moans,
pushing clean fluids into me,
sucking dirty ones out.
Like an ideal man in some fantasy relationship,
my dialysis machine sustains me,
cleanses me, gives me another day of life.
Of course, it’s a life without hope
of romance, relationship, passion, or sex,
since every guy I’ve told so far
has immediately shunned me,
without even a good-bye call or first kiss.
All day long, I carry reminders of these hook-ups:
a foot of tubing that issues from the hole in my belly
and a penis-like transfer set by which I attach to the machine’s tubes.
Each morning after I shower and change the dressing,
I place the transfer set in a baby sock,
wrap the sock with a ponytail tie,
then slip all this inside my panties,
hiding the evidence under my clothes.
All day long, this artificial penis
rubs against my crotch,
the closest I ever get now
to what everyone else calls a hook-up.
Waiting for Test Results
I spoke with Cindy yesterday. She sent the blood test to UCLA. Now we just have to wait two to three weeks for the results. If she is a match, she'll then fly to UCLA for tests to see if she is sufficiently healthy to donate.It's always a waiting game with the transplant process.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Cindy's Veins
Last Monday, Cindy went for the blood test to see if she and I are compatible. Her vein collapsed, so she had to let it heal for a week. Yesterday she was supposed to have repeated the test.
After the blood is sent to UCLA, it will take two to three weeks before we hear whether we're a match. So by Thanksgiving we should know. A "yes" answer would cetainly be something to be thankful for.
After the blood is sent to UCLA, it will take two to three weeks before we hear whether we're a match. So by Thanksgiving we should know. A "yes" answer would cetainly be something to be thankful for.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
I Went Camping Anyway
About 12 hours after I wrote the post "Best Not to Travel Alone" (Sept. 13), I did. Yes, that was the day after I had had a paramedic visit. I needed to see a client near Sacramento, and a last-minute flight on Jet Blue was something like $300, so I opted to drive. I headed up the coast with Rasputin. We overnighted at the campground at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park.
Because I had no electricity, I had to perform four manual exchanges of dialysis solution every day. This was quite a chore. At approximately an hour apiece, this consumed a good chunk of my time. I sat inside the truck and placed the empty dialysis bag on the floor, then let the solution that had been inside my tummy drain out into the bag. I attached the dialysis solution bag to the clip on the sun visor so that the solution could drain into me. I maintained the hygience standards that I do at home, cleaning beforehand with Lysol, scrubbing my hands with bacterial soap and antiseptic lotion, and wearing a surgical mask. What's remarkable to me is that I was always able to have some privacy.
The second day I gave a call to Sharon, the first friend I made when moving to So Cal in 1981. Decades ago Sharon moved to Northern California, and when I was making the 600-and-some-mile commute from Huntington Harbor to Point Arena (1996-2000), I would often spend the night at Sharon's in Mountain View. She has since married, moved to Santa Cruz, and had a baby, who is now 7 years old. I haven't seen Sharon for about a decade, but I gave her a call anyway, on the off chance that she might be free for coffee.
Really wonderful to see Sharon again. We were so comfortable, as if we had been in touch throughout this decade. I don't think there are very many people with whom I could just pick up again like that. Sharon, Peter, and Chloe will be visiting family for a week in So Cal around Thanksgiving. Sure hope to see them then.Monday, October 04, 2010
Sure Would be Nice
Just returned from the grocery store, where I stood behind a man who complimented me on a purple and lavendar scarf a massage client had knit for me. He was in his late 40s, decent-looking, and seemed to be a tradesman of some sort. He said the scarf was "beautiful" and that his wife had some flowers that reminded him of it.
The interchange was so sincere and kind that I couldn't help but think, "Wow, it sure would be nice to have a man like that in my life. A sweetie who would say nice things to me now and again. What must that be like?"
For the most part, I do a damn good job of forgetting that this huge part of my life is missing, but once in a while, like this afternoon in the checkout line, it creeps in and I wonder, "Will I ever know what a good relationship is? Will I ever have that experience of love, tenderness, and companionship in this life?"
The interchange was so sincere and kind that I couldn't help but think, "Wow, it sure would be nice to have a man like that in my life. A sweetie who would say nice things to me now and again. What must that be like?"
For the most part, I do a damn good job of forgetting that this huge part of my life is missing, but once in a while, like this afternoon in the checkout line, it creeps in and I wonder, "Will I ever know what a good relationship is? Will I ever have that experience of love, tenderness, and companionship in this life?"
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