I have very little storage space in my apartment, and a fair amount of it is consumed by a few large boxes filled with family pictures and writings and with journals I have kept since I was a small child. This afternoon I finally began the long process of reading through those journals and deciding their fates.
Today I made my way through an ancestor's account of his trip back to Germany in 1902. It had been translated from the German into English by someone of my mother's generation. I am unclear as to how this man is related to me, but he could be a cousin of my maternal grandfather's. Claus Kuehl primarily wrote of what he ate and which relatives he visited in which cities. His insights and observations are rare: Chicago's buildings are tall; occasionally, the girls on board ship danced a bit too wildly for the captain's tastes; and Americans are better-looking than the Germans he left behind. How fascinating if he would have described the grit and grime of Chicago, the way in which the girls' dancing was too wild, and in what ways the Americans had it over on the Germans. The only interior shot we're given is that he's frequently homesick. Other than that, Claus provides no record of his inner life during this once-in-a-lifetime, three-month journey from his farm in Iowa to the nation of his birth and back again.
I also read my mother's 1952-54 diary of her travels in Europe while serving as a serviceman's club director for Special Services. This had been lovingly typed by my cousin Mary, who also took other hand-written work by my mother and spent many long hours typing perhaps 200 pages. She sent the fruit of her labor in hard copy and electronically, so copies will always be available. Though my mother offers more local color than did Claus, insight into her emotional life is also sorely lacking--and this is precisely what I was hoping to uncover. I never knew what made my mother tick, but I did know that these two years in Europe were seemingly the only happy times of her life. I was hoping that her diaries would grant me access to the interior life she always kept under lock and key.
Not to be outdone by my relatives, I figured I had to look at my own musings as well. I selected a diary from 1984. What Claus and my mother lacked, I more than made up for in my missive. Page after page of my hand-wringing about my marriage until I nearly wanted to shout at my former self, "Oh, shut up! Just do something, will you!"
Definitely my notebook is heading for recycling. I have contacted a distant relative who is heavily into geneology. She may be interested in Claus's and my mother's writings, especially since Claus makes so many references to other relatives.
This is just the beginning of this project. Who knows, maybe somewhere in all these pages will be some real gems, something that can be reworked into a great short story. But much of what I'll read no doubt will end up in the recycling bin.
Just as our lives fade into obscurity and as our memories and the records of them fade, so too will they be recycled into other forms. Our bodies into food for trees and our diaries into paper that will save a tree. Unlike us, trees say nothing and make no fuss, but in the end, they get all the goodies of our silly dramas.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Why I Left Facebook
Not more than an hour ago, I liberated myself from facebook. I was never really thrilled about it, but I was curious as to what all the fuss was about, so I joined to find out. Perhaps it's best to compare this curiosity with what I held for Vegas. I had always been dismissive and even derisive of both before I even had any direct experience, so in both cases, I bravely set out with an open mind to discover their respective allures. You can read about my utter disappointment with Vegas at my September 14, 2010, post, "Viva Las Vegas--For Somebody Else." Actually the city was worse than I figured it would be.
After more than two years of membership, the universal fascination with facebook remains a mystery to me. During my tenure, 99 percent of the messages I received were advertisements for friends' businesses, requests that I purchase "farm animals" or send "roses," and comments from strangers about things I knew nothing about. I also was treated to photos of people's breakfasts or lunches--nothing spectacular, mind you, just crackers or cucumbers.
Facebook takes me back to a time I was supposed to have experienced when I was in sixth or seventh grade, but avoided then too. I was never into goofy junior-high-school silliness like "I'm mad at you" or "If you're her friend, you can't be mine" or "My cute, pink socks are so much cuter than yours." I didn't want anything to do with that kind of time- and energy-wasting activity then, so why should I want it at age 52?
Now I'm sure that some people must get a lot more out of facebook than I could ever hope to. They build business empires by hitting up their friends first and hoping their friends will help them go viral. They may meet the loves of their lives on facebook. And, God bless the Tunisians and Egyptians, they may use it to start a revolution.
If the American use of facebook ever makes a radical shift and it is used to bring freedom and democracy to the USA, well, then, sure, I'll reactivate my account and join in the demonstrations and peaceful toppling of our corporate and government overlords. I don't see that happening any time soon, though, as long as most Americans are more concerned with sharing what they had for a snack this afternoon and acquiring more "livestock" for Farmville than they are about preserving the Constitution or thwarting the onslaught of the police state..
After more than two years of membership, the universal fascination with facebook remains a mystery to me. During my tenure, 99 percent of the messages I received were advertisements for friends' businesses, requests that I purchase "farm animals" or send "roses," and comments from strangers about things I knew nothing about. I also was treated to photos of people's breakfasts or lunches--nothing spectacular, mind you, just crackers or cucumbers.
Facebook takes me back to a time I was supposed to have experienced when I was in sixth or seventh grade, but avoided then too. I was never into goofy junior-high-school silliness like "I'm mad at you" or "If you're her friend, you can't be mine" or "My cute, pink socks are so much cuter than yours." I didn't want anything to do with that kind of time- and energy-wasting activity then, so why should I want it at age 52?
Now I'm sure that some people must get a lot more out of facebook than I could ever hope to. They build business empires by hitting up their friends first and hoping their friends will help them go viral. They may meet the loves of their lives on facebook. And, God bless the Tunisians and Egyptians, they may use it to start a revolution.
If the American use of facebook ever makes a radical shift and it is used to bring freedom and democracy to the USA, well, then, sure, I'll reactivate my account and join in the demonstrations and peaceful toppling of our corporate and government overlords. I don't see that happening any time soon, though, as long as most Americans are more concerned with sharing what they had for a snack this afternoon and acquiring more "livestock" for Farmville than they are about preserving the Constitution or thwarting the onslaught of the police state..
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Transplant Update
For the first month post-transplant, I was feeling like a teenager, walking a little bit farther each morning, getting up to 24 blocks. I was filled with energy and enthusiasm. Now I realize that was because I was on steroids!
I never knew anything about steroids, but now I can certainly understand why athletes love them. And it's not just because they can make for bigger muscles. It's because you have all the energy you need to build those muscles. Steroids are an absolute kick in the butt, a big high.
When I got off the prednizone at a month post-op, I headed into a quick decline. I became sluggish, weak, lethargic, exhausted, fatigued. Carrying a basket of laundry to the wash machine was at the upper limit of my abilities. I would be out of breath after washing the dishes or getting dressed. Taking Rasputin for a walk was a real chore.
So many somewhat minor symptoms that add up to a general malaise:
* An occasional tremor in my right thumb and forefinger when I'm holding a piece of paper, a book, or a utensil. This is due to prograf, one of the immune suppressants. Hopefully, in time I can reduce the dose.
* My left leg usually is somewhat to severely impaired from the break a year ago in Brooklyn. I can feel the rod poking me in the hip, the knee, or the side of my leg. Going up stairs is painful. I would have thought that by now I would not feel the metal rod at all and that I'd be walking normally. Not so.
* Then there are the sometimes piercing pains in my lower abdomen, where the largest transplant scar is located. My stomach is still swollen from a huge internal bruise from the surgery. The blood is very slowly being reabsorbed, though the doctors tell me this is taking an unusually long time.
Of course, I am not complaining. I am so happy to be free of the nightly dialysis treatments and the foot-long piece of tubing emerging from my abdomen. I am sure that things are on the mend and that soon I will be feeling like a teen-ager for the third time. And we all know that three's a charm.
I never knew anything about steroids, but now I can certainly understand why athletes love them. And it's not just because they can make for bigger muscles. It's because you have all the energy you need to build those muscles. Steroids are an absolute kick in the butt, a big high.
When I got off the prednizone at a month post-op, I headed into a quick decline. I became sluggish, weak, lethargic, exhausted, fatigued. Carrying a basket of laundry to the wash machine was at the upper limit of my abilities. I would be out of breath after washing the dishes or getting dressed. Taking Rasputin for a walk was a real chore.
Then my weight started to increase, a little at first, then 16 pounds in a few days. Last Friday I was put on Lasix to drain the excess water. In the first 12 hours, I lost seven pounds; in the next 24, I lost three. Still have a few pounds to go. Losing that weight has made so much of a difference. The water put a tremendous strain on my heart. It curtailed my activity to an absolute minimum. Now I feel so much better.
* An occasional tremor in my right thumb and forefinger when I'm holding a piece of paper, a book, or a utensil. This is due to prograf, one of the immune suppressants. Hopefully, in time I can reduce the dose.
* My left leg usually is somewhat to severely impaired from the break a year ago in Brooklyn. I can feel the rod poking me in the hip, the knee, or the side of my leg. Going up stairs is painful. I would have thought that by now I would not feel the metal rod at all and that I'd be walking normally. Not so.
* Then there are the sometimes piercing pains in my lower abdomen, where the largest transplant scar is located. My stomach is still swollen from a huge internal bruise from the surgery. The blood is very slowly being reabsorbed, though the doctors tell me this is taking an unusually long time.
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Primer for a Solo Valentine's Day
My approach to Valentine's Day has radically improved over the past 31 years of spending it solo. Yes, it was when I was a bright-eyed 21-year-old that I had my last conventional VD--roses, cards, and a fancy dinner with a man with whom I was romantically involved.
After that, my husband gave up on the holiday, even though we remained married for another decade. I have had only two relationships since then, one a long-distance affair with a man from Beijing and another with an alcoholic surfing legend from No Cal, again long-distance. Neither man was big on gifts or American traditions, and so Valentine's Day went unrecognized. A few days before VD 1997, I was in So Cal having just laid down to sleep when at the foot of my bed a vision of Mike appeared and told me he had drank my Valentine's roses, in other words, he had gone off the wagon and spent flower money on booze. Sure enough, that's what had happened. My son, good guy that he has always been, bought me a single rose the next year, knowing that Mike would not.
Other than that, a male co-worker once gave me a card on VD, and a few years back, my male friend Chris gave me a plastic box of carrot and celery sticks, knowing that, as I am a diabetic, I shouldn't have chocolate. These were certainly kind gestures, but hardly romantic. And my friend Bev is very good about sending cards for every occasion, bless her soul.
After that, my husband gave up on the holiday, even though we remained married for another decade. I have had only two relationships since then, one a long-distance affair with a man from Beijing and another with an alcoholic surfing legend from No Cal, again long-distance. Neither man was big on gifts or American traditions, and so Valentine's Day went unrecognized. A few days before VD 1997, I was in So Cal having just laid down to sleep when at the foot of my bed a vision of Mike appeared and told me he had drank my Valentine's roses, in other words, he had gone off the wagon and spent flower money on booze. Sure enough, that's what had happened. My son, good guy that he has always been, bought me a single rose the next year, knowing that Mike would not.
Other than that, a male co-worker once gave me a card on VD, and a few years back, my male friend Chris gave me a plastic box of carrot and celery sticks, knowing that, as I am a diabetic, I shouldn't have chocolate. These were certainly kind gestures, but hardly romantic. And my friend Bev is very good about sending cards for every occasion, bless her soul.
I used to really work myself up into a silly state on VD, crying and carrying on, if to no one but myself. Those days are long gone. Sure, once in a while, I wonder how amazing it might be to actually be in love on Valentine's Day and have that same person be in love with me. Seems like something as fairy-magic-unicorn-ish as dancing among the stars or sliding on a moonbeam.
The big reason for my transformation is a different attitude. I now know I am richly deserving of love, whereas I somewhat doubted that before. It doesn't matter if no one notices that I'm so deserving, I still am.
Over the years, I have reinforced this message by telling myself, either silently during the day or out loud just before I drop off to sleep, "I am loved, I am deeply loved." At first this brought more pain, but then a shift occurred, and I firmly took hold of the truth of these words. Saying them brought so much comfort, made me grin ear to ear, giggle with joy, embrace myself, and rub my chin affectionately against my shoulder. I felt so incredibly loved saying these words to myself. In many ways, more security, trust, honesty, commitment, and, yes, gosh darn it, love than I had ever truly felt from my husband, the man from Beijing, or the surfer. They had always held back, but I am like a child, no inhibitions, no fears of rejection, just proclaiming my truth: I am loved, I am deeply loved.
So my advice for those who are down on VD because they have no one to sweep them off their feet:
* Tell yourself you are loved, deeply loved, and richly deserving of love.
* Give yourself a hug and smile widely while you're doing it.
* Give chocolates or flowers to someone who may need some cheering up. I bought an orchid and made a card for a nextdoor neighbor to whom I bring sunflowers from the community garden in the summer months and roses from the store every so often during the winter. She's a wonderful gal who is struggling with throat cancer.* Call the other solo fliers you know and tell them how they, too, are richly deserving of love.
* Give a gift to charity in someone's name, someone you love or appreciate, though not necessarily romantically. One of my favorite things to do, as I did for my son's new girlfriend, is to have a tree planted in someone's name by TreePeople.
If you do these things, I bet you'll have a happier Valentine's Day than many of the couples you currently envy. Remember, just because people are together doesn't mean they're necessarily together.P.S. My son, Aaron, surprised me with a bouquet of red tulips, wrapped in a pink bow that I gave to my little valentine, Rasputin. And Aaron's girlfriend gave me a pretty bag in which to put my knitting paraphenalia, bath salts, scrub, lotion, and some very fancy soaps. The best VD in memory.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
An All-Too-Common Mini-Tragedy in Today's Society
I relate the following minor incident, not because it in itself is terribly noteworthy, but what it says about a major shift in our society over the past decade or two. Also, because it's so very common.
Tonight I attended the Radical Cinema screening at a downtown coffeehouse. Tonight's feature was "Blackout" about the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections' disenfranchised blacks in Florida and Ohio, respectively, and the other African-American candidate for president in 2008 and former Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney's ongoing struggle to tell truth to power. My friend and I sat on a couch behind two older men on bar stools, all of us facing the TV screen. The organizer of the event, a late 30s-ish or early 40s-ish man, was standing next to the bar stools, facing me but talking with the men.
Tonight I attended the Radical Cinema screening at a downtown coffeehouse. Tonight's feature was "Blackout" about the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections' disenfranchised blacks in Florida and Ohio, respectively, and the other African-American candidate for president in 2008 and former Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney's ongoing struggle to tell truth to power. My friend and I sat on a couch behind two older men on bar stools, all of us facing the TV screen. The organizer of the event, a late 30s-ish or early 40s-ish man, was standing next to the bar stools, facing me but talking with the men.
I addressed the bar stool guys with a lilt and a playfulness in my voice: "OK, now, guys, that's perfect. Don't move. Well, you can lean back a bit, but don't lean forward."
The organizer sternly reprimanded me, "That's nerve-wracking, Heidi."
What not so long ago would have been considered playful, fun-loving, even flirtatous is now considered insulting and irritating, even to grown men. Why and when did we become so hyper-sensitive to the point of blocking out fun and possibilities for further communication or flirting? Why is everything taken first as an insult unless proven otherwise? What does this say about our national character? Where will this hyper-sensitivity end? With people refraining from communication except through some officially sanctioned, PC-sanitized New Speak? Oh, yuk!
I am going to continue to be playful and have fun. Perhaps someday I'll meet someone who also wants to have fun and we'll become famous friends or, if he hasn't forgotten how to flirt, crazy lovers.
Monday, February 07, 2011
What a Disappointment We Are to Our Founding Fathers
I sometimes imagine that, through some miracle of time travel, I am host to Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, Merriwether Lewis, and William Clark. I know, it's a stretch. My apartment can hardly handle two people and a dog, much less four guests, but, hey, are my space constraints really the biggest obstacle to making this happen!
I wonder if anything these men would see in our society would give them pride that they had set this chain of events in motion. For the life of me, I cannot come up with one thing that they might appreciate.
Jefferson had envisioned a land of well-read, well-informed farmers. We are none of these three. We are the most poorly educated and poorly informed populace among the developed nations. Very few of us work the land. Jefferson's nemesis, Andrew Jackson, with his emphasis on banking, finance, and commerce, has won out over Jefferson's vision. With this Jacksonian triumph has come the stock market, commodities, and housing bubbles, as well as a great redistribution of wealth from the lower and middle classes to the ungodly wealthy.
Jefferson also was a strong believer in a free press, contending that if he had to choose between government and a free press, he'd choose the latter as it is far more important to the functioning of democracy. How horrified he would be with government collusion with corporations and corporations' stranglehold on information.
Thomas Paine, who would be a radical even today, would doubtless rail against Homeland Security, the military-industrial complex, the oil-spy-military-banking cabal, surveillance of all kinds, the trashing of the Constitution, an elite establishment that rules our government, and plans to scrap help for the elderly, the poor, and the sick. In "Rights of Man," which I recently read, Paine advocates for guaranteed retirement (Social Security), health care for those who can't afford it, and cutting the armed forces almost back to nothing. He strongly pushes for progressive taxes, i.e. taxing the rich heaviest and the poor not at all.
Lewis and Clark would be utterly despondent. How could all this vast, beautiful, untouched wilderness be gobbled up by hoardes of people, their structures, their vehicles, and their things in just 200 years? What a cancer humanity is to so utterly destroy paradise in such short order!
All four would find the lack of quiet unnerving, the poor quality of food and water outrageous, and the lack of civility and the overwhelming insanity of hyper-consumerism, materialism, selfishness, greed, and general unhappiness devastating to their psyches as they are to mine.
If these men ever do show up on my doorstep, I will keep them close by so that when they are beamed back to their time, I can go with them.
I wonder if anything these men would see in our society would give them pride that they had set this chain of events in motion. For the life of me, I cannot come up with one thing that they might appreciate.
Jefferson had envisioned a land of well-read, well-informed farmers. We are none of these three. We are the most poorly educated and poorly informed populace among the developed nations. Very few of us work the land. Jefferson's nemesis, Andrew Jackson, with his emphasis on banking, finance, and commerce, has won out over Jefferson's vision. With this Jacksonian triumph has come the stock market, commodities, and housing bubbles, as well as a great redistribution of wealth from the lower and middle classes to the ungodly wealthy.
Jefferson also was a strong believer in a free press, contending that if he had to choose between government and a free press, he'd choose the latter as it is far more important to the functioning of democracy. How horrified he would be with government collusion with corporations and corporations' stranglehold on information.
Thomas Paine, who would be a radical even today, would doubtless rail against Homeland Security, the military-industrial complex, the oil-spy-military-banking cabal, surveillance of all kinds, the trashing of the Constitution, an elite establishment that rules our government, and plans to scrap help for the elderly, the poor, and the sick. In "Rights of Man," which I recently read, Paine advocates for guaranteed retirement (Social Security), health care for those who can't afford it, and cutting the armed forces almost back to nothing. He strongly pushes for progressive taxes, i.e. taxing the rich heaviest and the poor not at all.
Lewis and Clark would be utterly despondent. How could all this vast, beautiful, untouched wilderness be gobbled up by hoardes of people, their structures, their vehicles, and their things in just 200 years? What a cancer humanity is to so utterly destroy paradise in such short order!
All four would find the lack of quiet unnerving, the poor quality of food and water outrageous, and the lack of civility and the overwhelming insanity of hyper-consumerism, materialism, selfishness, greed, and general unhappiness devastating to their psyches as they are to mine.
If these men ever do show up on my doorstep, I will keep them close by so that when they are beamed back to their time, I can go with them.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Acutely Aware that I Don't Have a Man by my Side
Yesterday morning I was acutely aware that I don't have a man by my side. Every so often this happens, generally when a man is a jerk to me, and I know he would be far less of a jerk or even downright respectful if I was not alone.
The maintanence man has been angry at me for more than a week, every since my friend Rick, who is a plumber, gave me a laundry list of what's unsafe and unhealthful around my apartment. Most of these items would be clear to anyone, even those who don't know a hammer from a nail. Things like the threshold that's in several pieces and the termite-riddled porch railing, things I noted when I first moved in.
As yesterday was the first of the month, rent was due. I told the young guy who picks up the checks that I was writing a note and my envelope would be ready in a few minutes. Before I could finish, let's-call-him-Don, who must have been waiting in the truck, stormed up to the door and started yelling at me. I pointed out that the crawl space at the back of the house had been wide open for more than a week, creating a superhighway for rodents. Don said that he had left it off for the plumber who is supposed to reposition the dryer vent so that it discharges water and heat outside the house rather than under my bedroom. I wondered why it was taking so long to find a plumber. Don said he didn't know when he was coming. I wondered why the plumber couldn't loosen a few screws to access the crawl space. Don said that this was "building work," something beyond the purview of a plumber. I couldn't believe this. You mean if a plumber went to a job site and found a secured crawl space, he would be dumbfounded and wouldn't know how to use a screwdriver! I just hate it when people lie like this to me.
When I said that I had called five times about rats since moving in and that nothing more than placing poison and setting traps was accomplished, Don started yelling, three times in a row, "You should move!" I said it would be much cheaper and efficient to just fix the places where the rats are gaining access--the unsecured crawl spaces and the gaps between the boards. But this of course involves too much effort.
The maintanence man has been angry at me for more than a week, every since my friend Rick, who is a plumber, gave me a laundry list of what's unsafe and unhealthful around my apartment. Most of these items would be clear to anyone, even those who don't know a hammer from a nail. Things like the threshold that's in several pieces and the termite-riddled porch railing, things I noted when I first moved in.
As yesterday was the first of the month, rent was due. I told the young guy who picks up the checks that I was writing a note and my envelope would be ready in a few minutes. Before I could finish, let's-call-him-Don, who must have been waiting in the truck, stormed up to the door and started yelling at me. I pointed out that the crawl space at the back of the house had been wide open for more than a week, creating a superhighway for rodents. Don said that he had left it off for the plumber who is supposed to reposition the dryer vent so that it discharges water and heat outside the house rather than under my bedroom. I wondered why it was taking so long to find a plumber. Don said he didn't know when he was coming. I wondered why the plumber couldn't loosen a few screws to access the crawl space. Don said that this was "building work," something beyond the purview of a plumber. I couldn't believe this. You mean if a plumber went to a job site and found a secured crawl space, he would be dumbfounded and wouldn't know how to use a screwdriver! I just hate it when people lie like this to me.
When I said that I had called five times about rats since moving in and that nothing more than placing poison and setting traps was accomplished, Don started yelling, three times in a row, "You should move!" I said it would be much cheaper and efficient to just fix the places where the rats are gaining access--the unsecured crawl spaces and the gaps between the boards. But this of course involves too much effort.
After he left, I cried for about 15 minutes. It's difficult enough to sleep alone every night, go on a date maybe once or twice a year, sometimes not at all, never have a partner with whom to attend parties or dinners, never have the back of my neck kissed or my hand held or my feet rubbed, but to be treated as a second-class citizen on top of that!
Once in a while it's overwhelming that I've missed out on so many of life's "biggies"--health, love, relationship, support from my family of origin, social life, satisfying career, and money. Of course, I have the best son I could hope for and a dog that loves me like that's his sole purpose in life. The other wonderful thing is that these overwhelming times don't last weeks and months as they did in my youth and early adulthood, but only a few seconds or a few minutes.
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