I Need to See an Actor!

On Sunday night, I couldn't take it anymore. I was exhausted and nauseous, having difficulty breathing and walking.

I told the front desk clerk at the hotel, "I need to see a doctor." As happened several times during our London trip, the clerk heard something other than what I had said. She replied, "Yes, ma'am, what kind of theater are you interested in?" Thinking that perhaps the city is divided into buroughs known as theaters, I said, "Yes, I need to see a doctor. How do I go about doing that? I'm interested in whatever is closest." Again she said something about theaters. Finally I was clued in and said "doctor" very slowly.

How eccentric to say, "I need to see an actor!" Well, I suppose if one really needed to see an actor, London would be the place to do it.

If I Were Home, I'd Head for the Hospital

If I were home, I'd head for the hospital. Very difficult for me to walk. The discomfort and tightness in my abdomen have progressed to pain. Even at rest, I feel the pain, and my breathing is labored. Getting up stairs and walking to and from the tube station are arduous. Aaron is patient with me, even when I have to make frequent stops.

Went to the British Museum this morning. Much more remarkable than I had ever imagined. The plunders of the empire! The Greek antiquities at the Getty are such a pale comparison to the treasures at the British Museum. Also loved the Assyrian collection and the Japanese screens. I can see how Londoners could spend every weekend here.

Took the tube to St. Paul's Cathedral. Quite a stunning experience. Most of the interior was roped off in preparation for a concert. The organist was practicing. Aaron did not go inside as he still has a fear of large, open interior spaces.

Walked across the Millennial Bridge to the Tate Modern. So cold!

A lot of the Tate was conceptual art bullshit. This even gave Aaron a headache. I imagine conceptual artists getting together and laughing at all the money they're making from creating stupid shit, like pieces of leather hanging from the ceiling or bricks arranged on the floor or pieces of colored paper plastered on the museum walls. Such a waste of good gallery space. As Aaron said, all the conceptual art in the world doesn't equal the emotional quality of a good painting.

Took a bunch of tubes back to the Bayswater Station, which is about eight blocks from the hotel. Aaron asked if it was possible if we could go home early. I said I didn't know. I'm getting worse each day.

I want to see as much as I can, but then again, I'd rather just curl up somewhere and sleep.

Spent a lot of time in the underground today. Really getting to know our way around.

Went to the Wellington House. The upper floors are still the residence of the some=day=to=be duke of Wellington. The lower floors are devoted to huge canvases, gold ceilings, and mirrored walls. The attendant asked us if we wanted to see the house or the arch. We thought he said "the house or the art." We were quite confused because the art was hanging on the walls of the house! Sometimes I really wonder if we are speaking the same language.

Ate lunch at a high-end restaurant, Woosley. Endive salad, grilled sardines, steak tartar, chicken dumpling soup, and leaks. By far the most expensive meal we had and the one I least enjoyed. Too rich and too strange. Decor, however, was quite lovely. Lacquered black wood.

Saw an exhibit of Byzantine art at the Royal Academy of the Arts. I love Byzantine art! I wish it would make a comeback.

Nosed around at Harrod's. Way over the top. Like shopping at Vegas or Disneyland. Talked with two shop girls, one of whom said she has lived in London for 18 years and still doesn't know all of Harrod's. Wow, it's a lifelong adventure! But not for me.

Brit Observations

A few things I've noticed about the Brits:

* They give good directions, unlike the Irish, who make a game out of giving the wrong directions.

* A lot more reading going on here--in the tube, on benches, inside churches.

* A lot fewer cell phone calls. I have yet to hear a single call that intruded upon my space and quiet. Very respectful.

* A lot more white people here than in LA.

A Day of Art

Took the tube to Trafalgar Square and glutted our brains with art. The National Portrait Gallery. The National Gallery with Van Eyck's "The Arnolfini Marriage."

Took a bus to the Tate Britain and saw a lot of Rossettis--very romantic.

I love Turner, but Aaron teased me, saying he painted like someone who was going blind.

I also really like romanticized, fantasy landscapes with misty scenes and Roman ruins. Aaron detests this genre.

Otherwise, however, our taste in art is compatible. We concurred that the contemporary museum was a bunch of conceptual art bullshit. All in all, a fantastic day.

We've Arrived in London

Aaron and I have arrived in London! Hooray!

I had a little medical emergency on the plane, so I was glad Aaron was with me. My blood sugar dropped to 57 (normal is 75-120). I was sweating and confused. Aaron got me an orange juice and then another. That helped a lot.

The place where we're staying is in the Bayswater section of the city, near Kensington. We took a walk and ate at a Malaysian restaurant.

The exchange rate is better than we had expected. Instead of one American dollar being worth only 50 cents, it's worth more like 75 cents. Still, things are expensive.

Why I Chose Peritoneal Dialysis

When most people hear "dialysis," they think of being hooked up to a machine that pumps out dirty blood, cleans it, and pumps it back into the body. This is hemodialysis and is done at a medical clinic. Patients generally go into the clinic for treatments three times a week, four or five hours each time.

The advantages of hemodialysis are that someone else does the treatment and all you have to do is sit back and relax; you don't have to keep any supplies in your home; you only receive a treatment every three days; and you are able to have a pet in the house.

The disadvantages are that you have to rely on someone else to perform the treatment; you are restricted in your travel to large urban areas that might have a clinic that could accommodate you; you feel weak and tired between treatments since the toxins are building up in your body on the days without dialysis; you have to allow two large needles to be stuck in your vein each time; and you are vulnerable to the unsanitary environment that is unfortunately the norm at most hospitals and clinics.

The alternative is peritoneal dialysis. It is done four times a day, using the peritoneal membrane as a natural filter. Each exchange of fluids--clean in, dirty out--lasts about a half hour. It is done at home or in some other clean place.

The advantages are that the patient has control of the treatment; travel is not restricted to large urban areas that have clinics that can accommodate your travel plans; and, since the system is being cleaned four times a day rather than only once every three days, the patient feels better and has more energy.

The disadvantages are that the room in which the dialysis is to be performed has to be kept sterile, dirt- and dust-free; the patient is responsible for treatments; a lot of space has to be devoted to storing dialysis bags and other supplies; and dogs and cats in the home are highly discouraged as the hairs could contaminate the system and cause a serious infection.

I stewed over this for a while, wondering which way to go--hemodialysis or peritoneal. At last I decided on peritoneal because it is better for my body and my overall well-being. The whole thing about not being able to have a dog--something I have long wanted but have been unable to have because I have lived in apartments with pet restrictions--made me pretty sad. But I don't know what the future holds, and it could hold a transplant--and a dog.

It's been a little over a year since I started wearing an insulin pump. That was difficult enough, and the insulin pump's infusion site is changed every three days, so if I really wanted to keep my pump a secret--like when having sex with someone who may not know me very well--I always have the option of removing it for a few hours. But that isn't the case with the dialysis catheter. Having something else emerging from my abdomen doesn't thrill me in the least.

But when the alternative to dialysis is death, I realize I am really limiting myself if I go with the death option. A Jewish saying comes to mind: "Take care of your health. You can always commit suicide later."

The rejoinder to that, of course, is "But if I commit suicide now, I will never have a chance at health."

Off to London Tomorrow!

As soon as I began to accept the fact that dialysis was my destiny, I began to look ever more earnestly at the world map on my shower curtain. Where in the world should I go for my perhaps-last big adventure? A daunting question.

I immediately thought of New Zealand. How often I have heard wonderful things about New Zealand! Actually, I've never heard a bad word about the place or its people. I bought a guidebook and began to make plans for three or four weeks in a camper van, tooling about either the north or the south island. But a travel agent wondered if I had really thought this through. I'd be a very long way from home, without family or friends. I was already having a rough emotional time of it, wouldn't traveling solo exacerbate my sadness? What if I had a sudden decline or medical emergency? Would my insurance cover me in a foreign country? Who would help me?

Then I thought of taking a road trip in the U.S. One last camping trip. (I'm told camping is still a possibility for peritoneal dialysis patients, but what is meant by that is RVing--definitely not my kind of camping.) But then I thought of how cold it is throughout the country at this time of year. And how much colder it would be sleeping inside my truck, what is essentially a metal box!

About this time, I received an email from Virgin Airlines, touting a hotel-and-airfare deal to London. I asked Aaron if he thought he might be able to get a week off from work, given the circumstances. He spoke with his boss, and she said yes. So I booked the trip--with trip-cancellation and health insurance.

Of course it is impossible to say what the future may hold. I could be fast-tracked for a transplant. I could be the first stem-cell-kidney-replacement patient. I could drop dead tomorrow. I could be fully restored to health. Who knows?

But with peritoneal dialysis, travel is far less spontaneous, as the dialysis supplies are quite cumbersome. A month's worth of dialysis solution and tubing takes up the space of three four-drawer filing cabinets. And the places I would travel would have to provide a sterile environment in which I could conduct the dialysis. So though London may not be my very last trip, it may very well be my last trip without all this excess baggage!

Angelic Light Beams

For about two weeks in December, I saw flashes of bright white light once or twice a day. Sitting in a restaurant. Inside my apartment. Driving down the street. No particular place or time. Not linked to any particular thought pattern or mood. These flashes were brilliant, like when you get zapped for going through a red light in a camera-controlled intersection. Or like a flash of lightening, but parallel to the ground and anywhere from two to five feet from the earth.

I wondered if anyone else saw this, and so once I asked my son if he'd seen the flash just a moment before. No, he said.

I used to see beings of light all the time. While giving massages, I would see them around my table. I'd see their glimmering bodies in my living room and around my bed. I'd see them as great clouds of shimmering light and sometimes huge pillars of light while walking at night. I would smile at them and send them love, which would make them glow brighter still. But I have seen very little of these light beings during the past two years.

One day in December, however, a being appeared in my bedroom. I spoke to the being, thanking it for appearing to me, telling it I had missed seeing beautiful beings of light, and asking it to work with my body and bring healing energy into it. As always, I directed love at the being, and its shimmering intensified. I asked that all beings of light and love who are assisting me on my journey hear my request for healing. Soon after this, the flashes of bright white light began appearing.

The seond-to-last light beam I saw was on Christmas Day. A flash of white light across the street in front of the restaurant where my mother, my son, and I were having our holiday meal. And the last one was on Dec. 27 while waiting for my friend Jose.

I have missed these angelic visitations, and I am very open and accepting to such love manifesting before my eyes once again on a daily basis.

Evidence of Alien Abduction

Here it is--proof positive of alien abduction! I went to bed last night without a mark on my calf, and I woke up this morning with these scrapes. Now a casual observer might remark that these are nothing but the result of my nails scratching my legs during my sleep.

But look again: The upper set of scratches consists of six lines. If they were from my nails, there would be four lines. Perhaps five, but as you can see with your own fingers, if the thumb is included, it is not in alignment with the other four fingers and so would not produce five parallel lines as the thumb is perpendicular to the plane of the fingers. And either way, that doesn't explain six equidistant lines.

Now I have woken up on other nights to find scratches, cuts, or bruises. But these have all been small and were easily dismissed. But this is significant.

Also note the lower set of scratches. Not sure if it's clear in the photo, but the lower marks are not lines but circles. The first row--the one nearest the front of my body--consists of two circles, followed by another row of two, but with the first circle equidistant between the circles of the first row. The third row consists of three circles, and the fourth of another three circles, the middle one being dark red. The fifth row has one dark circle directly opposite the dark circle in row four. And then the sixth row is a single circle. It's conceivable--though not probable--that my fingers could have scratched the top set of lines. But how do fingernails make circles of the same size?

What's more, I wore scrubs to bed last night. The snug-fitting pants are not made to inch up my leg and expose skin. In fact, they are so snug that I cannot easily roll up the pants leg to my knee. And I certainly don't have the kind of sharp nails that would be necessary to draw blood through clothing. Also, the pant leg was not cut or in any way damaged.

Hmmm...This is all very interesting, especially considering my post of Dec. 13, "You Know You're Desperate When..." in which I wrote of my fantasy of being abducted by space aliens who would replace my in-need-of-assistance organs with brand-new ones cooked up in their med labs just for me.

When I showed my son the evidence, he asked if I had learned anything from the aliens. I thought for a moment, then answered, "Yes, I sure would have thaought that with their advanced technology, they'd have a less dramatic way to take a blood sample!"

Step Away From the Edge!

For months I have been putting off dialysis by whatever means possible--prayer, meditation, affirmations, solicitation of prayers from others, twice-weekly acupuncture treatments and massage, at-home moxibustion, severely reducing intake of animal protein, a positive attitude, herbal formulas and kidney-tonifying teas and tinctures, ingestion of large quantities of dehydrated bovine kidney and pancreas, invocation of angelic assistance, pleading, and begging.

All through this I have been expecting a miracle. I've even had the balls to tell my doctors that.

That I have not seen improvement in my kidney function is not only disappointing and disheartening, but I have at times felt betrayed by God. I have felt like Jesus on the cross when he said, "Father, Father, why have you forsaken me?"

This is not a new experience for me. Hundreds of times over the past 37 years of diabetes, I have seen improvements in my condition. Sometimes a drop in blood sugar level and a corresponding drop in insulin requirements. Sometimes renewed energy and the ability to walk for quite a distance without becoming exhausted or out of breath. Every time, each of these hundreds of times, I have thought, "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank. This is the turning point. I am being restored to health!"

And every time, this improvement has been short-lived, sometimes just a day. Each time I have felt a betrayal, even a sense of being cosmically toyed with.

But the high points I have experienced during the past several months have been more acute. During the past 37 years, I have faced multiple daily insulin injections, an insulin pump, hemorrhages in my eyes, cataract surgery, congestive heart failure, severe anemia and blood loss, weakness, fatigue, scores of life-threatening medical emergencies and hospitalizations, transfusions, adverse drug reactions, and an endless stream of doctors' appointments, tests and lab work. But when it came to dialysis, I always said I would rather die than undergo this constriction of my life. Now dialysis is staring me in the face, and I have to make a decision: dialysis or die.

On Monday I saw my nephrologist, Dr. Butman. He put it this way: "Heidi, you're like the person in a movie who is dancing on the window ledge of a high-rise building. You're feeling fine, as if nothing is wrong. Well, I'm saying, 'Heidi, you'd be much safer if you just stepped back inside the building.'" His analogy made me laugh. I AM the woman dancing on the window ledge!

Right now I feel fine, not great, but not like I'm dying. In fact, Dr. Butman said that, considering my abysmal lab markers, I look really good. But as he said, that could change very quickly. If my potassium level suddenly became elevated, which happens in end-stage kidney disease, I could die without warning, in the time it takes to snap your fingers. Other signs of the end would be a little slower--the buildup of toxins to the point where I'm nauseous, can't eat, and am vomiting, accompanied by weakness and a wasting away. And a massive heart attack or stroke are also good possibilities.

Furthermore, it's better to start dialysis while I'm still feeling good, rather than start it on an emergency basis through an artery in my neck. Since it takes approximately three weeks for the surgical incision to heal, it would be best to undergo the surgery as soon as possible so that the catheter in my abdomen would be in place and ready to go.

So I scheduled surgery for Jan. 30, a little over a month away. I'm stepping away from the edge, but damn it, I'm still expecting a miracle. Something on the order of a band of angels sweeping me from the ledge and depositing me safely in the Land of Properly Working Organs.

Another Way in Which the Healthcare System is Broken

We've all heard about or experienced how the healthcare system in this country is broken. Specifically, that 45 million or so people are without health coverage and that hospitals that accept indigent patients are going broke.

I would like to address other ways in which the system is broken--and could be so easily improved with so little money.

I am a member of Kaiser Permanente, one of the biggest, if not the biggest, HMOs in the country. Kaiser is all about processing patients, not about healing. The following are my recommendations to improve the system and make it more conducive to health:

* Keep it clean! Two of the last few times I've been hospitalized, I've been horrified by the filth. On one occasion at the Harbor City hospital, there was blood on my sheets and blood on th floor. I told the nurse, who said he was not authorized to clean it up. I asked for cleaning supplies so I could do it myself, but he said that was not allowed either. And while at the Bellflower hospital, I saw feces on the bathroom floor before the cleaning staff entered the room and after they left. This is why I now ask my son to thoroughly clean my hospital room before I enter it. This shouldn't be necessary. And my next precaution is to bring anti-bacterial wipes for any personnel who step through the door to attend to me. All this to prevent the staff infections that are killing and debilitating thousands in our nation's hospitals.

* Turn off the TVs! About 15 years ago, Kaiser introduced TVs into waiting rooms. At first, they displayed soothing nature scenes accompanied by soft classical music. This was fantastic. But soon enough these healing images and sounds were replaced with TV shock shows. How many times I have gone to a cardiology appointment only to be assaulted by distraught, disturbed, and disturbing drama queens and kings shouting at each other and traipsing their crazy lives in front of all the world to see.

* Bring some life inside. I feel as if I'm in some Soviet-era government building when inside a Kaiser facility. What is needed are living plants and aquariums and aviaries. Patients who are surrounded by vibrant living things tend to do better than those who are denied contact with life that is flourishing.

* Give patients a rub. While patients are waiting for a stress-inducing doctor appointment or diagnostic test, why not have a massage therapist give them a shoulder rub or massage their hands? What a relaxing, stress-alleviating, healing experience!

* Get rid of the numbers. Decentralize healthcare services so that the receptionists actually know the patients by name. This is one of the chief differences between going to an HMO and going to an alternative practitioner. In fact, when I call my acupuncturist's office, he often picks up the phone. This is in contrast to Kaiser's maze of buffers before ever reaching the doctor. In fact, I have never reached a Kaiser doctor. Even when he or she does receive my message, a nurse returns my call, not the doctor. And then the nurse doesn't leave a message besides saying that I should call back, and so the same frustrating experience begins anew. This can go on for days or even a week before a question can be answered, and by then the patient is either dead or over whatever it was that was the problem.

Until my recommendations are enacted, I will continue to bring cleaning supplies to the hospital and to psychically protect myself from all the negative vibes and all the antagonistic-to-healing components of the HMO system.

Still Expecting a Miracle

Despite some dark thoughts and pessimistic worrying during the past two months, my overall attitude is one of hope. I am still expecting a miracle.

This is the Season of Light, so what better time for a miracle. I am focused on the healing of my body, especially the restoration of my kidneys and heart to optimal working order.

Each night and morning when I meditate, I feel the vibrations throughout my body, pulsations of vibrancy and health. Each day I affirm my improved health and give thanks to beings of light and love who are working with my body during the dream state to bring it into alignment with its master plan of health.

In the past week, I have noticed some positive changes. My breathing is no longer labored when I am lying down. I only need two pillows under my head at night and not four or five. In fact, there have been nights in the past few months when I had to sit in a straight-back chair in order to breathe--a position that is not conducive to sleep. Also, I am able to walk quite a distance without becoming short of breath or growing fatigued. Case in point: During the evening of caroling, I probably walked 14 blocks. Even a few weeks ago, I had trouble walking to my truck, much less to the end of the block. This is a great improvement. And I am no longer exhausted in the middle of the day and need to take a nap. Yes, indeed, a miracle is definitely in the works.

I am putting off surgery, knowing that it will soon be unnecessary. The miracle is manifesting in perceivable improvements. My body is aligning with health, vitality, strength, and vibrancy. The miracle that I have been anticipating for almost four decades is drawing nigh in this season of miracles.

Caroling for Brandy Yields Booze and Good Cheer

Last night I and 10 other merry-makers caroled our way from door to door, bringing joy to the Rose Park area of Long Beach. Since I am the one who began this tradition some 25 years ago in Wisconsin and finally, finally, finally, others are catching on that this is tremendous fun, I got to ring the doorbells and direct the singers. Except for Lisa, one of son Aaron's coworkers, who has a degree in vocal music, none of us have trained voices. But that really didn't matter. We made up for our lack of talent with great bursts of enthusiasm.

At households where I deemed the occupants were partyers, I'd give a little signal to my fellow carolers and we'd close with a second verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," which goes like this: "Now bring us a cup of brandy/Now bring us a cup of brandy/Now bring us a cup of brandy/And a shot and a beer." This goes back to the first caroling venture on a cold winter night in Wisconsin with my then-husband, my brother and his wife.

I gave the signal at Ali's house, but his dog ran off and he had to fetch him. By that time we were across the street at the home of a woman who brought out her tambourine to accompany our "Jingle Bells." As we finished there, Ali ran across the street, beckoning us back to his place. He had gotten a bottle of brandy from his liquor cabinet and poured a dozen shot glasses for us. As I no longer drink--doesn't appeal to me anymore and it doesn't do my health any good--a few of my fellows got two shots.

We stopped at the drive-through lane at Golden Burger. These folk were thrilled with "Feliz Navidad" and offered us money--which we refused--and sodas. Next up was Portfolio Coffeehouse, which like last year was populated with bored hipsters and PC-entranced yuppies. Both sets were too cool to give us any mind. What dullards!

A few other houses, one with two guys, one holding a beer, but not offering us one. Another with two women, new homeowners who were so happy we'd stopped by. A house with a couple and a young child, who gave us his leftover Halloween candy. A house we had visited last year at which the family sat on the porch after supper, apparently waiting for random magic--like a group of carolers. And then there was Suzanne, who asked to join in, so Othman shared his song sheet and she belted out "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."


Then it was on to O'Connell's, a neighborhood bar complete with pool tables. Music was blaring from the jukebox, so I asked the bar tender to turn it down because we were going to sing. He obliged. We hit them with the first chorus of "Here We Come A-Wassailing." I then turned to our audience and asked, "Any requests?" A burly guy quipped, "Let's see your tits." I didn't miss a beat: "No! A song!" Since no requests were made, I gave the signal to close with our special version of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." At first the bartender said something about no money, no booze. Then Othman countered with, "We know you've got brandy here." The bartender gave in when I said that we come here all the time and pay for our drinks. He gave us three pitchers of beer on the house!






Wishing to be on our way, back to the business of caroling, I ordered my fellows to down their drinks. Shouting a merry Christmas to all, we were out the door. We stopped in front of the cafe next door. It was closed, but we sang anyway. The owner unlocked the door, and we sang our hearts out for the amused table of four that was finishing their late supper. Most of my group was pretty smashed, so the carol was off-key with different singers finishing at different times. Othman explained: "Some of us are a little drunk." I asked if the diners had any requests. They laughed and one of the them said, "Oh, no, I don't know how you could top that!" We wished them a merry Christmas and headed home, stopping only to serenade a lone walker.

The evening ended around the Christmas tree with me passing out gifts to my fellow carolers. Blueberry juice for Othman as he had not known that such a thing existed. A vintage scarf and vintage earrings for Christina, who dresses in '50s attire. Balls of yarn, pipe cleaners, and glitter pom-poms for her boyfriend, Mike, who I said was creative enough to know how to use these in the bedroom. A Batman mask and a bottle of champagne for Bryant. Funny magnets for Dennis. The U.S. Constitution and "1001 Places to See Before You Die" for Othman. And what was best of all--a Lonely Planet guidebook to Southeast Asia and a map of the same for Tyler, who said that was the next place he wanted to go. He was so thrilled that I had known this. "Of course I knew, Tyler," I told him. I also gave him a huge tome of natural remedies, of the right foods for hundreds of ailments--a book he had been looking at in Spanish while traveling in Peru, but he said having the English version would be so much easier.

What a grand evening of fun and merriment for us and of holiday magic for those we regaled.

You Know You're Desperate When...

You know you're desperate when your most plausible chance for restoration to health involves abduction by space aliens. That's where I am now.

My fantasy involves me being beamed up to a spaceship by beneficent ETs who
1) recognize me as one of their own who was dropped on this planet
a) by mistake or
b) to undertake a crucial mission that has gone sadly awry or
2) are attuned to my vibrations, which are unlike those of the majority of my human companions, and so they "spot" me on planet Earth in need of their help.

They are so kind to me, staring at me with genuine compassion with their huge bug eyes. They gently pet me. They communicate messages of love and assurance to me without uttering a word; all is conveyed telepathically. This is not at all like the abductions you've heard and read about. This is a homecoming. A reunion of compatible souls.

My alien family takes me to an operating room. There they make the tiniest of incisions, or perhaps don't make a cut at all. They extract a few healthy cells from my pancreas, my spleen, my heart, and my kidneys. They kiss my forehead, and I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.

During my slumbers, my ET physicians grow new organs for me. Before I awake, they slip my old, worn-out, barely operating heart, pancreas, spleen, and kidneys out of my body and slip into place the new, perfectly functioning organs they've cooked up for me in the lab.

Upon waking, these loving souls tell me, telepathically, of course, that I no longer need to be hooked up to an insulin pump, that I will never have to take an injection of insulin again, that my coronary arteries are completely open, that my heart is in top form, that my kidneys are now operating at 100 percent, that my spleen is doing whatever it is that a spleen was meant to do. In short, my body has been restored to the fullness and vibrancy and health it was meant to embody. I am healed!

This fantasy has replaced another restoration-to-health fantasy I have entertained for a decade or so: A man from an exotic locale, usually a musician, but sometimes a photographer, meets me by chance at a restaurant or grocery store or while taking a walk. There is an instant attraction. A beautiful romance develops.

Because of his wide-ranging travels, he has met many strange and amazing people, one of whom is a healer. Depending on his nationality--he is sometimes Afghan, sometimes Pakastani, sometimes Iranian, once in a while Irish or Russian--we make a long and arduous journey to a remote corner of the world where we meet up with this healer, who through potions and ceremonies and ancient rituals, cures what ails me. Of course, the implication is also that the love of my romantic partner has a large part to play in my healing as well.

The reason why the handsome, exotic artist has been replaced by space aliens is because I believe it is more likely that I will encounter the latter than the former. So, if you're out there, please use your telepathic powers to divine the pure nature of my intent to be well. And please beam me up!

A Board Game Turns Things Around

I was having a very hard time of things, and then I was invited over to a friend's mother's house for Thanksgiving and we played a board game after dinner. What a difference that made! A simple board game with lots of laughs, and my outlook on life shifted. Amazing!

A Blue Thanksgiving

This is the third Thanksgiving in a row that's been really rough. Not because of family feuds, as is the case with a lot of people. No, it's been my body that's been the rogue.

In 2006, I had stent surgery the day before Thanksgiving. I was not given the medicine to protect my kidneys from the dye that is used for the angiogram, even though I asked for it. Then in the operating room, I told the doctor, "I'm not feeling the drugs," but he went ahead and cut into me anyway. This was a torturous experience to feel the incision and be powerless to do anything about it. I guess they were all so eager to get out of town for Thanksgiving that the needs of their patient didn't enter into the mix. I wrote a formal grievance, which was simply an exercise in frustration, lies, and falsified medical records. The surgery was followed by months of acute blood loss, transfusions, and severe anemia.

Then last October, I was fitted with an insulin pump. This was very difficult for me to accept--having a device attached to me 24/7. I also had several life-threatening insulin reactions while getting used to the pump, one of the most severe the night before I left for Wisconsin to spend Thanksgiving with my mother. In an attempt to get to the kitchen in the middle of the night and find some juice to raise my blood sugar, I knocked into walls and pulled myself along the floor, getting carpet burns in the process, inching my way to normalcy. I got on the plane early the next morning completely exhausted and feeling estranged from humanity.

This Thanksgiving is even worse than the past two. My son is in Oakland with his girlfriend and her family. I am very happy he has this vacation, as he's been working very hard at two jobs. I'm glad he's getting a break from me too. Not that I'm a sad sack around him--I do my crying when I'm alone--but my health is always hanging over him nonetheless. I am weak, tired, headachy, losing hope, and quickly headed toward dialysis. At this moment I'm sitting in my little apartment, wondering how I ever got here.

How is it that such a nice gal, the one who remembers birthdays, sends acquaintances sympathy cards when their parents pass, calls friends when they break up with a boyfriend or are experiencing some minior, short-term illness or injury, how is it that I should be sitting here alone?

During the past two months since I sent out my request for prayers, I have only received two phone messages from friends. Beverly, bless her soul, gave me three healing sessions, and Othman stopped by for a visit. A few others have sent an email, but though I suppose this is better than nothing, emails are so cold. Most friends did not respond even with an email.

I know that other people have friends they can count on to be physically present. Not just when they need a pick-me-up, like I so sorely need, but just in general to have a meal with or get together for a walk or a coffee. Heather, for example, who lives in Denver but is in town to see her mother for Thanksgiving--and with whom I will be spending tomorrow afternoon--has friends she can count on to be physically present. I remember when she fell down the stairs in her apartment building when she was living in San Francisco and broke her ankle or her leg. She told me of the support system she had to help her get dressed and do the things one has to do. Why is it then that my friends are not available?

The bottom line is I just don't know as if I can do this alone. All the stories of recovery are those of people with support systems--loving spouses, a circle of friends who don't just send emails but are physically there, family that encircles the ailing person with daily hugs, affirmations, and hand holds. How wonderful it would be if in this moment my husband were smiling at me from across the room or rubbing my feet. How beautiful if a friend and I were laughing in my kitchen, cooking dinner. How amazing if I had a brother or mother who weren't self-absorbed and could give a little juice to me.

Yes, of course, there is always my dear son. How could I have surviced this far without him! But I need to protect him. I can't put all my sadness on him. I don't even want to put any sadness on him.

I just looked at my most recent lab results. My kidney function is now at 12 percent, down from 13 percent last week. As I told my cardiologist today, I just don't see what there is to live for--further isolation; an endless stream of doctor appointments; no hope for love or romance; fewer and fewer friends, since they will feel uncomfortable being around me; not even the companionship of a dog, as dogs bring the risk of contamination of the dialysis tubing.

Dear Dr. Phan, my cardiologist, did something I have so needed from a friend these past two months--a hug. He also held my hand. Thank you, Dr. Phan.

In all fairness, Aaron has given me a few good hugs, and Bev gave me a nice one too. And Daniel, someone I have known for a long time but not very well, gave me probably the best hug I've ever received. It went on and on, a real transfer of energy.

But except for these moments, I generally feel cut off from humanity. I look at other people and I think they all have a future, but I feel like a ghost, not part of this world.

So I'm having a blue Thanksgiving, blue that's moving into black.

Friends Close and Available

I've been dealing with some very difficult things lately, the kind of things most people never have to face, or if they do, they face in their 80s or 90s. I sent an email out to friends across the continent, informing them as to this challenge and thanking them for their good thoughts on my behalf. A few wrote back with words of encouragement. Two telephoned.

It's such a strange country we live in. I imagine if I lived most places in the world, my neighbors and family and friends, who all lived within walking distance, would come to my hut and give me their love in person. But we live in a land of emails, so instead, friends write a few words of support but are too far away or too busy for direct contact. Their words are beautiful, some of them very beautiful, but they are words, not hugs, not smiles, not embraces, not time spent, face to face, together.

How wonderful it would be to have a friend close at hand and available. Someone who could break away from his or her family, lover, spouse, or other friends for a visit. Someone I wouldn't have to schedule a time to meet with weeks or months in the future. Someone I could call and say, "Hey, why don't you come over tonight. Let's cook dinner together." I've never had a friend who is both close and available, but I've long had idealistic notions about such a person. I know people who have such friends, and I think that must be a grand thing.

Last night I had a taste of what that might be like. My son's friend from work, Mike, invited Aaron and me to his and his girlfriend's apartment for dinner. I had such a fantastic time! Mike is a funny guy and a wonderful storyteller. I laughed so much--just what I needed after a day of intermittent sobbing. After dinner, we watched a Cohen Brothers movie. Such a fun evening. So easy. So relaxed.

Ah! Thank you, Mike, and girlfriend Christina, two lovely, young people who know nothing of my challenges. It's rather beautiful how sometimes what one needs is provided through alternate channels. Of course it would have been grand to have spent the evening with one or more of my own friends, but these damn-near strangers gave me all that I would have wanted from a friend's company. What a blessing!

Foeden Party--Because I'm Not a Generic White Person

The first weekend in November I attended the annual Kuehl family foeden party in Minnesota. When I was a child, the family would gather for a summer picnic in Ormsby, Minnesota, but then attendance began to lag because so many relatives were living in the Twin Cities and not on the farm anymore. So the next generation--my generation--took the reigns and started holding a foeden-making party in the Minneapolis area during the first weekend in November. Though this tradition has been going on for about a decade, this is the first time I attended.

My ancestors are from the Schleswig-Holstein region of northern Germany, a chunk of * land that went back and forth between the Danes and Germans over the centuries. One of the culinary delights of the region is foeden, a round donut of sorts, sans icing and sprinkles. It is made in a large, heavy, cast-iron pan with round depressions. In fact it is so large and heavy that my mother's foeden pan--which had been my grandmother's foeden pan--was confiscated from my son when he attempted to carry it on board an airplane. A potential weapon, so the TSA officials said.

But foeden was not the main reason for the get-together. In fact, if you had been engaged in an engrossing conversation even a few yards away from the kitchen, you might have missed out on the foeden entirely. I had thought that the event was going to focus around foeden, but instead it focused on the people in attendance.

Of the eight siblings of my mother's generation, 25 children were produced or adopted. Only one cousin has died. Only five were missing from this November's celebration--my brother; Don Klassen, who was phesant hunting with his grandson; Becky; Nola; and Marilyn.

* Uncle Rollo and wife Bea had cousin Becky. Bea had had a daughter from a previous marriage, Nola, whom Rollo adopted.
* My mother, Arlyne, and my father, Eugene, had Tim and me.
* Uncle Harold and wife Bernita had Kathy, Phillip, Peter, and Paul.
* Uncle Max and wife Margaret had Vaughn, Mark, June, LaRayne, Liz, and Rhonda. Margaret had had Marilyn prior to marrying Max.
* Aunt Gilma and husband Boyd had two daughters who died as children and also had Jane and Nancy, who are alive today.
* Aunt Edna and husband Sam had Germaine (the only cousin who has died),Ruthie, and Don.
* Aunt Viola and husband Elmer had Rodney and Mary.
* Aunt Dorothy and husband Bill had Jerry, Mike, and Kay.

The cousins span quite a few years. Vaughn is the youngest at 48, and Rodney is the oldest at 72. Ruthie may be just about that age too.

There are only three survivors of my mother's generation--my mother, who now lives in Southern California and has no desire to travel; Aunt Bernita, who drove a school bus up until just a few years ago; and the matriarch of the family, Aunt Dorothy. I am especially fond of the photo that is shown here of Dorothy and me. When I hugged Dorothy good-bye, I was a bit emotional. Not sure why that is. It's just that, at 95, Dorothy has a sense of humor, a sharp mind, and a strong will that are truly inspirational.

All in all, I had such a good time! I flew into Minneapolis on Thursday night and stayed at cousin Rhonda's lovely home on Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis. She lives in a gorgeous old mansion across from the lake. On Friday Rhonda; her sister June, who had flown in from Seattle; and I explored the city. The art museum was extensive--and free every day. The university was lovely. So many of the neighborhoods, especially those along the Mississippi River, were so cute. In short, Minneapolis seems like a fantastic place to live.

On Saturday, after the foeden party, I joined sisters Rhonda, June, LaRayne, and Liz at Marilyn's house in Fox Lake. This was fascinating as Marilyn's late husband had a collection of thousands of pencils, all mounted in display cases. And Marilyn has all manner of bird statuary and art. We spent the night camping out in her living room and kitchen.

In the morning, we attended the beautiful country church on a dirt road surrounded by corn fields, not more than a mile from the family homestead. We were celebrities, to be sure. Though the minister was young and friendly, he certainly delivered a heavy dose of sin. A cultural experience, for sure. After service, Donald Kuehl, who is my mother's cousin, that is, my grandfather and his father were brothers, gave us a guided tour of the cemetary, a place I have always thought would be a restful spot to spend eternity.

I will have to make this an annual event. This was one of the best times I've had in a long time. Thanks to all my cousins, especially to Rhonda and her husband Dave, who were such gracious hosts, and Kay, at whose house the foeden party transpired.

Thank You, Georgette

On my journey to perfect health, I am grateful to many people. I would like to thank just a few, one at a time. First up is Georgette, pixie, surfer, artist, who sends me the most life-affirming messages and creates fairy photos from run-of-the-mill snapshots, like these two gems she fashioned for me. Thank you, Gette!