Goodbye, Cal State

On Monday the journalism department gave me a send-off party. After years of slights and shoddy treatment, the department rallied. Interesting how that is, isn't it! I guess people figure, She's out the door. Why not be nice?

And the send-off was very sweet. About 15 people stopped by. They were all very kind. They gave me a $100 Visa card, orchids, balloons, and a card. Four students also gave me heartfelt cards.




Here is the thank-you email I sent out just moments ago:


Thanks so much to everyone who attended my send-off party. Thanks, too, to all who contributed to my day at the spa--what I plan to do with my Visa card. And the orchids are lovely, still looking good atop my kitchen table. As always, thanks to Teri and Carolyn, the force behind so much kindness that issues from the department.

When I first learned that something was being planned for me, I felt my eyes get a little watery. You can't imagine how challenging the last decade has been, and especially the past six months. Acts of kindness--often from unexpected quarters--have done so much to boost my spirits--a neighbor helping me lift some boxes, my son's friends stopping by to say hello, a smile from a passing stranger.



Perhaps you already know this, and practice this on a daily basis, but perhaps, too, it bears iteration: Every day each one of you touches the lives of many. You choose whether your interactions will be ego- or other-centered. You chose whether you will treat each individual as a valuable human being, someone richly deserving of respect and consideration, or whether you will only treat others as vehicles to further your own goals. Ironically, it is when you choose the former path that beautiful things begin to happen, not only for the person to whom you show kindness, but to your own self as well.

The ancient Greeks spoke of a golden light that dwells within every soul and how it is each individual's moral duty to allow that light to shine forth to the world. If one has artistic talent, for example, he would be morally bankrupt if he instead became an accountant--for the money--and never picked up a paintbrush again. And someone who has a knack for numbers would be equally culpible should he waste years engaged in so-so art projects when he could be assisting hundreds of people with their financial woes. So, too, the best teachers have a golden light that they bring forth to their students; they reveal their excellence to the world through their work, and their students see this in their passion for their subject and their concern for their students' advancement and well being.

There is a golden light of kindness as well, a deep knowledge that everyone is a valuable human being deserving of the very best that life can give. I felt this golden light at my send-off party. For this I am grateful.

May this find you in good health and in good spirits,

Heidi

Earthquake--And I'm Alone and Hooked up to a Dialysis Machine!

A 5.0 earthquake just rattled my apartment. I could hear things falling and breaking in the kitchen and living room, but as I'm on a 12-foot leash, I can't investigate. In years gone by when a temblor struck, I would brace myself in a doorless door frame or scoot under my bed. But the only doors within 12 feet of the dialysis machine have doors, and the underside of my bed is loaded to the hilt with dialysis supplies.

So all I could do was sit still. When there's nothing that can be done, why get upset? I realize I'm in an extremely vulnerable situation, being hooked up for 10 hours every night, when it comes to quakes, fires, and any criminal who might enter my living quarters.

This evening's experience reminded me of a bicycle accident I had over a decade ago. I was making a left turn, and a car came racing around a corner into my path. The thought went through my head, "I'm going to hit that car." This acceptance brought with it a great sense of peace and surrender. I completely relaxed, which doubtless saved my life.

I felt that same kind of acceptance just now. In such a situation, I know I have only two not-such-great options--remain hooked up and vulnerable to injury or quickly disconnect in a dusty environment that would most likely cause a site infection or internal contamination. Since nothing big was falling, I simply took the experience calmly and waited for it to pass.

11th Annual Chick Cabin Weekend

Last weekend, as every third weekend of May for the past 11 years, was chick cabin weekend. An annual event in Green Valley Lake, near Big Bear, at the cabin owned by Heather's mom. Mostly it's women who knew Heather in high school or even since early elementary school. But thrown into the mix are a few gals like me who know Heather via different routes. There is a core group--Heather, the two Lisas, Dre, Kim, Debbie, and Diane. This year, Lori Ann, a firefighter in Albequeque; Kristin, whom I met as I was leaving; and Susie, who has been so encouraging in regards to me being kidney-wait listed, were also present.

Though I rarely see or talk with these gals any time except chick cabin, I feel so close to them. They are the only group of female friends I have ever known. In fact, I really haven't had too many female friends over the years, so the CCW gals are that much more special.

Last year--the big 10th annual extravaganza--I couldn't go. I was attempting a 30-day, all-liquid fast and cleanse to bring my body into health and avert dialysis. That didn't last, as I gained seven pounds of water weight in one day and became ill. Besides, my heart was taxed at sea level. I was concerned I would be unable to breathe at the cabin's 5,000-foot elevation.

So attending this year was a big deal for me. I left Long Beach around 2 on Friday afternoon. This was to be my first night away from home since beginning dialysis on Feb. 2. This was also my first experience with CAPD (continuous ambulatory peritoneal dialysis), in which I performed dialysis every six to eight hours. This didn't allow for much sleep, plus the dialysis bags were cold, so there was a bit of cramping during the fill. But it all went fine nonetheless.

About eight years ago, the Lisa who had been a professional dancer was pregnant and asked Heather and me to photograph her nude on the boulders that are scattered about this forested area. That was quite lovely, her breasts and big belly echoed in the roundness of the rocks. This began a tradition of nude photography. Some years it's only Lisa and me who photograph each other. Other years Heather joins in and perhaps Rachel, if she's around.

This year it was important for me to be photographed. Following the placement of the catheter, it took weeks for me to feel comfortable about looking in the mirror. I felt that stipping down would help my body image.

Lisa had brought scarves and a loose shirt for partial covering, but in some photos I opted to take everything off, everything, of course, but the tubing, dressing, transfer set, PD belt, and insulin pump! I guess it's impossible for me to get completely nude!

These photo sessions are so much fun! I enjoy being the photographer as much as I enjoy being the model. Of course, as Lisa is a dancer, she is adept at using her body to create sculpture-like poses.

Shown here are only a few of the tamest shots, as I'm not interested in having my breasts, my sex, and my behind for all the world to see.

Tomorrow You Will be Executed--Whoops!

Yesterday I received this curt, poorly proofed letter from UCLA Transplant Services:
"The patient was seen in Kidney/Pancreas Evaluation Clinic on 4/16/09. Patient current status is: Inactive. The patient is not a candidate at this time and will not be placed on the UNOS Wait List. Patient was seen as a consult only. Patient was seen as a consultation only. The patient is not a candidate for kidney & pancreas transplantation at this time due to inoperative, 3-vessel coronary artery disease. Pleasae see the dictation for detail. Other: Patient was hypertensive at the time of evaluation(170/100 bpm). Please follow-up with your physician."

I immediately got on the phone. I wasn't crying; I was angry. I didn't raise my voice, and I didn't use foul or offensive language. I was firm and direct, not accepting any PC, bullshit answers.

I had seen the UCLA cardiologist last Friday, and she had ordered another test, which I have scheduled for May 26 and 27. "I have a new heart," I told her, as I have told at least five other doctors. "Please don't judge me on the basis of an angiogram done years before I started dialysis." I also asked her not to judge me on the basis of my clinical blood pressure, as my twice-daily, at-home readings are in the neighborhood of 100/60. She said that patients are often nervous about these visits, and consequently, their BP shoots up. Nervous? My God, who wouldn't be! These people are deciding whether I'll live or die!

First I talked with the in-take nurse. How could UCLA send out a letter like this when I had been told by the cardiologist that her decision was dependent upon the results of a test I have not yet taken? She couldn't answer this question and went off to find someone who could. This meant quite a long time on hold. When she got back, I asked to speak with the cardiologist. Of course, one can rarely speak directly to a doctor! Oh, my God, we couldn't have patients talking directly to doctors outside of office visits! The whole system of elitism might come tumbling down. The nurse said the head nurse, Melissa Forest, would review my records and call me.

Melissa said the letter had been sent out prematurely. It had been based on the transplant surgeon and the director of the transplant program's recommendation--even though these two had referred me to the cardiologist. They had told me they would base their decision on the cardiologist's recommendation. Why, I demanded, had this letter been sent out? "Is this part of the psychological testing?" I asked. "Do you mess with patients and see how they handle it?" That question shocked her, and she didn't answer it. I persisted: "Because if messing with patients is part of the workup, then I've passed because I'm not crying and I'm not taking this sitting down."

I explained how I was feeling: "I'm on Death Row. I get a letter saying that my execution is tomorrow. 'But my lawyer has my case in appeal,' I say. 'How can you go ahead with the execution when my case is in appeal?'" She said she understood. I countered with: "So you've been a transplant patient?" She didn't answer. I asked again. "No, I haven't," she said. "Well, then you don't understand," I said.

I said that I am just starting out with UCLA, and if this lack of attention to detail is present at the onset, I'm concerned that such carelessness may pervade the entire process. I am concerned about the carelessness that seems to have gone into sending out this letter, without concern for accuracy or the patient's feelings. I said I worked as an editor and alluded to the carelessness with the language of the letter. Though I didn't specifically cite the errors, here they are--"pleasae," "follow-up" (no hyphen when used as a verb), two cases of redundancy, and the switch from third to second person. "If there is carelessness in the little things, it makes me wonder if there will be carelessness with the big things." I repeated this to help it sink in. Yes, the big things--making sure the organ is a good match and making sure the surgery is successful.

Melissa apologized, but I wanted to know what she was going to do to correct this problem. I asked if this matter would be taken up at a staff meeting. Perhaps people should think before sending out such letters. She assured me she would bring it up. Who knows if that will actually happen.

Now, I must attend to some important business--getting a match and burning the letter.

Yet Another Step in the Kidney Appeals Process

I met with the UCLA cardiologist on Friday. She is charged with determining my suitability as a transplant candidate. I was hoping and praying for a decision, but that has now been delayed. She wants me to undergo another stress test to assess my heart function. This is probably the best news I could have expected at this point, as she did not deny my request and she did not insist on an angiogram, which uses dye that is harmful to the kidneys. So it's yet another step in this long, involved, emotionally exhausting process.

I greatly appreciate all those who have been praying on my behalf, and I ask that you continue to do so. I know that prayer is very powerful, and it touches me deeply to know that so many people have my best interests in mind and in heart.

The One Word That Says it All

"Proswayed," a female student in one of my classes wrote. When I pointed this mistake out to her, she was befuddled. "It's spelled 'persuade,'" I said. "Oh," she replied.

This one word sums up much of what is wrong with education these days: carelessness, inattention, lack of pride in a job well done, unconcern about one's own language, rushing to finish one project in order to hurry through another.

The flip side is that my fellow educators seem unconcerned about the deterioration of standards. Over the years, I have seen such a steady decline, and this has been disheartening for me. I wonder how sloppy we will eventually become, how much further into the mud we will sink.

And that's one reason why I am glad to be leaving Cal State. Professors who don't care and students who care even less. I will certainly not miss either one.

The Mikes in my Life

A few days ago, it hit me that Mikes have figured prominently in my life. Mike Riek was the love of my life. Mike Cincola was my favorite massage client. (We had such a smashing repoire that his wife was jealous, and Mike abruptly ended our weekly massages with a $700 tip.) Mike Phan is my compassionate cardiologist, and Mike Butman is my dear nephrologist. (Perhaps doctors don't mean that much to you, dear reader, but for someone in my position, having doctors I trust and can relate to means the world.) And most importantly, Archangel Michael.

When this notion of the noteworthy Mikes entered my head, I wondered if this has been the archangel's way of telling me he's watching over me. Sending me Mikes to take care of me on Earth. Certainly Mike Cincola took care of me financially, and of course it did me a whole bunch of good to see a man once a week who I really liked and who really liked to see me. And I've written previously about how Drs. Phan and Butman are rooting for me, doing their damnest to get me on the transplant list, taking care of me physically and medically, as well as boosting my spirits.

But what about Mike Riek? In so many ways, Mike was a huge detriment. Psychologically and mentally abusive, neglectful, self-centered, self-absorbed, filled with rage, self-deprecating, self-destructive. But he certainly took care of me sexually for four years. So, sure, Mike too could have functioned as the archangel's emissary.

And now one more Mike has been added to the mix--Mike Leon, Aaron's artist friend whom I've commissioned to render the archangel as I saw him on that April day in 2000. Mike said he's long been interested in Archangel Michael. I hope to sit down with Mike soon and work on a sketch of that experience. Something like an artist who sketches a suspect from a witness's memory. A little more muscle. Hair a bit more tussled. Blinding light of his minions to either side and to infinity in back of him. I can see him so clearly, but I want so much to have the likeness rendered so that I can gaze upon it many times a day.

Good Energy for May 8

Round three in the transplant fight: a May 8 meeting with a UCLA cardiologist. The director of the program and the surgeon, with whom I met on April 16, will bow to her decision regarding my suitability as a transplant candidate.

The possible outcomes of this meeting:
* overturning the director and surgeon's decision to keep me off the pancreas list
* giving me her blessing for placement on the kidney-only list
* requiring me to undergo more tests before she can make a decision
* refusing to put me on the kidney list

The first is highly unlikely. The second is also a real long shot, according to Dr. Butman, who told me yesterday that patients who had no history of heart disease are often required to undergo an angiogram, so someone like me surely will have to do so.

The last outcome is the one that haunts me. I try to stay focused on 2 and 3, but 4 keeps creeping in.

If she hits me with 4, I will offer her this analogy: The doctors' hesitancy to put me on the list because of an angiogram done in 2006 seems analogous to a 35-year-old who applies for a job and is told he is not a candidate because he was arrested for shoplifting when he was in junior high. He tells HR that he's radically changed since then and is now an upstanding citizen--and he has church membership and community-service awards to prove it.

This seems to be the situation I'm facing. Why are the UCLA docs focused on my "arrest record" rather than on the miraculous transformation my heart has made since the onset of dialysis? (For the past month, I've been lifting weights and walking two to three miles four days a week.) Am I missing something? Are there flaws in my analogy? What more can be done to get them to see the "upstanding citizen" and not the "troubled youth"?

Literary devices worked wonders for Socrates and Jesus. Maybe this analogy will do the trick for me.

Culling the Herd?

I've been reading about the so-called "swine" flu that has hit Mexico, the U.S. and now Spain, New Zealand, and a few more places. As reported in the press, the responsible virus has components from three continents and from three types of animals--human, bird, and pig. To my thinking, it seems highly unlikely that something like this would develop on its own, without the assistance of government and pharmaceutical-company labs.

Now before you stop reading, consider that not too long ago, Baxter International had shipped out flu vaccine containing avain-flu virus. A simple matter of sloppy work as is often seen in food processing when components used in one food product inadvertently contaminate a batch of some other food product? That might be a plausible explanation, if only that a pharmaceutical company is not supposed to be in the business of manufacturing pandemics.

The Baxter story was not covered in this country, though it was widely reported in Europe and Canada. Once again, the U.S. is in a news bubble.

And guess what, folks--Baxter is working on a vaccine for this latest "swine" flu. Oh, great, the same company that tried to start a pandemic less than a year ago by manufacturing tainted vaccine now has the contract to make a second go of it.

Though this story is disconcerting for anyone, it is especially so for me, as Baxter is also the manufacturer of my dialysis supplies. Everything from the solution to the tubing. What I've wondered since discovering all this: Is Baxter "culling the herd" by adding something toxic to the dialysis solution, something that wouldn't kill a patient outright--she needs to be kept alive for some time to generate income for the pharmaceutical giant--but would slowly work against the body over time?

This whole notion of culling the herd has been around for quite some time. My first exposure to it was about 20 years ago. On one level, it makes sense. The world has way too many people, and a whole lot more are coming. Our resources are finite; no new timber, oil, or land to grow crops are entering our world from some other planet. What we've got here and now is all there is. The only solution is to cull the herd. Of course, the more benign approach would be to prevent births in the first place, take care of the problem on the front end. This could be done through tax disincentives for having more than one or two children or incentives for voluntary sterilization. I mean, seriously, why are the tax laws still designed to reward big families? That might have been a fine idea 150 years ago when this was a young country and lots of kids were needed to do farm chores. But that's not the nation we are currently living in.

The really spooky thing about Baxter is that, every time I would call the company to place an order or check on the status of an order or get tech support, this awful, sappy music would play while I was on hold. Always the same annoying song. I complained several times, but nothing happened. Then I started telling the rep that if I were shooting a horror film about forced euthenesia, I would use this song as background music. "It's music to kill by" was the message I left on a supervisor's answer machine. That must have struck a chord with Baxter because about a week ago--before the outbreak in Mexico--I was informed the company is changing the music.

Wow! Some of These People Look Like Stoners

Last night I attended my first ever laser light show. It is rare when an experience exceeds one's expectations. This was certainly one of those times.

This was Aaron's third Pink Floyd Laser Light Show, but even he said that this year's was so much better than anything he'd ever experienced previously.



Even before we entered the packed auditorium, I was giggling as if I were high. For the record, I was not, though I had been in close proximity to someone who had smoked. (No names will be divulged.) Aaron said that was great that all I needed to do was to watch someone else get high in order to get me going. Yes, it doesn't take much.

A lot of long hairs and spacey chicks. "Wow!" I remarked at my fellow audience members. "Some of these people look like stoners!" Aaron agreed that if you were looking for stoners, this would be the venue at which to find them.

I was awestruck throughout the two-hour performance. With the special glasses, light beams were pulsating, throbbing, undulating, and ricocheting across the stage and over our heads. Images from the classic science fiction film "Metropolis" and from "The Wall." One segment at the beginning of the production featured a black-and-white film of a man in a bed with wheels that just started moving of its own accord, down a hospital hallway and onto a runway. The man looked like a young version of Mike. So interesting because he died three years ago on April 16.

Watching all these colored images and light beams and even tunnels of light surround me, I was in an altered state. I was so spacey, but in a very good sense. I wondered if this is some of what I was oblivious to as a young adult, as I missed out on illicit drug use, rock concerts, and mindless sex when they were easy to come by and with few consequences. My youth was spent on other things: listening to "The Blue Danube" over and over again, collecting statuary pigs, weaving potholders, hanging out with my dog, writing poetry, hybridizing houseplants, gardening, reading about ancient civilizations and the occult, and entering trance-like states while gazing into the woods or the meadow. In fact, I attended my first ever rock concert about two years ago--The Who at the Long Beach Auditorium.

Not So Good

Though yesterday I was feeling really good, delighting at the sunshine and the beauty of the world, interacting with those I met with a big smile, last night was a different story.

In the afternoon, I had consulted with a physical therapist. Now that I have so much more energy and so little chest pain and shortness of breath since beginning dialysis, I want to exercise to improve my blood circulation and heart function. But I have been doing as little exercise as possible for the last several years. So how am I to safely begin exercising again? I have been taking walks to the ocean, but wanted some guidance. The very friendly Alex gave me an exercise schedule and showed me how to lift weights. So yesterday evening I did as Alex had instructed and walked 48 minutes non-stop, no stairs. (He told me to build up to stairs.) That felt good, being out in the world, seeing the play of sunlight and shadows on buildings, the flowers, other walkers and their dogs, the wonder of the ocean.

Upon my return home, I had to hook up. This is when my mood changed. Aaron was having dinner with his dad and stayed overnight at his dad's. I was home alone with the dialysis machine, A.K.A. the cycler. As I have for thousands upon thousands of nights, I prepared to sleep alone. It's been almost 10 years since a man shared my bed. Not counting the Canadian who gave me a ride home when my van wasn't working and wouldn't leave my cabin in Nova Scotia until the morning, but I'm not counting him. Sure, there have been a few, a very few intrigues, but these have occurred in the daytime. Actually, I have only literally slept with four men in my entire life--Rod, though he always told me to get over on my side of the bed; Shizeng, though he was only with me a few weeks; Mark, a gay friend I visited for a week while he was a student in Texas, and this was simply sharing a bed, no touching; and Mike. And I was last with Mike in January of 2000.

Life is so difficult alone anyways, but add to this dialysis, and it's sometimes overwhelming. Last night I was overwhelmed. I cried myself to sleep, then woke up around 2, as I have been doing quite frequently since starting dialysis. I went through an hour-or-so round of crying, then dropped off again.

This morning I've been lethargic, still in my pajamas at 10 o'clock. I know this doesn't seem decadent to most people--lazing around on a Saturday--but I'm generally up and at 'em by 7 every day of the week. I took care of all the dialysis protocol--unhooking myself, putting a new iodine-laden mini-cap on my transfer set, draining the dialysis bag that still had some fluid in it, putting the used supplies in the garbage, carrying the collection jug to the toilet and dumping, weighing myself, taking my blood sugar and blood pressure, recording this data. Then I went back to bed and had another cry.

I know that when one is sad, one is supposed to isolate the problem, not allow a single event to spread out into everything wrong that's happened in one's life to date. That is, if your boss criticizes your work, you can be upset about her criticism, but don't start thinking about how your mother never thought you could do anything right and how your ex-husband was always nagging and on and on. Isolate the problem.

The problem is I have difficulty doing that. It all seems so inter-related. Mostly these cries have been about loneliness coupled with dialysis and the realization that now that I am not a kidney-pancreas transplant candidate, my wait time has more than doubled, provided I am approved for a kidney transplant. The wait for the former, as given at Thursday's orientation, is two to three years, since as long as a cadaver is giving up a kidney to a recipient, it makes sense to use the same cadaver's pancreas for the same recipient. But the wait for just a kidney for an O blood type, which I am, is seven to 10 years. (AB, four years; A, five to six; B, six to seven.) I've only been doing dialysis for two and a half months. Just the thought of a decade of doing this makes me numb.

All the kidney support materials speak of not giving up hope. As of now, here are the things I have to look forward to: 1) spending the rest of my life hooked up to the cycler every night and doing a mid-day exchange every day; or 2) waiting seven to 10 years for a cadaver, but probably dying before one becomes available, which means #2 is really #1. It seems as if my only real hope is to be run over by a bus as soon as possible.

But, of course, as always, I will eventually get dressed today and go out into the world smiling. Just as no one has ever seen me at my worst physically, no one sees me an my most anguished.

A Little Cry, Then Back on Track

I had a few little cries yesterday after I got home from UCLA, but I slept well last night and felt better this morning. Dr. Butman gave me a call mid-morning and said that he knows Dr. Wilkinson, the director of the transplant program, and assured me that Wilkinson would not pass the buck, that if he thought I was not a viable candidate, he would have let me know yesterday. That was good to hear. So there still is hope.

After this call, all the sadness and disappointment of yesterday vanished. I was buoyant and happy all day. A temporary stumble, but now I'm back on track.

My Day at UCLA

Today was my big day at UCLA. I arrived early to a small conference room in which prospective transplant patients were already filling out paperwork. Aaron arrived a few minutes before the slide presentation by an RN and a social worker began. They spoke about the program and didn't pull any punches with survival rates, wait times, post-transplant medications and insurance coverage.

Afterward, I was given a room in which to preform my mid-day exchange, while Aaron went to get us some lunch. He had to leave before my clinic visit.

I've been putting so much into this meeting, asking everyone I know to pray. Even the atheists in my life said they'd give it a whirl. I wore a wool suit. I even printed out my resume and brought my best travel clips from glitzy lifestyle magazines in case I had to make a pitch for why I'm valuable. Aaron had teased me: "C'mon, Mom. This is LA. You better bring head shots and a movie script!"

The first person to see me was a kidney-pancreas transplant surgeon, Dr. Gerald Lipshutz. He listened to my breathing and to my heart, took my pulse, peeked at my PD setup and insulin pump. He asked me a bunch of questions about past surgeries, recent hospitalizations, blood transfusions. (It seems as if traces of the donor's blood stays in the recipient's system, thereby complicating blood typing. I had three transfusions in late 2006.) He must have spent 45 minutes with me. He was concerned about my heart history and the findings of an angiogram that was done in November of 2006 when I had the stent placed. I know he wanted to say "no" to the whole thing, but said that besides for my heart, I look great, my BMI is fantastic, I've got a great attitude. I showed him my home records, and he was impressed by my faithful record keeping. Basically, he connected with me, especially when I told him I was a professor of journalism at Cal State and also a writer-editor, and so he didn't want to be the one to nix it. He said he'd consult with the director of the kidney-pancreas transplant program.

Fifteen minutes later, the very kind Dr. Alan Wilkinson walked through the door. An Afrikaner I initially mistook for a German. He warmly told me the story of how he had met his German wife-to-be in South Africa and then proceeded to tell me the very complicated tale of her last name. A handsome older man with a cheery smile and bright eyes. He also voiced concerns about my heart, saying that kidney-pancreas would be too much surgery for me--eight hours rather than the two for kidney only. He, too, spent at least 45 minutes with me, discussing the risks I would face. Besides, 50 is generally the cut-off age for pancreas transplants. I said I could live with that decision, provided I'm put on the kidney transplant wait list.

After some pleasant chatting, the nephrologist agreed to let me see the cardiologist, provided Kaiser approves. I had thought that the Kaiser review board had said that I was to meet with the UCLA cardiologist today. That after s/he made a decision, it would follow suit. Oh well, it was a long day as it was. I can come back.

I'm wondering if these kind souls are merely passing the buck. They went from "no" to everything to "maybe" for kidney on the sheer force of my personality, conversational skills and smiles. But will that carry me to a "yes"?

I really felt deep down inside that I would get the go-ahead. Now, instead it reminds me of my social life. Men are always telling me how fantastic I am, how good-looking. But why don't I have a date for Friday night? It's the same with the UCLA docs. I look great, wonderful compliance, fantastic hemoglobin A1C, beautiful PD home records, but no date!

I'm beginning to understand what death row inmates must go through--waiting, appeals, hope, setbacks, more appeals, more waiting. Well, I haven't yet run out of appeals. There's still hope.

I'm Good but Slow

"I'm good but slow." That's how I summed up what Dr. Butman told me today about the results of a two-day test I did last week. I had to collect my urine for 24 hours, hook up at 6 p.m. so I'd finish at 4 a.m., go into the PD clinic for the nurse to take samples of the fluid in my peritoneum and for me to conduct two manual exchanges. All that to find out if I am dialysizing (clearing toxins) well and how permeable my peritoneal membrane is (how quickly toxins are passing through the membrane).

On the first count, I'm excellent. The KT/V value is considered good if it's 1.8. Mine was 3.8. But as far as my membrane goes, it's "low average."

This is disappointing, since if I were high average, I could eliminate the mid-day exchange. I could go all day from morning to evening hookup on the cycler without having to concern myself with dialysis. Had this been the case, I would have switched to a different solution called Extraneal, which can sit in the peritoneal membrane all day and is not reabsorbed.

I asked Dr. Butman if my membrane might change, if I might in time become a high average. He said that it's just the way I am, like having blue eyes.

He did say that he might consider having me dry during the day, that is, being like a non-dialysis person, who does not have fluid sitting in the peritoneal membrane. You see, as it is now, when I get up in the morning, I have two liters of dialysis solution in me. I drain this during the mid-day exchange and put two liters of clean fluid back in, which are extracted when I hook up at night. The reason for doing a mid-day exchange is that the fluid cannot sit in the peritoneal membrane for more than eight hours. After that time, toxins and fluids start to get reabsorbed by the body, thereby defeating the whole purpose of dialysis.

There is controversy surrounding the dry-during-the-day approach. The membrane should be kept moist so that when it is used, it is more supple and flexible, thereby meaning that patients should keep fluid in them during the day. Dr. Butman counters that, if you're constantly using the membrane, it gets worn out, so why not keep it dry during the day, thereby not using it during the day. It's hard to say which strategy is better for the patient on a medical basis, though I sure can tell you that, from an emotional and social perspective, going without the mid-day would be so wonderful.

Dr. Butman said he would be thinking about me on Thursday, when I meet with the transplant surgeons at UCLA. "Keep your eys on the prize," he said.

A Hilarious Time Shopping for Lip Balm

I had such a hilarious time at Rite-Aid yesterday, shopping for lip balm. First off, Aaron thought we should just go to Ralph's, as it was closer, but I insisted on Rite-Aid. "I don't want the stuff they sell in the check-out line," I told him. "I want Burt's Bees!"

Once we got to Rite-Aid, I tracked down a clerk who thought I wanted something to make my lips "puffy." I suspected she was unfamiliar with the word "balm," so I told her I was looking for Chapstick. Aisle 15, she suggested.

Aaron did a little dance to indicate he was so happy we were at Rite-Aid.

Burt's Bees came in two varieties--peppermint and honey. I figured we needed to experience both.

But the adventure continued. "As long as we're here," I said, "let's really see this place, OK, son?" I told him that I used to spend a lot of time at Rite-Aid when he was a kid, shopping for stocking stuffers at Christmastime and for strange Easter candies. On that note, we took a gander down the Easter aisle. I spotted a chocolate bunny that was not standing upright in its box, making it look a bit depressed. This bunny's decline set us laughing, as did the Hubba Bubba chicken that, as Aaron put it, "poops plastic eggs."

Next up was the outdoor-entertaining aisle. "Here's my tip for you, son. If you're strapped for cash and you need a place to sleep, you can buy a lawn-chair cushion for under 30 bucks instead of wasting hundreds on a bed."

"Or you could just buy a whole bunch of them and tack them to your bedroom walls," he suggested. "A padded room."

I told him he was being silly.

After a few giggles about the fake-palm branch cabana umbrellas, we paid for the lip balm and exited the store. Before we even got to the car, I had ripped open the peppermint and applied it to my lips. Aaron did the same.

"Ooooh, it's so...."

"Tingly?"

"Yes, yes, it's tingly! Oh, that's so nice!" I squealed. "But what's going to happen if I put the honey variety on top of it?"

The honey scent smelled like real honey. I was SO glad we hadn't gone to Ralph's to get Chapstick! I was giggling with delight. "Who needs drugs?" I wondered.

"You sure don't," Aaron agreed.

And so we continued to laugh and carry on, all the way home.

This morning, before he went to work and I went to see my mom for Easter brunch, I was smiling and beaming once again, remembering our Rite-Aid silliness. "Isn't it too bad," I said, "that so few people in this country could have had the fun that we did at Rite-Aid? Isn't it a shame how lacking in simple fun so many people are?"

"Yes, it's really too bad."

In all fairness, I spent a great deal of my life as a sad sack, letting loneliness, ostracization, health problems, rejection, and all the other ills of living get me down. And then I found silliness!

Although it sure helps to have a partner in silliness, it's not absolutely necessary. Often I catch myself laughing when I am alone, laughing at something silly I just did.

So I encourage all to give silliness a try. You won't regret it. And maybe it will mean you won't have to use drugs to get you to where silliness can take you for free.

Playful. Intelligent. Sexy. Strange

Playful.
Intelligent.
Sexy.
Strange.

These are the characteristics I seek in a man. Sure, it would also be great if he had a job, didn't need a green card, drove stick, and could do magic tricks. But I'm willing to compromise a bit.

Do you know that I have been looking all my life for such a man and have yet to find him? I have met men who are intelligent, though they are often single-subject guys, not Renaissance men. We have great conversations about theology or psychology or science or philosophy, but where is the man who knows something about all of these and a dozen other areas too?

You see, intelligence isn't just about having an intellectual buddy. It's about finding a man who can use his intelligence to make nuanced conceits, ingenious feats of language that can be simultaneously interpreted as benign, polite conversation and as snares of seduction. Think John Malkovich and Glenn Close in "Dangerous Liaisons," though not quite so dark. I want to create a private, intimate world of metaphor with this man. So delicious, especially in the build-up to the first touch, the first kiss.

Sexy in the way he looks at me, the way he adjusts his rearview mirror, the way he slowly inches a butter knife across the table toward me in a crowded restaurant. A man who is confident but not stuck on himself.

Strange, well, of course. I don't want the average joe, but someone who is unconventional, who gives hints that he will bring that strangeness to the bedroom.

And playful, yes, yes, yes! I would love to have someone to play with! To be silly with! To role-play, oh, how I love role-playing! And yet in my entire life I've only found two men who were capable of taking on other personalities ahd histories. Think of all the fantastic possibilities: teacher-student, car owner-mechanic, diner-waitress/waiter, doctor-patient, homeowner-handyman, foreign tourist-native speaker, minister-church secretary.

And playful outside of sex too. Someone who would find fun at every turn, whether in the produce department or the ER, whether raking leaves or changing the oil.

In my 50 years on this planet, I have yet to meet a man who is over 25 and embodies all four of these characteristics. (Johnny Depp seems as if he does, but we have yet to meet.) Actually, very few have embodied even two.

I can only come up with four men who are over 25 and are playful. What a sorry state this country is in. Everyone is so dreadfully serious.

Easters Past and the Best Easter Gift of All

These days, Easter is little more than a blip on the social radar screen, but when I was a child, it was a major event.

I associated Easter, quite literally, with renewal and rebirth. After a long, cold winter in Wisconsin, I looked forward to Easter as the time of cattails and pussy willows in thawing ponds and streams, of the heavy scent of lilac blooms, of tulips in garden beds, of violets in the woods, of newborn birds and bunnies, of robins' eggs and blind baby moles. I remember wanting so badly for spring to burst free that I would even help it along by ramming ice in the culvert with a stick, attempting to dislodge it.

The spiritual message of resurrection and hope was physically played out in front of me at every turn. Just as nature was given another chance, so, too, would I be given a reprieve. This is what every blue sky and warm breeze and colorful blossom seemed to tell me. This would be the year when I would have someone to play with after school, someone to talk and laugh with; very soon, I, too, would have a friend.

Gone were all those long, lonely hours, days, weeks, and months of being holed up inside my parents' house. Gone was the hiding myself away in the basement or in my room. Even if a friend did not appear this year, at least I could leave the confines of this oppressive interior and feel sunshine on my face and explore the meadow and the woods, delighting in an outside world that was bursting with wonder and something that, if not quite joy, then certainly something very close to it.

I remember a lot of build-up to Easter. It was one of only two times during the year when I got new outfits--the other being the end of August, before the beginning of the school year. Selecting an Easter dress and shoes--or a new tie, shirt, and blazer for men and boys--was a big deal. An Easter dress was a happy dress in happy colors with ruffles or bows or other happy adornments.

Easter wasn't complete without lamb butter, sticks fashioned in the shape of reclining lambs; lamb cake, a dry, white-cake lamb with coconut frosting reclining on a bed of dyed-green coconut grass; and hot-cross buns, dinner roll-like sweet bread topped with white crosses of frosting. Add to this mix the soft pussy-willow buds brought inside and placed in a vase on the dining room table. The Easter-bonnet-and-Easter-egg tree, which I was told was a long-standing German tradition. And most magical of all, those eggs with the windows in them. I never owned one of these treasures, but could be enthralled for a long time, staring into their tiny, perfect, self-contained worlds.

Living as I now do in California, and as I have lived for many years, the wonder of winter turning into spring has greatly diminished. I live in a land of, if not perpetual good weather, at least weather that is no cause for complaint. And so it is far too easy to think of Easter as just another beautiful day.

Instead, this year, I will again consider its original intent. Next Thursday, a few short days after Easter, transplant surgeons at UCLA will determine if I will be given a place on the wait list for a kidney. What more appropriate Easter gift could I be given than this chance at life. As Jesus said, and so, too, may the surgeons, "I have come to give you life so that you may have it to the fullest."

My Mother Knows Nothing About Me

Over the decades I have told a few friends that my mother doesn't listen to me and knows nothing about me. Of course, this seems like so much hyperbole. How could one's mom not know anything about her child? And it's not like she had a dozen kids; she only had two.

Plus, I have been the dutiful daughter and have remembered her on her birthday, Mother's Day, Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving, have sent flowers to cheer her, and have called at least two or three times a week for my entire adult life. Certainly one would think she'd know a little something about a woman who has spent so much time and energy on her as I have. Even if I had been a neighbor or a coworker or someone who went to her church, you'd think she would have known something about me!

Last weekend my mother read aloud from her journal, as is now our custom. Before she started journaling, our visits were for the most part silent, as she gave only one-word answers to my questions, and she asked no questions in return. Now that she's journaling, she reads aloud from her journal, and I ask her questions about what she's written. This has improved our visits tremendously.

Last weekend she read what she had written about me. Her account was filled with inaccuracies. Actually, none of it was accurate. She said from the get-go that she knows nothing about me, and I told her this is remarkable, given that I lived with her for 18 years.

This is in contrast to what she read today about her long-time friend Marianne. She didn't know where or when I had graduated from college. She wrote that I received my bachelor's degree in Illinois when in fact I had only taken a few classes while living in Chicago. I graduated with my first bachelor's degree in 1984, three years after I had moved to California. She didn't know in what areas I had received my degrees. In contrast, she knew that Marianne had graduated in 1969 with a degree in sociology and had gone on to receive a master's degree in social work from the University of Wisconsin, Whitewater.

My mother did not know when or under what circumstances I had contracted diabetes, and it was obvious from what she wrote that she knows nothing about the disease that has shaped the last 37 years of my life. When I was a kid, she never attended a single doctor's appointment with me or read any book or pamphlet about the condition. She never once talked to me about my anger and depression about having a chronic disease. Yet she knew about Marianne's cancer in detail.

My mother did not know the name of my boyfriend of four years, the man who, by default, was the love of my life. And she didn't know that Mike had died in 2006. She wrote that Mike was a skiier, not a surfer. Now if you think this is just her forgetfulness or dementia, why then did she know about Marianne's sex life in detail? She knew that Marianne had not had sex until she was 29 and that her first affair with a married man was in Aruba on the beach. She even knew the exact year when Marianne tired of sex.

My mother remembered the names of the restaurants she and Marianne had frequented and the menu items they favored. She knew the first and last names of Marianne's coworkers and the streets on which she had lived. In contrast, she does not even know what I do for a living, even though I have worked at Cal State for more than 20 years.

And it's not just Marianne. She wrote accurately about my ex-husband's profession and about her sisters and brothers and her friend Julie.

Worst of all, she wrote that I had abandoned my son. I couldn't believe this! When Rod and I split up, we shared custody, and I chose to be a freelance writer and editor, primarily so that I could spend as much time as possible with my son, rather than away from him, commuting to a corporate job. So my mother is clueless even in regards to the bond I have always had with my son, perhaps the most significant aspect of my life.

I told her that she should continue to write, that writing is very good for maintaining her mental functions, that writing is the best thing she has done all year, but that she should stick to subjects she knows something about. For some reason, all the things I have ever said to my mother about my life have gone in one ear and out the other because, as she told me about five years ago, she is "just not interested."

I also told her that this is what makes caring for her so difficult. "It's not like we've ever had a relationship," I told her. "If we had had something when I was a child or if we had had something during my adult years, it would be different, this would be easier. But it's really hard for me sometimes to put so much time and energy into taking care of you when you were never there for me, even as a child, when you were never interested in anything about me."

To this she said nothing. I guess all I can say is that this is the stuff of a great short story.

As Aaron said, "I don't know why, but your mom has always had a block on you."

Mark Your Calendars--April 16, 1:30 p.m. PST

Yesterday I talked with Fe, the transplant coordinator. I said that waiting until August to have a consultation with UCLA was way too long to wait. Two kidney patients who were actors in "Who Lives?" had been on dialysis for only a short time before receiving transplants--five months for one and a year for the other. And here I wasn't even going to have a thumbs up or down for the wait list for six months. Was there anything she could do? I wondered.

Phone calls and emails went back and forth between Fe, Dr. Butman, and myself. And there must have been phone calls between them and UCLA. Then this morning I received a call from the transplant scheduling nurse. I've now got a consultation with the kidney-pancreas transplant surgeons on April 16 at 1:30.

This could very well be the most important meeting of my entire life. The meeting that decides whether I am a viable transplant candidate. So please keep that date in your prayers and in your good thoughts. Surround the doctors in white light. See them coming away with a very positive feeling about me and about my outcome post-transplant. See me getting my name on The List.

The appointment itself is certainly good news. Four months ahead of the original time. Things are moving. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Who Lives?

Yesterday afternoon I attended a matinee performance of "Who Lives?" at the Pico Playhouse with friends Susie and Alexi. This play had been recommended to me by a social worker, and Alexi knew about it because the playwright had been her short story-writing teacher. It's based on the 1960s review board that decided who would receive dialysis and who would not. The number of machines available at that time was limited, so only a very few kidney patients were given the chance to live. Without dialysis, they died of uremia in which the body becomes overloaded with toxins, resulting in nausea, fluid overload, and retching. An unpleasant way to go. A way that I had just a few months ago contemplated.

As a dialysis patient, I wished that all the nurses, doctors, and support personnel from the PD clinic I attend would have seen this play. Though all are proficient at the administration of their medical tasks, and most are generally cheery, they could all use a lot of help in how they deal with the emotional, social, and psychospiritual aspects of dialysis.

Perhaps I've written this before, but during my darkest days in January and February, I broached the subjects of hopelessness, a sense of imprisonment, and a weariness with all of this on four occasions with four staff members--a doctor, a nurse, the dietician, and the social worker.

The doctor was the most poised, but told me things happen in life, and I just had to adapt. True, if this were an intellectual discussion, but the topic was emotions.

The nurse quickly pointed out that cancer patients have it worse than me. I told him that may be true, but his is a silly game because I could easily counter with, "Yes, but a whole lot of people have it a whole lot better than me too."

The dietician said her husband was experiencing back pain, and that he, too, is upset about not being able to do the things he once was able to do. I could tell she was worn out with his complaining and was putting me in the same category as him.

The social worker also brushed off my despair, saying it wasn't that bad.

So, instead of listening as one human being to another, they all gave "shut up" messages. They were outside their comfort zone and wanted desperately to return to the practical and logistical aspects of dialysis.

In an after-performance discussion of "Who Lives?" with the playwright, producer, director, and cast members, an older lady who identified herself as a nurse said some things I wish the entire PD staff could have heard. Actually, I wish every healthcare professional in the entire nation could have heard. I can't quote her, but I will put the following in her voice nonetheless, as this was the gist of her message: "It's so rare that we think of the patient as a human being like us. We get so caught up in administering this treatment or giving this pill that we don't stop and realize how what we're saying and doing is affecting this person. I thank the playright and the actors for making this so clear. Patients are people with feelings and with a life that we need to respect." Granted, this is a paraphrase, but it's what she conveyed, tears close at hand. I got the impression that her entire career had been focused on medicine and not on healing, which necessitates a human-to-human bond.

The producer said that a few physicians had attended previous performances. I sure wish this play success elsewhere--and a deeper inroad into the community of nephrologists and dialysis nurses. Just think if every performance would result in at least one epiphany. And that transformed doctor or nurse would affect the practice of his or her colleagues. This could radically alter healthcare in this country.

The Fun Walk

Doing something physical, whether bicycling or running or swimming a mile, is a great mood enhancer. But taking a walk, a leisurely stroll, is something I have found helpful on many levels.

This is not a power walk, the kind of frenetic pace in which the most distance covered in the shortest time is paramount. No, I'm talking about a Spassiergang. This is the German word for, quite literally, a fun walk.

A fun walk entails taking your time, delighting in the play of sunlight on leaves, of birdsong, of vines weaving in and out of garden fences, of brightly colored blooms and powder blue skies. A fun way gives you time to chat with strangers and smile at other walkers you pass by.

I took a fun walk yesterday evening, traversing the dozen or so blocks to the Ralph's grocery store and back. I made light conversation with the young man manning the deli, and he must not be used to this, as he chatted with me about how weighing cheese has improved his math skills and how salt-free turkey "tastes like you're eating nothing." He spent a delightfully inordinate amount of time filling my order. What a sweetie!

Vying for my attention were two older gents, the kind of funky, quasi-artsy, somewhat marginal folks who populate the neighborhood in which I live. I suppose I should count myself among them. These leather-clad, long-haired, graying men struck up a conversation with me about the wonders of the hot beef footlong. They smiled as I bantered. It's so much fun to turn on the light in people's eyes!

At the checkout counter, the clerk and bag boy were especially kind, probably because I gave good eye contact and smiled. It takes so little to warm people up sometimes.

On the way home, I stopped to admire a one-bedroom Spanish revival. The owner was sweeping her sidewalk, and I told her I'd always appreciated her abode. Though she had that look on her face of "What does this woman want from me?" she eventually realized that I had no ulterior motive and relaxed just a bit.

All along my evening stroll, I wondered at the vines, leaves, trees, porch plants, gardens, and flowers I encountered. Surrounded by beauty at every turn.

And so, though more aggressive forms of exercise may be better cardio workouts, a Spassiergang is a wonderful way to get out in the world; interact with strangers in a pleasant, nonthreatening manner; apprehend beauty that is ever-present; and improve your spirits.

So, remember, any time you're feeling down, take a fun walk. It requires no special equipment, no fees, no training, no unusual talents or skills, no set location.

Give Yourself a Hug!

Over the decades, I have developed strategies to boost my mood, keep my thoughts positive, and soften the blows from the external world.

As a child and a young adult, I was not as adept at this as I presently am. In fact, I was a depressed and withdrawn person up until about five years ago. When I think back on my childhood, all I see is a dark curtain over everything. My married life was also deeply troubled, and I was often in tears, though I kept my crying closeted.

Yet even then, I practiced strategies that gave me some solace. I held my pillow to my chest at night and hugged it, sometimes talking to it as if it were a friend or a lover. During my dozen years of marriage, I began thinking of it as my man pillow, as every night my husband told me to get over on my side of the bed. My pillow was my nighttime substitute for marital intimacy. I continued in this vein after our separation. This strategy, however, often made me sadder and lonelier than I had felt before the pillow embraces. It seemed to accentuate the fact that I was sleeping alone.

Perhaps five years ago--it's hard to exactly pinpoint when--I underwent a major shift. It is not something I remember willing into existence. It seems to have just happened. Despite the conditions of the outside world, I found comfort within. Unlike in the past, when holding my pillow and saying loving things aloud to myself seemed like a judgment, a criticism of my aloneness, today I feel enlivened by this nightly practice.

I say aloud things like "Heidi, I love you! I love you so much! I am SO glad I found you. You know I'll be there for you always. I will be there to support you and love you, now and always. Oh, boy, I love you!" Saying these things aloud in an enthusiastic voice, hugging myself, and rubbing my chin against my shoulder bring me so much joy, and I find myself grinning and glowing. It's hard to say exactly why that is. Perhaps it is as if the man who is matched to me in all the world is speaking through my voice, is sending me love even though we have not yet met.

More than this, it's the God Within that is speaking to me, the I Am Presence. I am connecting with this, and it feels so incredibly good. I don't believe I've ever felt so good about the support I've gotten from a lover. No, this is far beyond the feeling I have ever received from an intimate partner. And I am so very grateful for this unconditional, ever-present love.

Of course, I am human, folks! It would be the most amazing thing to be sleeping with the man who is matched to me, to give him all the love I've got inside and to open up to his love for me. I see such a relationship as a prayer, as a conduit to the divine. I know that one of my life tasks is to create a sacred, sexual relationship with this man. But if he does not appear in physical form, then the spirit that is being sent to me is still a great gift.

Related to this strategy for mood enhancement is saying softly to myself when confronted by discouraging health reports or personal rejection or some other disappointment, "I am loved, I am deeply loved." When giving someone a massage, I often think these words. The person on the table is in a relaxed, receptive state, and so this affirmation penetrates the layers that most people use to "protect" themselves, when in fact they are really hurting themselves by blocking love. I strongly encourage everyone to give these words a try. Very powerful.

So self-hugs and verbal affirmations are two of my tricks. More to come in future posts.

A Perfect Storm

This evening I got so caught up with writing that I missed my hook-up time. I should have started dialysis at 8, but didn't even begin the set-up process until after 9.

Timing is crucial, as the dialysis solution should not dwell in my peritoneal cavity for more than eight hours. During the nighttime therapy, I pass through five cycles, each dwell time of a little more than an hour. After eight hours of dwell time--which can be easily reached between the mid-day and the night hook-up--the solution and all the toxins it contains are absorbed into the body, thereby defeating the whole purpose.

Once I realized how late it was, I started to scramble. I went to the kitchen and took my blood sugar. It was a dangerously low 60. In the confused mental state that accompanies low blood sugar, I thought I shouldn't have anything to eat or any juice to drink because I would be hooking up soon, and the dialysis solution has dextrose in it. Definitely not thinking clearly.

I took my blood pressure, as this is a crucial factor in determining what strength of dialysis solution to use. Yellow, which is the weakest solution, for low blood pressure, a loss of five or more pounds in a 24-hour period and/or a dehydrated state. Green is for blood pressure around 120/80 and stable weight. Red is for fluid overload with blood pressure around 150/100 and a weight gain of five or more pounds in a 24-hour period. My BP was 170/84, but my weight gain over the day had been less than five pounds, so I decided on two green bags.

I returned to the bedroom to pull the correct quantities of solution from the boxes under my bed. In my low-blood-sugar daze, I was sloppy with the aseptic technique I am to use to prevent infection. I didn't wash my hands before connecting the drain and the tubing. When connecting the bags, I neglected to wear a surgical mask.

Then the alarm sounded, and I had to call a technical rep. He walked me through correcting the tubing problem. By this time, my jaw was going slack. My blood sugar must have dropped further. I finally got some juice to raise my glucose level and so my consciousness, a part of me still deliberating which was more important--hooking up as soon as possible or correcting my dipping blood sugar.

I am very fortunate that a part of me demanded that I get some juice. I was in the midst of a perfect storm--low blood sugar, past my hook-up time, sloppy technique due to muddled thinking, technical problems with the dialysis machine. Any one of those factors is problematic, but all four might have ended in disaster. But as it is, I am hooked up, and my blood sugar is now a perfect 129. I passed through the storm once again.

Heidi's Heart

My dear cousin Rhonda (pictured here on the right, with cousin Mary), with whom I stayed when I attended the foeden party/family reunion in Minnesota this past November, observed the following about the blog name Heidi's heart. If you jam all the letters together, it becomes heidisheart. She then deconstructed it as such:

he (the guy)
id (our primitive side)
i (the most important one to each of us)
she (the girl)
art (what makes life worth living, like good writing)

Add it together and you get heidisheart.

She is a clever gal, that Rhonda!

Tears, the One Exception

Tears are the one exception to the fine-in-your-body-but-gross-outside rule that I wrote of a few days ago. It is the only substance that is not repulsive once it is detached from a living human.

I wonder why this is. Tears are most decidedly aligned with emotions, but then so is semen. And some tears, of course, are neither those of joy or sorrow, but are instead a reaction to external conditions such as onion fumes, smoke, or tear gas.

Tears are clear, transparent (both figuratively and literally). Perhaps this clarity gives them an edge. But of course, you can see light through urine too.

Tears, the anomaly.

A Gorgeous Lace Handkerchief

After a year and a half of membership, I have canceled my match.com subscription. In all this time, I have sent "winks" and/or e-mails to about 50 men, and perhaps 30 have winked at me.

Many have written how amazing I am, how much they enjoyed what I'd written, how they had never read a more interesting profile, and in general how impressed they were with my photos and my outlook on life, and then were never heard from again. I guess they were looking for dull and conventional women because these 18 months netted me dates with only two men. One of whom made it clear from the onset that he was interested in only a platonic relationship with me. And the other who, though we've seen each other a dozen times and talked many more times on the phone, has never given me more than a close-mouthed peck. Even after I gave him an hour-and-a-half full-body massage!

So once again I am giving up. Not literally giving up, I suppose, but realizing that whatever it is that men are looking for, they must be looking for something I don't have. I go down a list of my good points and have trouble seeing what that might be: trim; tall; beautiful, blue eyes; long legs; blonde; intelligent; playful; good sense of humor; pays all my bills on time and never wracks up credit-card debt; not afraid to get dirty; slow to complain; doesn't demand gifts; eager to go camping with you; loves to dress up; enjoys sex and agreeable to all manner of crazy things in bed; doesn't mind cooking and cleaning; open to new experiences; open to new ideas; gives a great massage; a fantastic listener; someone who will be there for you when you need my support; has a beaming-to-beat-the-sun kind of smile and a wonderful laugh. My God, I'd date me! No, I'd marry me!

Over the years, I have asked many friends and male acquaintances what they think this is about. All I've ever gotten is that it could be men are intimidated by me. But that can't be it. Think of women like Michelle Obama. She's pretty terrific, and she has a great guy by her side.

The only explanation I have ever come up with on my own is this: Perhaps I am a gorgeous lace handkerchief. When men see me, they think, "That's an incredibly lovely handkerchief." And then they remember that the world no longer has use for handkerchiefs. Everyone uses Kleenex.

No More Drug Talk

I commented to my mother as I dropped her off this afternoon how wonderful it is that she no longer talks about her drugs. For many years, 90 percent of the time I spent conversing with her was about what drugs she's taking, how she needs more drugs, and when is she going to get the drugs. During the past year, this was often accompanied by hysteria when her drugs did not appear at precisely the right time. Even a few minutes late would send her into a tirade of frenetic behavior that I found absolutely crazy-making, like watching a heroin addict or someone who, if she had a gun in her hand, would blast everyone in sight.

For some reason, she no longer mentions her drugs. What is responsible for this shift, I do not know, but I am very grateful. I truly hated to spend time with her when she was obsessed with her narcotics. I knew that she cared nothing about what I or anyone else was saying, that she was 100 percent focused on the drugs. And it was so incredibly stressful to be with someone who was so revved up, "hyper" or "anxious" not even approaching what was her mental status.

So I praised her today for her shift, whatever its cause. And I say a prayer that her calm, her willingness to participate, and her genuineness continue to manifest. If this shift is permanent, she and I may just be able to have a relationship. Wouldn't that be something!

Getting Mom to Participate

This afternoon I picked Mom up from her assisted-living facility and took her to feed the ducks at El Dorado Park. When we arrived, she said, "I'll stay inside." I calmly told her that my entire life she had refused to participate and that was no longer going to be the case. "You can help feed the ducks, Mom," I said. And in contrast to the past half century, she didn't insist on non-participation but instead got out of the truck without a fuss.

She enjoyed herself! What a concept: You engage in life and the people in your life and you have a good time! She smiled the whole time and took special interest in ducks she felt were hungry but unable to wrestle the bread from the seagulls. I couldn't help but think how her life and my relationship with her would have been so different, had she taken an active part in what was occurring around her decades ago, instead of holding back at every opportunity and refraining from interacting with the people she was with. Might she have remarried? Might she have stayed in Wisconsin, surrounded by a tight circle of friends who would watch over each other? Might she have forged a bond with my brother? It's hard to say how participation might have altered so many things.

Perhaps as she nears the end of her life, she is becoming the person she might have been all along. Well, except for the two years she spent in Europe in the early '50s. As Aaron remarked when we were sorting through the photographs from that time, "This is the woman I would have liked to have known." During these years, she was bright-eyed and smiling, seemingly ready for an adventure at every turn.

What then changed to make her into someone who lived a separate life from her husband, even while they slept under the same roof? Someone who didn't know the most basic things about her children, like where they had worked for 20 years and what kind of work they did? Someone who, when on vacation, always stayed in camp and read the newspaper instead of going on morning hikes with the rest of her family? Someone who would walk away while I introduced her to someone? Someone who has yet to attend a Wednesday outing, though she's had more than a year of opportunities to do so?

There's no telling at this point what happened to change her approach to the world, but it seems, after 55 years of dormancy, that perhaps she is waking up again. She's not in Europe and will never be again, but perhaps she will recapture a little of the excitement for living that she obviously possessed in abundance while in Europe so very many years ago.

Obama's Special Olympics Joke

I didn't watch "The Tonight Show" when the president made an appearance as I don't have a TV on which to watch it. I did, however, listen to the footage of his Special Olympics joke.

Obama had gotten a bowling score of 129, pretty awful. The audience cheered, and Jay Leno told him how good that was--the kind of patronizing approval often given to people with disabilities. And then the president called his own skills "Special Olympics."

I read some of the comments posted on YouTube and realized that boy, do we have a long way to go before people with physical or developmental disabilities are considered on par with the able-bodied.

What I would ask the president and all those who found his joke not a big deal to do is to substitute their own sensitivity into his joke. That is, if you are a woman and he would have said that he bowled like a woman, would you have been offended? What if he would have said he bowled as poorly as a senior citizen or a Latino or an Asian or a gay man?

Obama Dream

Two nights ago, I had a lucid dream about Obama. I was in his limo with him and two male staff members. We were looking for a place to have lunch, but all the restaurants were closed. I then said, "But you're the president! I'm sure a restaurant would open just to serve you."

Sure enough, the next place we stopped was agreeable to give us a table. Actually, that's quite literally all we were given--a utilitarian table, placed outside in the open air on a beach.

The president began talking policy, but I interrupted him, looked directly into his eyes, and asked, "How are you? You the person, not the figurehead?" He paused. I continued, "Because it looks to me like you could use a massage." He nodded and said that would be great.

I then quickly changed the subject and brought up something I had heard on NPR but nowhere else: that of all the politicians AIG gave money to in the 2008 campaign, Barack was the big scorer with $102,000. He looked away, said nothing, then got up to have lunch at another table.

************

In so many ways, I appreciate what Obama is doing--green projects, diplomatic overtures to Iran, streamlining the healthcare system. But we all have to realize that corporate and elite interests have their claws in him just as they have their claws in every politician. And that those claws demand blood, or should I say blood money.

The Repulsiveness of Detachment

About a week ago, Aaron said something that all of us have felt many times over the course of our lives but probably have not explicitly articulated: "Everything is fine as long as it stays in your body, but once it becomes detached, it's repulsive."

We all know that at any given time we're carrying about urine and feces. That's perfectly acceptable, but once we let it outside, once it becomes detached from our bodies, it's suddenly repulsive.

The same holds true for mucous and blood and semen. And before you say that you don't find the latter repulsive, consider how comfortable you would be with some stranger's sample on the bed sheets in your hotel room. A lot different than how you would feel if you simply found his mislaid Bluetooth or iPod--other things that can become detached from one's body.

Skin and hair are often the stuff of great beauty, celebrated in literature and the visual arts. But detach either of them from the fair person, and they are not nearly as attractive. Case in point: as a massage therapist who has rubbed the backs, arms, and shoulders of many with peeling tans, let me tell you that dirty, little, sweaty skin balls are not cute. Please scrub yourself with a loofah before seeing your massage therapist during the summer!

Nails, too, are often seen as beautiful. Some women even paint them to attract more attention to the tips of their fingers. But cut them off, and they are no longer lovely. How many of you have scolded someone for cutting his nails without catching the clippings in a receptacle? And I remember my friend Mark, who for many years collected his nail clippings in a jar. To give me the creeps, he would shake the jar, which would make a wispy, bones-rattling-in-the-graveyard sound.

Probably the most dramatic example is that of a fetus. As long as it is inside the mother's womb, it is considered an object of wonder, a testament to the continuance of humanity, a mysterious creature with unknown potential--at least this is often the perception from the outside. But if the fetus is aborted, if it becomes detached from its mother's body, it now possesses none of that glory and is simply placed in the trash.

















And so I have been noticing how dialysis changes public perception of me. Most other people keep their urine inside them until they can quickly, easily, and privately use a restroom. But for me, the whole process is much more cumbersome, time-consuming, and in your face. The 25 boxes of dialysis solution that are stacked in my living room and the other 15 boxes that are squirreled under my bed are everywhere-you-turn reminders that I am all about detaching a bunch of material from my body. And the few people who have entered this space thus far have evidenced a slight repulsion. They definitely do not feel comfortable about the thought of fluids being released from my body. Well, all I can do is to make sure they don't see the collection bags draining into the tub!

Mom Gets Real!

In the past month and a half of dialysis, a few friends have invited me out, and all but two times I have had to decline. The events always ran too late into the evening, interfering with my hook-up time of between 7 and 9 p.m. Then with the mid-day exchange, luncheon dates also have become problematic. (The only two things I have been able to participate in were a 5:30 p.m. screening of a film and a mid-afternoon bite to eat at Hof's Hut.)

In short, my social life is now limited to the following:

* watching a Netflix with Aaron and
* seeing my mom on Sunday afternoons

The latter has, up until very recently, been a chore. To everything I say my mother responds, "What?" This is quite annoying, especially since she doesn't do this with anyone else.

Just this past Sunday--two days ago--a shift occurred. As I told Aaron, this was the first time in my entire life that I can ever remember enjoying my mother's company. In contrast to all past encounters, she seemed to be telling me the truth or at least her truth, and her answers to my questions seemed honest and sincere.

We went to a coffeehouse, and she read aloud from her journal about her marriage to my father. She had always said that they met on a bird-watching outing, but she had no recollection of ever having said this. Instead, she said that my father was in the habit of stopping in at the YWCA where she worked on his way to work to get a cup of coffee.

In contrast to the previous Sunday's persistence, which only ended poorly, I let this go and did not press her. This worked so much better. It is really unimportant what is factual and what is not; the most important thing is that she is writing, engaging her mind, and by so doing, giving us something to talk about. Factual is perhaps not as crucial as emotional authenticity. Even if some of what she writes is fabrication or faulty memory, it sure beats dead air.

I am fully aware that one afternoon does not a relationship make. But it is a start. It is still a one-way flow of energy, but that is as it has always been. At least this past Sunday, this one time, she was not saying what she felt others wanted to hear. Perhaps that's it: For the very first time, she was real.

The Call from UCLA

When I arrived home this noon to do my mid-day exchange, I found a message on my voice mail from Lila Ruiz of UCLA's kidney-transplant team. She told me that she had received the referral from my cardiologist and nephrologist, and said that I would be receiving a letter in three to four months with an appointment date and time.

I was a bit surprised by the time lag. I had been told I would get an appointment with UCLA within a month. Lila said there have been so many referrals lately and that there is quite a backlog. She said I probably wouldn't be seen until late July or early August.

Dr. Butman is on vacation this week, but when he returns, I plan to ask him if I should or can also apply to UC San Diego and Loma Linda Hospital. They are farther away than UCLA, but perhaps my chances are better--or at least I can be seen quicker!

How an Atheist Can Pray

I have at least one friend and one relative who tell me they are atheists. They tell me they are sending me good thoughts, though they do not pray. Well, good thoughts are praying!

The standard idea of prayer is that you are begging God or some god/goddess to grant your wishes--give you something good or take something bad away. I would like to propose another kind of prayer, one that everyone, regardless of spiritual beliefs or lack thereof, can practice.

Instead of supplicating a divine being, simply be quiet and envision what you desire. See it in all its beautiful detail. Send love and affirmation to that thought. Feel what it's like to be in that state of love or abundance or health or whatever it is you desire. See the wonder and goodness that flows from that state of being. Feel your body tingling with the sensation of manifesting that state. This sort of loving, life-affirming focusing of attention is what prayer is, whether one is offering the prayer to God the Father or Jesus Christ or Buddha or one of a pantheon of Hindu gods or no god at all.

And this is how I pray for my health: I see my body functioning perfectly, the way it was meant to function, in its full glory of health and vibrancy. I soon begin to feel the tingling in my body, the life force flowing to and through every cell, reminding each cell that it is in alignment with God's plan for me of perfect health and vibrancy.

I do not focus on what I do not want. This only feeds what I do not want to bring about. Instead I focus on what I desire, what I wish to manifest.

And so there is no incompatibility with someone being an atheist and that same person praying. Good thoughts are prayer, and prayer are nothing but good thoughts.

Other Lives

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

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

And who were they?

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

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

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

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


Stepping Outside the City Walls

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

The Final Decision

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

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

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

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

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

Thank You, Cousins!

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

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

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

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

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

Same Weight I Was in High School

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

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

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

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

Crazy Weight Swings

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

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

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

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

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

**************

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

The Desert Personality

"People disappoint, nature never does," a strange and beautiful person once told me. This comment prompted me to write a poem, which follows this entry. Over the years I have often taken an overheard phrase and crafted a whole life around it in a poem, as is the case here.

Though in darker times I have focused on the first part of that sentence, I have been much more acutely aware of the latter half as of late. Each morning when I leave my apartment, I am struck by the beauty of even the most subtle of nature's displays. The sunshine, the flowers in the courtyard, the dew, birdsong. And I think back on my entire life and realize that never once has nature disappointed me. Even the seemingly post-Armageddon desert around Palm Springs has its hidden charm. Yes, every time nature has delighted, if not knocked me over with wonder.

"Why is this?" I thought to myself. I've come up with a few answers:

* I don't expect anything from nature. And because there are no expectations, it never disappoints.

* Nature carries with it such a divine, peaceful feeling of being-ness, whereas human action is so concerned with doing and achieving. The frenetic energy of the latter and the ensuing emotional drama created by all this fussing necessarily result in disappointment for all concerned.

I do realize that some people are disappointed with nature. I met one at Yellowstone National Park in the summer of 2006. Aaron and I were viewing Mammoth Hot Springs when a German tourist voiced his dismay. The colors were not as vibrant as he had expected them to be, the water was not as bubbly as he had wished. Aaron and I both thought this was funny: complaints about grandeur. A definite sign of a "desert personality."

Here now is the poem, written so long ago:



The Desert Personality

“All I want from life is solitude,”
he told me one morning after sex.

“Perhaps I’m invisible,” I thought,
“A non-entity with a mind,
something I strongly suspected as a child.”

There was no bedroom mirror
with which to test my hypothesis.
I realized he wasn’t intentionally hurting me,
since I wasn’t really there after all.
And if I were, perhaps I was an accomplice in his solitude,
someone to share his vision of silence in the dunes.

As it were, all I had were his words
of the disappointment humans had brought him
and the peace only a hermit can know.

He’d made it clear often enough
that he didn’t need me or anyone else.
For years, I pretended the same,
telling myself he was just so much fun,
easy to love, easier to leave.

“Don’t expect anything and you won’t be disappointed,”
he often advised.
Years later, he said he hadn’t meant this to apply to him,
though he was the case with so few exceptions.

A few times he told me about the woman he had loved,
how often he thought of her body,
how much he missed her breasts in his hands.
He’d lived with her for seven years,
something he wouldn’t consider doing now,
since he wanted to be alone,
with his rabbit,
his dog,
his parrot.

We’d spent maybe a month together,
if all the hours were laid end to end.
It’s only right he should want her, I lied to myself,
though a decade had passed
since he had held her breasts in his hands.

I wonder if he’d told her, too,
that all he wanted from life was solitude.