Affirmation of Blessed Relationship

When I was going through some papers, I happened upon a folder I had opened March 26, 1998. I remember the day very clearly. I was hanging out at a McDonald's, reading and writing the day away as I waited for my van to be fixed. I had called my boyfriend Mike in Northern California, and he had said something cruel.

This is how Mike often operated: He and I would have a beautiful, intimate time together, a time in which you wouldn't think two people could possibly be any closer, and he would follow up by saying something dismissive, insensitive, and cruel. Years later this behavior was explained to me: Mike had low self-worth and was intimidated by me. In one sense, he wanted very much to be with me, and in another sense, it terrified him. Plus, he was an alcoholic, though he only drank twice in the four years I was with him. He nonetheless exhibited alcoholic behavior, i.e. destroying everything good in his life and fluctuating between delusions of grandeur and self-deprecation. Mike wanted the emotional and physical intimacy I offered, but he felt unworthy of it, so he made himself unworthy.

I can't remember what he said, only that it hurt me very deeply. I decided to sit right down at McDonald's and write down exactly what I wanted in a relationship. I wrote several versions that day, revising criteria, adding and modifying and recasting, until I finally hit upon a final draft. Then for more than two years, until April 13, 2000, I rewrote the affirmation, each time reaffirming what I wanted. In the folder were more than 100 handwritten and typed copies of the affirmation.

Looking at it almost a decade later, I would say that this is still what I want. Here goes, one last time, then I'm tossing the foler, releasing it completely to God's hands:


Affirmation of Blessed Relationship

Formulated 3/26/98

I am richly deserving of holy relationship with a God/dess-centered, honest, moral, loving, generous, sensitive, passionate, romantic, tantric-adept, supportive, understanding, responsible, mature, financially secure, unpretentious, emotionally healthy, physically independent, life-affirming, optimistic, fun-loving, playful, adventuresome, attractive, intelligent, humorous,. compassionate, faithful, “present,” heterosexual, “available” man of compatible age, education, income, interests, outlook and locale.

Holding to the truth that God/dess deeply loves me, wants me to be happy and fulfilled, and gently guides my path, I will attract this man into my life. I will immediately recognize him as the treasure I have already joined with in my soul. He will immediately recognize me as the treasure who has come into his life through prayer, since he has been awaiting my arrival too. He will know me, since I will embody those traits I seek in him, my soulmate, my beloved—traits he has been seeking in his soulmate, his beloved, the woman he will come to know as Heidi, the outer manifestation of his inner quest.

We will enter into lifelong commitment, bonds of strange and sacred intimacy, a shared vision of holy purpose, with joyfulness, courage and whole-hearted openness, celebrating each night and day the great and blessed gift God/dess has granted us through and with this love.

All this will come to pass, beautifully, magically, effortlessly, and very soon.

Amen!

Something Good is Going to Happen to Me Today

Isis (see yesterday's entry) recommended that I attend a healing meeting at the Long Beach Convention Center last Saturday. When Aaron and I arrived, there were approximately 800 people in the auditorium. We could only stay for an hour and a half, but that was powerful enough. I was near tears and was especially touched when the minister asked each of us to turn to our neighbor and tell him or her that something good was going to happen to him or her today and to receive the same blessing in return. This "expectancy of good" has stuck with me.

Last night while walking Rasputin, the thought that something good is going to happen to me filled my consciousness. I also remembered my friend Tim Howard's words about how blessings are going to rush over me like a river, not a little trickle here or there, he said, but a mighty river. These thoughts filled me with joy as I walked along, taking in the beauty of the trees, flowers, birdsong, and the slanted sunlight on adobe walls.

The next thing I knew a woman was calling out to me by name. It was Yolanda, with whom I had worked at an ad agency two summers ago. Yolanda is the closest I've ever come to having a full-on crush on a woman. But that's completely understandable, as everyone had a crush on Yolanda. She dressed in '40s and '50s attire, complete with Bakelite jewelry (see image), period handbags, and that classic '40s bob (see image). Men half her age would quite literally sit at her feet. She was smart and sassy and had the greatest expressions, like "Ain't no hill for a high-stepper." She would say things to completely disarm and at the same time charm her co-workers. For example, once when a young intern bumped into her from behind, she turned to him and said, "Aw, now you're stalking me, aren't you? How precious!"

Despite Yolanda's playfulness, she was one hell of a proofreader. She would find the tiniest problems in consistency. She was an absolute terror when it came to copy.

So, in short, when my assignment with the ad agency ended, I always hoped I would run into Yolanda sometime in Long Beach, as she had told me she and her husband owned a craftsman-style house in the Rose Park historic district. Well, ask and you shall receive, but just in God's sweet time.

I had heard that the agency where we'd worked had closed because it lost the Verizon and Walmart accounts. She said she was unemployed for a while, but is now working at a pharmaceutical company. She says most people would find this really boring, but she loves it. It's very detailed, and she has to be much more alert than she was at her previous job. She really loves proofing the schematics of the chemical structures. Wow, more power to her!

What a brightness Yolanda is! So happy to run into her and know that she lives only a few blocks away.

She dearly loved Rasputin and even gave him a kiss on his snout. She said her cats would be so jealous, but that she couldn't help herself. She said there's no question that this Rasputin could also single-handedly take down czarist Russsia, if he had a mind to.

If Rasputin Were a Man

If Rasputin were a man, I would have told him about an hour into the relationship to go to work, get a life, stop thinking I'm his be all and end all. If a man followed me around the apartment, was fascinated by everything--and I mean everything--that I did, constantly stared at me, and whined with separation anxiety when I took out the garbage, I'd be over him so quickly. But as it's a dog that's doing this, it's a whole different story.

Right now he's lying in the recliner about four inches away from the desk. He used to lie on the floor behind the recliner and look up at me as I typed. Just now he discovered that he could jump into the recliner and be that much closer to his beloved.

He's dropping into a snooze. No doubt he's dreaming about the next time Heidi will rub his belly or scratch his head or give him a whole bunch of love. The little guy is absolutely obsessed.

Meet Rasputin!

Aaron and I have been visiting the pound ever since I found our new apartment. I was taking one of my evening walks in early June when I spied the For Rent sign on which appeared the words "pet friendly." I'd found a place that accepts dogs, and I jumped on it. We moved in at the end of June, and getting a dog has been on our minds since then.

Last week Aaron spied the dog that I would name Rasputin. An 11-pound chihuahua mix with chocolate-lab fur and white feet and chest. He is three years old and quite calm. Not a jumper or a barker. He has big, expressive eyes. He's a love bucket.(The photos posted here don't do him justice. These were shot in low light, and he has his moon collar on to prevent him from licking his stitches.)




He had to be neutered before we could take him home, so we picked him up from the animal hospital yesterday morning. He's really taken to me, following me wherever I go, staring at me, content to be constantly petted and rubbed and massaged by me, but not a beggar for affection if I leave him alone. He has toys, but he prefers to just look at me.

Aaron has had a more difficult time with Rasputin. He took him for a walk yesterday afternoon, and Rasputin broke his collar and ran away. Aaron ran after him for blocks, and Rasputin almost got hit when he dashed across Fourth Street. Eventually, Aaron and a passing motorist who stopped to help cornered the little guy. Later, when Aaron tried to put him in the cage he is to be in when we're not home, Rasputin bit him. Though yesterday and most of today Rasputin backed away from Aaron or made himself scarce when he was in the room, he is eventually warming up to him, allowing him to pet and feed him.

Aaron has said several times that he really missed not having a real pet throughout his entire childhood and young adulthood--gerbile and suicidal goldfish not included. Aaron really wants to form a bond with Rasputin, and I'm sure that Rasputin will grow more comfortable with him and loving toward him in time. Perhaps he associates Aaron with his traumatic attempt at escape and his brush with death on Fourth Street. (When I walked Rasputin this morning, he refused to walk on the street side of Fourth. Instead he walked as far away from the traffic as possible.)



Why "Rasputin"? Let me count the ways:
* From a young girl on, I have been fascinated by the historical figure.
* Our little dog has a bear face, which somehow makes me think of Russia.
* We lived next door to monks at our previous residence and now this one too. So why not live with a dog with a monk's name?
* It's unique. I've never heard of a dog named Rasputin.
* The name seems to fit him because, like his namesake, who single-handedly brought down czarist Russia by having sex with virtually every female member of the Russian court, our little Rasputin is a lady's man, preferring attention from women and a bit standoffish with men.

I am so in love with Rasputin. I am so happy to have this little love bucket around. He does wonders for my mood, and I'm sure he will have a positive effect on my health. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Rasputin, for coming into our lives!

Healing Scriptures

A wonderful woman and former student of mine, Isis Roberts, a woman who is blessed with beauty, intelligence, athletic ability, and a loving personality (pictured here on the right), has taken a personal interest in my healing. She recently sent me several pages of Scripture applicable to healing. All the passages were inspirational and life-affirming, but when I got to Mark 5, I wept. It struck me so deeply and so profoundly. Here it is:



Mark 5:25-34 And a certain woman, which had an issue of blood twelve years, and had suffered many things of many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse. When she had heard of Jesus, came in the press behind, and touched his garment. For she said, If I may touch but his clothes, I shall be whole. And straightway the fountain of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of that plague. And Jesus, immediately knowing in himself that virtue had gone out of him, turned him about in the press, and said, Who touched my clothes? And his disciples said unto him, Thou seest the multitude thronging thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me? And he looked round about to see her that had done this thing. But the woman fearing and trembling, knowing what was done in her, came and fell down before him, and told him all the truth. And he said unto her, Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace, and be whole of thy plague. (KJV)

Concentrated Prayer

More than a month ago, my cardiologist told me that the UCLA cardiologist, Dr. Van Herle, was poised to recommend me as a transplant candidate to the transplant team. After much delay and waivering, now things don't seem so certain. So I am asking all who read this blog to please engage in affirmational prayer on my behalf. Please see Dr. Van Herle giving her OK to the transplant team, which will in turn put me on the wait list for a kidney and a pancreas. Please see all of us--doctors, donor, support staff, family, friends, and me--surrounded in healing, loving light. Affirm this as if it has already occurred. Thanks so much. Prayer is powerful. I know it can move these doctors.

From Out of Nowhere, a Medical Emergency

On Wednesday evening, my son and I were taking a walk as we often do after dinner. At first my calves hurt, and then I felt a little constriction in my chest. About a mile into the walk, I became exremely dizzy. I couldn't walk straight. I felt as if I were drunk or on a boat in high seas.

I sat down on a bus-stop bench while Aaron bought some OJ at a liquor store. If my blood sugar were the problem, downing 8 oz. of orange juice should have stabilized me, but it didn't. Not only was I dizzy now, but I was also dizzy when I closed my eyes. What was worse: The world was heaving, spinning, and seesawing.

Aaron walked home while I awaited his return with the car. I needed his help to walk. Upon arriving home, I called the PD nurse at the after-hours number. She asked me to check my blood sugar and blood pressure. The former was 74, so it must have been a lot lower prior to the OJ. My BP was 189/104 and climbed to 205/130 by the time the paramedics arrived. (For the past two weeks, my BP had been around 110/60 every day, and I check it twice daily and keep the results in my patient log.)

I was so dizzy I couldn't stand, so they had to carry me to the gurney. Because the Long Beach paramedics don't drive to Kaiser Bellflower, I was taken to Memorial and treated there in the ER with nitrogylcerin and morphine. I asked for an anti-emetic (a drug to stop nausea)--a word I learned during my editing days for the Chinese medicine firm. I threw up dinner twice. Felt much better after that.

Because there were no empty beds at Kaiser Bellflower, I was transferred to Kaiser Harbor City about 5 a.m., where I stayed until 3 the next day.

No one can really say what happened. Perhaps I had low blood sugar, which triggered the dizziness, and then stress induced the high blood pressure. But the dizziness should have subsided upon raising my blood sugar, but it didn't for several hours. Perhaps it was sudden-onset vertigo. A doctor prescribed a med to carry with me in case I should ever have another episode.

Following my release, Aaron took me home. I felt tired and laid down without taking my blood sugar first. Aaron woke me up because some friends had walked over from their nearby apartment for a visit. At first I thought he was a paramedic. My sheets and clothing were drenched in sweat. He recognized this as a sure sign of low blood sugar--the adrenaline sweat. He took my blood sugar--39, a dangerously low level. He brought me OJ, but I had trouble swallowing, so he called the paramedics. One of them had also responded the night before.

By the time they arrived, I was still confused but more coherent and alert. No need to go to the ER.

Despite the drama, ridiculously painful IV, and crazy-making dizziness, two things I am very grateful for: Aaron's support and that it wasn't a heart attack. Amen!

First-in-a-Lifetime Experience

As I have done at least a dozen times in my life, I worked hard for the last two days scrubbing my old apartment in the hopes of recooping at least some of my deposit. In the past, the landlord has always taken a good chunk regardless of my former abode's condition. This time, however, my work paid off. The landlord met me as I was completing the finishing touches on the carpet cleaning, looked the place over, and wrote me a check on the spot for the full amount of the deposit. Wow! Much gratitude and joy for the $900 in my pocket tonight.

Living Next to Monks Again--What Are the Chances?

I recently moved from 666 Molino Ave. Apt. 6 to my new abode on Freeman just south of Fourth Street. Despite my previous address's ominious numerology, it was a beautiful, sunny place right next door to a monastery. I hadn't known this until after I'd moved in. but I was just a few feet away from Morningland, a New Age cult of white-garbed, placcid-looking adherents to a mixture of Eastern and Western mythology with a little Star Trek thrown in. For an even-handed report on Morningland's search last summer for its sacred missing tortoise, see my former student Jennifer Stockdale's piece from the District Weekly.

The Morningland folk were always very pleasant and polite. When I asked them to please tone down the music after 10 p.m., they did so. I enjoyed the singing during the day and early evening; in fact, I have such beautiful memories of lying face up on my bed during a few summer afternoons as a light breeze entered my windows and I let the forceful voice of a Morningland soloist wash over me.

The chances of living nextdoor to a monastery once in one's lifetime are rather slim, I'd say. But now I find that, once again, my neighbors are monks, this time of the Tibetan Buddhist variety, complete with prayer flags, shaved heads, and maroon robes. At this moment I am looking out my living room windows, across the 10 feet that separate me from their plum-painted craftsman-style house.

I can't help but believe that there is some sort of divine intervention going on here. Unlike the Morninglanders, who I found nice but a tiny bit strange, the Tibetans are folks I'm eager to get to know. They are a quiet bunch, and I have not yet made contact, but would really love to develop a friendship. Since I was a very young girl, I have dreamed of visiting Tibet. Perhaps these monks are an answer to my prayers.

Prayers for Ron and Susie

Please see Ron's body accepting his new kidney. Please see Susie calm and rested and knowing that she absolutely made the right decision to give Ron one of her kidneys, no matter what the outcome. White light both of them, even though you have never met them. See them surrounded by pure, healing, revujenating light that nourishes every cell in their bodies and calms all their fears and second-guessing.

Susie is doing fine, physically. Ron, who initially seemed to accept his "perfect match" kidney, is now facing some challenges. Don't see these challenges but instead see the perfect outcome of Ron accepting the kidney as if it were his own and Susie remaining a forceful advocate for donation, a woman who will go on to write of her experience and so persuade many others to do the same. This is what Susie envisioned, and this is what I see her receiving.

A Spiritual Experience at a Strip Club

My friend Armando is a DJ at strip clubs. He's 33 and has been doing this for maybe a decade. The tips are good, and you sure do learn a lot about people, he says. For months now he's been offering to escort me to a club. This past Saturday we finally went.





The Caberet is located near the docks. A heavily industrial area. The interior was dimly lit with red-sconced candles on the tables, smoky stage lights, a disco ball, and plenty of mirrors. We arrived early--around 6:30--so things were pretty slow.

Armando and I sat ring-side for a few songs, but mostly sat at a table where we could see the girls but didn't have them dancing in our faces. Armando said that, unlike the clubs he's worked at, these girls were allowed to touch the customers and even do splits inches from their eyeballs. Hard for me to imagine how these men could control themselves, song after song.

As Armando had told me previously, about 30 percent of the clientele was women. Armando also told me that 80 percent of the girls prefer women.

Besides the sensuality of these dancers, what I found fascinating about them was their athleticism. Years ago I had massaged two strippers when I worked at Mr and Ms Day Spa. I was amazed at their musculature. As these gals slowly slid down the pole, I marveled at the grace and strength in their moves.

When the girls were off-stage, they mostly wore skimpy bikins. Danielle, however, wore a large-holed, black mesh top. All of the girls had good bodies, but there certainly was variety--from a slender Asian to a large-hipped, big-busted gal who must have been 160 pounds, but her curves were firm, not flabby. A surreal environment with beautiful gals cavorting about while we sat in velvet-lined easy chairs and drank club soda and non-alcoholic pina coladas.

Danielle came over and sat on my lap, bounced up and down a bit and stroked my arm. Armando told her I was a massage therapist, so I gave her a little sample, rubbing her tight neck and shoulders.

The girl Armando and I really connected with was Kimmie. She was 20 years old and from Virginia. She'd been doing this for two years. Unlike Danielle, Kimmie seemed genuine, talking to us because she was an upbeat person and not solely to get us to have a lap dance. In fact, as Armando noted, most of the girls were just sitting around when they were off-stage, saving their energy for the high rollers who'd arrive later. But Kimmie was doing well for herself by working the crowd. Armando was counting the number of customers she led into the curtained room for a lap dance. He had her gross at $150 during the two hours we were there, and she was working until 5 the next morning.

Armando had two two-song lap dances with Kimmie ($40 each plus tip). I figured I might as well do this too, since who knows if I would ever come back to a strip club again. Kimmie led me by the hand to the curtained room. I wasn't sure what exactly a lap dance entails, so I told her that I was wearing an insulin pump and tubing for kidney dialysis. I wear my pump inside a baby sock that I tuck into my underwear. I thought I had better tell her in case it got in her way.

Kimmie couldn't believe it: She, too, is a Type I diabetic, diagnosed at age 12. She said she wore a pump when she was in school, but it caused welts at the insertion points, so she had to discontinue its use and go back to taking shots. I asked her if it was difficult to work nights. Didn't that throw her schedule off? She said she tested her blood to make sure she was OK during her shift.

Kimmie and I were both noticeably touched. It's not often that I've met a Type I (juvenille-onset rather than adult- or obesity-onset) diabetic. I've probably only knowingly met a half dozen in my entire life. Kimmie hugged me after she'd finished her dance and said that she felt I'd been guided to her. I was nearly in tears. I gave her my business card and wrote my home phone number on the back. I admonished her to take care of herself now so that she can avoid dialysis in the future. (How I wish I had met an older Type I diabetic when I was 20. Someone who might have been my guide and support system.) I told her she could call me any time to talk about diabetes, that I'd be there to offer support.

Wow, how beautiful this was! God works in mysterious ways, bringing people together who might never have been brought together otherwise.

Now Kimmie (real name Erica) may not call, and I sure can't afford to go back to the club to see her. If you were really going to do it right, a night at a strip club would start at $200 if you tipped after every dance and bought a few drinks. If you wanted more than that, a one-song lap dance is $20, a two-song $40, 15 minutes in the VIP room $160 and a half hour $300. I'm sure some people burn through hundreds of dollars a night.

But even if Kimmie doesn't call, I gave her a forceful message. Who knows, maybe because of that one brief encounter, she will watch her blood sugar level and eat right so that 30 years from now, she won't be in the same situation I'm in.

Tears from Outer Space

Just a few days ago, my friend Susie donated one of her kidneys to her long-time friend's husband, Ron. Besides some severe pain caused by the pumping of gas into her system, Susie is fine. Ron, as I just heard from Susie's mom, is looking the best he's looked in 10 years. He now has some color, and his lab markers are normal. The transplant seems to have been a big success.

After I hung up the phone, I began weeping. Not just a little wet in the eyes but sobbing. I can't really say what these tears from outer space are about. Vicarious joy that someone I've never met has been given the gift of life? Is it because no one has said to me, "Heidi, once you get on that transplant list, I want to be tested as a possible donor"? Or is it that, the longer this process of getting on the waitlist drags on, the more I feel I'll be tied to a dialysis machine for the rest of my days?

I am happy for Ron, no question. It's the same sort of happiness I have often felt when I've seen people in love. I think that any love in the world makes love for others all the more possible. Though I may not be with someone, here in front of me is evidence that love and romance and passion are possible. Possible for me. So it is the same with Ron. Someone stepped up for him, so it is possible that someone will step up for me. He received a kidney, so it is possible that I may receive a kidney too.

But it is exhausting sometimes to remain positive, day after day, decade after decade, that healing and good health are coming my way. And it's a lot of energy to maintain the archetype of the happy person with health challenges.

Still Waiting

I sent an email to Fe, the Kaiser transplant coordinator for the Bellflower facility, asking when the UCLA transplant team would make its decision. I noted that Dr. Van Herle, the UCLA cardiologist, had told Dr. Phan, my Kaiser cardiologist, a week ago that she was recommending that I be waitlisted.

Fe wrote back today, saying that Dr. Van Herle has requested the results of my angiogram from November 2006 and the results of the stress test I took last month. Fe said she requested the former two weeks from the Sunset facility, where I had the stent surgery, but so far Sunset has not responded.

This is so typical of the mixed messages from Kaiser. Dr. Phan told me Dr. Van Herle said "yes," but Fe tells me Dr. Van Herle is waiting for additional information before she can make a decision. Which is it?

So in short, I'm facing more waiting: Sunset sending the records to Fe, Fe sending the records to Van Herle, Van Herle reviewing the records and making a recommendation, the transplant team making its recommendation, and UCLA sending out a letter of affirmation or denial. I had thought I'd get an answer this week, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen.

Another Move, A New Friend

I will be moving to a new abode as of the middle of this month. I found the place on one of my walks. It's the back half of a craftsman-style house about 10 blocks from where I'm currently living. It has more floor space than this place, though it too is a one-bedroom. It has a sunny extra room, though, that could be used as a dining room or an office. It has a shared back yard and an assigned parking place. That is one of three things I have long wanted in a residence: off-street parking, some dirt for a garden, and a place that will accept a dog.

That brings me to the big selling point: It's pet-friendly! As soon as I move in, I'm going to start looking for the dog of my dreams. I want the kind of dog I had as a child, one that will look at me with its big, loving eyes and pound its tail and wiggle its butt with joy when I come home. A dog that is smart and can be trained to sit up and shake its paw. A dog that is not high-strung, that only barks when it feels it needs to protect me. Not a sissy lap dog. A real dog. A mutt. Ideally, with some golden retriever in its genes to give it that beautiful honey coloring.

I told Aaron that I was much more excited about looking for a dog than looking for a man. He responded, "There are a lot more choices." A lot more good choices! About once every three or four years, I meet a man about whom I think, "Oh, hot damn! I could really go for him!" But I meet three or four dogs a week about whom I think, "Oh, what a cutie! I could sure live with you!"

UCLA Cardiologist Gives Her OK

I received some good news this week: The UCLA cardiologist is recommending to the transplant team that I be placed on the wait list. Since I had been told by the transplant surgeon and the head of the kidney-pancreas transplant team that they needed to hear from the cardiologist before making a decision, I am under the impression that they will go with her recommendation. Let's hope so.

In fact, just from a collegiality standpoint, I would think that the transplant team would have to go with her recommendation. If they said they needed to hear her opinion and then they disregard her opinion, that's a bit of a slap in her professional face. They wouldn't appreciate it if another doctor did the same to them. So I have a good feeling about this.

I had written several emails to my Kaiser nephrologist and cardiologist this week about the nuclear scan of my heart that was taken last week. In part, I asked that they ask their UCLA colleagues to stop "looking at the damn lab results and start looking at the person who is standing in front of them." I said that it is like looking at a student's failing grades and, on that basis, labeling him stupid, when all the while he's writing Nobel Prize-winning novels and findig a cure for cancer. This is analogous to my situation: The lab results paint a discouraging picture, but I feel great. I wrote that on Monday evening I walked two hours without stopping, without chest pain, without shortness of breath, whereas my walking companion, who is supposedly without health problems, was near-panting. I feel that I am in better shape than most of the women my age who don't have kidney disease. Certainly I am a better, healthier transplant candidate than someone who is 50+ pounds overweight and doesn't exercise!

Three Blind Dates

Last month marked 19 years ago that I left my husband. In those almost-two decades, I have often asked friends, acquaintances, business associates, and students to set me up with someone. In all that time, I have only had three blind dates.

One had just gotten out of rehab. We met at a coffeehouse, but he didn't have money for coffee. Besides, as coffee is a drug, he wasn't going down that path. A second one lived in someone's garage. He had not eaten for a few days, so I made him a tunafish sandwich. The third was on house arrest, though it took a half-hour phone conversation to figure that out. He kept suggesting that I come over to his place for a first date. I kept saying that, that was not my policy--to meet men at their apartments on a first date. At first he said he was on call and could not leave his house. Finally, he admitted that his bracelet would alert authorities if he did. I turned down this third gentleman, so in truth I've only had two blind dates in 19 years.

Why is this? So many people I've met over the years have told me of how their friends or co-workers introduced them to their future boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or spouse. Don't my friends know any interesting, eligible men? Do they not believe me when I tell them I'd sure appreciate a recommendation?

And perhaps a more interesting question: Why did they send me these men? Do I look like a woman who wants a "project"? Do I present myself as a woman who wants to carry a man? That's sure not the way I see myself.

Or were they just having a good joke at my expense? I mean, in retrospect, there is certainly a laugh or two to be had here, but then perhaps they could have followed up with a viable option.

It's a mystery.

Chick Cabin Hug

This photo says chick cabin like no other (see May 17 post for more on chick cabin). Here I was among these wonderful women. What better place to break down and cry. And here are Lisa, Loriann, and Kim, giving me all kinds of love. Wow!

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.