A few days ago, I mentioned to someone that I would sure like to do X, that X had been my plan, but that now X wasn't possible. She asked why. "Dialysis," I replied. She responded with a laugh, that inappropriate laugh that some people often use in such situations.
Her response made me wonder: Do people laugh at cancer too? Not in a general sense, but to the cancer patient's face. The next day I received an answer.
(I wondered about cancer because healthy people consider cancer the ultimate in health challenges. I'm not sure there is any one worse condition, but I have often wondered if cancer deserves this spot. After all, with cancer you either go through an awful time and then you're fine or you go through an awful time and then you die anyway. But you don't generally have to deal with cancer for decades or all of your life, though I'm sure there are exceptions to this. But any way, cancer seems to be at the top of the heap of physical challenges in most people's estimation, so I wondered about cancer and inappropriate laughter.)
I was attending a tai chi class that is taught by a cancer survivor. I asked him about his T-shirt, which advertised a river-rafting company in Idaho. I asked if his wife had gone with him. He said no, that the trip was only for cancer survivors. Another person in the class made a comment and laughed. That inappropriate laugh.
I then noticed the instructor's reaction. It was clear to me, even if no one else noticed, that he was disturbed, perhaps perturbed, by her laughter. I was seeing on his face the same reaction that must cross my face, and I didn't like it.
So, this is something I'm working on: Not allowing inappropriate laughter or insensitive comments to ruffle my feathers. In fact, perhaps the best way to help this process along is to smile and brighten my eyes when this occurs. Not that the other person has to see the smile, but more of a smile as one does during meditation or while taking a walk alone in the woods. A light smile that in and of itself lightens the mood and keeps me focused on my true nature. Rather than feel hurt because the other person is slighting my problems, turn it around and smile as if these problems are illusory.
As Tuyen Tran, the Vietnamese friend who long ago introduced me to zen, said, "Which is bigger: You or your problem?" I have been responding to these insensitivies as if my problem is bigger. Regardless of how the other person would answer that question, I need to start answering it with "I am!"
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Appropriate Role of People in One's Life
Rasputin is a great teacher. He has reinforced lessons I thought I had learned long ago, but were in need of relearning. For example, he loved Canada, absolutely loved walking without a leash and romping in the woods. But he is equally happy here in the city, sleeping the day away, playing with his toys, and going for walks on a leash. The lesson: Be happy wherever you are and whatever you're doing.
Rasputin is also helping me put people in perspective. I confess I am and have always been a romantic, with fantasies not just of being swept off my feet by a wonderful guy but also of adventures with a lifelong friend, a woman with whom I would share my feelings and she, hers; a comrade who would travel with me and be like the sister I never had. In other words, I have always wanted from friends and lovers an intimacy that either very, very few people are capable of or the people I have known are not willing to or able to provide. This has so often been a huge disappointment for me. But this has been my problem, not the fault of others. It has been my mistake for expecting from others what they are unable or unwilling to give.
Since adopting Rasputin, my expectations of people have greatly diminished. If people are insensitive, I have Rasputin's unconditional love and acceptance to go home to. If friends don't have time to get together, Rasputin is always ready for a walk or a belly rub. If there is no person to talk with, Rasputin is the best listener I've ever known, looking at me with 100 percent of his attention focused on my every gesture and word.
Rasputin is helping me put people in perspective. They are busy with other things and with other people. If they don't have time or energy for me, that's OK. It truly is.
As my friend Araia, the nature spirit who dwells in the woods of northeastern Washington, told me many times, "Heidi, if you get a dog, you'll forget about a man." She's absolutely right. I had been thinking a great deal about one particular man, fantasizing about him and being frustrated by not having him. Now I hardly think of him at all, and when I do, there is no urgency to it, no desperation.
And I must admit that my relationship with Rasputin is far better than any I've ever had with a man. He's more loving, affectionate, trusting, and playful than any man I've ever known. He's got a great sense of humor. He's filled with joy. He never complains or criticizes. He doesn't offer advice. And he doesn't psychoanalyze me. And he does not have breasts and he is not "pregnant," like most men. He's trim and good-looking.
So, thank you, Rasputin, for helping me to see people as they are meant to be seen. They can be wonderful in small doses, provided I have no expectations for them and do not think about them when they're not around.
Rasputin is also helping me put people in perspective. I confess I am and have always been a romantic, with fantasies not just of being swept off my feet by a wonderful guy but also of adventures with a lifelong friend, a woman with whom I would share my feelings and she, hers; a comrade who would travel with me and be like the sister I never had. In other words, I have always wanted from friends and lovers an intimacy that either very, very few people are capable of or the people I have known are not willing to or able to provide. This has so often been a huge disappointment for me. But this has been my problem, not the fault of others. It has been my mistake for expecting from others what they are unable or unwilling to give.
Since adopting Rasputin, my expectations of people have greatly diminished. If people are insensitive, I have Rasputin's unconditional love and acceptance to go home to. If friends don't have time to get together, Rasputin is always ready for a walk or a belly rub. If there is no person to talk with, Rasputin is the best listener I've ever known, looking at me with 100 percent of his attention focused on my every gesture and word.
Rasputin is helping me put people in perspective. They are busy with other things and with other people. If they don't have time or energy for me, that's OK. It truly is.
As my friend Araia, the nature spirit who dwells in the woods of northeastern Washington, told me many times, "Heidi, if you get a dog, you'll forget about a man." She's absolutely right. I had been thinking a great deal about one particular man, fantasizing about him and being frustrated by not having him. Now I hardly think of him at all, and when I do, there is no urgency to it, no desperation.
And I must admit that my relationship with Rasputin is far better than any I've ever had with a man. He's more loving, affectionate, trusting, and playful than any man I've ever known. He's got a great sense of humor. He's filled with joy. He never complains or criticizes. He doesn't offer advice. And he doesn't psychoanalyze me. And he does not have breasts and he is not "pregnant," like most men. He's trim and good-looking.
So, thank you, Rasputin, for helping me to see people as they are meant to be seen. They can be wonderful in small doses, provided I have no expectations for them and do not think about them when they're not around.
Learning to Accept the Insensitivities of Others
Inappropriate laughter. Insensitive comments. These are the sort of things one might expect from strangers or from one's enemies. But most often, at least in my experience, they are put forth by friends.
A sensitive subject will arise, and the friend will laugh as if it is such a trifle or will say something that is dismissive or something that makes me realize that we are living on different planets.
In one recent case, I was at a barbeque. The hostess's stepmother said that it is easy to do nothing all day. The hostess turned to me and said, "That's what you're doing, Heidi."
This made me wonder: Do healthy people really believe that having a chronic illness means you are doing nothing? If so, I would be very happy if they would like to trade places and do all my "nothing" and I take up their "something."
I estimate that when I add together all the hours each day I spend in medical tasks--10 1/2 hours of dialysis each day and another 45 minutes of set-up and clean-up; checking and recording blood sugar levels and blood pressure; driving to and participating in doctors' appts., lab tests, and diagnostic exams; massaging my feet, hands, ears, and eyes to increase blood circulation and prevent amputation and blindness; going to acupuncture appts.; hospital stays and paramedic dramas; ordering, getting, and organizing meds; emailing and phoning doctors and nurses; clinic visits; online research on kidney disease; attending kidney conferences and support groups--I must average at least 15 hours a day in just attending to my body. So add to all this "nothing," I still work as a writer, editor, and massage therapist; do my housework, cooking, and cleaning; pay my bills; and care for my mother's finances, errands, and medical care. Oh, yes, and Rasputin! A whole bunch of nothing, for sure.
Yesterday I spoke of this to Aaron and told him that I have to learn how to keep these people's insensitivies from affecting my health and well-being. Perhaps the best way to deal with insensitivities is to pretend that the comments were issued by children rather than by adults. For example, if a young child came up to me, pointed to my stomach, and said, "Why do you have tubes coming out of your tummy? Are you a robot?" I would laugh. The child is ignorant and doesn't know that this is inappropriate. That is how I need to start treating adults who say insensitive things or laugh at things that are difficult for me. Just think of them as children who don't know any better. Even Jesus took this approach. When he was on the cross, he said, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do."
Of course, as Aaron pointed out, this does not make for very deep relationships if you can't talk about how you're feeling and if you always have to fill the archetype of the happy sick person. That's true. But that's why I've got Rasputin! That little joy bucket is pure unconditional love. I am so very blessed having him in my life. The desire for deep, meaningful human interaction has significantly diminished since he's been with me. Of course, I am open to true love or a deep friendship, but they're not something I think much about now. Thank you, thank you, thank you, forces of the universe, for sending Rasputin to me.
A sensitive subject will arise, and the friend will laugh as if it is such a trifle or will say something that is dismissive or something that makes me realize that we are living on different planets.
In one recent case, I was at a barbeque. The hostess's stepmother said that it is easy to do nothing all day. The hostess turned to me and said, "That's what you're doing, Heidi."
This made me wonder: Do healthy people really believe that having a chronic illness means you are doing nothing? If so, I would be very happy if they would like to trade places and do all my "nothing" and I take up their "something."
I estimate that when I add together all the hours each day I spend in medical tasks--10 1/2 hours of dialysis each day and another 45 minutes of set-up and clean-up; checking and recording blood sugar levels and blood pressure; driving to and participating in doctors' appts., lab tests, and diagnostic exams; massaging my feet, hands, ears, and eyes to increase blood circulation and prevent amputation and blindness; going to acupuncture appts.; hospital stays and paramedic dramas; ordering, getting, and organizing meds; emailing and phoning doctors and nurses; clinic visits; online research on kidney disease; attending kidney conferences and support groups--I must average at least 15 hours a day in just attending to my body. So add to all this "nothing," I still work as a writer, editor, and massage therapist; do my housework, cooking, and cleaning; pay my bills; and care for my mother's finances, errands, and medical care. Oh, yes, and Rasputin! A whole bunch of nothing, for sure.
Yesterday I spoke of this to Aaron and told him that I have to learn how to keep these people's insensitivies from affecting my health and well-being. Perhaps the best way to deal with insensitivities is to pretend that the comments were issued by children rather than by adults. For example, if a young child came up to me, pointed to my stomach, and said, "Why do you have tubes coming out of your tummy? Are you a robot?" I would laugh. The child is ignorant and doesn't know that this is inappropriate. That is how I need to start treating adults who say insensitive things or laugh at things that are difficult for me. Just think of them as children who don't know any better. Even Jesus took this approach. When he was on the cross, he said, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do."
Of course, as Aaron pointed out, this does not make for very deep relationships if you can't talk about how you're feeling and if you always have to fill the archetype of the happy sick person. That's true. But that's why I've got Rasputin! That little joy bucket is pure unconditional love. I am so very blessed having him in my life. The desire for deep, meaningful human interaction has significantly diminished since he's been with me. Of course, I am open to true love or a deep friendship, but they're not something I think much about now. Thank you, thank you, thank you, forces of the universe, for sending Rasputin to me.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Hooray! At Last, Some Movement in the Transplant Process
After being dead in the water for at least five months, I have finally seen some movement in the transplant process. I met today with Dr. Michael Lee, the new cardiologist at UCLA. He has replaced Dr. Van Herle, who is the cardiologist who was initially assigned to my case but who has left UCLA.
After an intro that made me think he was going to say "no way" to a transplant, no matter what I did, Dr. Lee said that, if I do the following, he will recommend to the transplant team that I be put on the wait list:
1) get a stent in the artery on my lateral side,
2) have an ultrasound and a fractional flow reserve test done of my right artery and perhaps get a stent put in there or have bypass surgery for that artery, and
3) get him the results of my most recent stress test.
A month ago I was averse to having another stent because 1) the first stent, placed in November 2006, did nothing to improve my condition, and most importantly, 2) the dye used for an angiogram and for stent surgery is damaging to the kidneys. Now I just want to get on that list. I am hoping and praying that my kidneys will be protected during these procedures, as I want to stay with peritoneal dialysis and not have to switch to hemodialyis.
So, here's the game plan now:
1) Schedule stent surgery.
2) Perhaps go back for the assessments of the right artery if Dr. Phan, my Kaiser cardiologist, feels that it would be better for my kidneys if the procedures were done on two separate days.
3) Depending on the results of the right-artery tests, a) do nothing because the right artery is just fine, b) get a stent, or c) have bypass surgery.
4) See Dr. Lee again and get his OK for the wait list.
5) Perhaps see the transplant surgeon again.
6) Wait for the transplant team's approval and for the letter of approval that puts me on the wait list.
7) Work with a live donor--the best scenario. Or wait for a deceased donor.
At my next meeting with Dr. Lee, I plan to ask him if he could recommend me for the kidney-pancreas wait list. That would be great because 1) my wait time for a deceased donor would drop from 7-10 years for a kidney-only transplant to 2-3 years for a kidney-pancreas transplant. This is because more people need just the kidney than need both organs, so when a compatible donor comes along, the patient who could use both organs is given the organs rather than wasting the pancreas and only using the kidney. 2) I would no longer have to wear an insulin pump or take insulin injections--the answer to my decades-old prayer!
After an intro that made me think he was going to say "no way" to a transplant, no matter what I did, Dr. Lee said that, if I do the following, he will recommend to the transplant team that I be put on the wait list:
1) get a stent in the artery on my lateral side,
2) have an ultrasound and a fractional flow reserve test done of my right artery and perhaps get a stent put in there or have bypass surgery for that artery, and
3) get him the results of my most recent stress test.
A month ago I was averse to having another stent because 1) the first stent, placed in November 2006, did nothing to improve my condition, and most importantly, 2) the dye used for an angiogram and for stent surgery is damaging to the kidneys. Now I just want to get on that list. I am hoping and praying that my kidneys will be protected during these procedures, as I want to stay with peritoneal dialysis and not have to switch to hemodialyis.
So, here's the game plan now:
1) Schedule stent surgery.
2) Perhaps go back for the assessments of the right artery if Dr. Phan, my Kaiser cardiologist, feels that it would be better for my kidneys if the procedures were done on two separate days.
3) Depending on the results of the right-artery tests, a) do nothing because the right artery is just fine, b) get a stent, or c) have bypass surgery.
4) See Dr. Lee again and get his OK for the wait list.
5) Perhaps see the transplant surgeon again.
6) Wait for the transplant team's approval and for the letter of approval that puts me on the wait list.
7) Work with a live donor--the best scenario. Or wait for a deceased donor.
At my next meeting with Dr. Lee, I plan to ask him if he could recommend me for the kidney-pancreas wait list. That would be great because 1) my wait time for a deceased donor would drop from 7-10 years for a kidney-only transplant to 2-3 years for a kidney-pancreas transplant. This is because more people need just the kidney than need both organs, so when a compatible donor comes along, the patient who could use both organs is given the organs rather than wasting the pancreas and only using the kidney. 2) I would no longer have to wear an insulin pump or take insulin injections--the answer to my decades-old prayer!
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A Successful First Trip
Hooray! I made it to Nova Scotia and back without a visit from paramedics or a hospital stay! My blood pressure was dangerously high for about a week, but I finally went to an acupuncturist in a town about an hour from my cabin, and he brought it under control.
I am very thankful that all went without major incident, especially as I was in the hospital three times in the month and a half just prior to my trip.
I am very thankful that all went without major incident, especially as I was in the hospital three times in the month and a half just prior to my trip.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A Government Racket
Even though I just turned 51, I had to sign up for Medicare as of June 1 (when still only 50) because I'm on dialysis. So now I'm part of the Senior Advantage program with Kaiser Permanente.
An amazing way the government is making money is through Medicare. Yes, contrary to all that you have heard about Medicare being in dire straits, at least in its collections process, it is raking in the cash and in many cases not providing services for the payments received. Let me explain: I just received my Medicare bill for $289.20, due Sept. 23, for October-through-December coverage. So if I should die on Sept. 24, the government keeps that money, even though I am not alive to accept any services. And it clearly states on the back of the bill that I am responsible for paying the bill even if I have been taken off the Medicare rolls, as happens, for example, three years after a kidney transplant, the government assuming that a kidney patient, having been out of the workforce for years, perhaps a decade or more, can jump back in, in her 50s or 60s and get a great-paying job with health benefits that will cover the huge cost of immunosuppressant drugs. What fairytale land are they living in, huh?
So Medicare is operating in a way that would not be allowed in the private sector. Can you image, for example, having to pay your rent three months in advance and your heirs not receive a refund if you should die and they move all your stuff out of the apartment immediately? Or that you would be responsible for your rent if you were no longer living there? It just wouldn't happen, but the government can get away with this. Imagine the money they are taking in for people who die or are removed from the rolls and have already paid their premiums!
Another scam is Social Security in which payments are always one month behind because, as a rep told me, I am paid Dec. 1 for November because SS doesn't want to pay me for November on Nov. 1 as I could die some time during the month.
An amazing way the government is making money is through Medicare. Yes, contrary to all that you have heard about Medicare being in dire straits, at least in its collections process, it is raking in the cash and in many cases not providing services for the payments received. Let me explain: I just received my Medicare bill for $289.20, due Sept. 23, for October-through-December coverage. So if I should die on Sept. 24, the government keeps that money, even though I am not alive to accept any services. And it clearly states on the back of the bill that I am responsible for paying the bill even if I have been taken off the Medicare rolls, as happens, for example, three years after a kidney transplant, the government assuming that a kidney patient, having been out of the workforce for years, perhaps a decade or more, can jump back in, in her 50s or 60s and get a great-paying job with health benefits that will cover the huge cost of immunosuppressant drugs. What fairytale land are they living in, huh?
So Medicare is operating in a way that would not be allowed in the private sector. Can you image, for example, having to pay your rent three months in advance and your heirs not receive a refund if you should die and they move all your stuff out of the apartment immediately? Or that you would be responsible for your rent if you were no longer living there? It just wouldn't happen, but the government can get away with this. Imagine the money they are taking in for people who die or are removed from the rolls and have already paid their premiums!
Another scam is Social Security in which payments are always one month behind because, as a rep told me, I am paid Dec. 1 for November because SS doesn't want to pay me for November on Nov. 1 as I could die some time during the month.
Monday, September 07, 2009
More Cabin Pictures
Friend Heather had asked to see photos of the cabin, so here goes. Please note that I did NOT paint the exterior that amazing green. The former owner, Norm, got it in his head to do so just prior to putting the place up for sale. I guess he thought it would be a selling point!
And here are a few of the shed that is also on the property. It's full of just about everything you'd need to build another cabin, if you had a mind to: flooring, shingles, windows, lumber, lots of nails, curtain rods, molding, a toilet, chairs, a table, and a bath tub.
And here are a few of the shed that is also on the property. It's full of just about everything you'd need to build another cabin, if you had a mind to: flooring, shingles, windows, lumber, lots of nails, curtain rods, molding, a toilet, chairs, a table, and a bath tub.
Work on the Cabin
Though I have had a lot of time to explore and read and generally goof around during my stay in Nova Scotia, I still accomplished some work on the cabin--something that makes me feel really good.
One project that I have wanted to do for five years now is decorate one of the walls in the porch with items I brought with me from California or collected along my way to Nova Scotia during my grand solo camping-back roads adventure of the summer of 2005. Though the task is not completed, and will not be completed this time, it is started for God's sake! Last Monday Aaron painted the wall blue, or as the color is appropriately named "giggles." The next day, Aaron, Helene, and I plastered pebbles, earrings, statues, chipped pottery, shells, state pins, and so many other treasures onto the wall. A lot of it fell off, being too bulky or not flat enough. A few days ago, I added a few more items, including green, yellow, and purple pull rings from my dialysis bags and the plastic ends of the dialysis tubing. One thing did not go according to plan: Though the paint lady added the right amount of color to both the primer paint and the plaster, on the wall, the two are not quite a match, perhaps because the plaster on its own is not a true white. So, next time I will carefully edge each item on the wall with the primer. A big job. But as it is now, I am so happy that I have finally put these items up. As I said to Aaron, now for sure we aren't selling this cabin. Who else would appreciate this!
Embedded in the wall are items that friends gave me in 2005 to include in this grand art project: a moon-and-stars tile from Jamie, bottles of green abundance powder and red love powder from Georgette, and a half-dollar-sized basket woven by Robin.
The other big project was windows for the porch. Back in the summer of 2005, I drywalled the porch, but planned to put in windows the next year. That never happened. Finally, I've got windows, put in by Wayne, a carpenter who works for my general contractor-neighbor Merwin. Wayne used three windows that were in my shed. So happy with my new windows!
Other projects accomplished:
* While Wayne was working, he let me borrow his ladder. I used this to clean out the gutters, which were filled with old leaves and dirt, even little trees.
* Wayne also let me use his power saw to down some trees that were growing too close to the cabin. I thought this was a good deal of fun.
* I replaced a hasp on the front door. Later Wayne redid this, saying that I should have mounted it the other way so that the screws are hidden under the arm when it's locked. Otherwise, someone could just come by with a screwdriver and get into the cabin. I said, "But someone could use a crowbar if they really wanted in." But that was awfully nice of Wayne to redo it because it had taken me about an hour to do it with my manual screwdriver.
* Though Helene had put two coats of paint on the floors of the bedroom and the porch, I had to touch up both because of my cleaning solutions for dialysis hygiene and Wayne's carpentry, respectively.
* I took a broom to the inside of the shed and recycled a bunch of empty plastic containers.
So, I'm happy with the work I accomplished. Next year I'll finish the porch wall, and I'm sure they'll be many more tasks to check off.
Rasputin's Going to Miss This Place
Since his arrival in Nova Scotia almost three weeks ago, Rasputin has become more and more adventuresome. At first he was underfoot when we went for walks in the woods, and I often accidentally stepped on or kicked him. Then he began poking his head into the ferns and grasses at the side of the dirt road near my cabin. And then about a week ago, he took the plunge and went into the wild woods. Many times he has raced off, and I have not known where he is for up to 10 minutes. This is a bit disconcerting, as bears and packs of coyotes abound in this area, and little Rasputin would be an easy meal.
His hunting skills, however, leave much to be desired. His basic strategy is to attempt to scare his victim to death, lunging at a toad or a bug and then jumping back when they move. The only prey he has secured have been several live flies (he makes the most puzzled face as he downs them) and a dessicated gopher, or perhaps a squirrel, shown here.
He does a happy dance whenever I get ready to go outside. He absolutely loves the freedom of being leash-less. He's really going to miss his woodsy adventures when we get back to Long Beach and his outside excursions will be on pavement and concrete--with a leash.
Though the first two weeks of my visit were full of events with people--first with Helene and her friends and last week with Aaron--this week it's been Rasputin and me all the way. Aaron left last Wednesday, and Helene has been at a family reunion in Montreal. I really enjoyed seeing and doing things with other humans, but this week alone with Rasputin has been wonderful too. We've taken a lot of long walks, explored a few of the provinicial parks, and returned to Hampton Beach, where Helene and I had gathered surf-tumbled pebbles during my first week.
I will be leaving my cabin very early Wednesday morning to catch a 9:30 a.m. flight from Halifax, a two-hour drive away. I will miss these woods and the stream, lake, and river near my cabin. So many times during these walks, my mind has been completely clear, devoid of any thoughts, at peace.
I could very easily live for many months like this, taking walks with Rasputin, exploring Nova Scotia's natural beauty, making light conversation with people when I see them, and having a social engagement now and again. This had been my plan only a year ago. I had planned on leaving Cal State, driving to Nova Scotia, living here for six months of the year, and spending the other six camping and traveling throughout the U.S. I would live on writing and editing jobs, with no rent to pay. Well, this had been the plan, but dialysis has changed all that.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Thank You, Helene!
My good friend Helene scrubbed my cabin to get it in shape for my visit. She bought the needed Lysol spray, hydrogen peroxide, paper towels, Lysol wipes, and sundry other supplies for keeping a clean abode. She also was there when the dialysis solution arrived, and she took inventory of the boxes. And she even finished off the bedroom, filling in gaps in the paneling through which the insulation was showing through, then painted the bedroom walls and floor. She put a baseboard in, too, to give it a tidy look. The paint she chose is a beautiful blue that matches the blue in the gnome curtains and table cloths. In short, she put in a lot of work to make my cabin clean and welcoming. So a big thank you to Helene!
Thanks, too, to Helene for including me in her social life. In truth, I have had more social engagements in the past few days than I have in six months in So Cal. And the amount of time I have spent with Helene, even though she is working more than full-time as a cook at the pub, exceeds the time I spend in a given year with any So Cal friend. It's amazing how in small towns, people slow down and take the time to be with one another. This is such a wonderful change of pace.
Thanks, too, to Helene for including me in her social life. In truth, I have had more social engagements in the past few days than I have in six months in So Cal. And the amount of time I have spent with Helene, even though she is working more than full-time as a cook at the pub, exceeds the time I spend in a given year with any So Cal friend. It's amazing how in small towns, people slow down and take the time to be with one another. This is such a wonderful change of pace.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Would You Laugh if You Swallowed One Month's Pay?
For the last eight months or so, I have been having challenges with my veneers. My upper four front teeth have veneers because, for all of my childhood and much of my adulthood, people would comment about my yellow teeth. Yellow teeth run in my mother's side of the family, and whether that's a genetic thing or a geographical thing linked to the water, I don't know. But I've never liked them, and so about 15 years ago, I did something about it.
Lately, the adhesive has not been holding, so I have made frequent visits to my dentist, who, bless her soul, is always trying new ones on me. Denette gets excited about trade shows, hoping she'll find a miracle product to use on my veneers.
Denette is such a mensch that she hasn't been charging me for all this rebonding. She's probably fit me into her busy schedule a half dozen times during the last eight months. So when one of my veneers kept falling off, I didn't want to bug her. I thought I'd wait for my next teeth-cleaning. So during the past three months, my veneer has come loose a hundred times or more. Sometimes all the way off and sometimes just a little. Sometimes it ends up in my food. Sometimes other people see this!
I wanted to get this taken care of before I left for Canada tomorrow, so I have a dentist appointment in about a half hour. The only thing is during lunch today, I swallowed my veneer! Can you believe it! Three months of me gluing it in place with Elmer's and of futzing with it no end, and then hours before my dentist appointment, I swallow it! The irony of this has not escaped me.
All I can do is giggle.
And then I remembered how much veneers cost. Oh, my God! $500--my entire monthly pension from Cal State! I wonder how many people would laugh about swallowing their entire month's pay! Perhaps that should be an online dating question. It would certainly be a great divider of the world's people--those who could chuckle and those who would curse.
Lately, the adhesive has not been holding, so I have made frequent visits to my dentist, who, bless her soul, is always trying new ones on me. Denette gets excited about trade shows, hoping she'll find a miracle product to use on my veneers.
Denette is such a mensch that she hasn't been charging me for all this rebonding. She's probably fit me into her busy schedule a half dozen times during the last eight months. So when one of my veneers kept falling off, I didn't want to bug her. I thought I'd wait for my next teeth-cleaning. So during the past three months, my veneer has come loose a hundred times or more. Sometimes all the way off and sometimes just a little. Sometimes it ends up in my food. Sometimes other people see this!
I wanted to get this taken care of before I left for Canada tomorrow, so I have a dentist appointment in about a half hour. The only thing is during lunch today, I swallowed my veneer! Can you believe it! Three months of me gluing it in place with Elmer's and of futzing with it no end, and then hours before my dentist appointment, I swallow it! The irony of this has not escaped me.
All I can do is giggle.
And then I remembered how much veneers cost. Oh, my God! $500--my entire monthly pension from Cal State! I wonder how many people would laugh about swallowing their entire month's pay! Perhaps that should be an online dating question. It would certainly be a great divider of the world's people--those who could chuckle and those who would curse.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Might as Well Include Health in my Pact Too
OK, from now on, I will not comment on my emotional state regarding dialysis or my health in general. I will only state facts. I can state facts such as "I am depressed due to an antibiotic," as I did in an earlier post today, but it does no good to voice negative emotions. Voicing them merely feeds them. For most of life, I have followed this creed, but it seems that I have slipped quite a bit lately. I will be more diligent and self-controlled from now on.
Another Wait List Update
Well, the results of the MUGA test were not great--35 percent pumping capacity for the left ventricle. Dr. Phan says that anything 35 or lower is a sign of a heart that could stop at any moment without warning. He and Dr. Lee from UCLA are now thinking of an implantable cardioverter defibrillator (ICD). This is generally used for patients with arrhythmia, which I don't have, but in my case it would be used as a preventative, that is, in case my heart does stop, this would restart it.
My trip to Canada will give them a month to mull it over. I have an appt. to see Dr. Lee on Monday, Sept. 14, after I return from my vacation.
Other than that, things are in a holding pattern for the next few weeks.
My trip to Canada will give them a month to mull it over. I have an appt. to see Dr. Lee on Monday, Sept. 14, after I return from my vacation.
Other than that, things are in a holding pattern for the next few weeks.
Belated Birthday Thanks
I would like to say a special thank you to Aaron, Bev, Diana, Chris and Mark for taking me out for my birthday. Aaron bought me a plant for a decorative pot my neighbor gave me, and then took me out for Indian food at my favorite Long Beach restaurant, Kamal Palace. Unfortunately, later that day, I had a violent attack of vertigo and up-chucked the chutney. Diana and Bev took me to dinner in old town Tustin at Rutabagorzand then to a small comedy club in a nearby office complex. We sat in the front row (of three rows) and laughed and laughed, which is always a good thing.
The event with Chris and Mark was a surprise. I knew that the two were flying into LA from San Francisco for Chris's birthday (one day before mine), and Mark and I had talked of the three of us getting together for a meal. But then they invited me to share their box seats at the Hollywood Bowl to see Grace Jones! Wow, what a show! Mark's long-time friend John Halsey accompanied us. This was quite a delightful evening: Grace Jones looked great, she was incredibly sexy, and her costumes were out of this world.
Mark and I are always tremendously silly together, which I enjoy no end. I'm sorry that Chris and I did not get more of a chance to talk, as Chris said, "You two have been speaking your own language all night long!"
So, thanks, guys, for including me, and thanks, Chris, for my ticket.
The event with Chris and Mark was a surprise. I knew that the two were flying into LA from San Francisco for Chris's birthday (one day before mine), and Mark and I had talked of the three of us getting together for a meal. But then they invited me to share their box seats at the Hollywood Bowl to see Grace Jones! Wow, what a show! Mark's long-time friend John Halsey accompanied us. This was quite a delightful evening: Grace Jones looked great, she was incredibly sexy, and her costumes were out of this world.
Mark and I are always tremendously silly together, which I enjoy no end. I'm sorry that Chris and I did not get more of a chance to talk, as Chris said, "You two have been speaking your own language all night long!"
So, thanks, guys, for including me, and thanks, Chris, for my ticket.
Off to Canada
I'm off to Canada on Tuesday. This is a huge step. My first trip since beginning dialysis, that is, except for one night away from home during Chick Cabin Weekend in May.
I have had three paramedic-ER-hospitalization dramas in the last five weeks. All episodes of severe vertigo (environment spinning, bouncing up and down, and side to side[ couldn't stand; couldn't walk; closing eyes didn't help), uncontrollable vomiting, and very high blood pressure. The cause of these crises is undetermined, but I tend to agree with my nephrologist, who feels the culprit is ciprofloxacin, which was given to me at the end of July to combat an infection in my dialysis tubing. Cipro was also responsible for bouts of depression and weepiness during the treatment time. Unfortunately, cipro is the only oral antibiotic that can attack micro-organisms living on plastic. The only alternative is to receive antibiotics by IV in the hospital. This would be much preferrable to these vertigo spells and to the depression.
The first bout of vertigo was July 2, which was prior to the cipro, but this was also associated with very low blood sugar. Vertigo has never been a symptom of hyperglycemia for me, but perhaps my symptoms are changing.
I had a less severe episode on Wednesday. I was simply talking on the phone when it came on. I had great difficulty walking (had to move along a wall or a cabinet to remain standing), but I didn't vomit and I didn't have to call the paramedics. Even though I stopped taking the cipro a week ago Thursday, cipro side effects can occur up to a month or more after discontinuation. And as I am a dialysis patient, toxins are removed from my body more slowly than in a person with healthy kidneys.
The long and short of it is that I am envisioning a paramedic-free, ER-free, hospital-free vacation in Nova Scotia!
I have had three paramedic-ER-hospitalization dramas in the last five weeks. All episodes of severe vertigo (environment spinning, bouncing up and down, and side to side[ couldn't stand; couldn't walk; closing eyes didn't help), uncontrollable vomiting, and very high blood pressure. The cause of these crises is undetermined, but I tend to agree with my nephrologist, who feels the culprit is ciprofloxacin, which was given to me at the end of July to combat an infection in my dialysis tubing. Cipro was also responsible for bouts of depression and weepiness during the treatment time. Unfortunately, cipro is the only oral antibiotic that can attack micro-organisms living on plastic. The only alternative is to receive antibiotics by IV in the hospital. This would be much preferrable to these vertigo spells and to the depression.
The first bout of vertigo was July 2, which was prior to the cipro, but this was also associated with very low blood sugar. Vertigo has never been a symptom of hyperglycemia for me, but perhaps my symptoms are changing.
I had a less severe episode on Wednesday. I was simply talking on the phone when it came on. I had great difficulty walking (had to move along a wall or a cabinet to remain standing), but I didn't vomit and I didn't have to call the paramedics. Even though I stopped taking the cipro a week ago Thursday, cipro side effects can occur up to a month or more after discontinuation. And as I am a dialysis patient, toxins are removed from my body more slowly than in a person with healthy kidneys.
The long and short of it is that I am envisioning a paramedic-free, ER-free, hospital-free vacation in Nova Scotia!
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Keep Your Mind Guarded Like a City in Battle
From an ancient Chinese medicine text, "The Yellow Emperor's Canon on Internal Medicine," comes these sage words: "Keep your mind guarded like a city in battle." I fell in love with these words the first time I encountered them.
Since that encounter, I see myself as a guard stationed above the door to the castle. A stranger comes to the door and wants to be let in. I tell him that he can speak his mind, and I will then decide whether to grant him entrance. The stranger, of course, are ideas, beliefs, advice, theories, and opinions. The guard listens to all of them, just like I am free to listen to anything anyone says. I then must do the most important job: decide whether such an idea should take up residence in the castle or if it should be sent on its merry way.
As so often happens in life, there are two messengers at my gate with divergent messages. The one who has been there for decades are all the folks over the years who have been telling me that I am too independent and that men want to feel needed by a woman. My friend Beverly, with whom I confided on such matters, says that any man who sees me in one of my full-body orgasms will run for the hills, thinking that if I can get set off by a good kiss or even the touch of a hand, what need do I have for him! But whether it's low sexual threshold or traveling by myself or not falling all over every man who comes along, it's my independence that is keeping men away. That's been the prevailing sentiment. But yesterday Susie told me that I am needy and that this is keeping men away.
I have looked deeply at both these messages, and I have decided not to let either one of them enter my castle. I am proud of my resourcefulness and independence. I get a great sense of satisfaction when I can figure out how to fix something on my own. Of course, I would love to have a man in my life who would say, "Oh, honey, let me do that for you." Wow, that would be fantastic. But he's not here, and I'm not going to start compromising who I am at this late stage. As Tracy Chapman sang, "All I've got is my soul." Amen to that! True, the vast majority of men may be insecure, as Beverly is always telling me. The vast majority might give me a kiss and send me into a bout of quivering and writhing, and that might scare them. But I'm not interested in that kind of man. I'm interested in the kind of man who would see that and say, "Damn, honey, that's what you do with a kiss! I can't wait to see what happens when we take our clothes off!"
Since that encounter, I see myself as a guard stationed above the door to the castle. A stranger comes to the door and wants to be let in. I tell him that he can speak his mind, and I will then decide whether to grant him entrance. The stranger, of course, are ideas, beliefs, advice, theories, and opinions. The guard listens to all of them, just like I am free to listen to anything anyone says. I then must do the most important job: decide whether such an idea should take up residence in the castle or if it should be sent on its merry way.
As so often happens in life, there are two messengers at my gate with divergent messages. The one who has been there for decades are all the folks over the years who have been telling me that I am too independent and that men want to feel needed by a woman. My friend Beverly, with whom I confided on such matters, says that any man who sees me in one of my full-body orgasms will run for the hills, thinking that if I can get set off by a good kiss or even the touch of a hand, what need do I have for him! But whether it's low sexual threshold or traveling by myself or not falling all over every man who comes along, it's my independence that is keeping men away. That's been the prevailing sentiment. But yesterday Susie told me that I am needy and that this is keeping men away.
I have looked deeply at both these messages, and I have decided not to let either one of them enter my castle. I am proud of my resourcefulness and independence. I get a great sense of satisfaction when I can figure out how to fix something on my own. Of course, I would love to have a man in my life who would say, "Oh, honey, let me do that for you." Wow, that would be fantastic. But he's not here, and I'm not going to start compromising who I am at this late stage. As Tracy Chapman sang, "All I've got is my soul." Amen to that! True, the vast majority of men may be insecure, as Beverly is always telling me. The vast majority might give me a kiss and send me into a bout of quivering and writhing, and that might scare them. But I'm not interested in that kind of man. I'm interested in the kind of man who would see that and say, "Damn, honey, that's what you do with a kiss! I can't wait to see what happens when we take our clothes off!"
Is Sad the Same as Needy?
I was in the hospital Saturday and Sunday with another attack of sudden-onset vertigo. While there, I spoke with my friend Susie, the amazing gal who has just donated one of her kidneys to her friend's husband. Susie is a dynamic, playful, intelligent, big-busted, big-hearted woman. Truly remarkable. So when Susie says something, I take heed.
Susie says my posts express a neediness for a man, and that my neediness is keeping men away, that the sadness expressed in my posts are really the writings of a needy woman. As "needy" is not a word I would ever use to describe myself, I thought I had best take a good look at what Susie said.
True, I have been down at times. This last week or so has been very difficult, with bouts of weepiness for seemingly no reason, but I finally associated this with the antibiotic I was taking for the infection of my dialysis tube. I finished the regimen yesterday, and my mood has definitely improved. Other than such pharmaceutically induced blues, I really have been feeling remarkably well since March. (The first month of dialysis and the build-up to dialysis were very difficult, but then I would think they would be difficult for anyone. Surely, no one wants to be doing dialysis.)
I went back and reread the posts in which I share the strategies I have used over the years to boost or maintain my mood--saying aloud "I am loved, I am deeply loved," hugging myself, and going on "fun walks" in which I am very attentive to the beauty around me. In each of these posts I admitted that initially these practices did not bring me joy, that at first they highlighted my aloneness. But in every case, I ended with the deep and profound recognition that something much greater than the little self--call it God if you will--is sending me love. If someone only reads the first half of these posts, yes, I'd agree that they might be downers. But if you read to the end, you see that these are joyful experiences, certainly not desperate or needy.
When I was a child and a young adult and even a not-so-young adult, I was needy. I was in an uninterrupted state of depression and frequent withdrawal from the world. But that Heidi just doesn't exist any more. I had a shift several years ago, a shift that released food as a coping strategy, a particularly life-threatening coping strategy for a diabetic. This shift also included major changes in the way I perceived myself, my mission, and my relationship to other people. Basically, I decided to be happy, no matter what.
Now, of course, things happen in life that challenge that state of being, but these dark times are far less dark than they have been in the past, and they are much more short-lived. Darkness sometimes passes over me like a cold breeze, and I am sad or weepy for a minute or two, and then it is gone.
Susie not only prompted thinking about my own character, but about the wider question: Is sad the same as needy? I sure don't think so. To me, sad is to needy as poor is to moochy (or whatever the adjective is for being a moocher). Sad is personal, something you can keep to yourself, something you can indulge in when you're alone but go out into the world with a smile and a glow about you. One goes home to weep alone, just like one goes home to shit alone, to get out the impurities, so that one can go back into the world refreshed. Needy is 24/7. Sad is personal and can be contained so that it only effects the person who is sad. Others may know the sad person and even be good friends with her and yet always think of her as the happiest, sunniest person going. Needy is a drain on others; needy zaps the people it's around. Similarly, poor is a statement of fact: Someone is poor, he lives in a substandard dwelling, his clothes are worn, and he has few possessions. This is very different from a moocher, who is also poor but who begs, borrows, and cheats his way into getting others to give him a place to live or his next meal or a new set of clothes. He zaps others, whereas the poor man does not. The poor man accepts his state of being and lives as best he can within what has been given to him. So, definitely, all needy people are sad people, but the reverse is not true.
Susie says my posts express a neediness for a man, and that my neediness is keeping men away, that the sadness expressed in my posts are really the writings of a needy woman. As "needy" is not a word I would ever use to describe myself, I thought I had best take a good look at what Susie said.
True, I have been down at times. This last week or so has been very difficult, with bouts of weepiness for seemingly no reason, but I finally associated this with the antibiotic I was taking for the infection of my dialysis tube. I finished the regimen yesterday, and my mood has definitely improved. Other than such pharmaceutically induced blues, I really have been feeling remarkably well since March. (The first month of dialysis and the build-up to dialysis were very difficult, but then I would think they would be difficult for anyone. Surely, no one wants to be doing dialysis.)
I went back and reread the posts in which I share the strategies I have used over the years to boost or maintain my mood--saying aloud "I am loved, I am deeply loved," hugging myself, and going on "fun walks" in which I am very attentive to the beauty around me. In each of these posts I admitted that initially these practices did not bring me joy, that at first they highlighted my aloneness. But in every case, I ended with the deep and profound recognition that something much greater than the little self--call it God if you will--is sending me love. If someone only reads the first half of these posts, yes, I'd agree that they might be downers. But if you read to the end, you see that these are joyful experiences, certainly not desperate or needy.
When I was a child and a young adult and even a not-so-young adult, I was needy. I was in an uninterrupted state of depression and frequent withdrawal from the world. But that Heidi just doesn't exist any more. I had a shift several years ago, a shift that released food as a coping strategy, a particularly life-threatening coping strategy for a diabetic. This shift also included major changes in the way I perceived myself, my mission, and my relationship to other people. Basically, I decided to be happy, no matter what.
Now, of course, things happen in life that challenge that state of being, but these dark times are far less dark than they have been in the past, and they are much more short-lived. Darkness sometimes passes over me like a cold breeze, and I am sad or weepy for a minute or two, and then it is gone.
Susie not only prompted thinking about my own character, but about the wider question: Is sad the same as needy? I sure don't think so. To me, sad is to needy as poor is to moochy (or whatever the adjective is for being a moocher). Sad is personal, something you can keep to yourself, something you can indulge in when you're alone but go out into the world with a smile and a glow about you. One goes home to weep alone, just like one goes home to shit alone, to get out the impurities, so that one can go back into the world refreshed. Needy is 24/7. Sad is personal and can be contained so that it only effects the person who is sad. Others may know the sad person and even be good friends with her and yet always think of her as the happiest, sunniest person going. Needy is a drain on others; needy zaps the people it's around. Similarly, poor is a statement of fact: Someone is poor, he lives in a substandard dwelling, his clothes are worn, and he has few possessions. This is very different from a moocher, who is also poor but who begs, borrows, and cheats his way into getting others to give him a place to live or his next meal or a new set of clothes. He zaps others, whereas the poor man does not. The poor man accepts his state of being and lives as best he can within what has been given to him. So, definitely, all needy people are sad people, but the reverse is not true.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Wait List Update
Several developments in the wait list saga:
* Met with my Kaiser cardiologist, Dr. Phan, who said that my UCLA cardiologist, Dr. Van Herle, is leaving UCLA. I have been assigned a new cardiologist, Dr. Michael Lee--yes, another Michael, which I am taking as a good sign. I have called about an appointment with Dr. Lee, but have not yet secured one.
* I am holding off on the angiogram until after I meet with Dr. Lee. To recap, the angiogram uses a dye that is damaging to the kidneys. Furthermore, patients who are asymptomatic (no chest pain) fare worse with stent surgery (the end result of an angiogram) than without. Also, I have no guarantee that I'll be on the wait list if I do the stent surgery, so this is potentially a lose-lose-lose situation for me.
* Dr. Lee told Dr. Phan that he is willing to begin with a MUGA (Multiple Gated Acquistion) test, which will measure my heart's pumping ability or EF. This should clear up two inconsistent sets of data, one from the nuclear scan done about two months ago that indicated my EF was around 30 and the other from an echocardiogram, which showed an EF of 50, which is the low side of normal.
Months ago I had made plans to go to Canada, thinking that for sure the wait list would be decided by August. Alas, such is not the case. Most likely I will have to wait until after my return on Sept. 9 to undergo the MUGA and see Dr. Lee, so I may not have much news for a while.
Please see my left ventricle pumping like crazy, supplying my heart with all the blood and oxygen it needs to do its job perfectly, smoothly, and effortlessly.
* Met with my Kaiser cardiologist, Dr. Phan, who said that my UCLA cardiologist, Dr. Van Herle, is leaving UCLA. I have been assigned a new cardiologist, Dr. Michael Lee--yes, another Michael, which I am taking as a good sign. I have called about an appointment with Dr. Lee, but have not yet secured one.
* I am holding off on the angiogram until after I meet with Dr. Lee. To recap, the angiogram uses a dye that is damaging to the kidneys. Furthermore, patients who are asymptomatic (no chest pain) fare worse with stent surgery (the end result of an angiogram) than without. Also, I have no guarantee that I'll be on the wait list if I do the stent surgery, so this is potentially a lose-lose-lose situation for me.
* Dr. Lee told Dr. Phan that he is willing to begin with a MUGA (Multiple Gated Acquistion) test, which will measure my heart's pumping ability or EF. This should clear up two inconsistent sets of data, one from the nuclear scan done about two months ago that indicated my EF was around 30 and the other from an echocardiogram, which showed an EF of 50, which is the low side of normal.
Months ago I had made plans to go to Canada, thinking that for sure the wait list would be decided by August. Alas, such is not the case. Most likely I will have to wait until after my return on Sept. 9 to undergo the MUGA and see Dr. Lee, so I may not have much news for a while.
Please see my left ventricle pumping like crazy, supplying my heart with all the blood and oxygen it needs to do its job perfectly, smoothly, and effortlessly.
Monday, August 03, 2009
I am Loved, I am Deeply Loved
Every once in a while, I need a boost, even if I have to supply it myself. I have written about the hug-myself and Spassiergang strategies in previous posts, and I'd like to share another means to maintain one's spirits.
Shortly after I began giving massages for a living, I began holding the thought that the person on my table is loved, deeply loved. I did not say this aloud, but I concentrated on these words and sent their power into the person's body and consciousness. As I did this, I visualized and then felt the loving energy of the universe enter my crown and travel to my heart and then down my arms and out my hands. As I held this thought, I, too, felt deeply loved.
This is a very powerful meditation, as it does not name the person, so the "you" who is deeply loved is both the client and me. In fact, the "you" seems to disappear until only love, pure and limitless and unspecified, remains.
Also, the lover is not named, so the love is not contingent upon this or that person's affections. "You are loved, you are deeply loved" is a statement of each and every person's birthright. In this way, it is far more powerful than "John loves Judy" or "John loves Jack." Love is, always and forever, though it's form may change.
Over the years, I have often whispered "I am loved, I am deeply loved" to myself when I was feeling left out of romantic love or when friends were hard to find. Sometimes this helped me feel better, and sometimes I just felt worse, berating myself for having to be the one to say these words to me.
But I kept saying them nonetheless, adopting the fake-it-until-you-make-it strategy. In time, I shifted in this respect as in many others, and the words turned from mockery into an expression of joyfulness. At such times, I enter into the space of the non-specific lover, and I feel love eminating from the moon and the trees and an evening breeze and a ray of sunshine. All are animated, and all seem to be saying, "Heidi, you are loved, you are deeply loved."
Then a few weeks ago, I had a beautiful insight. For decades I have been affirming that with every day that passes, the man who is matched to me is drawing ever closer. I have also asked that he visit me in my dreams and, by so doing, reach out to me in waking life. The insight that came to me when I was actually feeling quite a bit down about spending yet another year boyfriend- and husband-less was that the man who is matched to me--wherever he may be--deeply loves me. Just as I deeply love him and reach out to him through my prayers and affirmations and dreams, and by so doing, deeply love him, so, too, is he reaching out to me and loving me through his prayers, affirmations, and dreams. What a fascinating kind of love that is! Worth a short story, I'd say.
Shortly after I began giving massages for a living, I began holding the thought that the person on my table is loved, deeply loved. I did not say this aloud, but I concentrated on these words and sent their power into the person's body and consciousness. As I did this, I visualized and then felt the loving energy of the universe enter my crown and travel to my heart and then down my arms and out my hands. As I held this thought, I, too, felt deeply loved.
This is a very powerful meditation, as it does not name the person, so the "you" who is deeply loved is both the client and me. In fact, the "you" seems to disappear until only love, pure and limitless and unspecified, remains.
Also, the lover is not named, so the love is not contingent upon this or that person's affections. "You are loved, you are deeply loved" is a statement of each and every person's birthright. In this way, it is far more powerful than "John loves Judy" or "John loves Jack." Love is, always and forever, though it's form may change.
Over the years, I have often whispered "I am loved, I am deeply loved" to myself when I was feeling left out of romantic love or when friends were hard to find. Sometimes this helped me feel better, and sometimes I just felt worse, berating myself for having to be the one to say these words to me.
But I kept saying them nonetheless, adopting the fake-it-until-you-make-it strategy. In time, I shifted in this respect as in many others, and the words turned from mockery into an expression of joyfulness. At such times, I enter into the space of the non-specific lover, and I feel love eminating from the moon and the trees and an evening breeze and a ray of sunshine. All are animated, and all seem to be saying, "Heidi, you are loved, you are deeply loved."
Then a few weeks ago, I had a beautiful insight. For decades I have been affirming that with every day that passes, the man who is matched to me is drawing ever closer. I have also asked that he visit me in my dreams and, by so doing, reach out to me in waking life. The insight that came to me when I was actually feeling quite a bit down about spending yet another year boyfriend- and husband-less was that the man who is matched to me--wherever he may be--deeply loves me. Just as I deeply love him and reach out to him through my prayers and affirmations and dreams, and by so doing, deeply love him, so, too, is he reaching out to me and loving me through his prayers, affirmations, and dreams. What a fascinating kind of love that is! Worth a short story, I'd say.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Feeling a Little Down on my Birthday
Rasputin is chewing on a bone, and I'm putting off some editing that I've been putting off for weeks now. After completing this post, I have to get at it. That's how I'm spending this Friday night, which happens to be my birthday.
I am grateful to those friends who remembered the day, calling me with well wishes, posting Facebook comments, or sending a card. And dear Georgette, the Floridian pixie, Photoshopped me as a flirtatous faerie, which is now dangling from my living-room ceiling fan.
Despite the kindness of these friends, I'm feeling a little down, not much, just a little. I no longer stay down, as I did when I was a child or as I did until about six years ago when a lot of things shifted for me. And my downs are not so deep as they once were. Sometimes I feel down for only a few minutes now. Today it's been a few minutes here and there.
Birthdays, like holidays, help us mark the year. They're a time for us to reflect on what we've experienced during the past 12 months and on those things that seem ever-elusive. New Year's Eve, for example, has often been a down time for me, not just because I don't have a date (the first and last time that happened was 1976 with Rod at the Milwaukee Performing Arts Center), but that I think, "Another year and still no love to share it with."
I wonder when I will be with a love who will remember my birthday, go to sleep beside me, wake up next to me, kiss the back of my neck, and rub whatever he can of my taped-up belly. I wonder when I'll go on B&B weekends with a lover, when I'll be invited to parties at which everyone else is in a couple and I will be too, when I'll have someone to give me a ride home from the mechanic, when I'll find a man who actually wants to have sex and is capable of doing something in bed.
I was referred by the Renal Support Network to an article about a PD patient who was very reluctant to begin dialysis but received a transplant a few years back and is now having a wonderful life with her husband. This article is meant to inspire and encourage, but it has not done that for me. All the craziness I have been going through to get on the damn transplant wait list, and the craziness continues. Where will it end, and will it end with me on the wait list or simply having gone through all this drama just to be denied? And the loving, supportive husband--where is he? Whenever you read of someone who has faced tremendous health challenges and has overcome them, there is always a loving, supportive spouse. When do I get mine?
As I wrote these words, little Rasputin came up to me and climbed onto my lap. I am very grateful that he has been sent from heaven to remind me that I am richly deserving of the very best love.
I am grateful to those friends who remembered the day, calling me with well wishes, posting Facebook comments, or sending a card. And dear Georgette, the Floridian pixie, Photoshopped me as a flirtatous faerie, which is now dangling from my living-room ceiling fan.
Despite the kindness of these friends, I'm feeling a little down, not much, just a little. I no longer stay down, as I did when I was a child or as I did until about six years ago when a lot of things shifted for me. And my downs are not so deep as they once were. Sometimes I feel down for only a few minutes now. Today it's been a few minutes here and there.
Birthdays, like holidays, help us mark the year. They're a time for us to reflect on what we've experienced during the past 12 months and on those things that seem ever-elusive. New Year's Eve, for example, has often been a down time for me, not just because I don't have a date (the first and last time that happened was 1976 with Rod at the Milwaukee Performing Arts Center), but that I think, "Another year and still no love to share it with."
I wonder when I will be with a love who will remember my birthday, go to sleep beside me, wake up next to me, kiss the back of my neck, and rub whatever he can of my taped-up belly. I wonder when I'll go on B&B weekends with a lover, when I'll be invited to parties at which everyone else is in a couple and I will be too, when I'll have someone to give me a ride home from the mechanic, when I'll find a man who actually wants to have sex and is capable of doing something in bed.
I was referred by the Renal Support Network to an article about a PD patient who was very reluctant to begin dialysis but received a transplant a few years back and is now having a wonderful life with her husband. This article is meant to inspire and encourage, but it has not done that for me. All the craziness I have been going through to get on the damn transplant wait list, and the craziness continues. Where will it end, and will it end with me on the wait list or simply having gone through all this drama just to be denied? And the loving, supportive husband--where is he? Whenever you read of someone who has faced tremendous health challenges and has overcome them, there is always a loving, supportive spouse. When do I get mine?
As I wrote these words, little Rasputin came up to me and climbed onto my lap. I am very grateful that he has been sent from heaven to remind me that I am richly deserving of the very best love.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Wait List Update
Thanks to everyone who has been praying on my behalf. Things are at a crossroads. It's far more complicated than this, but basically UCLA wants me to undergo another angiogram and possibly stent surgery before approving me for the wait list; however, the dye used for the angiogram can damage the kidneys, and I don't currently have any cardiac symptoms, so I feel the surgery is unnecessary.
Also, having the surgery does not guarantee I'll be placed on the list. So, my nephrologist is talking to the director of the transplant team to try to get him pinned down: What does he need to see with my heart to get me on the list? If the surgery is just as a preventative, I'm not interested in taking the risk to my kidneys. But if it would ensure my placement on the list, I'd be more agreeable.
So, at the moment, that's where things stand. Thanks so much for your continued support and affirmation. I am affirming that, if the angiogram is done, it will show that I have a completely new and healthy heart, as I have been telling my doctors for months. That it is better than it's ever been. I ask for you to see the same. Thanks so much.
Also, having the surgery does not guarantee I'll be placed on the list. So, my nephrologist is talking to the director of the transplant team to try to get him pinned down: What does he need to see with my heart to get me on the list? If the surgery is just as a preventative, I'm not interested in taking the risk to my kidneys. But if it would ensure my placement on the list, I'd be more agreeable.
So, at the moment, that's where things stand. Thanks so much for your continued support and affirmation. I am affirming that, if the angiogram is done, it will show that I have a completely new and healthy heart, as I have been telling my doctors for months. That it is better than it's ever been. I ask for you to see the same. Thanks so much.
Monday, July 27, 2009
That Delicious Feeling of a Steel Band Being Pulled Tight Across my Chest
Every once in a great while, I meet a man who excites me. In the past almost 10 years--since my last encounter with Mike--only seven men have given me that delicious feeling of a steel band being pulled tight across my chest, that crazy pain in my groin, that electricity shooting through my body.
One was a one-time massage client, my very last client of the day on my last day at a chiropractor's office back in 2000. An instant attraction. We met later for a long, fancy dinner. He was such a Southern gentleman, giving me compliments at every turn. Such sexual tension, but alas, he was married and lived in Atlanta. We almost kissed, but knew that if we did that, we'd do everything. I never saw or heard from him again.
Then there was the 21-year-old surfer. We had three fantastic bouts of kisses, one on a boat. One of the most erotic times I've ever had with anyone was fully clothed with him at an art museum. We took on other personalities. I was Svetlana, complete with a Russian accent, a cynical attitude, and black back-seamed nylons. He was a fish affecienado who was confused about his sexuality. Our favorite game outside the museum was me giving him verbal instructions as to how he was to adjust the passenger-side mirror on my van. That's the best: When there's the thinnest veil of propriety, when an outside observer might think that what we're doing and saying is completely on the up and up, perfectly normal, above board. And yet, to us, it's charged with sex. I told him he should relax about the age difference, think of me as a priestess in ancient Greece who would invite young men to the temple to be schooled in the ways of love. Though he told his parents of his feelings for me, when he found out I was 44 and not the late 30s he had suspected, that was too much for him.
With the third man I had a few amazing times, but the last was ho-hum. He is someone with so many commitments, personal and career, that he never had more than a few hours every six months or so to give me.
Charlie I've written about previously. We had some wonderful kisses in Flagstaff on one October afternoon in 2004, but he, too, was married, and I never saw him again.
When I danced with a stranger at a supper club late last year, I felt that sweet, agonizing pain in my groin. We exchanged numbers and were supposed to get together the following weekend, but he flaked. My friend Bev said he must have been married too.
The email-and-phone trysts with a craigslist guy nearly drove me insane with desire last summer. We never met in the flesh.
And lately I've had a crush on someone. The sexual tension goes both ways but most likely will never be voiced or acted upon because the societal roles we play make manifestation problematic. As with the young surfer, there is that intriguing and delicious duality of propriety and legitimate business vs. sexual undertones. But as long as nothing physical occurs, it's a feeling I can take out from time to time, as I would a book from a shelf. No harm in that.
Sure would be wonderful to have this feeling for someone who is available and who feels the same for me. Wouldn't that be something! But that seems like a fairyland, a world I heard about some time long ago in a dream. All the things I have been imagining! All the things I've been storing up since my days with Mike! WOW, I am so ready to let all that loose!
But it's possible that, like good health, I will have to wait until my next lifetime to actualize all the passion, love, intimacy, wonder, and craziness I've been stockpiling all these many years because letting it out with someone who doesn't thrill me would be so not happening, so dead. I have friends who tell me they don't aspire to feel the steel band being pulled tightly across their chests. That someone who is nice and they get along with is good enough. Well, that's not good enough for me. I'm too much of a romantic. I'm not interested in settling.
One was a one-time massage client, my very last client of the day on my last day at a chiropractor's office back in 2000. An instant attraction. We met later for a long, fancy dinner. He was such a Southern gentleman, giving me compliments at every turn. Such sexual tension, but alas, he was married and lived in Atlanta. We almost kissed, but knew that if we did that, we'd do everything. I never saw or heard from him again.
Then there was the 21-year-old surfer. We had three fantastic bouts of kisses, one on a boat. One of the most erotic times I've ever had with anyone was fully clothed with him at an art museum. We took on other personalities. I was Svetlana, complete with a Russian accent, a cynical attitude, and black back-seamed nylons. He was a fish affecienado who was confused about his sexuality. Our favorite game outside the museum was me giving him verbal instructions as to how he was to adjust the passenger-side mirror on my van. That's the best: When there's the thinnest veil of propriety, when an outside observer might think that what we're doing and saying is completely on the up and up, perfectly normal, above board. And yet, to us, it's charged with sex. I told him he should relax about the age difference, think of me as a priestess in ancient Greece who would invite young men to the temple to be schooled in the ways of love. Though he told his parents of his feelings for me, when he found out I was 44 and not the late 30s he had suspected, that was too much for him.
With the third man I had a few amazing times, but the last was ho-hum. He is someone with so many commitments, personal and career, that he never had more than a few hours every six months or so to give me.
Charlie I've written about previously. We had some wonderful kisses in Flagstaff on one October afternoon in 2004, but he, too, was married, and I never saw him again.
When I danced with a stranger at a supper club late last year, I felt that sweet, agonizing pain in my groin. We exchanged numbers and were supposed to get together the following weekend, but he flaked. My friend Bev said he must have been married too.
The email-and-phone trysts with a craigslist guy nearly drove me insane with desire last summer. We never met in the flesh.
And lately I've had a crush on someone. The sexual tension goes both ways but most likely will never be voiced or acted upon because the societal roles we play make manifestation problematic. As with the young surfer, there is that intriguing and delicious duality of propriety and legitimate business vs. sexual undertones. But as long as nothing physical occurs, it's a feeling I can take out from time to time, as I would a book from a shelf. No harm in that.
Sure would be wonderful to have this feeling for someone who is available and who feels the same for me. Wouldn't that be something! But that seems like a fairyland, a world I heard about some time long ago in a dream. All the things I have been imagining! All the things I've been storing up since my days with Mike! WOW, I am so ready to let all that loose!
But it's possible that, like good health, I will have to wait until my next lifetime to actualize all the passion, love, intimacy, wonder, and craziness I've been stockpiling all these many years because letting it out with someone who doesn't thrill me would be so not happening, so dead. I have friends who tell me they don't aspire to feel the steel band being pulled tightly across their chests. That someone who is nice and they get along with is good enough. Well, that's not good enough for me. I'm too much of a romantic. I'm not interested in settling.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Rasputin, the Healer
Though Rasputin the historical figure is often given a bad rap, he had a healing effect on Alexis, the only son of Czar Nicholas and Czarina Alexandra of Russia. After the birth of four daughters, the royal couple was elated when Alexis, the long-awaited heir to the throne, was born. Tragically, he was also a hemophiliac. Rasputin, however, was able to still Alexis's episodes of bleeding. How he did this is not known. Some figure he was a hypnotist, but there is little to support this theory. Rasputin was decidedly a mystic, and I'm going to leave it at that.
Like his namesake, my little Rasputin has definitely had a healing effect on me. Approximately 10 years ago, my heart was literally and figuratively broken. It is then that Mike, the big love of my life, discarded me, and it is then that I developed cardiac symptoms.
I have done my damnest to find a new boyfriend. I take care of my looks, I dress nicely, I talk with guys, I go out on every first date I'm offered, I suggest coffee for those who may be too shy to ask me, I have belonged to at least a half dozen dating sites. And yet, love has eluded me. For this past decade I have slept alone every night.
And then just this past week, Rasputin became the first creature to fall asleep with me. I was sitting in the recliner, and he rested his little head against my chest and his little body against my tummy, and we both fell asleep. So sweet. How I wish I could experience that sweet feeling with a man, that sweetness of falling asleep with someone I love.
Other times Rasputin has sat on my lap with his head over my heart, and his back legs have twitched. This made me think of how, during a massage, I will sometimes flush out the pain or the psychic junk in a client by running my hand very quickly over the troubled area, unruffling the obstruction, clearing it from the body. I feel Rasputin has been doing this for me, clearing my body, and most especially my heart, of any obstructions that have been weighing it down.
Ever since Rasputin has come to live with us, I have had no chest pain. Though the chest pain and pressure had substantially decreased since I started dialysis, they were still there, primarily when I would walk any more than a short distance. Since Rasputin, I have had no pain upon walking or exercising in any other way. In fact, my heart does not keep me from doing anything I would like to do.
What's more, for the first time in 10 years, I am able to sleep on my side. I had always been a side sleeper, but upon the onset of chest pain, I was unable to do so because this put too much weight on my heart. I had to train myself to sleep on my back. Every once in a while I would attempt to lie on my side, but I could only do this for a minute or less before the constriction became unbearable. Now I can spend the whole night on my side if I want.
My friend Araia had always told me that a dog that really loves a human can serve as a conduit for healing the human's ailments. I know this is happening. My little Rasputin is healing my heart.
Like his namesake, my little Rasputin has definitely had a healing effect on me. Approximately 10 years ago, my heart was literally and figuratively broken. It is then that Mike, the big love of my life, discarded me, and it is then that I developed cardiac symptoms.
I have done my damnest to find a new boyfriend. I take care of my looks, I dress nicely, I talk with guys, I go out on every first date I'm offered, I suggest coffee for those who may be too shy to ask me, I have belonged to at least a half dozen dating sites. And yet, love has eluded me. For this past decade I have slept alone every night.
And then just this past week, Rasputin became the first creature to fall asleep with me. I was sitting in the recliner, and he rested his little head against my chest and his little body against my tummy, and we both fell asleep. So sweet. How I wish I could experience that sweet feeling with a man, that sweetness of falling asleep with someone I love.
Other times Rasputin has sat on my lap with his head over my heart, and his back legs have twitched. This made me think of how, during a massage, I will sometimes flush out the pain or the psychic junk in a client by running my hand very quickly over the troubled area, unruffling the obstruction, clearing it from the body. I feel Rasputin has been doing this for me, clearing my body, and most especially my heart, of any obstructions that have been weighing it down.
Ever since Rasputin has come to live with us, I have had no chest pain. Though the chest pain and pressure had substantially decreased since I started dialysis, they were still there, primarily when I would walk any more than a short distance. Since Rasputin, I have had no pain upon walking or exercising in any other way. In fact, my heart does not keep me from doing anything I would like to do.
What's more, for the first time in 10 years, I am able to sleep on my side. I had always been a side sleeper, but upon the onset of chest pain, I was unable to do so because this put too much weight on my heart. I had to train myself to sleep on my back. Every once in a while I would attempt to lie on my side, but I could only do this for a minute or less before the constriction became unbearable. Now I can spend the whole night on my side if I want.
My friend Araia had always told me that a dog that really loves a human can serve as a conduit for healing the human's ailments. I know this is happening. My little Rasputin is healing my heart.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Definitely a Friendly Neighborhood
On Saturday evening, I was out walking with Rasputin and friend Armando. I was wearing a fitted, hot-pink skirt, a white blouse, and pink flats and was carrying a matching pink purse. I always get plenty of attention when I wear this skirt, and Saturday evening was no exception.
A few blocks from the ocean, we came across a BBQ. About a dozen adults and a few small children were spilling out of an apartment onto the front steps and the sidewalk. The adults held beers, and one guy was grilling on a Webber set up in the grassy strip betweeen the sidewalk and the street. Because this party had no front yard, as the steps to the front door of the apartment came right down to the sidewalk, we had to pass through them to get to the ocean.
One woman called out to us as we passed, "I love your skirt!"
On the way back, we stopped to talk. The same woman came up to me, bottle in hand, with two small children clamoring about her knees. She had long, black hair and really gorgeous tatoos of flowers and birds up both arms. She wore a low-cut sun dress that showed off her ample breasts. She had definitely had a bit to drink.
She cooed, "Oh, I love your skirt. Hot pink. Where did you get it?" Goodwill, I told her. Then she moved closer. "Can I touch your butt?" she asked. Sure, go for it. She rubbed my butt with her open palm. As this is a silk-lined skirt, this felt very nice.
"Oh, what an ass!" she declared. "You should all feel this ass!"
The men looked at me, then at Armando. As he said later, if he had not been there, they probably would have taken turns.
More friends of the birthday girl--you guessed it, the brunette with the tatoos--arrived, and she went to greet them, leaving my butt behind.
I just laughed and smiled about her all the way home. What a friendly neighborhood we live in!
The next day, my son and I passed the party apartment on our evening walk with Rasputin. Two hungover men were sitting on the steps. "How late did the party go?" I asked, reminding them that I was the gal with the nice ass. "It's still going on for some," one said, "and it'll be going on until Tuesday."
Wow, four days of partying! If they do that for all of the adults' birthdays, that's 48 days of partying a year just there. Then add all the holidays, and you begin to wonder how these folks make their drinking money.
A few blocks from the ocean, we came across a BBQ. About a dozen adults and a few small children were spilling out of an apartment onto the front steps and the sidewalk. The adults held beers, and one guy was grilling on a Webber set up in the grassy strip betweeen the sidewalk and the street. Because this party had no front yard, as the steps to the front door of the apartment came right down to the sidewalk, we had to pass through them to get to the ocean.
One woman called out to us as we passed, "I love your skirt!"
On the way back, we stopped to talk. The same woman came up to me, bottle in hand, with two small children clamoring about her knees. She had long, black hair and really gorgeous tatoos of flowers and birds up both arms. She wore a low-cut sun dress that showed off her ample breasts. She had definitely had a bit to drink.
She cooed, "Oh, I love your skirt. Hot pink. Where did you get it?" Goodwill, I told her. Then she moved closer. "Can I touch your butt?" she asked. Sure, go for it. She rubbed my butt with her open palm. As this is a silk-lined skirt, this felt very nice.
"Oh, what an ass!" she declared. "You should all feel this ass!"
The men looked at me, then at Armando. As he said later, if he had not been there, they probably would have taken turns.
More friends of the birthday girl--you guessed it, the brunette with the tatoos--arrived, and she went to greet them, leaving my butt behind.
I just laughed and smiled about her all the way home. What a friendly neighborhood we live in!
The next day, my son and I passed the party apartment on our evening walk with Rasputin. Two hungover men were sitting on the steps. "How late did the party go?" I asked, reminding them that I was the gal with the nice ass. "It's still going on for some," one said, "and it'll be going on until Tuesday."
Wow, four days of partying! If they do that for all of the adults' birthdays, that's 48 days of partying a year just there. Then add all the holidays, and you begin to wonder how these folks make their drinking money.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Rasputin and I Are Proud of Our Pee
Rasputin and I are proud of our pee. There's no getting around the fact. Unlike most people, who are just happy to relieve themselves once in a while, relieving himself is not Rasputin's aim. Rather, he marks trees, fenceposts, and sign poles with his urine, constantly amazing me by always having some to spare for the next landmark. He is not into blowing his stash in one place. No sir, it's far too precious!
I, too, am proud of my pee, but for a different reason. Each time I pee, I say a big thank you, as peeing means that my kidneys are still doing something. They haven't completely shut down.
Granted, I don't pee nearly as much as I used to, since most of my fluids are expelled during dialysis. But the mere fact that I do pee is always cause for a little celebration, even though it's just me who's celebrating.
Anyone who's reading this, take note. The next time you pee, say a little thank you. Your kidneys are working! This is a great gift.
I, too, am proud of my pee, but for a different reason. Each time I pee, I say a big thank you, as peeing means that my kidneys are still doing something. They haven't completely shut down.
Granted, I don't pee nearly as much as I used to, since most of my fluids are expelled during dialysis. But the mere fact that I do pee is always cause for a little celebration, even though it's just me who's celebrating.
Anyone who's reading this, take note. The next time you pee, say a little thank you. Your kidneys are working! This is a great gift.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
By Any Chance, Are Your Relatives From Minnesota?
Though my new apartment is a truly happy and sunny place, and though I really like it a whole bunch, it does not have an on-site washer and dryer. So, I'm back to the laundromat.
Yesterday I stepped foot in one that's a few blocks from home. Shortly after I arrived, a man approached me. "By any chance, are your relatives from Minnesota?" he asked. I smiled widely and replied, "Well, as a matter of fact, they are."
My mother was born on a farm in southern Minnesota, and most of my cousins and their kids are still living in the state.
This man, who was named Ray, thought I looked Swedish, and as a Swedish woman he'd met years ago--maybe decades ago--had been from Minnesota, he figured I might be too.
Ray wondered if I were familiar with Rush, Illinois, a town about two and a half hours from Chicago. I believe he had kept Rush in his consciousness for decades because of another gal who had hailed from there. Sad to say, I had never heard of Rush.
Ray was quite a character. Probably 85 if he was a day, wearing a sea captain's hat and pants that were way too big for him.
Turns out, Ray wss into maps. When I told my son this, he quipped, "Oh, good, so now that makes two of you."
At first Ray and I drew maps in the air for each other. I was sure that Iowa is west of the Mississippi, but Ray needed some convincing. He also needed a little help with the positions of Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois. Finally, he came around.
He said if I liked maps, he had something to show me. He pulled a Lyndon LaRouche magazine from the rack on the wall, then paused before opening it. "This publication is so right wing," he said, "I thought I might be going insane reading it." That's always been my experience of LaRouche materials and his fanatical followers.
Amidst all the political hoopla and prophesies of doom was an article on the the great train adventures of the world. Ray pointed to a map of Europe and confessed that he would like to take the Trans-Siberian Railroad some day. Wow, good for him to keep the dreams coming!
The conversation drifted to my former home of Point Arena in Mendocino County. Ray had lived in Los Angeles for 33 years, but he often went on road trips on the weekends and during his vacations. He was very familiar with Hwy 1 north of San Francisco. He nodded and took in a deep breath, remembering the beauty he had apprehended there.
All about us, solitary people went about their business, loading washers and dryers with coins and folding clothes, while Ray and I swapped stories and had a few laughs. So interesting how often this happens to me at laundramats, something I had forgotten until yesterday. So often over the years people have approached me in laundromats and told me their stories, like the woman who related the very complicated case of her run-in with city authorities or the young traveling salesman who had lived in 26 states as an adult and as many foster homes as a child.
This is why, once again, I am reminded of the truth: "There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so." Many would say it's too bad that I don't have use of a washer and dryer in the building where I live or that I don't own a washer and dryer in my own home. But these are probably the same people who wouldn't have given Ray the time of day. Look how much I have gained from what many would label a loss.
Yesterday I stepped foot in one that's a few blocks from home. Shortly after I arrived, a man approached me. "By any chance, are your relatives from Minnesota?" he asked. I smiled widely and replied, "Well, as a matter of fact, they are."
My mother was born on a farm in southern Minnesota, and most of my cousins and their kids are still living in the state.
This man, who was named Ray, thought I looked Swedish, and as a Swedish woman he'd met years ago--maybe decades ago--had been from Minnesota, he figured I might be too.
Ray wondered if I were familiar with Rush, Illinois, a town about two and a half hours from Chicago. I believe he had kept Rush in his consciousness for decades because of another gal who had hailed from there. Sad to say, I had never heard of Rush.
Ray was quite a character. Probably 85 if he was a day, wearing a sea captain's hat and pants that were way too big for him.
Turns out, Ray wss into maps. When I told my son this, he quipped, "Oh, good, so now that makes two of you."
At first Ray and I drew maps in the air for each other. I was sure that Iowa is west of the Mississippi, but Ray needed some convincing. He also needed a little help with the positions of Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois. Finally, he came around.
He said if I liked maps, he had something to show me. He pulled a Lyndon LaRouche magazine from the rack on the wall, then paused before opening it. "This publication is so right wing," he said, "I thought I might be going insane reading it." That's always been my experience of LaRouche materials and his fanatical followers.
Amidst all the political hoopla and prophesies of doom was an article on the the great train adventures of the world. Ray pointed to a map of Europe and confessed that he would like to take the Trans-Siberian Railroad some day. Wow, good for him to keep the dreams coming!
The conversation drifted to my former home of Point Arena in Mendocino County. Ray had lived in Los Angeles for 33 years, but he often went on road trips on the weekends and during his vacations. He was very familiar with Hwy 1 north of San Francisco. He nodded and took in a deep breath, remembering the beauty he had apprehended there.
All about us, solitary people went about their business, loading washers and dryers with coins and folding clothes, while Ray and I swapped stories and had a few laughs. So interesting how often this happens to me at laundramats, something I had forgotten until yesterday. So often over the years people have approached me in laundromats and told me their stories, like the woman who related the very complicated case of her run-in with city authorities or the young traveling salesman who had lived in 26 states as an adult and as many foster homes as a child.
This is why, once again, I am reminded of the truth: "There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so." Many would say it's too bad that I don't have use of a washer and dryer in the building where I live or that I don't own a washer and dryer in my own home. But these are probably the same people who wouldn't have given Ray the time of day. Look how much I have gained from what many would label a loss.
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!
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!
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
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!
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)
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)
Thursday, July 09, 2009
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.
Friday, July 03, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, June 15, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
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!"
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!
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!
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