Dogs, Orsay, and Vertigo

Dogs can go everywhere--on the Metro, on regional trains, inside cafes. This is really a dog-friendly place.

On Saturday evening, after our walk through Pere Lachaise, Helene and I cooked dinner for Helene's friends Marie, an English professor who sounds like a Brit when she speaks English, no French accent, and Stefania, an Italian immigrant and healer. What amazing women! Because we had a late dinner, I had to hook up before we ate, but no one seemed to mind that I was attached to a dialysis machine via a long cord.

The next day, Sunday, June 6, Helene was suffering from vertigo, so I went exploring on my own. I walked and walked and walked, again getting very turned around at Notre Dame and the Ile St. Louis. Finally, after many wrong turns, I ended up at the Orsay Museum. The first time I was there, I was also alone, in 2002, and I was moved to tears by Manet's "Olympia." The sheer power of this woman looking out at you, defiant of social conventions, daring the viewer to hold anything but awe for her. Once again this painting moved me.

Many others had the same effect, including Cezanne's "Card Players" and Renoir's "Moulin de la Galette." The woman looking away from the action, the one in the foreground, strangely touches me, as if I knew her, or was her.

After many bouts with Stendahl syndrome, a psychological and physiological reaction to too much beauty, an aesthetic overload, I headed for the Metro. It had taken me more than three hours to wind my way to the Orsay. I wanted to make better time coming home.

As i negotiated the Parisian streets and its subway system, I noted how much more confident I was this time in Paris than I had been in 2002. Then I had come to the French capital by invitation of Lionel, a Frenchman I had met for dinner when he was traveling in the U.S. Every so often, he would call me, and finally he asked me to visit him for a week. Like all my dealings with men, this arrangment with Lionel was strange and unsatisfying. We only had sex twice, and both times I had to initiate. His style was as far from romantic as one could get without it qualifying as rape. Then during the day, he treated me like I was his little sister, an annoyance that our mother had said he must allow to tag behind him. He refused to allow me to take a picture of him, as if he wanted no record of having been with me. Very odd. I wondered this time whether I was so put down by Lionel's treatment that I felt I couldn't make my way alone in Paris, that I was held hostage by Lionel, or was it that I am just generally more confident? Either way, I had no problem asking directions and smiling widely.

Pere Lachaise

On Saturday afternoon, June 5, Helene and I explored Pere Lachaise, the Paris cemetary where loads of famous people are buried. High on our lists were

* Jim Morrison



* Modigliani



* Oscar Wilde, whose grave stone is covered with kisses and messages





Poor, sensitive Oscar was pulled through the mud at the end of his life with a sodomy trial, ostracization from the socialites he had so grandly entertained, and sentenced to a two-year prison term. Now his grave is Mecca for gay men and for all those who value his wit and his courage.

Even if Pere Lachaise lacked celebrity graves, it would still be worth a visit. Very relaxing. A pleasant respite from the hustle of the Parisian streets.



We did, however, overlook the grave of Victor Noir, a journalist who died in a duel. We did not know anything about him until Marie, Helene's friend who is an English professor in Paris, told us about his well-visited grave. His stone is complete with an erection and has been rubbed by countless women over the years in the belief that doing so will make them fertile, improve their love lives, and/or get them a husband within the year. Oh, well, Victor, see you next time!

I've Returned!

I got back from my travels late Tuesday night, thankful that I had no emergency room visits or hospital stays.

Flying first class was a real treat. Because Helene is an Air Canada retiree, she gets several passes each year, but she decided to splurge and use her guaranteed first-class tickets with me. We flew Halifax to Monteal and then to Paris. Great food. Good service. And a private cubicle that made into a bed. That's the way to go.

Helene and I spent six days and six nights in Paris, renting an apartment near the Temple Metro station, a half hour's brisk walk from Notre Dame. The apartment had a full kitchen, private bath, garden view, washer-dryer, and plenty of quiet. Perfect.



Getting all the Baxter boxes from the concierge to the apartment was quite an ordeal. After we'd settled in, we walked to Notre Dame, taking our time, as I was tired. We got really turned around on the two islands, walking and walking and coming back to the same spot an hour and a half later. Too many bridges. I began calling this area the Bermuda Triangle.



The next morning we explored the flea market. I was surprised to see so many black figurines, something that would have been considered racist in the States.



I spotted a man whom I considered handsome and pointed him out to Helene. I also thought that he looked like an older version of the archangel I'd seen 10 years ago. I really wanted his photograph and asked Helene if she'd ask him if it's OK. She was embarrassed, so I approached him. "S'll vous plait?" I asked, gesturing with my camera. At first he thought I wanted to take a photo of his artwork, but when he understood it was him I was interested in, he became a bit shy and said in French that no one had ever asked to take a picture of him before. I was upfront and told him that I had told my friend that I felt he was handsome and wanted to remember him. Rugged good looks. Hard to come by these days.



Speaking of good looks, it was such an incredible treat to be in country where people are trim and stylish! In the almost two weeks that I was in France, I saw perhaps a dozen heavy people, most of them Americans. The overweight French were nothing like overweight Americans. I mean, they were still walking around and doing chores, not confined to a scooter. In the States it is very difficult to find a man over 50 who is in shape. There, they were everywhere.

People walk instead of drive or take the Metro with its long flights of stairs. I didn't see any junk food or candy bars. If you want some chocolate, you go to a choclatier. It's a special treat, not something you mindlessly shove down your throat. Food tastes so much better because so much of it is organic and locally grown. Good wholesome food and lots of walking make for trim, good-looking citizens.

Off to Paris!

I arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia, yesterday afternoon. My friend Helene picked me up at the airport, and we spent the night at her place in Bridgetown. Today we return to the airport and head to Paris--first class!

I have never flown first class, but Helene is an Air Canada retiree and so gets breaks on air fares. This is going to be quite a treat, from what I hear from those who have flown first class before.

Helene and I rented an apartment in the 3rd District of Paris for six nights, then we are off to visit our mutual friend Khadidja, who lives in Monton, a little town about three hours southeast of Paris. All told, I will be gone 15 days.

This may be my last trip on dialysis. Yippee! Not only is travel complicated and burdensome because of all the supplies I must lug with me, but airport security is a hassle. Every time I am patted down, and often I am taken in a back room so that the guards can check out my dialysis tubing and insulin pump. And of course my luggage is thoroughly searched and dusted for drugs. If I believed that the world was awash with terrorists, as our government wants us to believe, I might--might--think this is OK. But as I believe that all this Homeland Security bullshit is simply a means to surveille and subjugate the citizens, I am impatient with it, to say the least.

As I travel, though, my supplies will be diminished, and by the end of the trip, I will probably be able to fit everything into one checked bag.

Bon voyage!

Good News!

I spoke with Fe, the transplant coordinator at Kaiser, and she said that Janet and Bob are compatible and that Maria and I are compatible. So that means that we can do a paired donation!

So strange that I had to make a bunch of calls in order to get this information. You would have thought that the coordinator would have called me as soon as she knew. Or that the donors' coordinator would have called them. This is big news for us recipients and donors, but I guess it's just another case to handle for the coordinators. This is so typical of the medical profession. Why people were sitting on this information is beyond me.

Maria, Bob, and I are all cleared to go. We're just waiting for Janet to complete and pass her round of tests on June 16 and 17. If all goes smoothly, I could have a new kidney--Maria's kidney--by my birthday. The best birthday present ever.

So the timing of my trip to France is perfect. I leave the evening of June 1 and return the evening of June 15, the day before Janet begins her tests. Everything seems to be falling into place. Amen!

Thank God for Heartburn!

Since my hospital stay in Fontana a little over a week ago, I have continued to experience chest constriction and tightness, especially while lying prone. On Monday morning, I couldn't take the stress of this anymore, so I drove to the ER. I was worried that I was having cardiac problems and that these would prevent me from getting a kidney transplant. This was all that I could think about, so I wanted some answers. What was going on with me?

The docs at Harbor City Kaiser did a bunch of EKGs and tested my troponin levels every four hours to see if there were any signs of a heart attack. Then on Tuesday I was given a radioactive dye, underwent a resting and a stressed heart test, and had images taken of my heart. I experienced fairly intense chest pain during the stressed portion and had difficulty breathing. This really worried me.

A few hours later I got the results: no sign of any new damage to the heart! The docs felt I was experiencing intense heartburn or perhaps gastoparesis, the latter of which diabetics often succumb to. Right now, I am taking an antacid for 14 days and avoiding acidic foods and beverages. Gastoparesis can become quite serious and entail surgery, but I'm going to see that it doesn't get to that point.

I am so incredibly grateful that I have no more heart damage. I was going down such a negative road in my mind, while simultaneously praying for good news. I'm so glad the latter approach triumphed.

I am also glad that I did not listen to the doctors last weekend. I was getting the message from my cardiologist, the hospital cardiologist, and the hospital nephrologist that I should just take the blood transfusion and get the stress test immediately or get an angiogram. But I decided to wait until my hemoglobin had improved, then take the stress test. I am so glad I stood up for what I felt was right. Otherwise, I would have either had a blood transfusiont that could have jeopardized my chances of accepting a kidney or underwent an angiogram that is fraught with risks.

So, hooray, hooray, hooray!

Medical Emergency at 7,200 Feet

This past weekend was the 12th annual chick cabin getaway weekend. I arrived at about 11 a.m. on Saturday and was immediately in trouble.

Green Valley Lake, located in the San Bernardino Mountains west of LA, is at 7,200 feet. No one had cautioned me about high elevations, and it didn't cross my mind that attending chick cabin only six months after triple-bypass surgery might pose a problem. Well, it did. Immediately upon my arrival, I was struck by severe chest pain and constriction. I laid down, but that didn't help because lying prone put even more strain on my heart.



When Susie arrived about 20 minutes later, I told her I'd have to drive down the mountain. She didn't think I should do that on my own and took me to the GVL fire station, where I received oxygen.

I knew my blood sugar was high and suspected that my insulin pump's infusion site was not delivering insulin to my body, but I was in no shape to change my site. Unfortunately, I did not receive an insulin injection until five or more hours later in the ER at St. Bernadine's in San Bernardino. By that time, my blood sugar was over 500.

The GVL station was not equipped to handle me, so an ambulance took me down the mountain. Some of the chick cabin gals followed in my my truck and in Susie's vehicle. Laurianna, a firefighter in New Mexico, helped by getting a list of my meds. The paramedics were such nice guys. Aren't they always! Scott tried to get an IV in my left arm while we were twisting down a winding mountain road and failed. He then asked me if I'd ever had an IV in my neck, and I told him that for sure we're pulling over if he's thinking of doing that!

Next came three sublingual doses of nitrogylcerin and an infusion of morphine. That got the chest pain under control for a while. By the time we got to the ER, I was feeling much better, so my friends left without me asking them to get my blood monitor and insulin supplies from my truck. I could have kicked myself for that, since my blood sugar was not regulated until noon the next day. If I had been able to get my insulin pump working, I would have been in much better shape much sooner and would have prevented much of the chest pain.



I was transferred to Kaiser Fontana on Saturday evening and stayed there until Monday evening, when Aaron and Rasputin picked me up. (Heather had driven my truck back to Long Beach as I hadn't known if I would be transferred to Downey, and I didn't want to have to worry about the truck.)

Heather called and left a message on Saturday night. Unfortunately, I was talking with a doctor and didn't take the call. Heather said that the only phone that worked at the cabin was Susie's, so I called Susie back. Unfortunately, I called her home number, not her cell. I must have left a dozen messges on Susie's home phone--all messages that she didn't retrieve until she got back to LA! I also left a bunch of messages on Heather's cell, just in case she got to a place in the mountains where she could retrieve them. I was alone and lonely, and I really wanted the support of the chick cabin girls.

Early Sunday afternoon, a doctor told me that my triponin level had continued to increase and was now in the borderline region between questionable and probable heart attack. This set me over the edge. I simply could not face the possibility of being on dialysis for the rest of my life because of a cardiac event.

The docs wanted to either perform a nuclear-medicine stress test or an angiogram to see if there had been any new damage to the heart. I was against the former as it would require a blood transfusion, which means the possibility of antibody formation, which would complicate or preclude a kidney transplant. I was anemic, with my hemoglobin at 9.6. In order to safely perform the stress test, I'd have to be at least a 10.

The angiogram is far more invasive and carries the risks of heart attack, stroke, or death. Besides, the dye can damage the kidneys.

After much hand-wringing, crying, and consulting with doctors, I opted to leave the hospital, up my procrit injections to stimulate blood-cell formation, test my hemoglobin in a week or so to see if it is 10or more, and if so, take the stress test. Getting all this done before leaving for France on June 1 is another matter.

My belief--and I'm holding to this--is that this was a perfect storm of high altitude, high blood sugar, and anemia, any of which taken alone can cause chest pain and constriction. I am holding to the belief that this was not a heart attack or anything else that might jeopardize my placement on the list. I will get on the list, stay on the list, and receive a successful kidney transplant.

How Much is My Life Worth?

My friend Daphne sent me a link to a CNN story about California's new living-donor registry and New York's interest in an opt-out organ-donation program. Instead of people having to explicitly state that they wish to donate their organs upon their death, the state would assume that you do unless you opt out.

The comments on this story were fierce--on both sides. It's amazing to me how many people are concerned about what happens to their bodies after they're dead. As one sarcastic commenter wrote, if you need to be buried with your organs, maybe you should also be buried with all your wives and your slaves. That was pretty funny, but some of the comments weren't. One that especially disturbed me was someone who wrote that transplants should not be performed because they're too expensive. The father of a young boy who had been on dialysis for eight years before receiving a kidney transplant shot back that dialysis is far more expensive than a transplant. The first commenter didn't respond, but I can imagine him saying, "Well, then dialysis is also too expensive, so we shouldn't allow that either."

This made me wonder: How many people would vote to turn off my dialysis machine? How many people would prefer that I was dead? Am I wasting taxpayer money (since all dialysis patients are on Medicare)? Is my life worth the money that is being spent on keeping me alive? Do healthy people think of sick people as useless or as too expensive to keep going or as better off dead? What would I have to do in order to make myself valuable enough to be considered worth saving?

I don't have answers for these questions, but the pondering of them made me very sad. This general dismissiveness of the world was coupled with dismissive comments earlier in the day from someone who let me know I had disrupted his day by calling him. Perhaps part of the inconvenience or discomfort he felt was due to me being a dialysis patient or a diabetic or a heart patient or someone with a broken hip. One of those people who, in the opinion of some or many in our society, is wasting money that could be better spent elsewhere. Perhaps on buying more killer drones for use on Pakistani civilians or giving more money to Wall Street bankers or building even more prisons. Yes, there are so many ways to facilitate death.

Officers' Club in Ruins

Aaron had to work until 4 on Mother's Day at Parkers Lighthouse, where he now waits two or three days a week, so Rasputin and I checked out the Great Park in Irvine.



You are really setting yourself up for criticism when you name something "great," and the Great Park in Irvine is no exception. I had not heard much about it, except my friend Bev's disparaging words. I wanted to see for myself.



A Turkish festival was being held Mother's Day weekend at the Great Park, and initially I had thought of attending. But upon walking up to the venue and seeing that it was primarily a carnival and that I'd have to pay $12 for admission beyond the $5 I had already paid for parking, I thought better of it. Instead, Rasputin and I explored the ruins of El Toro Marine Corps Air Station, the approximately 4,700 acres on which the Great Park is situated. Officially closed in 1999, the base had initially been considered for a new airport or a housing development. After much back-room wrangling, a park was born.



One thing I had heard of the Great Park were the free balloon rides. Though it didn't seem as if anything was going on in that department, Rasputin and I walked over just to make sure. The balloon was tethered to the ground, and no one was waiting in line for a ride. Would like to try that some time, but Mother's Day was not the time.



I had heard of high hopes for the park, but what I saw was a bunch of dead and dying grass and buildings in various states of decay. Some structures were fairly intact; others were nothing more than cement foundations and a few concrete steps. No playground equipment, no lakes, no hiking or bike trails, no picnic tables. Just a bunch of grass and a few parking lots.



The first and biggest building I checked out was some kind of huge warehouse. I didn't go inside, as I couldn't find an unlocked access. That would have been quite surreal walk about in a warehouse the size of several football fields.



Near the park's entrance was the former officers' club. Though the main entrance was chained and locked, a side door was not only unlocked but open. Rasputin and I entered. Though most of the walls had been stripped down to the framing and the carpet had been removed, I was amazed to see that so many chairs remained, that the glass ceiling had not been damaged, and that a few framed pictures still hung on the walls. Especially since I did not see any NO TRESPASSING signs or warnings that it was a federal crime to destroy former military property. Also, I saw absolutely zero security personnel, unless you include the young guys at the gate directing traffic.



I love to explore ruins, and this was a bunch of fun for me. I especially enjoyed standing in the relatively intact bar and thinking that a little over a decade ago, this had been a hopping spot. This was so much more fun than a crowded festival or an overpriced, hurried Mother's Day brunch.

Dialysis Invades my Dreams

Last night for the first time that I can recall, dialysis entered my dreams. I had two dreams in which I had to explain to a humanitarian aid coordinator why I had not reported to a remote third-world site to help with relief efforts. I explained that I was a dialysis patient and that travel to such an area under conditions without electricity for my machine and a source of clean water was dangerous for me.

Over the decades, diabetes has often figured in my dreams. I am offered a piece of candy, say, and immediately the thought comes to me that if I eat it, my blood sugar level will rise. Or perhaps I eat the candy in my dream, but all the while I'm fretting that I will pay for this in high blood sugar. Whenever I'd awake and recall these dreams, I'd realize how deeply embedded in my consciousness this disease is. Even in sleep, there is no escaping it.

Then I had a dream about 11 years ago in which I slowly and almost sexually consumed a fine chocolate. The experience was luxurious, extravagant, and completely devoid of any pangs of guilt or worries about blood sugar. Simply the delicious pleasure of delighting in the texture and flavor of this morsel. I took this dream as a sign that I would soon be healed, that my inner self no longer knew me as a diabetic and that very soon my physical form would respond in kind.

That did not happen, of course, though I believed it with all my heart and soul.

Thanks to All the Childless Women

On this Mother's Day, I would like to say a big thank you to all the women who have not had children. If you had, the world would be much more crowded and a much uglier place.

For the record, I love being a mom and I love my son. I am very happy I am a mom. And I'm sure a lot of moms out there are happy they're moms too. But that's not the point of this post.

I know it is hard for you sometimes when people ask if you have children or when they wish you a happy Mother's Day, not knowing your situation. I'm sorry too for all the people who have asked you over the years when you're going to have children or why you didn't have children--as if it's any of their business. And I know that this holiday for some of you or sometimes for all of you is as much of a downer as Valentine's Day has so often been for me.

If I were the dictator of the world, I would perhaps allow everyone to have replacement children--that is, two for every couple. Anything beyond that would result in penalties or huge tax disencentives. In fact, I would give women who choose not to have children a tax break for every year they are childless.

If you look at my ex-husband, his new wife, the love of my life, and me, Aaron is the only progeny. So we're at only 25 percent replacement rate.

If there were far fewer people on this planet, so many problems would disappear or be greatly diminished. Pollution, consumption of resources, unemployment, racial and ethnic tension, overcrowding, poverty, illiteracy, starvation and malnutrition, erosion, deforestation, street crime, subjugation of women, child labor, drug and alcohol abuse, spousal and child abuse, and war all stem, at least in part, from too many people sharing too small a space.

So thank you to all the women who have not contributed to these problems by adding more mouths to feed.

What a Shirtless Man Can Do to Me

Yesterday morning before I left for work at the spa, I rang my neighbors' door to see if they would care to have Rasputin for the day, since Aaron was also working Saturday. It was a little before 9, and the husband answered the door shirtless, in sweat pants, and with rumpled hair. He's good-looking, good guy who is trim, intelligent, and has a sense of humor. After he said yes and we exchanged some pleasantries, I went off to work with a tear in my eye.

It's not my neighbor per se. Sure, he's a great guy, but it's more the overwhelming sadness that I felt seeing him standing there, knowing it's been more than 10 years since I loved a man who really seemed to love me, that it's been that long since I woke up to a man's bare chest. And even more than that, I thought that I'll never have that again in my life. That's really hard to take. That because of my diabetes or my kidney disease or the dialysis or the heart surgery, I'll keep being rejected or not even considered. And of course, once I have the transplant, I'll have so many scars on my body that I'll look like a hacked piece of meat.

As I was doing my first massage of the day, I thought, Once I get the kidney transplant, I'll be free of the dialysis tubing. Then I can get a bunch of tatooes, maybe intersecting vines that connect and cover the bypass scar down my chest, the scar from the vein they took from my right thigh, and the huge gash that comes along with a kidney transplant (for the recipient, not the donor). That made me feel much better. I thought there still might be a chance at love in this lifetime.

Later that day, however, I remembered: With a compromised immune system from taking the immune-suppressant drugs that prevent organ rejection, I will not be able to have tatooes. The possibility of infection from the needles is too great.

So I guess there will always be a reason for a man to reject me. The best I can do is do a much better job of avoiding the countless prompts that might remind me of my aloneness--love songs, couples holding hands or kissing, people talking about nice things their significant other does, groups in which I'm the only single person, any references to or images of sex, and, of course, bare-chested men.

Life Sharers

Half the people who receive organs in this country are not organ donors themselves. LifeSharers is a nonprofit organization that contends that just is not right. If you are asking for an organ, shouldn't you be willing to donate your organs upon your own death? It only seems fair.

Now you might say, "Who would want the organs of a person who is in such bad shape that she needs organs?" Well, my heart, pancreas, and kidneys may not be quite up to snuff, but my liver and lungs are fine. Also, my eyes could give sight to the blind, and my bone marrow, tendons, and sinews could be used to help so many others. So don't ever think you're too old or too sick to be an organ donor. You never know whose life you might save or whose living conditions you might greatly improve. Anyone can become an organ donor.

LifeSharers is an organ registry for organ donors. Members agree to donate their organs to other LifeSharer members (family members take precedence over LS members). This is a much more equitable system, plus for people like me who are awaiting an organ, it greatly enhances my chances of getting an organ before my time is up.

At present, there are nearly 1,400 members and only 84 members who are in need of an organ.

If you care about me and if you care about making the organ procurement system more equitable, please become a LifeSharer member at lifesharers.org.

Forty Years Ago Today

Today is the 40th anniversary of the Kent State massacre in which four unarmed students were shot and killed by Ohio National Guardsmen and another nine were wounded. The students were protesting Nixon's illegal and immoral bombing of Cambodia and had set fire to an ROTC building. The students were told to disperse and were inundated with tear gas. Then the soldiers opened fire. As a witness says 40years later, it's still an unsolved murder.

I remember being at Kent State only a short time after the shootings. My mother, oblivious to the hundred thousand activists who were heading to Washington, D.C., for protest marches, decided to go ahead with a trip to the capital that she had planned for my brother's and my spring break. As we drove from Wisconsin to Washington, we encountered young people and hippies at every truck stop. When we got to the capital, it had been virtually shut down, as the activists had taken over the entire Mall.

We did not get to visit the Washington Memorial or many of the sites around D.C., but my brother and I received a valuable lesson in history, as we saw so many people spontaneously petitioning their government to end the violence overseas, as this violence had so dramatically spilled over into violence against our own people here at home.

On the way back to Wisconsin, my mother detoured to Kent State. It was a chilling experience to be on the campus where students had died just a few days before.

Despite the public outrage regarding Kent State, the violence did not end there. Just 10 days later, at Jackson State University in Jackson, Miss., another two unarmed student protesters were murdered, this time by local law enforcement.

Let us never forget Kent State. In 1989, when Chinese troops opened fire on protesting students in Beijing's Tianamen Square, Americans were justifiably outraged and simultaneously awed by the courage of a lone student defying the tanks. But even at the time, I reminded those who would listen that our government would do the same under similar conditions and in fact it had at Kent State. Let us never forget what our government is capable of doing and very willing to do to silence protest.

My Long Afternoon at UCLA

I arrived at UCLA Medical Center a little after noon yesterday. During the course of the next four hours, I met with a nephrologist, a social worker, and a transplant coordinator. But most of the time I sat and waited, starting and finishing a guidebook on Paris for my upcoming trip.

The nephrologist said that he would approve me for the kidney wait list and propose that I get a pancreas transplant later. In effect he is saying no to the latter, since the cut-off point for pancreas transplants is 55 and I'm already 51. By the time I get a kidney and recover from that, I may be too old for the pancreas. Besides, he said, the odds of me surviving a pancreas transplant or a simultaneous kidney-pancreas transplant with my existing heart condition are sketchy. His thinking was that since I have a donor who is willing to participate in a paired donorship, I should not wait around three years or more for a deceased donor's kidney and pancreas. Rather, I should get a kidney ASAP.

The transplant team does not meet for another two weeks, but it sure seems as if it's a done deal that I'm on the list. Of course, I've thought that before and I was wrong, but this sure seems right. Plus, the transplant coordinator told me to have my donor, Janet, contact the donor coordinator to begin testing. Before this, they would not let Janet proceed with testing until I had gotten on the list. If they're asking her to proceed, my getting on the list is now a matter of formality. Hallelujah!

A beautiful turn of events has given me hope about finding a donor whose blood type matches mine. As previously said in other posts, Janet is type A, and I'm type O, the most common type of mismatched pairs. O's can give to anyone, but can only receive from other O's. So in order for me to get a living donor, I either have to have an O donor step up on my behalf or do a swap with someone who needs an A donor but has an O. The latter case might occur if the recipient had antibodies to his O donor's blood and so couldn't use the donor's kidney.

A few weeks ago, I used a gift certificate for a facial. I had asked that Tracy, a gal I once worked with at Mr. and Ms. Day Spa, do the facial, but when I arrived for the appointment, I was told that Tracy had taken ill earlier that day and that Jennifer would be seeing me. Turns out, Jennifer's dad is a dialysis patient who also has an unmatched donor. Jennifer thought her father, Robert, was an A and the donor an O, but she gave me his number and I gave him a call. Turns out, he's had a transplant before, so perhaps it's the case that he developed antibodies to his donor's blood.

If the swap with Robert doesn't work out, I have two options as I see it: 1) wait until a suitable match for a swap is found somewhere in the country; the kidneys are then extracted from the donors and rushed to the recipients, or 2) move to a state with a much shorter wait time. The transplant coordinator said that I could wait up to 18 months for the former and as little as a few months for the latter. A lot better than seven to 10 years without a donor.

One of the major problems of moving to another state is the lack of a support system. As I learned with my heart surgery, the only person who will be there for me is Aaron. And without a support system, I will be taken off the list. That was what the social worker made very clear to me yesterday. They don't want someone on the list who has no one to care for her once the transplant is performed. So moving to another state may not be an option.

I'm in Love--with Carl Sagan

Over the past few weeks, I have watched the 14-hour, seven-CD series "Cosmos: A Personal Voyage," originally aired on PBS in 1980 and still the most widely watched PBS series in the world. It is narrated by the late astronomer, astrophysicist, author, and cosmologist Carl Sagan.

I may have seen part of the series three decades ago when it first aired, but I don't remember doing so. Like many people of a certain age, and others such as my son who seem to know more about the times of my youth than I do, I always associated Carl Sagan with his dramatic, exaggerated "billions and billions" of light years and galaxies. But he was so much more than that.

After spending 13 evenings with Carl, I am sorry I never met him while he was alive because I really could have fallen for him. He had a poetic nature and a sensitive spirit that were enhanced by smoking pot. (That shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone.) In his series about the stars he frequently worked in the folly of military spending, the ridiculousness of preparing for nuclear war, the commonality of human beings, and the simultaneous free thinking of the ancient world about the celestial bodies and yet the nonexistence of challenges to the status quo of slavery and the diminishment of women. He spoke so poetically and dare I say mystically about the universe, the thirst for knowledge, and the human spirit, yet he was also an avowed skeptic and agnostic. He quoted Walt Whitman, then easily segued to an explanation of worm holes, quasars, and alternate universes. In "Cosmos," he traveled the world, sometimes slicing an apple pie in Cambridge University's dining room or sipping coffee at a Greek cafe or walking through deserted ancient temples. Quite often he philosophized along a rocky seashore or fervently wished he could have been one of the scholars at the Library at Alexandria before its burning in 391 A.D.

A few of his many choice words that I scribbled down while watching him on my laptop:
"We are star stuff." (He said this a lot.)
"our ship of the imagination"
"Stars are the phoenixes rising from their own ashes."
"We are, in a very deep sense, tied to the cosmos."
"It makes good sense to revere the stars for we are their children." (That's fantastic!)

Yes, I could have really gone for someone like Carl. And from what I've read, I'm not the only woman who found him cute. He married three times, all remarkable women in their own right--a biologist, then an artist, and with him til the end, his "Cosmos" co-author. He fathered five children.

Something that touched me most profoundly about Carl Sagan is how he longed to make contact with intergalactic travelers. I feel very strongly that contact will happen soon, within the next few years. Carl died in 1996, 14 years ago in December. I like to think that the star stuff that was Carl has reconfigured into an adolescent human who will see the day when ETs and humans make indisputable contact. Or perhaps, as he was quite an enlightened soul during his time on earth, he has evolved to a higher level of being and will be one of the visiting aliens whom he had wanted to meet.

Thursday is the Big Day

This Thursday at 1 p.m. I meet with the transplant team at UCLA. A few times in the past, I have thought I had jumped through all the hoops and was on the list, but, no, not yet. Thursday is supposed to be the deciding day. God, let's hope so!

My understanding is that I will meet with a social worker who will assess my support system, a psychologist or psychiatrist who will determine my emotional suitability as a transplant patient, and a transplant surgeon who will give me his blessing as a viable candidate.

But of course no decision will be made Thursday. My candidacy is still up for debate. The entire transplant team will assemble at some later date and seal my fate. That could be weeks or a month or more from now. So I may not know if I'm on the list until after I get back from France in mid-June. UGH!

Once again, I can totally understand how some people just throw in the towel and give up on this whole long, dragged-out, frustrating, exhausting process. If I were less assertive, 20 years older, or not feeling as well, I certainly would not have continued. It's just too much work and too much stress.

Please, if you think of me on Thursday, send loving thoughts my way. See the transplant team viewing me with an open mind and an understanding of what is truly in my best interest.

The Four Essentials of my Ideal Residence

I have long desired four things in a residence: a designated parking spot, a backyard in which to grow vegetables, a dog, and my own washer and dryer. (Quiet, safety, and sunshiny rooms are a given.) Where I currently live offers two of these--parking and a dog. When I was married, I had the other two. For the rest of my adult life, I've either had one (a backyard) or none, so I'm getting closer.

This afternoon, after a month of rewiring and repiping and painting, a washer and dryer were installed in a small utility room at the back of the house. It is for use by all six units, but it's still a lot nicer than having to cart my dirty clothes to the laundramat. So I guess you'd say that I now have 2 1/2 of the four essentials. Yippee!

The Pervasiveness of Violence Against Women

I was called for jury service today. On other occasions when I've been called, all I did was sit in the jury selection room on the sixth floor of the courthouse and wait. I was never asked to report to a courtroom. Today was different: From 7:45-9:30I sat, but then I was told to report, along with about 50 or so other potential jurors, to the third floor. The trial was for a Latino man in his mid- to late 40s who was charged with multiple counts of child molestation and rape of two minors between 1998 and 2007. The girls are now 15 and 17, so that would have made them 3 and 5 when the alleged molestation began. As the charges were read, I was close to tears.

The judge instructed the potential jurors as a group and individual ones as they were questioned that we should not pass any judgments based on the number of charges or the duration of the alleged abuse. She said that she had presided over a burglary case with more than 30 charges, but if the police arrested innocent men, they are innocent regardless of the number of charges. She also made it clear that this is a difficult case for most people to hear, but just because it is difficult doesn't mean it's impossible for someone to listen to the facts and decide upon the facts. She said that she is not asking jurors to be emotionless zombies, only to not allow their emotions to decide the case. All good instructions.

From 9:30-11:15 and then 1:30-3:45, jury selection took place. The defense attorney used maybe 15 of his challenges for cause or peremptory challenges to exclude jurors. Some of these challenges I understood as the candidates seemed to have a strong bias in the case. Others were harder to understand, but I suppose the defense attorney was looking for a certain type, whatever that was. The prosecutor just eliminated two potential jurors, a man whose uncle had been acquited of child molestation charges and a woman whose brother was serving an excessive sentence for burglary in Colorado. I was never questioned, and when 12 jurors and four alternates were finally selected and sworn in, I was free to go.

The two things that really struck me were how many people have attorneys or law-enforcement officers in their family and how many families have been touched by rape and molestation. Two men were excluded because their grandmothers had been raped and murdered; another man because his wife had been raped as a child and was still suffering from it; a woman whose grandmother had been murdered and her cousin raped, causing her so much trauma that she was institutionalized for most of her life; a school principal and a pediatric nurse who frequently dealt with children who had been molested; three women who left the jury box in tears because of the rapes or molestations of their family members, on and on and on. It really makes you wonder how many sick men are out there and what is it about our society that makes them so sick.

Floating in Wonder

This afternoon, while waiting for my physical therapy appointment, I became acutely aware of a state of being in which I am frequently present.

During these times, which are becoming more and more frequent, I am completely at peace, though I can see that others about me are distressed, sad, indulging in self-pity or worry, distracted, self-absorbed, seemingly oblivious to this beautiful world in which I am dwelling. I see their fear and pain, but it does not enter my field. I can feel compassion, which is at its highest sense, a connection of both common mortality and a wordless sense of immortality. During these times, for no apparent reason, a slight smile is on my lips, and my eyes are open, not just to take in the sights, but to apprehend a presence that seems all about me. For lack of a better word, let's call it God, though it is so pervasive and so subtle, I could just as well call it air or ether.

I am very easily entertained as sunshine and shadows and colors and shapes are all miraculous. I look at each person and immediately see deep inside him or her a common ground that we share, a spark of love and immortality, of star stuff, that the other human may only be vaguely aware of, burdened as so many have made themselves by the heaviness of this third-dimensional reality.

Sometimes when I am waiting for an appointment or during those rare times now that I have a leisurely cup of coffee at a coffeehouse, I look at each person in my view and send him or her a beam of love. My eyes become bright and I cover the person with love, then move on to the next. This is such a wonderful use of time, and I highly recommend it. It raises my vibration until I feel light, not quite weightless, but as if I might float up from my chair, as if the heaviness of the world is falling away.

Perhaps the best way to describe the state I am in is floating in wonder. I do not know how this has come about. I have felt it intermittently throughout my life, but it is more and more a part of my days. And for this I am very grateful--to God, to the air, or to the ether.

A Novel Idea

Concerns about healthcare reform prompted me to think of a premise for a novel: Healthcare for all eventually comes to mean limiting access to healthcare. At first, expensive cases such as my own are eliminated. Dialysis for anyone over 50, let's say, is no longer covered. Further limiting of access might prevent anyone over 60 receiving cancer treatments or heart bypass surgery. Slowly but surely, the weak, the sick, and the old would be phased out. But this is just the backdrop for the novel. The interesting question is: What kind of world would this create?

Through observing the world and its occupants, I am of the opinion that the weak, the sick, and the old serve a great purpose. They sometimes, but surely not always, provide the following lessons: Smile in the face of adversity. Be thankful for all that you have. Accept yourself as you are, with your supposed blemishes and shortcomings. Learn from the challenges that you face that others do not. Realize how precious each day, each second of life is. See the beauty that surrounds you in every moment. Apprehend the sense of the beyond that comes through suffering. These are a few of the deep lessons that illness and pain and the isolation and loneliness that they so often engender can bring to a person, if he or she is open. And sometimes, though most certainly not frequently, those who observe the weak, the sick, and the old are themselves aware of these lessons on a conscious level and so they allow true compassion to come forth.

In this novel, these learning and loving opportunities are no longer there. Consequently, those who are left, the supposedly strong, healthy, and young, undergo a moral degradation. They become more selfish, self-centered, petty, self-absorbed, then heartless, hurtful, and eventually self-destructive. All too late, those in charge, the ruling elite, the bureaucrats, the corporate masters, realize that through the elimination of those who were deemed unnecessary, they have destroyed something essential in society. Contrary to conventional eugenics, culling the herd of its so-called weaker members did not make the herd stronger.

Article in the New York Daily News

During my hospital stay in Brooklyn, I was interviewed by a reporter about my hip fracture and my appearance on an HBO documentary on organ donation and the organ shortage in the U.S. and Canada. The article has finally appeared in print. Please check it out:

Organ donor advocate Heidi Nye's shattered hip during HBO documentary exemplifies her cause

BY MIKE McLAUGHLIN
An organ donor advocate who traveled to Brooklyn to be interviewed for an HBO documentary fell and shattered her hip just before her debut - and now her injury could make its way into the movie.

The Unlucky Camisole

A year or so ago, I was occasionally seeing a man in his early 30s. We did a fair amount of kissing and finally made plans to take it to the next step. In the intervening days between making plans and the proposed execution of them, I went shopping and got a cute, black camisole, well, perhaps more like a slip, since it barely covers my upper thighs.



I was so excited about my camisole because I knew I could hide all the dialysis gauze, tubing, and tape beneath it. I would also figure out a way to squirrel away the insulin pump and its tubing. The camisole, I thought, would make me look sexy and like a woman without any encumbrances. Then if I just kept all my gear in place, hidden under my camisole, everything would go smoothly, and sex might be possible. That was my plan.

Well, the big day rolled around, and instead of finding some place to be alone together, this young guy instead wanted me to sit at a coffeehouse and watch him work on a script he was writing about his life as a strip club DJ. I saw him a few times after that, but just in passing. If he wasn't any more interested than that, I really wasn't interested either.




Last October, I spent a week in Tuscon with a man with whom I had had some wild dealings years ago. Sometime in 2005, he tracked me down through a magazine for which I was writing. I was very excited to hear from him again and really wanted to see him, to rekindle the flame. But he waited and waited and waited--nearly three years!--to show up at my doorstep. By that time, I wasn't nearly as excited as I had been three years earlier. But we stayed in contact, and so I went to visit him at his home. He treated me as if I were his sister. Though we shared his bed, nothing happened. So I gave the black camisole a try. It did nothing for him, and he suggested I better put something more on so I wouldn't get cold. Strike two.

Strike three occurred today. Someone I've been seeing off and on for a few years. Someone whose company I really enjoy and who really enjoys mine. We've had a few polite kisses, nothing more, but recently we've talked about how much we like each other and how we'd both like a lot more. We made plans for this afternoon "to see what happens." So, once again, I pulled out my black camisole and carefully selected my outfit.

Around 1:30, he canceled our rendezvous, saying he had gotten a call and needed to get to a job site to fix a problem.

I just got a thought: Why save this beautiful camisole for a man? I'll just wear it any damn time I please because it makes me feel sexy and it's so slinky and delicious on my skin. So what if no one else sees it, no one else touches it and feels it and smells my scent on it! It's a pleasure and a delight for me. In fact maybe I should get a red camisole and a fuschia pink one and another in dusty rose or soft peach. I could prance around my bedroom, wearing a camisole, and no one would be the wiser. That might be a helluva lot of fun. No doubt much more fun than with an uninterested man!

You Know Not the Day Nor the Hour

Mike Riek, the love of my life, if love is measured by sexual intensity, will be dead four years on May 8. Mike was a surfing legend and by far the most beautiful body I had ever come in contact with. He was strong and virile and took lots of physical risks. He had no known health problems.

We were together four years, 1996-2000, and during that time I developed coronary heart disease and congestive heart failure, partly because of the constricted blood flow due to Type I diabetes and partly because of the strain of the relationship.

Mike had a surfing buddy who had a wife who was on dialysis due to Type I diabetes. The health problems and potential health problems associated with diabetes frightened Mike, so he used diabetes as an excuse for breaking up with me.

The irony, of course, is that this perfect specimen of a man died four years ago while surfing, and I with all my health challenges am still alive and kicking.

As is written in Matthew 24:36-44:

"But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven....As were the days of Noah, so will be th coming of the Son of man. For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day when Noah entered the ark, and they did not know until the flood came and swept them all away, so will be the coming of the Son of man. Then two men will be in the field; one is taken and one is left. Two women will be grinding at the mill; one is taken and one is left. Watch therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But know this, that if the householder had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have watched and would not have let his house be broken into. Therefore you also must be ready; for the Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect."

And Matthew 25:13:

"Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour."

I know that a lot of people read this as an allusion to the rapture, the time when the good souls shall be taken on high and the evil doers are left to suffer on earth. Well, maybe, not I feel these passages have much more currency and meaning when they are considered in terms of death.

No one knows the day nor the hour of his own death or anyone else's. So often, those who seem to be the picture of health suddenly die, and those who bemoan their condition and gripe about how they're on death's door seem to hang on forever. This certainly was the case with Mike. And, damn it, I continue to hang on.

Peter Paternalistic

Here is the video that Robby Berman was filming when I broke my hip. The HBO crew was filming Robby filming. I was leaning against a gate across the street from the action.

This is truly a clever video. It's an analogy for the ridiculous prohibitions we have in this country, and every country except Iran, in regards to compensating organ donors. In the video a mother pleads with onlookers to save her child from a burning building. No one steps forward. She then offers $10,000, and someone says he'll do it. Then Robby prevents him from saving the child, saying that he can't accept any money, that it's better if the child die than to save his life and be compensated for it.

This is exactly the situation with organ donation. So please watch it and send it along. Please spread the message that the law has to change. People are dying every day, waiting for organs. As it is now, living donors are not even given paid time off from work to undergo surgery and recover. This prevents many people from donating who cannot afford to take two weeks or more off from work unpaid.

Two Minutes of Sadness

While leaving physical therapy this morning, I was struck by two minutes of sadness. In general, I face the world wide-eyed and sunny. This isn't put on; it's not contrived or forced or faked. It's just that in the past few years, I have maintained a very positive attitude despite all that has come my way.

Once in a while, however, I am overcome with sadness. Maybe two or three times a year, I suddenly am overwhelmed and sometimes weep uncontrollably for a few minutes, then dry my eyes, feel refreshed and renewed, and resume my usual upbeat manner. These mood shifts don't seem to be prompted by any external circumstances. Rather, they come on as quickly and as unannounced as a cold breeze on a sweltering summer day.

These temporary dark clouds are perhaps an emotional purging of sorts. Every once in a while, the sadness that is somewhere deep inside me, of which I am not even aware, has to be vomited out.

This morning, the thought that pulsed through my consciousness for those two minutes was that I would never be loved, never have a lover again, never be fondled or kissed or spooned. I would live the rest of my days untouched. This thought did not spill over in tears, though tears were close.

Then I focused my attention on the leaves of a green plant and on the sunshine, and this darkness departed, surely to surface months and months from now, just as unexpectedly.

What the Doctors Don't Tell You

A few weeks ago, I had an appointment with my cardiologist. I asked him when the tingling, sensitivity, and pain in my chest from the triple-bypass surgery in November would go away. He said, "Maybe never."

Why hadn't anyone ever told me this prior to surgery? I feel it's a pretty significant omission to refrain from telling a woman that from now on, her breasts are going to hurt every time they're touched.

Granted, no man has touched my breasts for almost three years, so maybe it's a mute point. I like to think that some day I'll meet a man who would like to touch them and that I'd like him to touch them. (See previous posts about how many men I've met in the past decade who are afraid of, uninterested in, or incapable of anything approaching sex.)

Is it that doctors are not trained to think of their patients as sexual beings? Are they so narrowly focused on the surgical outcomes and the risk factors and the mortality rates that they don't consider the sexual, emotional, and social aspects of medical intervention?

Add to this sensitivity the incision pain from the hip surgery and the stagnant regions of my right leg that are so painful they cannot be touched, which are the aftermath of harvesting veins from this leg for the bypass surgery.

The photo shown here approximates the extent of my bypass scar and the smaller scars that were exit sites for tubes during surgery. From an online search, I see that some people's scars in time blend in with the background skin and are no longer red. I would like that to happen for me too.

Once again, I would just like to be free of all of this. I would like my body back, stripped of gauze, tubing, tape, a catheter, and an insulin pump. I would like the scars gone too. Because, damn it, I have such a nice body, especially for someone my age. I'm probably in the upper 10 percent of bodies of American women in their early 50s. And yet that fact is obscured by all this medical stuff and all these surgical scars. It's just a real shame.

Back to the Cane

The physical therapist told me yesterday that it's better to use the cane and walk straight than to walk unaided and hobble. She said the latter will mess up my back. So I'm back to using the cane. No shame in that.

Walking Unaided

For the past week or so, I have often walked about the apartment without the cane or the walker. My apartment is small enough that I am never more than a few inches away from a wall, a counter, or a piece of furniture on which to grab if need be.

Yesterday and especially today, however, I walked around outside without a cane, twice going to the end of the block and back. Sure, I'm limping, but at least I'm doing it.

I am so thankful for the progress I am making. My goal of walking normally for my UCLA transplant evaluation is certainly doable. I want to appear as strong, healthy, able-bodied, and vibrant as possible for that day of scrutiny.

Cayenne Pepper for the Feet

Poor circulation in my feet has been a challenge for at least a decade. It's why my Kaiser podiatrist granted approval for acupuncture. Of course, Dr. Mai treats a lot more than tingly, numb, sore feet, but for all the years I've been seeing him, he's always put needles in my feet to stimulate blood circulation. This helps, and I'm sure acupuncture has kept me from losing a toe or two.

Circulation in my feet and in my legs in general has been further compromised due to the triple-bypass surgery, during which veins were extracted from my right leg, and hip surgery, which entailed three incisions in my left thigh and buttocks. Following heart surgery, my legs were drum-tight for more than a month, due to severe fluid retention. This was extremely uncomfortable. Now, following hip surgery, I have experienced intense, shooting pain and a burning sensation in my feet, especially at night. The pain is so severe that it awakens me. Twice I have taken vicodin for the pain in my feet, not for the incision pain or muscle pain in my leg.

I pleaded with my nephrologist, my GP, my cardiologist, the diabetic nurse, and the orthopedic physician's assistant to authorize a sequential compression device for me. This is the device that surgical patients are usually hooked up to post-op to prevent blood clots from forming. It's basically two cuffs that are placed around the patient's calves and which continuously contract and expand. They massage the calves and keep blood circulating. They are fantastic, and throughout my hospital stay, I had none of the intense pain that I have experienced since coming home.

Though a few of these healthcare providers attempted to get DME (durable medical equipment) to send out the sequentlal compression device, they were told it was not a covered item. This is the ridiculous nature of having people who are bean counters make medical decisions. I emailed my doctors, saying that, surely, the cost of this device is far less than the cost of amputations. Unfortunately, though they agreed with me, they could do nothing.

So, I have gone the alternative route. I read that cayenne pepper aids blood circulation. A few months ago, I had mixed spice-grade cayenne and red pepper flakes with hand lotion and massaged my feet with this mixture, then put cayenne in my socks, and went to sleep, my tootsies invigorated by these warm spices.

This worked well for a while, but this last post-op episode was especially intense. So I bought cayenne capsules at a health food store. These babies have 40,000 heat units per capsule. That's much, much more than I would be able to ingest through spice-grade cayenne.

At first, I took the cayenne on an empty stomach. That was a mistake. I became dizzy and nauseated. From then on, I've taken it with a meal and seen immediate results. No more stabbing pain. No more getting woken up by pain. No more burning in my feet. True, the tingling is still there, but it's been there for a long time. This is defintely a step in the right direction.

The Social-Lubricant Lie

Maybe seven, eight years ago, it struck me that there is a type of lie I had never before considered. I call it the social-lubricant lie. Let me explain.

I was standing in front of the faculty mailboxes in the journalism department, sorting through my mail. Two colleagues were doing the same. One commented negatively on a memo that we all had received. I don't remember what the memo was about, but let's just say it was something small, like a reminder to clean up your workspace after you had finished copying or assembling papers, something like that. Perhaps the other professor said something like, "Oh, gawd, another memo! He's always sending out these ridiculous memos!" As if hit by a bolt of lightening, I realized that if I fed this negativity, this grumbling, I would not be honest, since to me it was a reasonable thing to ask to clean up after ourselves. The social lubricant lie would have been to say something like, "Yeah, he's a real pain, that old memo-writer!" Instead I just smiled, said, "Oh, well," and walked away.

I began to give some real thought to social-lubricant lies. I began to see all the energy and words and drama wasted over them, how much of human interaction consists of these disingenuous statements.

They are not the same as so-called white lies, though perhaps white lies are a type of social-lubricant lies. White lies are more volitional; the person uttering them knows that they are not true and yet says them supposedly to protect someone's feelings. Most social-lubricant lies are on a much more automatic, unthinking level, as they are often just a parroting of what others are saying without any inner reflection as to how one actually feels about the subject.

Since that day standing in front of the mailboxes, I have been attentive to my own interactions with others, taking care not to engage in this pervasive type of lie. And this doesn't mean calling others out about their infractions. It just means conducting myself in such a way that I am not violating my own truth. This can be done in a cute way, as I did those seven, eight years ago in the journalism department, simply smiling and offering a noncommital "oh, well," thereby not offending anyone, but not feeding their criticism either.

So just as an exercise, go about your next week attentive of the social-lubricant lies that are everywhere to be found. Very often they are linked to a complaint. So whenever anyone complains to you about something, hold back for a second and determine how you really feel about the subject. Is it worth complaining about? Is it really all that awful? If not, why not simply smile to the complainer and with your eyes bright and cheery, say, "oh, well"?

An Outside Chance

I spoke with a UCLA transplant coordinator this week who told me that there is a small chance that Janet and I may be compatible. That is, even though she is an A blood type and I am an O, she might still be able to donate one of her kidneys to me.

Remember that, in general, O is the universal donor, but O's can only accept from other O's. The coordinator said that some A's are of a rare subtype that allows them to donate to O's. She said this is fewer than 6 percent of all A's, but still there's a chance Janet and I may be compatible.

That would be great, as it would make things far less complex. Otherwise, we would have to do a kidney swap (someone else has an O donor, but is an A, as Janet is, and that person would receive Janet's kidney, and I would receive the O donor's kidney) or a donor chain, in which three or more unmatched pairs participate. Or I would have to look for another donor.

Another Perspective on Organ Donation

I saw Rick on Wednesday for lunch. I really like Rick because, well, he's a real guy, and I don't encounter too many real guys here in So Cal. Most of the men are metrosexual, a bit sissy, perhaps a bit too orderly or interested in decorating or into their clothes or junior-high-school-girlish about blood or dirt or moving some muscles.

Rick sure isn't metrosexual, and I really like that. He was a mechanic for Formula One race cars when he was young, then he became a licensed plumber. In the past few years, he got his general contractor's license and has taken all the coursework to get his real estate license. Basically, he knows how to fix most everything, and because he's a smart guy, he knows how to run his business, deal with all kinds of people, and manage his workers. He's funny and earthy and nicely built.

Rick and I met on match.com maybe three years ago. I feel I have been open to more than a friendship, touching him, rubbing his thighs, even giving him an hour-and-a-half, full-body massage, but he never made any moves. We've had a few kisses, but they've been very tame. There have been long gaps in which we didn't see each other, and during these times, he had relationships with other gals, and I had a few, a very few, one-time things with one or two men. But we were always excited to hear from each other.

I struggled a bit with how much to tell Rick about my health. Since we weren't intimate, I figured I didn't have to tell him anything. Then last November he called my cell phone when I was in the hospital. Figuring he could hear the hospital sounds, I told him I was recovering from triple-bypass surgery, brought on by insulin-dependent diabetes and that I wore an insulin pump. I figured that was plenty for him to assimilate without mentioning the dialysis too.

Rick was fine with my news, though I'm sure that, like most people, he didn't grasp what it all meant. How could he! Except for a few broken bones or sprains, he's been healthy and vigorous all his life.

But this Wednesday we met in person, for the first time since the Belmont Shore Christmas Parade and an after-parade party in December of 2008, just before I had the dialysis catheter surgically implanted in my abdomen.

So over gyros at the local Greek deli, I told Rick that I had been on dialysis since February of 2009. He seemed to take it well, though he didn't ask any questions and I didn't provide many details.

Rick did offer another perspective on organ donation that I had never considered. He said something like this: "Here you have all these crazy people who rape and murder and do all sorts of awful things. We put them on death row and we feed them and give them a place to live for years and years. They're of no use to society at all. If I were in charge, we'd take those bastards and give them a trial, sentence them to death, have a doctor examine them to see who could use their organs, and then bye-bye, fella, you're out of here. Next.

"When there's a sweetheart of a girl like you who's dying for a kidney, and we've got these bastards on death row taking up space, it's just not right."

Rick figured this would solve the organ-donation problem. But I don't know about that, Rick. Since 1976, we have executed 1,200 prisoners in this country. In 2009, the number was 52, and so far this year, it's 12. That's a small dent in the 100,000 people who are currently awaiting an organ. Of course, perhaps Rick would like to see a whole lot more people given the death penalty.

Poor Customer Service the Norm

The little story I am about to relate is not unique. Indeed, I suspect it is played out tens of thousands of times each day across the country. I offer it here because it is so common, and damn it, it shouldn't be!

I was grocery shopping this afternoon at the Vons at the Traffic Circle in Long Beach. I got some organic veggies and fruit, then saw that Ghiradelli chocolate was on sale. My son likes good chocolate, and his birthday is next week, so I figured this was a decent excuse. The bags of chocolate squares were $4.29 each or $3.49 each if you bought two or more. Plus I had two $1 coupons, which brought the price down to $2.49 per bag. S till pricey but doable.

When I looked at the receipt, I saw that I had been charged the $4.29 price. I politely told the clerk I was sure the price should've been $3.49. Instead of saying, "Oh, sure, ma'am, I'll have the bagger go to the shelves and check the price," she just frowned. The bagger reluctantly agreed to check the shelf with me in tow, though she rolled her eyes at the young clerk next to us as we passed him, telling him I was disputing the price. The other clerk also rolled his eyes.

Sure enough, I was right. The bagger didn't say, "Oh, I'm sorry. It looks like we made a mistake. We'll just have to go to the customer service desk to get you a refund." Instead, I asked her if she needed to take the price tag on the shelf to the desk. She peeled it off without comment. The so-called customer service person begrudgingly gave me $1.60 in change, without saying, "Sorry for the inconvenience" or "Thanks for bringing this to our attention." No apology from anyone. Just crossed eyes and frowns and a general feeling that I was really putting them out. Through all this, I was polite and said thank you several times.

What's more, the gal at the customer service desk told the bagger to put the price tag back on the shelf. She never indicated that someone was going to reprogram the cash registers or whatever it is they have to do to correct such an error.

I wondered, as I have often wondered, if these errors are calculated. Can you imagine 80 cents per bag multiplied by all the bags of Ghiradelli chocolates that Vons sells this week. And of course there may be hundreds of errors, which only compounds the money the chain would surreptiously cheat out of its customers.

Of course, the even bigger issue is this: Why are people so rude these days? Why do they take these kinds of interactions so personally? Don't they realize that if they were pleasant on the job, they would have a lot more fun on the job? Why is this rudeness so prevalent in our society? How did it come about? What can be done to reconnect people with their common humanity? What can be done to help them loosen up and have fun? Are we doomed to be a nation of overly sensitive, eager-to-be-offended children?

Getting my Skin Burned Off

For the last four days or so, I have noticed a discharge around my dialysis exit site.

Each morning I clean the site where the tubing enters my abdomen with antibacterial soap. Then I dry the area with a sterile gauze pad and douse it with hydrogen peroxide and antibacterial cream while wearing a surgical mask to prevent me from coughing or sneezing on the area. Then I dress it in sterile gauze and tape. The site is supposed to be completely free of pus, dirt, and blood. But my site wasn't.

It was also irritated and sore, so I went into the dialysis clinic to have it checked by a nurse. She said it was a tugging problem. The way I was taping down the foot-long tubing that is outside my body was causing the skin at the site to tear. She said she'd have to burn away the loose skin and blood around the exit site. Yikes!

So, while I held my shirt up to prevent my germ-infested clothing from contaminating the site, she burned away the affected area with silver nitrate. Though it burned and stung, I told her it was nothing compared to breaking my hip, so she should just do what she had to do and get it over with.

All day long, it's been stinging. But it looks a lot cleaner, which is the most important thing. Anything to prevent an infection of the tubing or, worse yet, of the peritoneum, the large sack within every person that holds the organs. I have not experienced this, and I don't want to. I understand that it is one of the most painful things around. So burning a little skin was OK with me.

Learning from Enlightened Beings and from Racists

Learning opportunities can be found everywhere you go. At least that's been my experience.

So often, people feel that they can only learn from those who are "above" them in one way or another. People who have more experience, more training, more degrees, more workshops and seminars and classes under their belts. True, such persons often have interesting tidbits to relate, but what I have found is that every encounter with another human being is a learning opportunity.

This past Saturday was a case in point. I attended a meeting of spiritual seekers, some of whom are familiar with every New Age writer and lecturer on the planet, it seems. One of the participants insisted that fear was clouding our conversation. No one else perceived this, but she was adamant.

Her judgment set off a battle of egos between her and two other women. Each time one of the women rebutted something said by one of the other two, I clearly saw this as an attempt to prove to the others and perhaps to herself that she was just as evolved as the other two. This went on for well over an hour until finally they agreed that they were all on the same level of no longer being human and being pure beings of light.

Wow, I was so tempted to challenge that, but really didn't want my ego to become embroiled in all this. The lesson they gave me: Sit back, breathe, relax, don't get involved in this battle of the egos, no matter how tempting that might be. Later, I thought how wonderful it would have been had one of these gals just stopped, smiled, and said something like, "We obviously aren't communicating well here. Something is amiss. How about if we just drop it, knowing that other topics will arise where we will be better able to understand each other. But for now, let's just be quiet and let other people speak. Why don't we just listen?"

The lesson from these gals is a big one, one that I require a reminder of now and then. How often during my life have I felt the need to justify my existence, to defend my position, to try to force others to see things my way! What a waste of energy! I am so thankful to these three that I could just sit there and let them duke it out without getting involved.

Besides, I feel that being a human being is a great gift. Sure, let's evolve our consciousness, but during this life, I'm a human, with all the wonderful feelings and emotions that entails. I was given a human body to enjoy the sensual wonders of this planet, and I was given human emotions to expand my heart to eventually embrace the world.

My idea is that speaking of "levels" is misguided. I have learned from racists and sexists just as surely as I have learned from supposedly evolved human beings. For that matter, I have learned a great deal more from rocks, trees, dogs, birds, babies, and beams of sunshine than I have from the majority of "spiritual" people I have met.






















And one of my most valuable lessons has come from a woman who openly admits she's a racist. From this gal I have learned that the best attitude you can adopt when someone slights you, betrays you, abandons you, hurts you, does you wrong, is to smile, shake your head, and say, "Aren't people interesting!" No attachment to their slights, no involvement in their drama, just shake it off and move forward.

Perhaps one of the biggest lessons is that there are no levels. People move in and out of understanding, in and out of insights, in and out of purity and the need for an emotional and spiritual tune-up. And the truth is that we can often learn so much more from behavior that we do not want to emulate than we can from those who are telling us how to be as evolved as they are!

Graduated to a Cane

Yesterday I graduated to using a cane. I no longer use the walker except when I first get up in the morning, as I am a bit unsteady.

I am improving every day. I am so grateful for this quick recovery. Soon I will leave the cane behind and be walking as I was before the accident.

How I Hate to Write that Check to the IRS

How I hate to write a check to the IRS. It's not that I want to keep it for myself. It's what that money buys that disgusts me, shames me.

If that check for $644 that I wrote this morning went to feed starving children or support starving artists or improve our national parks or clean our waterways or truly educate our country's future, then I'd happily send it off. But upwards of 70 percent of our tax dollars are in one way or another spent on killing, maiming, and causing horrible suffering.

First, figure how huge a portion of the budget goes to so-called defense (better known as killing). Add to that the debt incurred by defense spending and all the myriad costs associated with all our wars over the years (and that includes veterans' benefits and military pay and pensions). The chart shown here only accounts for these components of the total mix. Then think of the torturing done by the CIA and other spy organizations. And the government spooky business handled by any number of federal agencies, including the DOE (Department of Energy) and FEMA (the Federal Emergency Management Agency).

Of course, some of that $644 goes to things I would support, but most of it doesn't. Let's say, conservatively speaking, $400 of that goes to evil. That's $400 I would much rather donate to a charity than give to the IRS to allow the government to conduct its sinister business.

Every time I write a check to the IRS I feel dirty and ashamed, knowing I am one of a few hundred million conspirators, guilty of mass murder, torture, kidnapping, unjust imprisonment, untold suffering in so many lands throughout the world. I am guilty just as each one of you reading this is guilty.

Ten Years Ago Today

Ten years ago today--April 1, 2000--I was visited by Archangel Michael and his countless minions. The day on which he imparted the message "The strength that you see within me is there inside of you."

At the time he imparted these words, I was not feeling very strong. But in the ensuing years, with all the challenges I have faced, I see that he was absolutely right. I have frequently been amazed at how well I handle adversity. And I am so very grateful to Archangel Michael for reminding me what inner resources I have at my command.

Today seems like any other day, bright and happy. But still a part of me wonders if something truly remarkable will occur. I'm open.

Revising my Ideas About Jews and Jamaicans

Before my hospital stay in Brooklyn, I had, with only two exceptions, encountered Jews who thought of themselves as victims, and I had always thought of Jamaicans as easy-going, optimistic, friendly people. My 10 days in a Brooklyn hospital showed me Jews and Jamaicans who did not fit these molds at all.

First off, there was Robby. What a fantastic guy! In the hours we spent talking, he did not bring up victimhood once. What a relief! Also Robby has a sense of humor, he's compassionate toward all people, and he struck me as kind of sexy, especially in a sports coat when he was filming his You Tube video.

Except for Heidi Dorman, a friend in high school, who was a playful, funny kid, and Dennis Garfinkle, my son's hard-drinking, crazy friend from Azerbaijan, the other Jews I have met in my life were so into feeling sorry for themselves. They had gone to the best schools, their parents were well-off, they had been successful in business or in their profession, they had really big houses and drove nice cars, and their kids were going to prestigious schools, but somehow they thought they were oppressed. I thought, "Hey, if this is oppression, bring it on. I could sure use some."

So Robby was the first pleasant surprise. Then there was Dr. Fein, the hospital's chief nephrologist, who took such good care of me. He personally saw to it that I had the supplies I needed to do nightly dialysis. He was such a cutie, forever with a sweet smile on his lips. He wore a yamaka, which served to make him look even more gnome-like than he already did. Truly, if you were going to cast someone in the role of a gnome, you could do no better than this portly bundle of twinkling eyes and sunny disposition.

Then there was the yamaka-beclad orderly who rolled me into the ER. I was beginning to tear up because no one I knew was there to see me into surgery. He held my hand and provided such a loving, compassionate presence, assuring me that there were a bunch of people who were going to take very good care of me.

Then there were the awfully nice people that Robby arranged to visit me. Naomi and her son Avishai. The wonderfully deligtful rabbi. And Robby's roommate, Gavin, who took off a full morning from work to see me. So very thoughtful.

And last but not least, the Silversteins. Helen was my roommote, and I realy was taken with her 90-year-old husband, Lou. He had such a sweet air about him, but you could also tell he was capable of being a tough guy, as he had been the assistant managing editor at the New York Times. And their daughter, Anne, was so kind to me, as was their attendant, Lydia.

So I am very grateful for having met a number of Jews who not only did not think of themselves as victims but were actually having fun with life.

Which brings us to the Jamaicans, who were definitely not having fun. I have to say I have never received such terrible care in a hospital than I received from the Jamaican nurses' aides at Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn. Virtually all the nurses' aides were Jamaican. All of them had big attitude problems and were extremely inconvenienced when I asked for their help. Aaron said that they got upset if you interrupted their chatting with one another. And they were rude and sour-faced when doing any aspect of their job. Part of the reason why I fell the second time was because I did not want to ask one of these unhappy women to help me.

My friend Ken said that they're probably unhappy because New York City is such a shock to their systems, it's so different from their homeland. Sure, that's true, but they made the decision to leave their islands. They need to regroup and find happiness here. In other words, they need to stop thinking of themselves as victims!

Thank God for Long Arms

So often during the past few weeks since I broke my hip I have been just able to reach some object. Had my arms been a little less long, these many, many objects would have been just slightly out of reach. Consequently, so many times during the past few weeks I have sighed a big "thank you" to God or whomever is listening, thank you, thank you, thank you for my long arms.

I Overdid It!

I had my first on-site physical therapy appointment this morning. Celia, the therapist, said I was doing so well, so she gave me a bunch of new exercises to do at home.

About 3 o'clock I took 500mg of niacin and a capsule of cayenne pepper. I had read that niacin is good for the heart, and my cardiologist recommended that I take it, saying he does too. And the cayenne is for the intense pain in my feet, a consequence of nerve damage due to diabetes. This was my first time taking both these supplements, and my body had an intense reaction. I was struck with nausea and eventually vomiting. I was dizzy and light-headed. Add to this severe pain upon any movement, which was probably due to my vigorous undertaking of the PT exercises this afternoon.

I tried to lie down and relax, but the pain was so intense. I was crying and moaning and on the verge of screaming. I eventually sat up and reached my cell phone to call Janet, my next-door neighbor. The call went to voice mail.

I struggled to take a few steps. I wanted to take some Tylenol, but the bottle was no longer on the kitchen counter. I'd have to walk as far as the hall closet, and I didn't think I could make it. Just then, Janet came to the door. What a relief!

Janet was so wonderful, rubbing my back as I vomited up lunch and the vicodin she found for me. After that bout, I was able to keep another vicodin down. She helped me hobble back to the bed and lie down. Each movement brought sharp pain. I also applied ice to my incisions and groin, where the pain was most intense. Janet brought over a heating pad that I used on my knee and neck. Heat is so comforting, so loving.

Before Janet left, she brought me the book I've been reading, Kurt Vonnegut's "Bluebeard." I read a chapter, then dropped off to sleep. Now I'm feeling so much better.

I'm so grateful for Janet and her tending of my needs. I'm just going to have to take those exercises a little less heartily when I do them tomorrow. I had been off all pain meds for almost a week; this was my first dose. I want to do everything in my power to avoid them altogether.

Back Behind the Wheel

Instead of asking friends for rides to the doctor, I thought I'd try driving myself. I figured it was my left hip that was broken, and it's the right foot that does the driving. Except for the inconvenience of folding and unfolding the walker and getting it in and out of the car, driving was no problem. So a little more than two weeks following surgery, I now am again enjoying the freedom of life behind the wheel.