We've all heard about or experienced how the healthcare system in this country is broken. Specifically, that 45 million or so people are without health coverage and that hospitals that accept indigent patients are going broke.
I would like to address other ways in which the system is broken--and could be so easily improved with so little money.
I am a member of Kaiser Permanente, one of the biggest, if not the biggest, HMOs in the country. Kaiser is all about processing patients, not about healing. The following are my recommendations to improve the system and make it more conducive to health:
* Keep it clean! Two of the last few times I've been hospitalized, I've been horrified by the filth. On one occasion at the Harbor City hospital, there was blood on my sheets and blood on th floor. I told the nurse, who said he was not authorized to clean it up. I asked for cleaning supplies so I could do it myself, but he said that was not allowed either. And while at the Bellflower hospital, I saw feces on the bathroom floor before the cleaning staff entered the room and after they left. This is why I now ask my son to thoroughly clean my hospital room before I enter it. This shouldn't be necessary. And my next precaution is to bring anti-bacterial wipes for any personnel who step through the door to attend to me. All this to prevent the staff infections that are killing and debilitating thousands in our nation's hospitals.
* Turn off the TVs! About 15 years ago, Kaiser introduced TVs into waiting rooms. At first, they displayed soothing nature scenes accompanied by soft classical music. This was fantastic. But soon enough these healing images and sounds were replaced with TV shock shows. How many times I have gone to a cardiology appointment only to be assaulted by distraught, disturbed, and disturbing drama queens and kings shouting at each other and traipsing their crazy lives in front of all the world to see.
* Bring some life inside. I feel as if I'm in some Soviet-era government building when inside a Kaiser facility. What is needed are living plants and aquariums and aviaries. Patients who are surrounded by vibrant living things tend to do better than those who are denied contact with life that is flourishing.
* Give patients a rub. While patients are waiting for a stress-inducing doctor appointment or diagnostic test, why not have a massage therapist give them a shoulder rub or massage their hands? What a relaxing, stress-alleviating, healing experience!
* Get rid of the numbers. Decentralize healthcare services so that the receptionists actually know the patients by name. This is one of the chief differences between going to an HMO and going to an alternative practitioner. In fact, when I call my acupuncturist's office, he often picks up the phone. This is in contrast to Kaiser's maze of buffers before ever reaching the doctor. In fact, I have never reached a Kaiser doctor. Even when he or she does receive my message, a nurse returns my call, not the doctor. And then the nurse doesn't leave a message besides saying that I should call back, and so the same frustrating experience begins anew. This can go on for days or even a week before a question can be answered, and by then the patient is either dead or over whatever it was that was the problem.
Until my recommendations are enacted, I will continue to bring cleaning supplies to the hospital and to psychically protect myself from all the negative vibes and all the antagonistic-to-healing components of the HMO system.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Still Expecting a Miracle
Despite some dark thoughts and pessimistic worrying during the past two months, my overall attitude is one of hope. I am still expecting a miracle.
This is the Season of Light, so what better time for a miracle. I am focused on the healing of my body, especially the restoration of my kidneys and heart to optimal working order.
Each night and morning when I meditate, I feel the vibrations throughout my body, pulsations of vibrancy and health. Each day I affirm my improved health and give thanks to beings of light and love who are working with my body during the dream state to bring it into alignment with its master plan of health.
In the past week, I have noticed some positive changes. My breathing is no longer labored when I am lying down. I only need two pillows under my head at night and not four or five. In fact, there have been nights in the past few months when I had to sit in a straight-back chair in order to breathe--a position that is not conducive to sleep. Also, I am able to walk quite a distance without becoming short of breath or growing fatigued. Case in point: During the evening of caroling, I probably walked 14 blocks. Even a few weeks ago, I had trouble walking to my truck, much less to the end of the block. This is a great improvement. And I am no longer exhausted in the middle of the day and need to take a nap. Yes, indeed, a miracle is definitely in the works.
I am putting off surgery, knowing that it will soon be unnecessary. The miracle is manifesting in perceivable improvements. My body is aligning with health, vitality, strength, and vibrancy. The miracle that I have been anticipating for almost four decades is drawing nigh in this season of miracles.
This is the Season of Light, so what better time for a miracle. I am focused on the healing of my body, especially the restoration of my kidneys and heart to optimal working order.
Each night and morning when I meditate, I feel the vibrations throughout my body, pulsations of vibrancy and health. Each day I affirm my improved health and give thanks to beings of light and love who are working with my body during the dream state to bring it into alignment with its master plan of health.
In the past week, I have noticed some positive changes. My breathing is no longer labored when I am lying down. I only need two pillows under my head at night and not four or five. In fact, there have been nights in the past few months when I had to sit in a straight-back chair in order to breathe--a position that is not conducive to sleep. Also, I am able to walk quite a distance without becoming short of breath or growing fatigued. Case in point: During the evening of caroling, I probably walked 14 blocks. Even a few weeks ago, I had trouble walking to my truck, much less to the end of the block. This is a great improvement. And I am no longer exhausted in the middle of the day and need to take a nap. Yes, indeed, a miracle is definitely in the works.
I am putting off surgery, knowing that it will soon be unnecessary. The miracle is manifesting in perceivable improvements. My body is aligning with health, vitality, strength, and vibrancy. The miracle that I have been anticipating for almost four decades is drawing nigh in this season of miracles.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Caroling for Brandy Yields Booze and Good Cheer
Last night I and 10 other merry-makers caroled our way from door to door, bringing joy to the Rose Park area of Long Beach. Since I am the one who began this tradition some 25 years ago in Wisconsin and finally, finally, finally, others are catching on that this is tremendous fun, I got to ring the doorbells and direct the singers. Except for Lisa, one of son Aaron's coworkers, who has a degree in vocal music, none of us have trained voices. But that really didn't matter. We made up for our lack of talent with great bursts of enthusiasm.
At households where I deemed the occupants were partyers, I'd give a little signal to my fellow carolers and we'd close with a second verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," which goes like this: "Now bring us a cup of brandy/Now bring us a cup of brandy/Now bring us a cup of brandy/And a shot and a beer." This goes back to the first caroling venture on a cold winter night in Wisconsin with my then-husband, my brother and his wife.
I gave the signal at Ali's house, but his dog ran off and he had to fetch him. By that time we were across the street at the home of a woman who brought out her tambourine to accompany our "Jingle Bells." As we finished there, Ali ran across the street, beckoning us back to his place. He had gotten a bottle of brandy from his liquor cabinet and poured a dozen shot glasses for us. As I no longer drink--doesn't appeal to me anymore and it doesn't do my health any good--a few of my fellows got two shots.
We stopped at the drive-through lane at Golden Burger. These folk were thrilled with "Feliz Navidad" and offered us money--which we refused--and sodas. Next up was Portfolio Coffeehouse, which like last year was populated with bored hipsters and PC-entranced yuppies. Both sets were too cool to give us any mind. What dullards!
A few other houses, one with two guys, one holding a beer, but not offering us one. Another with two women, new homeowners who were so happy we'd stopped by. A house with a couple and a young child, who gave us his leftover Halloween candy. A house we had visited last year at which the family sat on the porch after supper, apparently waiting for random magic--like a group of carolers. And then there was Suzanne, who asked to join in, so Othman shared his song sheet and she belted out "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
Then it was on to O'Connell's, a neighborhood bar complete with pool tables. Music was blaring from the jukebox, so I asked the bar tender to turn it down because we were going to sing. He obliged. We hit them with the first chorus of "Here We Come A-Wassailing." I then turned to our audience and asked, "Any requests?" A burly guy quipped, "Let's see your tits." I didn't miss a beat: "No! A song!" Since no requests were made, I gave the signal to close with our special version of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." At first the bartender said something about no money, no booze. Then Othman countered with, "We know you've got brandy here." The bartender gave in when I said that we come here all the time and pay for our drinks. He gave us three pitchers of beer on the house!
Wishing to be on our way, back to the business of caroling, I ordered my fellows to down their drinks. Shouting a merry Christmas to all, we were out the door. We stopped in front of the cafe next door. It was closed, but we sang anyway. The owner unlocked the door, and we sang our hearts out for the amused table of four that was finishing their late supper. Most of my group was pretty smashed, so the carol was off-key with different singers finishing at different times. Othman explained: "Some of us are a little drunk." I asked if the diners had any requests. They laughed and one of the them said, "Oh, no, I don't know how you could top that!" We wished them a merry Christmas and headed home, stopping only to serenade a lone walker.
The evening ended around the Christmas tree with me passing out gifts to my fellow carolers. Blueberry juice for Othman as he had not known that such a thing existed. A vintage scarf and vintage earrings for Christina, who dresses in '50s attire. Balls of yarn, pipe cleaners, and glitter pom-poms for her boyfriend, Mike, who I said was creative enough to know how to use these in the bedroom. A Batman mask and a bottle of champagne for Bryant. Funny magnets for Dennis. The U.S. Constitution and "1001 Places to See Before You Die" for Othman. And what was best of all--a Lonely Planet guidebook to Southeast Asia and a map of the same for Tyler, who said that was the next place he wanted to go. He was so thrilled that I had known this. "Of course I knew, Tyler," I told him. I also gave him a huge tome of natural remedies, of the right foods for hundreds of ailments--a book he had been looking at in Spanish while traveling in Peru, but he said having the English version would be so much easier.
What a grand evening of fun and merriment for us and of holiday magic for those we regaled.
At households where I deemed the occupants were partyers, I'd give a little signal to my fellow carolers and we'd close with a second verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," which goes like this: "Now bring us a cup of brandy/Now bring us a cup of brandy/Now bring us a cup of brandy/And a shot and a beer." This goes back to the first caroling venture on a cold winter night in Wisconsin with my then-husband, my brother and his wife.
I gave the signal at Ali's house, but his dog ran off and he had to fetch him. By that time we were across the street at the home of a woman who brought out her tambourine to accompany our "Jingle Bells." As we finished there, Ali ran across the street, beckoning us back to his place. He had gotten a bottle of brandy from his liquor cabinet and poured a dozen shot glasses for us. As I no longer drink--doesn't appeal to me anymore and it doesn't do my health any good--a few of my fellows got two shots.
We stopped at the drive-through lane at Golden Burger. These folk were thrilled with "Feliz Navidad" and offered us money--which we refused--and sodas. Next up was Portfolio Coffeehouse, which like last year was populated with bored hipsters and PC-entranced yuppies. Both sets were too cool to give us any mind. What dullards!
A few other houses, one with two guys, one holding a beer, but not offering us one. Another with two women, new homeowners who were so happy we'd stopped by. A house with a couple and a young child, who gave us his leftover Halloween candy. A house we had visited last year at which the family sat on the porch after supper, apparently waiting for random magic--like a group of carolers. And then there was Suzanne, who asked to join in, so Othman shared his song sheet and she belted out "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
Then it was on to O'Connell's, a neighborhood bar complete with pool tables. Music was blaring from the jukebox, so I asked the bar tender to turn it down because we were going to sing. He obliged. We hit them with the first chorus of "Here We Come A-Wassailing." I then turned to our audience and asked, "Any requests?" A burly guy quipped, "Let's see your tits." I didn't miss a beat: "No! A song!" Since no requests were made, I gave the signal to close with our special version of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." At first the bartender said something about no money, no booze. Then Othman countered with, "We know you've got brandy here." The bartender gave in when I said that we come here all the time and pay for our drinks. He gave us three pitchers of beer on the house!
Wishing to be on our way, back to the business of caroling, I ordered my fellows to down their drinks. Shouting a merry Christmas to all, we were out the door. We stopped in front of the cafe next door. It was closed, but we sang anyway. The owner unlocked the door, and we sang our hearts out for the amused table of four that was finishing their late supper. Most of my group was pretty smashed, so the carol was off-key with different singers finishing at different times. Othman explained: "Some of us are a little drunk." I asked if the diners had any requests. They laughed and one of the them said, "Oh, no, I don't know how you could top that!" We wished them a merry Christmas and headed home, stopping only to serenade a lone walker.
The evening ended around the Christmas tree with me passing out gifts to my fellow carolers. Blueberry juice for Othman as he had not known that such a thing existed. A vintage scarf and vintage earrings for Christina, who dresses in '50s attire. Balls of yarn, pipe cleaners, and glitter pom-poms for her boyfriend, Mike, who I said was creative enough to know how to use these in the bedroom. A Batman mask and a bottle of champagne for Bryant. Funny magnets for Dennis. The U.S. Constitution and "1001 Places to See Before You Die" for Othman. And what was best of all--a Lonely Planet guidebook to Southeast Asia and a map of the same for Tyler, who said that was the next place he wanted to go. He was so thrilled that I had known this. "Of course I knew, Tyler," I told him. I also gave him a huge tome of natural remedies, of the right foods for hundreds of ailments--a book he had been looking at in Spanish while traveling in Peru, but he said having the English version would be so much easier.
What a grand evening of fun and merriment for us and of holiday magic for those we regaled.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
You Know You're Desperate When...
You know you're desperate when your most plausible chance for restoration to health involves abduction by space aliens. That's where I am now.
My fantasy involves me being beamed up to a spaceship by beneficent ETs who
1) recognize me as one of their own who was dropped on this planet
a) by mistake or
b) to undertake a crucial mission that has gone sadly awry or
2) are attuned to my vibrations, which are unlike those of the majority of my human companions, and so they "spot" me on planet Earth in need of their help.
They are so kind to me, staring at me with genuine compassion with their huge bug eyes. They gently pet me. They communicate messages of love and assurance to me without uttering a word; all is conveyed telepathically. This is not at all like the abductions you've heard and read about. This is a homecoming. A reunion of compatible souls.
My alien family takes me to an operating room. There they make the tiniest of incisions, or perhaps don't make a cut at all. They extract a few healthy cells from my pancreas, my spleen, my heart, and my kidneys. They kiss my forehead, and I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.
During my slumbers, my ET physicians grow new organs for me. Before I awake, they slip my old, worn-out, barely operating heart, pancreas, spleen, and kidneys out of my body and slip into place the new, perfectly functioning organs they've cooked up for me in the lab.
Upon waking, these loving souls tell me, telepathically, of course, that I no longer need to be hooked up to an insulin pump, that I will never have to take an injection of insulin again, that my coronary arteries are completely open, that my heart is in top form, that my kidneys are now operating at 100 percent, that my spleen is doing whatever it is that a spleen was meant to do. In short, my body has been restored to the fullness and vibrancy and health it was meant to embody. I am healed!
This fantasy has replaced another restoration-to-health fantasy I have entertained for a decade or so: A man from an exotic locale, usually a musician, but sometimes a photographer, meets me by chance at a restaurant or grocery store or while taking a walk. There is an instant attraction. A beautiful romance develops.
Because of his wide-ranging travels, he has met many strange and amazing people, one of whom is a healer. Depending on his nationality--he is sometimes Afghan, sometimes Pakastani, sometimes Iranian, once in a while Irish or Russian--we make a long and arduous journey to a remote corner of the world where we meet up with this healer, who through potions and ceremonies and ancient rituals, cures what ails me. Of course, the implication is also that the love of my romantic partner has a large part to play in my healing as well.
The reason why the handsome, exotic artist has been replaced by space aliens is because I believe it is more likely that I will encounter the latter than the former. So, if you're out there, please use your telepathic powers to divine the pure nature of my intent to be well. And please beam me up!
My fantasy involves me being beamed up to a spaceship by beneficent ETs who
1) recognize me as one of their own who was dropped on this planet
a) by mistake or
b) to undertake a crucial mission that has gone sadly awry or
2) are attuned to my vibrations, which are unlike those of the majority of my human companions, and so they "spot" me on planet Earth in need of their help.
They are so kind to me, staring at me with genuine compassion with their huge bug eyes. They gently pet me. They communicate messages of love and assurance to me without uttering a word; all is conveyed telepathically. This is not at all like the abductions you've heard and read about. This is a homecoming. A reunion of compatible souls.
My alien family takes me to an operating room. There they make the tiniest of incisions, or perhaps don't make a cut at all. They extract a few healthy cells from my pancreas, my spleen, my heart, and my kidneys. They kiss my forehead, and I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.
During my slumbers, my ET physicians grow new organs for me. Before I awake, they slip my old, worn-out, barely operating heart, pancreas, spleen, and kidneys out of my body and slip into place the new, perfectly functioning organs they've cooked up for me in the lab.
Upon waking, these loving souls tell me, telepathically, of course, that I no longer need to be hooked up to an insulin pump, that I will never have to take an injection of insulin again, that my coronary arteries are completely open, that my heart is in top form, that my kidneys are now operating at 100 percent, that my spleen is doing whatever it is that a spleen was meant to do. In short, my body has been restored to the fullness and vibrancy and health it was meant to embody. I am healed!
This fantasy has replaced another restoration-to-health fantasy I have entertained for a decade or so: A man from an exotic locale, usually a musician, but sometimes a photographer, meets me by chance at a restaurant or grocery store or while taking a walk. There is an instant attraction. A beautiful romance develops.
Because of his wide-ranging travels, he has met many strange and amazing people, one of whom is a healer. Depending on his nationality--he is sometimes Afghan, sometimes Pakastani, sometimes Iranian, once in a while Irish or Russian--we make a long and arduous journey to a remote corner of the world where we meet up with this healer, who through potions and ceremonies and ancient rituals, cures what ails me. Of course, the implication is also that the love of my romantic partner has a large part to play in my healing as well.
The reason why the handsome, exotic artist has been replaced by space aliens is because I believe it is more likely that I will encounter the latter than the former. So, if you're out there, please use your telepathic powers to divine the pure nature of my intent to be well. And please beam me up!
Monday, December 01, 2008
A Board Game Turns Things Around
I was having a very hard time of things, and then I was invited over to a friend's mother's house for Thanksgiving and we played a board game after dinner. What a difference that made! A simple board game with lots of laughs, and my outlook on life shifted. Amazing!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
A Blue Thanksgiving
This is the third Thanksgiving in a row that's been really rough. Not because of family feuds, as is the case with a lot of people. No, it's been my body that's been the rogue.
In 2006, I had stent surgery the day before Thanksgiving. I was not given the medicine to protect my kidneys from the dye that is used for the angiogram, even though I asked for it. Then in the operating room, I told the doctor, "I'm not feeling the drugs," but he went ahead and cut into me anyway. This was a torturous experience to feel the incision and be powerless to do anything about it. I guess they were all so eager to get out of town for Thanksgiving that the needs of their patient didn't enter into the mix. I wrote a formal grievance, which was simply an exercise in frustration, lies, and falsified medical records. The surgery was followed by months of acute blood loss, transfusions, and severe anemia.
Then last October, I was fitted with an insulin pump. This was very difficult for me to accept--having a device attached to me 24/7. I also had several life-threatening insulin reactions while getting used to the pump, one of the most severe the night before I left for Wisconsin to spend Thanksgiving with my mother. In an attempt to get to the kitchen in the middle of the night and find some juice to raise my blood sugar, I knocked into walls and pulled myself along the floor, getting carpet burns in the process, inching my way to normalcy. I got on the plane early the next morning completely exhausted and feeling estranged from humanity.
This Thanksgiving is even worse than the past two. My son is in Oakland with his girlfriend and her family. I am very happy he has this vacation, as he's been working very hard at two jobs. I'm glad he's getting a break from me too. Not that I'm a sad sack around him--I do my crying when I'm alone--but my health is always hanging over him nonetheless. I am weak, tired, headachy, losing hope, and quickly headed toward dialysis. At this moment I'm sitting in my little apartment, wondering how I ever got here.
How is it that such a nice gal, the one who remembers birthdays, sends acquaintances sympathy cards when their parents pass, calls friends when they break up with a boyfriend or are experiencing some minior, short-term illness or injury, how is it that I should be sitting here alone?
During the past two months since I sent out my request for prayers, I have only received two phone messages from friends. Beverly, bless her soul, gave me three healing sessions, and Othman stopped by for a visit. A few others have sent an email, but though I suppose this is better than nothing, emails are so cold. Most friends did not respond even with an email.
I know that other people have friends they can count on to be physically present. Not just when they need a pick-me-up, like I so sorely need, but just in general to have a meal with or get together for a walk or a coffee. Heather, for example, who lives in Denver but is in town to see her mother for Thanksgiving--and with whom I will be spending tomorrow afternoon--has friends she can count on to be physically present. I remember when she fell down the stairs in her apartment building when she was living in San Francisco and broke her ankle or her leg. She told me of the support system she had to help her get dressed and do the things one has to do. Why is it then that my friends are not available?
The bottom line is I just don't know as if I can do this alone. All the stories of recovery are those of people with support systems--loving spouses, a circle of friends who don't just send emails but are physically there, family that encircles the ailing person with daily hugs, affirmations, and hand holds. How wonderful it would be if in this moment my husband were smiling at me from across the room or rubbing my feet. How beautiful if a friend and I were laughing in my kitchen, cooking dinner. How amazing if I had a brother or mother who weren't self-absorbed and could give a little juice to me.
Yes, of course, there is always my dear son. How could I have surviced this far without him! But I need to protect him. I can't put all my sadness on him. I don't even want to put any sadness on him.
I just looked at my most recent lab results. My kidney function is now at 12 percent, down from 13 percent last week. As I told my cardiologist today, I just don't see what there is to live for--further isolation; an endless stream of doctor appointments; no hope for love or romance; fewer and fewer friends, since they will feel uncomfortable being around me; not even the companionship of a dog, as dogs bring the risk of contamination of the dialysis tubing.
Dear Dr. Phan, my cardiologist, did something I have so needed from a friend these past two months--a hug. He also held my hand. Thank you, Dr. Phan.
In all fairness, Aaron has given me a few good hugs, and Bev gave me a nice one too. And Daniel, someone I have known for a long time but not very well, gave me probably the best hug I've ever received. It went on and on, a real transfer of energy.
But except for these moments, I generally feel cut off from humanity. I look at other people and I think they all have a future, but I feel like a ghost, not part of this world.
So I'm having a blue Thanksgiving, blue that's moving into black.
In 2006, I had stent surgery the day before Thanksgiving. I was not given the medicine to protect my kidneys from the dye that is used for the angiogram, even though I asked for it. Then in the operating room, I told the doctor, "I'm not feeling the drugs," but he went ahead and cut into me anyway. This was a torturous experience to feel the incision and be powerless to do anything about it. I guess they were all so eager to get out of town for Thanksgiving that the needs of their patient didn't enter into the mix. I wrote a formal grievance, which was simply an exercise in frustration, lies, and falsified medical records. The surgery was followed by months of acute blood loss, transfusions, and severe anemia.
Then last October, I was fitted with an insulin pump. This was very difficult for me to accept--having a device attached to me 24/7. I also had several life-threatening insulin reactions while getting used to the pump, one of the most severe the night before I left for Wisconsin to spend Thanksgiving with my mother. In an attempt to get to the kitchen in the middle of the night and find some juice to raise my blood sugar, I knocked into walls and pulled myself along the floor, getting carpet burns in the process, inching my way to normalcy. I got on the plane early the next morning completely exhausted and feeling estranged from humanity.
This Thanksgiving is even worse than the past two. My son is in Oakland with his girlfriend and her family. I am very happy he has this vacation, as he's been working very hard at two jobs. I'm glad he's getting a break from me too. Not that I'm a sad sack around him--I do my crying when I'm alone--but my health is always hanging over him nonetheless. I am weak, tired, headachy, losing hope, and quickly headed toward dialysis. At this moment I'm sitting in my little apartment, wondering how I ever got here.
How is it that such a nice gal, the one who remembers birthdays, sends acquaintances sympathy cards when their parents pass, calls friends when they break up with a boyfriend or are experiencing some minior, short-term illness or injury, how is it that I should be sitting here alone?
During the past two months since I sent out my request for prayers, I have only received two phone messages from friends. Beverly, bless her soul, gave me three healing sessions, and Othman stopped by for a visit. A few others have sent an email, but though I suppose this is better than nothing, emails are so cold. Most friends did not respond even with an email.
I know that other people have friends they can count on to be physically present. Not just when they need a pick-me-up, like I so sorely need, but just in general to have a meal with or get together for a walk or a coffee. Heather, for example, who lives in Denver but is in town to see her mother for Thanksgiving--and with whom I will be spending tomorrow afternoon--has friends she can count on to be physically present. I remember when she fell down the stairs in her apartment building when she was living in San Francisco and broke her ankle or her leg. She told me of the support system she had to help her get dressed and do the things one has to do. Why is it then that my friends are not available?
The bottom line is I just don't know as if I can do this alone. All the stories of recovery are those of people with support systems--loving spouses, a circle of friends who don't just send emails but are physically there, family that encircles the ailing person with daily hugs, affirmations, and hand holds. How wonderful it would be if in this moment my husband were smiling at me from across the room or rubbing my feet. How beautiful if a friend and I were laughing in my kitchen, cooking dinner. How amazing if I had a brother or mother who weren't self-absorbed and could give a little juice to me.
Yes, of course, there is always my dear son. How could I have surviced this far without him! But I need to protect him. I can't put all my sadness on him. I don't even want to put any sadness on him.
I just looked at my most recent lab results. My kidney function is now at 12 percent, down from 13 percent last week. As I told my cardiologist today, I just don't see what there is to live for--further isolation; an endless stream of doctor appointments; no hope for love or romance; fewer and fewer friends, since they will feel uncomfortable being around me; not even the companionship of a dog, as dogs bring the risk of contamination of the dialysis tubing.
Dear Dr. Phan, my cardiologist, did something I have so needed from a friend these past two months--a hug. He also held my hand. Thank you, Dr. Phan.
In all fairness, Aaron has given me a few good hugs, and Bev gave me a nice one too. And Daniel, someone I have known for a long time but not very well, gave me probably the best hug I've ever received. It went on and on, a real transfer of energy.
But except for these moments, I generally feel cut off from humanity. I look at other people and I think they all have a future, but I feel like a ghost, not part of this world.
So I'm having a blue Thanksgiving, blue that's moving into black.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friends Close and Available
I've been dealing with some very difficult things lately, the kind of things most people never have to face, or if they do, they face in their 80s or 90s. I sent an email out to friends across the continent, informing them as to this challenge and thanking them for their good thoughts on my behalf. A few wrote back with words of encouragement. Two telephoned.
It's such a strange country we live in. I imagine if I lived most places in the world, my neighbors and family and friends, who all lived within walking distance, would come to my hut and give me their love in person. But we live in a land of emails, so instead, friends write a few words of support but are too far away or too busy for direct contact. Their words are beautiful, some of them very beautiful, but they are words, not hugs, not smiles, not embraces, not time spent, face to face, together.
How wonderful it would be to have a friend close at hand and available. Someone who could break away from his or her family, lover, spouse, or other friends for a visit. Someone I wouldn't have to schedule a time to meet with weeks or months in the future. Someone I could call and say, "Hey, why don't you come over tonight. Let's cook dinner together." I've never had a friend who is both close and available, but I've long had idealistic notions about such a person. I know people who have such friends, and I think that must be a grand thing.
Last night I had a taste of what that might be like. My son's friend from work, Mike, invited Aaron and me to his and his girlfriend's apartment for dinner. I had such a fantastic time! Mike is a funny guy and a wonderful storyteller. I laughed so much--just what I needed after a day of intermittent sobbing. After dinner, we watched a Cohen Brothers movie. Such a fun evening. So easy. So relaxed.
Ah! Thank you, Mike, and girlfriend Christina, two lovely, young people who know nothing of my challenges. It's rather beautiful how sometimes what one needs is provided through alternate channels. Of course it would have been grand to have spent the evening with one or more of my own friends, but these damn-near strangers gave me all that I would have wanted from a friend's company. What a blessing!
It's such a strange country we live in. I imagine if I lived most places in the world, my neighbors and family and friends, who all lived within walking distance, would come to my hut and give me their love in person. But we live in a land of emails, so instead, friends write a few words of support but are too far away or too busy for direct contact. Their words are beautiful, some of them very beautiful, but they are words, not hugs, not smiles, not embraces, not time spent, face to face, together.
How wonderful it would be to have a friend close at hand and available. Someone who could break away from his or her family, lover, spouse, or other friends for a visit. Someone I wouldn't have to schedule a time to meet with weeks or months in the future. Someone I could call and say, "Hey, why don't you come over tonight. Let's cook dinner together." I've never had a friend who is both close and available, but I've long had idealistic notions about such a person. I know people who have such friends, and I think that must be a grand thing.
Last night I had a taste of what that might be like. My son's friend from work, Mike, invited Aaron and me to his and his girlfriend's apartment for dinner. I had such a fantastic time! Mike is a funny guy and a wonderful storyteller. I laughed so much--just what I needed after a day of intermittent sobbing. After dinner, we watched a Cohen Brothers movie. Such a fun evening. So easy. So relaxed.
Ah! Thank you, Mike, and girlfriend Christina, two lovely, young people who know nothing of my challenges. It's rather beautiful how sometimes what one needs is provided through alternate channels. Of course it would have been grand to have spent the evening with one or more of my own friends, but these damn-near strangers gave me all that I would have wanted from a friend's company. What a blessing!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Foeden Party--Because I'm Not a Generic White Person
The first weekend in November I attended the annual Kuehl family foeden party in Minnesota. When I was a child, the family would gather for a summer picnic in Ormsby, Minnesota, but then attendance began to lag because so many relatives were living in the Twin Cities and not on the farm anymore. So the next generation--my generation--took the reigns and started holding a foeden-making party in the Minneapolis area during the first weekend in November. Though this tradition has been going on for about a decade, this is the first time I attended.
My ancestors are from the Schleswig-Holstein region of northern Germany, a chunk of * land that went back and forth between the Danes and Germans over the centuries. One of the culinary delights of the region is foeden, a round donut of sorts, sans icing and sprinkles. It is made in a large, heavy, cast-iron pan with round depressions. In fact it is so large and heavy that my mother's foeden pan--which had been my grandmother's foeden pan--was confiscated from my son when he attempted to carry it on board an airplane. A potential weapon, so the TSA officials said.
But foeden was not the main reason for the get-together. In fact, if you had been engaged in an engrossing conversation even a few yards away from the kitchen, you might have missed out on the foeden entirely. I had thought that the event was going to focus around foeden, but instead it focused on the people in attendance.
Of the eight siblings of my mother's generation, 25 children were produced or adopted. Only one cousin has died. Only five were missing from this November's celebration--my brother; Don Klassen, who was phesant hunting with his grandson; Becky; Nola; and Marilyn.
* Uncle Rollo and wife Bea had cousin Becky. Bea had had a daughter from a previous marriage, Nola, whom Rollo adopted.
* My mother, Arlyne, and my father, Eugene, had Tim and me.
* Uncle Harold and wife Bernita had Kathy, Phillip, Peter, and Paul.
* Uncle Max and wife Margaret had Vaughn, Mark, June, LaRayne, Liz, and Rhonda. Margaret had had Marilyn prior to marrying Max.
* Aunt Gilma and husband Boyd had two daughters who died as children and also had Jane and Nancy, who are alive today.
* Aunt Edna and husband Sam had Germaine (the only cousin who has died),Ruthie, and Don.
* Aunt Viola and husband Elmer had Rodney and Mary.
* Aunt Dorothy and husband Bill had Jerry, Mike, and Kay.
The cousins span quite a few years. Vaughn is the youngest at 48, and Rodney is the oldest at 72. Ruthie may be just about that age too.
There are only three survivors of my mother's generation--my mother, who now lives in Southern California and has no desire to travel; Aunt Bernita, who drove a school bus up until just a few years ago; and the matriarch of the family, Aunt Dorothy. I am especially fond of the photo that is shown here of Dorothy and me. When I hugged Dorothy good-bye, I was a bit emotional. Not sure why that is. It's just that, at 95, Dorothy has a sense of humor, a sharp mind, and a strong will that are truly inspirational.
All in all, I had such a good time! I flew into Minneapolis on Thursday night and stayed at cousin Rhonda's lovely home on Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis. She lives in a gorgeous old mansion across from the lake. On Friday Rhonda; her sister June, who had flown in from Seattle; and I explored the city. The art museum was extensive--and free every day. The university was lovely. So many of the neighborhoods, especially those along the Mississippi River, were so cute. In short, Minneapolis seems like a fantastic place to live.
On Saturday, after the foeden party, I joined sisters Rhonda, June, LaRayne, and Liz at Marilyn's house in Fox Lake. This was fascinating as Marilyn's late husband had a collection of thousands of pencils, all mounted in display cases. And Marilyn has all manner of bird statuary and art. We spent the night camping out in her living room and kitchen.
In the morning, we attended the beautiful country church on a dirt road surrounded by corn fields, not more than a mile from the family homestead. We were celebrities, to be sure. Though the minister was young and friendly, he certainly delivered a heavy dose of sin. A cultural experience, for sure. After service, Donald Kuehl, who is my mother's cousin, that is, my grandfather and his father were brothers, gave us a guided tour of the cemetary, a place I have always thought would be a restful spot to spend eternity.
I will have to make this an annual event. This was one of the best times I've had in a long time. Thanks to all my cousins, especially to Rhonda and her husband Dave, who were such gracious hosts, and Kay, at whose house the foeden party transpired.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Thank You, Georgette
On my journey to perfect health, I am grateful to many people. I would like to thank just a few, one at a time. First up is Georgette, pixie, surfer, artist, who sends me the most life-affirming messages and creates fairy photos from run-of-the-mill snapshots, like these two gems she fashioned for me. Thank you, Gette!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
In All Fairness
In all fairness, perhaps the reason men don't make a move on me is not because there is something wrong with them, but because I somehow fall short of what they're looking for in a mate or even in a casual lover. Not sure what that something is, but it's certainly not fair to blame them if they aren't interested in me.
After all, the plumber (see previous entry) was sleeping with someone else during the times we weren't going out. And a man who started off our first date about a year ago by saying he wanted a platonic relationship with me has been thinking of marriage with someone else. And one man who couldn't do anything in bed went on to find a wife with whom he honeymooned in Paris, while another of the same ilk found the love of his life and the wildest throes of passion he's ever known.
And in all fairness, it's been four years since I've had that delicious feeling of a steel band being pulled tight across my chest. So the truth is that though these men haven't been interested in me, I haven't been interested in them either.
Four years ago, at my friends Rachel and Matt's wedding in Sedona, I had a few hours of giddiness and a few wonderful kisses in a golden-leafed woods and then a few more in a hidden corner of the Flagstaff airport. I came across photos that Heather took of Charlie and me during that afternoon. The glow in our faces is unmistakable. What an incredibly beautiful feeling that was. Ah! If only Charlie hadn't been married.
I remember him telling me of a woman he met while traveling in Alaska as a young man. He had been alone for some time, and this stranger made room for him in her bed one night. One of those magical, fleeting moments. He said that she told him that maybe the experience that they had together would open him up to other relationships, other women. And that is exactly what happened. Love started to stream into his life.
I remember, four years ago, how Charlie said that he wished that for me too, that our kisses would be a catalyst, propelling me into someone else's arms. Well, Charlie, it's been a rather slow trajectory because I have yet to make contact. But a lovely thought and a kind wish nonetheless.
Obama Gives Me Hope--For the Bedroom
Obama is giving a lot of people hope. Hope for change. Hope for improved foreign relations. Hope for an end to this insane war. Hope for the middle class. To so much hope, I would like to add my own: the hope that not all middle-aged men are afraid of or uninterested in sex.
At 47, Barack sure seems to put some zing into his kisses for Michelle. I get a true sense that they have "something going on," that it isn't just a marriage of show but that Barack is excited about Michelle and that she's got a thing for him. This is so good to see!
For the past nine years, I have not dated one middle-aged man who was interested in sex and who could show his stuff in the bedroom. For example, for the past eight months or so, I've dated, on an off, a man who strikes me as being physical. He's a master plumber, a man who has been a Formula One race car mechanic, the kind of guy who could build a house from the ground up, someone who definitely knows how to work with his hands. He is down-to-earth and earthy. What one might call a masculine man. One would think that he would be hot to trot, but no. So often I have encouraged him to sit close to me. I have put my hand on his knee or on his thigh. I even gave him an hour massage. All to no avail. He has done nothing more than give me a few closed-mouthed pecks, sort of like what you might give your auntie.
Unfortunately, this man is the rule, rather than the exception. Actually, I have not had an exception in these past nine years. Not sure what's up. I've even consulted with my son, and he concludes that this must be a middle-aged guy thing because it's certainly not the norm for his age.
So when I see Barack kiss Michelle or make goo-goo eyes at her, I think, Maybe not all middle-aged men are uninterested. Maybe there's an Obama out there for me somewhere.
There must be at least one middle-aged guy in America who is interested in a tall, slender, good-looking, intelligent, playful blond. And not just interested in my wit and my masterful conversation skills. God, let's hope so!
At 47, Barack sure seems to put some zing into his kisses for Michelle. I get a true sense that they have "something going on," that it isn't just a marriage of show but that Barack is excited about Michelle and that she's got a thing for him. This is so good to see!
For the past nine years, I have not dated one middle-aged man who was interested in sex and who could show his stuff in the bedroom. For example, for the past eight months or so, I've dated, on an off, a man who strikes me as being physical. He's a master plumber, a man who has been a Formula One race car mechanic, the kind of guy who could build a house from the ground up, someone who definitely knows how to work with his hands. He is down-to-earth and earthy. What one might call a masculine man. One would think that he would be hot to trot, but no. So often I have encouraged him to sit close to me. I have put my hand on his knee or on his thigh. I even gave him an hour massage. All to no avail. He has done nothing more than give me a few closed-mouthed pecks, sort of like what you might give your auntie.
Unfortunately, this man is the rule, rather than the exception. Actually, I have not had an exception in these past nine years. Not sure what's up. I've even consulted with my son, and he concludes that this must be a middle-aged guy thing because it's certainly not the norm for his age.
So when I see Barack kiss Michelle or make goo-goo eyes at her, I think, Maybe not all middle-aged men are uninterested. Maybe there's an Obama out there for me somewhere.
There must be at least one middle-aged guy in America who is interested in a tall, slender, good-looking, intelligent, playful blond. And not just interested in my wit and my masterful conversation skills. God, let's hope so!
Monday, October 13, 2008
An Urban Paradise
This past Wednesday I met Elliott, a young man with big dreams. Elliott has founded Urban Paradise, a nonprofit that seeks to turn Long Beach into a garden and in the process promote the arts and help its citizens grow their own food.
Elliott is so inspirational! He has the "vision thing," and I told him that he is the answer to my prayers. For years, I have been wanting to live and work on a permaculture farm, but I have had to admit that, as my health is up and down, I can't commit to days of manual labor. There are days when I just wouldn't be able to, quite literally, hoe my row. But still I yearn for a means by which I can help build community through the self-reliance of growing one's own food. And then along came Elliott.
I attended my first meeting of Urban Paradise yesterday afternoon at the corner of Ocean Boulevard and Pacific Avenue, right in front of the 10' x 40' plot that the city is allowing us to plant with drought-resistant and native vegetation as a test project. If all goes well, Urban Paradise hopes that the city will rethink the huge park that rests atop the main library.
I have lived in Long Beach for 27 years, and this is the first I ever knew of this park. It's huge! The land on which the library sits was bequeathed to the city decades ago on the condition that the land would always be used as a public park. So the city built a park on the roof of the library. Up until 15 years ago, all was fine. Then the roof started leaking, so the city didn't repair the roof, but ordered that the plants in the park not receive any more water. Consequently, most of them died. However, Elliott and Urban Paradise have big ideas about revitalizing the park, making it green again with vegetation that doesn't require watering.
This space is simply amazing. Huge planters. Performance spaces. Walls on which murals might be painted. What was once a fountain. Just think what could be done here: classroom-sponsored gardens that teach children about the earth, concert and performance spaces, places for artists to beautify the walls, projects with the homeless (there are so many in the park on street level) that might encourage them to tend their own rooftop gardens, as has been done in San Francisco.
These are only two of Urban Paradise's ideas. The ones that I am even more excited about are using vacant city land for community gardens and working with Parks & Rec to plant fruit trees in parks rather than non-fruit-bearing trees. That way, food can be simply picked from the branches by the people who frequent the park. What a wonderful, life-affirming idea! And so simple.
I have offered to be Urban Paradise's writer-publicist-proofreader. Perhaps someone out there reading this blog will feel inspired to share his or her talents to make Long Beach into an urban paradise.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Wondrous Leaves
One of the most wonderful things about walking is that I see all the little details of an area that I miss if I whiz by in a car. Many, if not most, of these wonders involve plants. Blossoms peaking over a fence post. A small cacti garden tucked behind a fence. A glimpse of a fruit tree in a back yard.
On a recent walk, I encountered a sidewalk and front lawn filled with these enchanting leaves. I don't remember ever seeing any leaves colored like this--green in the center and red, yellow, and orange along the rim. Though I gathered them up like flowers to display in a bowl at home, I had the feeling that their beauty was fleeting, and so I shot these photos moments after I saw these natural wonders.
A good thing I did because by morning the leaves had shriveled and turned brown.
On a recent walk, I encountered a sidewalk and front lawn filled with these enchanting leaves. I don't remember ever seeing any leaves colored like this--green in the center and red, yellow, and orange along the rim. Though I gathered them up like flowers to display in a bowl at home, I had the feeling that their beauty was fleeting, and so I shot these photos moments after I saw these natural wonders.
A good thing I did because by morning the leaves had shriveled and turned brown.
House of Blues fantasy, if just for a moment
For well over a decade, I have wanted to go to the House of Blues in West Hollywood. A week ago, I went. My friend Tom got passes from a publicist friend of his, and we went to see her client perform.
For the life of me, I can't recall the name of the band--if I ever knew it. I really dislike hearing music in clubs as it's way too loud and I can never make out the vocals. This was also true of Rose Rossi's band. (I'm pretty sure that was name of the singer.)
I dutifully listened to the music, which would have been much improved at one-third the volume.
What most impressed me, however, about the House of Blues were the walls. They were covered in the kind of fabric you'd expect to see in some high-end hippie store in Berkeley--raw silk with mirrored bangles and crazy-quilt stitching. All the walls were so adorned--even those in the elevator. I wondered about their maintenance. Did a seamstress repair the walls every so often? How were spilled drinks cleaned from the surface, and what if the liquid soaked deep into the fabric? Did the seamstress ever have to add patches in places where some knife-wielding drunk had fallen? Fascinating.
Also fascinating were the alcoves where one could escape from the high decibels. These small, private rooms were outfitted like a sultan's bed chamber with sumptuous pillows, lavendar lighting, and statues of strange gods. And, of course, the walls were tapestried.
For the occasion, I was dressed in a sleek black silk shift given to me by my Canadian friend Helene, whose relative is a buyer for high-end shops and got this as a sample. As I stood and listened to the band, a young man handed me a rose. He was one of those guys who goes from venue to venue foisting his roses on unsuspecting men who then feel obligated to buy the flowers for their dates. As I did not have a date, I wondered why he was giving me a bloom. It was hard to hear his answer above the din, but eventually the man next to me shouted, "A rose from Rose." I didn't get it because, as previously stated, I did not know the name of the band or of the lead singer, at least until much later.
I figured he had had too much to drink and had meant to say, "A rose for a rose." That is, that I was so stunning in my black shift that some unknown man had graced me with a rose. That was a beautiful thought--as long as it lasted.
A few minutes later, the same young man who had handed me the rose laid a half dozen at the singer's feet. She then proceeded to throw them to the crowd, saying, "A rose from Rose."
Palins' Neighbor in Wasilla, Alaska
My cousin Rhonda's son Max gave a piano and guitar recital yesterday afternoon at USC. Afterwards, I met his friends, one of whom was sporting a tee-shirt proclaiming Alaska Grown. What's more, this young man grew up within two miles of the Palins, and he played hockey with Sarah's son.
"She's a nice person," he said, "but that doesn't qualify someone for public office, especially not vice president of the United States."
"She's a nice person," he said, "but that doesn't qualify someone for public office, especially not vice president of the United States."
Friday, September 19, 2008
A Revelation: I Have Small Breasts!
I have small breasts! You might think that I would have noticed this previously, but to tell you the truth, I have never given a whole lot of thought to my breasts. I know that a lot of women fuss about them, restraining them in EMF-targeting, underwire cancer traps and using them as their calling cards for expensive dinners and trips to Europe.
The thing is that most women, something over 90 percent, don't even like their breasts, even after all this attention that they--and men--give them. I have always liked my breasts, on the rare occasions that I even consider them. They're perky and alert, facing the world head on, never sagging, always as firm and upright as the day they emerged from my chest back in junior high.
I always knew my breasts were not gargantuan and that I'd have to put my breasts in a vice to get any cleavage. I guess I knew on an intellectual level that my breasts were small, but it never really hit home until recently.
I was on a one-time craigslist "date," and the man commented that I had small breasts. This was an observation, as one might observe that a 90-year-old woman is old. Not a criticism, just an observation. I held them and took a good look at them, then told him I agreed with him, and that I really have always liked my breasts.
Since then, from time to time, I have surveyed the women about me, looking at their breasts. This is much the same way that I have long surveyed people in a restaurant or standing in line at the post office or people clustered in some other public space. I count up the people and then count the ones that are overweight. Sure enough, it turns out about 70 percent of them are, just like government statistics tell us. So recently, I have been doing the same with women's breasts. And do you know, I AM smaller than the average gal. Actually, with a B cup size, I'm probably in the lower 10 percentile.
This is a real revelation to me: I have small breasts! I don't mind it. It's just that it's interesting. The only thing that I sometimes wonder is: If I had a C cup, would that change my life? Would I be with a wonderful guy right this moment if my breasts were gargantuan or even if they were average-sized? Could the cause of my solitary life really be that superficial?
The thing is that most women, something over 90 percent, don't even like their breasts, even after all this attention that they--and men--give them. I have always liked my breasts, on the rare occasions that I even consider them. They're perky and alert, facing the world head on, never sagging, always as firm and upright as the day they emerged from my chest back in junior high.
I always knew my breasts were not gargantuan and that I'd have to put my breasts in a vice to get any cleavage. I guess I knew on an intellectual level that my breasts were small, but it never really hit home until recently.
I was on a one-time craigslist "date," and the man commented that I had small breasts. This was an observation, as one might observe that a 90-year-old woman is old. Not a criticism, just an observation. I held them and took a good look at them, then told him I agreed with him, and that I really have always liked my breasts.
Since then, from time to time, I have surveyed the women about me, looking at their breasts. This is much the same way that I have long surveyed people in a restaurant or standing in line at the post office or people clustered in some other public space. I count up the people and then count the ones that are overweight. Sure enough, it turns out about 70 percent of them are, just like government statistics tell us. So recently, I have been doing the same with women's breasts. And do you know, I AM smaller than the average gal. Actually, with a B cup size, I'm probably in the lower 10 percentile.
This is a real revelation to me: I have small breasts! I don't mind it. It's just that it's interesting. The only thing that I sometimes wonder is: If I had a C cup, would that change my life? Would I be with a wonderful guy right this moment if my breasts were gargantuan or even if they were average-sized? Could the cause of my solitary life really be that superficial?
Better to Have 10 Years' Experience Than 25
During the past month, I have been aggressively seeking work. Since Aug. 13, to be precise, I have applied for 63 positions. Not one of them has resulted in an interview or a call-back.
When I look at my resume and at my clips, I think, "What a catch!" More than 25 years of editing and writing experience for newspapers, magazines, newsletters, PR firms, ad agencies, and Web sites. Plenty of published clips. Managerial experience. Teaching experience. Public-speaking experience. Willing to travel and relocate. So what's the problem?
A few days ago, I asked a rep at a firm that places writers, proofreaders, Web masters, graphic designers, and other such "creative talent" in temp and temp-to-hire positions: Is it better to say I have 10 years of experience rather than 25? Does the latter signal "old," whereas the former is more attractive?
The rep responded with candor, for which I thanked her. Her answer: Yes, it's better to admit to 10 years, but don't go as high as 25. She said that "10" means fresh ideas and a forward-thinking nature.
Would that this were true! When I think of the students that I have at Cal State, for example, I hardly think of "fresh ideas" and "forward-thinking nature." They are always waiting for answers to be spoon-fed to them. Of course, there are amazing exceptions, but they are rare exceptions.
But if that's the prejudice against age and experience, so be it. From now on, my cover letters will read "As a writer-editor with more than 10 years of experience..."
Funny that people have often advised those who are starting out to fudge their resumes a bit, to show a bit more experience than they actually have. Well, for us in our 40s and 50s, the opposite now holds: Instead of stacking our resumes, we need to trim them a bit. Like with so much else in this society, we need to dumb it down.
When I look at my resume and at my clips, I think, "What a catch!" More than 25 years of editing and writing experience for newspapers, magazines, newsletters, PR firms, ad agencies, and Web sites. Plenty of published clips. Managerial experience. Teaching experience. Public-speaking experience. Willing to travel and relocate. So what's the problem?
A few days ago, I asked a rep at a firm that places writers, proofreaders, Web masters, graphic designers, and other such "creative talent" in temp and temp-to-hire positions: Is it better to say I have 10 years of experience rather than 25? Does the latter signal "old," whereas the former is more attractive?
The rep responded with candor, for which I thanked her. Her answer: Yes, it's better to admit to 10 years, but don't go as high as 25. She said that "10" means fresh ideas and a forward-thinking nature.
Would that this were true! When I think of the students that I have at Cal State, for example, I hardly think of "fresh ideas" and "forward-thinking nature." They are always waiting for answers to be spoon-fed to them. Of course, there are amazing exceptions, but they are rare exceptions.
But if that's the prejudice against age and experience, so be it. From now on, my cover letters will read "As a writer-editor with more than 10 years of experience..."
Funny that people have often advised those who are starting out to fudge their resumes a bit, to show a bit more experience than they actually have. Well, for us in our 40s and 50s, the opposite now holds: Instead of stacking our resumes, we need to trim them a bit. Like with so much else in this society, we need to dumb it down.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Grateful About a $30,000 Loss
Since late December I have had control over my mother's finances. For quite some time, I have been a bit concerned by the fact that all her investments are in mortgage-backed securities, aka Countrywide, Freddie Mac, and Fannie Mae. A month ago, I decided to enlist a broker to sell her mortgage bundles and put the proceeds into something safer.
I should have acted back in January, but at least the sales took place before the Fed took over Freddie and Fannie last week. I sold just in the nick of time. Yes, the bailout may of saved the world from an economic apocalypse, but those who were holding mortgage bundles, like my mother had been, are no longer being paid a dividend. A dividend that my mother was withdrawing each month to cover her mounting medical and care expenses. And the financial throes of the housing market have not yet subsided, and some feel that we have not yet even seen the worst of it yet, so I am glad she's out of that game.
Getting out cost her $30,000, or approximately 18 percent of her investment--what she has to live off for the rest of her days. Yes, she has Social Security and two pensions, but these don't even pay half her fixed expenses. She lost 30 grand, but she stood to lose much more. Isn't it a crazy world that I live in when I'm happy that I ONLY lost $30,000--a full year's salary in some years.
This is a dramatic case in point of the folly of getting rid of Social Security and, as many Republicans are pushing for, let the individual consumer make decisions about his or her retirement funding! Yes, I'm sure there would be winners in that scenario, but I suspect most of them would be brokers and CEOs. And the losers? Plenty of people like you and me.
I should have acted back in January, but at least the sales took place before the Fed took over Freddie and Fannie last week. I sold just in the nick of time. Yes, the bailout may of saved the world from an economic apocalypse, but those who were holding mortgage bundles, like my mother had been, are no longer being paid a dividend. A dividend that my mother was withdrawing each month to cover her mounting medical and care expenses. And the financial throes of the housing market have not yet subsided, and some feel that we have not yet even seen the worst of it yet, so I am glad she's out of that game.
Getting out cost her $30,000, or approximately 18 percent of her investment--what she has to live off for the rest of her days. Yes, she has Social Security and two pensions, but these don't even pay half her fixed expenses. She lost 30 grand, but she stood to lose much more. Isn't it a crazy world that I live in when I'm happy that I ONLY lost $30,000--a full year's salary in some years.
This is a dramatic case in point of the folly of getting rid of Social Security and, as many Republicans are pushing for, let the individual consumer make decisions about his or her retirement funding! Yes, I'm sure there would be winners in that scenario, but I suspect most of them would be brokers and CEOs. And the losers? Plenty of people like you and me.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Standing Up
People forever talk about standing up for yourself, about asking for what you deserve. The thing is that I always stand up for myself, but there sure must be something more to it than what I'm doing because every time that I have stood up, I have been shot down.
I know many people who tell their bosses they're leaving if they don't get more money and then they are given more money. Or they tell a boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse that this is what they need and, if they don't get it, they're leaving and so they get it. I even know of people who say they have to quit their positions because they're moving and their bosses say they can take their job with them. They are standing up for what they want and they get it.
In contrast, I have stood up so many times just in the past couple months, asking for what I deserve, what I've earned, and being told "no" again and again. And not only "no" but "go away." At the magazine. At one university and then at another. After I had signed a contract to work for a German medical company and then the company backed out. On and on, again and again.
So what are these other people doing that I'm not? I just don't get it.
Is the message that I am to leave Southern California at all costs? Am I to sleep in my truck and camp in a Wal-Mart parking lot until I get some work, somewhere? In the last two weeks, I have applied for 35 positions, with not a nibble. Again, I'm asking for what I want. Is anyone listening?
I know many people who tell their bosses they're leaving if they don't get more money and then they are given more money. Or they tell a boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse that this is what they need and, if they don't get it, they're leaving and so they get it. I even know of people who say they have to quit their positions because they're moving and their bosses say they can take their job with them. They are standing up for what they want and they get it.
In contrast, I have stood up so many times just in the past couple months, asking for what I deserve, what I've earned, and being told "no" again and again. And not only "no" but "go away." At the magazine. At one university and then at another. After I had signed a contract to work for a German medical company and then the company backed out. On and on, again and again.
So what are these other people doing that I'm not? I just don't get it.
Is the message that I am to leave Southern California at all costs? Am I to sleep in my truck and camp in a Wal-Mart parking lot until I get some work, somewhere? In the last two weeks, I have applied for 35 positions, with not a nibble. Again, I'm asking for what I want. Is anyone listening?
Why I Sympathize with Day Laborers
Years ago an adjunct professor quipped to me, "We're the proletariats of academia." This has certainly been my experience as an adjunct professor at, let's say, University A (UA).
I have been with UA for more than 21 years, sometimes teaching one class, sometimes a few, sometimes as many as five, sometimes none. (How many people do you know who are able to handle that kind of fluctuation in income?) Often I have been asked on the Friday before classes start if I could teach a class, or I have begun teaching a class and then it is canceled and I receive nothing in compensation.
Over the years I have gone from a semester contract to a one-year contract and now a three-year contract. Each level is supposed to give me more leverage, more respect, more consideration, but when push comes to shove, these contracts don't mean a thing. For the last four or five semesters, I have had to remind the department chair that, according to the contract, I am guaranteed six classes per year and he has to give me first right of refusal before offering the classes to anyone else. That has been violated so many times, I lose count. So often, in clear violation of the contract, the chair has brought in people with no teaching experience to teach classes I have been teaching for years.
When I have gone to the union, the reps are sympathetic, but say that, in the end, it is up to the department chair's discretion. "So then what good does a three-year contract do," I ask, "if it's all up to the chair's discretion?" To this they say something like, "Well, it should put you in a better position, but there's no guarantee."
This is akin to presidential signing statements. Bush signs a bill into law that Congress has passed, then issues a signing statement that negates the parts of the bill that he does not want to adhere to. So what good is Congress and what good is it to pass legislation that is so flagrantly disregarded? The same thing with part-time faculty contracts: Why do we have them if they are meaningless during those times when their substance is most needed?
And so, because of the struggles with UA, including numerous meetings with union reps, the dean, and chairs re my contract, several years ago, I began courting let's call it University B. Though UB said "no" to me many times, I finally got a "yes" because a faculty member died. I was brought in to teach a night class this fall. At the time I first met with the chair at UB, he said he could see no problem about getting me the same salary as I am getting at UA. I proceeded with that gentleman's agreement all through the summer, reading the text, preparing the syllabus, and getting ready for the class. A week before the start of the semester, I was told, "Sorry, but we're paying you $800 less than you make at UA." I felt badly, but the chair said there was nothing he could do. I reluctantly agreed, since I had already put in 25 hours and if I did not accept the assignment, I would have been out that time with not a dime to show for it.
Last Tuesday I picked up my contract. (It's pretty standard that contracts are given to adjuncts after they have already begun teaching.) Instead of being $800 less, it was now $1,334 less. Basically, I'd be making a little over 2/3 of what I make for a 3.3-unit class at UA. Then I spoke with someone from the pension fund and was informed that working at this reduced rate would reduce my pension by $50/month, so basically, it would cost me money to teach this class.
I returned to the department chair at UB with this info, and though he was angry, he said he would talk to the dean about getting me the same money as I am getting at UA and he would get back to me. That was Wednesday morning.
I didn't hear anything on Wednesday. I didn't hear anything yesterday. Today I sent him an email and then gave him a call. When I reached him, he said he had hired someone else. Would I please return the book and the keys? So I guess if I had not contacted him, he would never had had the decency to contact me. I would have showed up to teach on Tuesday and would have met the new instructor! Unbelievable the lack of respect.
Yes, adjunct professors are the proletariats of academia. Or to put it in a more contemporary vernacular, we're the day laborers. It's like, "Hey, if you don't want to teach the class, who cares, we can go down to Home Depot and pick someone up there."
Every time I drive past Home Depot and see those guys hanging out, waiting for a job, any job, I think of the lot of adjunct professors, the day laborers of academia.
I have been with UA for more than 21 years, sometimes teaching one class, sometimes a few, sometimes as many as five, sometimes none. (How many people do you know who are able to handle that kind of fluctuation in income?) Often I have been asked on the Friday before classes start if I could teach a class, or I have begun teaching a class and then it is canceled and I receive nothing in compensation.
Over the years I have gone from a semester contract to a one-year contract and now a three-year contract. Each level is supposed to give me more leverage, more respect, more consideration, but when push comes to shove, these contracts don't mean a thing. For the last four or five semesters, I have had to remind the department chair that, according to the contract, I am guaranteed six classes per year and he has to give me first right of refusal before offering the classes to anyone else. That has been violated so many times, I lose count. So often, in clear violation of the contract, the chair has brought in people with no teaching experience to teach classes I have been teaching for years.
When I have gone to the union, the reps are sympathetic, but say that, in the end, it is up to the department chair's discretion. "So then what good does a three-year contract do," I ask, "if it's all up to the chair's discretion?" To this they say something like, "Well, it should put you in a better position, but there's no guarantee."
This is akin to presidential signing statements. Bush signs a bill into law that Congress has passed, then issues a signing statement that negates the parts of the bill that he does not want to adhere to. So what good is Congress and what good is it to pass legislation that is so flagrantly disregarded? The same thing with part-time faculty contracts: Why do we have them if they are meaningless during those times when their substance is most needed?
And so, because of the struggles with UA, including numerous meetings with union reps, the dean, and chairs re my contract, several years ago, I began courting let's call it University B. Though UB said "no" to me many times, I finally got a "yes" because a faculty member died. I was brought in to teach a night class this fall. At the time I first met with the chair at UB, he said he could see no problem about getting me the same salary as I am getting at UA. I proceeded with that gentleman's agreement all through the summer, reading the text, preparing the syllabus, and getting ready for the class. A week before the start of the semester, I was told, "Sorry, but we're paying you $800 less than you make at UA." I felt badly, but the chair said there was nothing he could do. I reluctantly agreed, since I had already put in 25 hours and if I did not accept the assignment, I would have been out that time with not a dime to show for it.
Last Tuesday I picked up my contract. (It's pretty standard that contracts are given to adjuncts after they have already begun teaching.) Instead of being $800 less, it was now $1,334 less. Basically, I'd be making a little over 2/3 of what I make for a 3.3-unit class at UA. Then I spoke with someone from the pension fund and was informed that working at this reduced rate would reduce my pension by $50/month, so basically, it would cost me money to teach this class.
I returned to the department chair at UB with this info, and though he was angry, he said he would talk to the dean about getting me the same money as I am getting at UA and he would get back to me. That was Wednesday morning.
I didn't hear anything on Wednesday. I didn't hear anything yesterday. Today I sent him an email and then gave him a call. When I reached him, he said he had hired someone else. Would I please return the book and the keys? So I guess if I had not contacted him, he would never had had the decency to contact me. I would have showed up to teach on Tuesday and would have met the new instructor! Unbelievable the lack of respect.
Yes, adjunct professors are the proletariats of academia. Or to put it in a more contemporary vernacular, we're the day laborers. It's like, "Hey, if you don't want to teach the class, who cares, we can go down to Home Depot and pick someone up there."
Every time I drive past Home Depot and see those guys hanging out, waiting for a job, any job, I think of the lot of adjunct professors, the day laborers of academia.
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