Saturday, June 19, 2010
Monton Magic
Monton was so darn cute. I just must show you more of its beauty. First, my favorite image. Even when I took it, I said aloud, "This is going to be my best shot."
Farmers, Churches, Black Madonnas
Saturday's breakfast, like all the meals Khadidja made for us, was simple, wholesome, and delicious. Homemade yogurt. Cherry, apricot, and quince jams made by Khadidja's mom. Hearty bread.
We bought a few things at the farmers' market in Clermont. Fresh milk and cream from a man who treats his cows with homeopathic remedies, not antibiotics. He also sold bread and butter, slicing off what was needed from a large tray and from a 4-5 kg loaf. I bought two organic honey-almond nougats to take home as gifts.
We visited Notre Dame du Port, a fine example of Romanesque architecture, and the cathedral. Both tauted black Madonnas, a common icon in the area. I especially was touched by the descent to the crypt, the oldest region of the church and cold as it is underground. Seemed more mystical and otherworldly than even the silent presence that infused the diffuse light of the churches themselves.
We also dropped into a wine store that had two cellars and glacieres in the bottom floor. These are holes deep into the earth that were once used to store ice from the mountains and make ice cream. Naturally occurring ones can be found in the mountains, the byproduct of volcanic activity.
We took a circuitous route back to Monton so that we could delight in the little villages around Puy de Dome. When Khadidja and her son, Gabriel, were training for their Nepal trek, they could climb the mountain in 15 minutes. Impressive!
On the outside wall of the Romanesque church in Orcival are shackles. A souvenir of the Inquisition? A reminder that we are in bondage to this earthly form until liberated by the grace of God? No explanatory placard made that clear.
Upon our return to Monton, Khadidja offered us a snack--organic strawberries with fresh cream. Yummy! For dinner, we had organic farm-raised trout with scallions and wild herbs, broccoli, carrots, bread, and for dessert, strawberries with curds and whey.
We bought a few things at the farmers' market in Clermont. Fresh milk and cream from a man who treats his cows with homeopathic remedies, not antibiotics. He also sold bread and butter, slicing off what was needed from a large tray and from a 4-5 kg loaf. I bought two organic honey-almond nougats to take home as gifts.
We visited Notre Dame du Port, a fine example of Romanesque architecture, and the cathedral. Both tauted black Madonnas, a common icon in the area. I especially was touched by the descent to the crypt, the oldest region of the church and cold as it is underground. Seemed more mystical and otherworldly than even the silent presence that infused the diffuse light of the churches themselves.
We also dropped into a wine store that had two cellars and glacieres in the bottom floor. These are holes deep into the earth that were once used to store ice from the mountains and make ice cream. Naturally occurring ones can be found in the mountains, the byproduct of volcanic activity.
We took a circuitous route back to Monton so that we could delight in the little villages around Puy de Dome. When Khadidja and her son, Gabriel, were training for their Nepal trek, they could climb the mountain in 15 minutes. Impressive!
On the outside wall of the Romanesque church in Orcival are shackles. A souvenir of the Inquisition? A reminder that we are in bondage to this earthly form until liberated by the grace of God? No explanatory placard made that clear.
Upon our return to Monton, Khadidja offered us a snack--organic strawberries with fresh cream. Yummy! For dinner, we had organic farm-raised trout with scallions and wild herbs, broccoli, carrots, bread, and for dessert, strawberries with curds and whey.
A Rude Parisian and We're Off to Monton
On Thursday, June 10, we left our apartment for the last time and departed Paris via train. In the station, a woman yelled at Helene for not giving her seat up quickly enough so that an elderly woman could sit down. She berated Helene so violently; this was really uncalled for.
The 3 1/2-hour train ride sped us through the French countryside, usually too quickly to take it all in. Lots of cute towns with gray, tan, and beige stucco houses with red tile roofs.
We arrived in Clermont-Ferrand, a city of approximately 150,000, about 5 p.m. Khadidja was there to meet us. We drove about 15 minutes to get to her home in the village of Monton. She lives in a three-story house that dates back hundreds of years. Her mother's house is next door, and it contains walls that were part of the castle of the 11th century. What a lovely home Khadidja has! From the kitchen table, we could look out her front door and see the white statue of the Virgin and Child that watches over the town, as well as the caves in the hillside that were used as dwellings up until the 1950s. The view from her third-story veranda is equally lovely and includes the nearby church tower and the roofs of the village.
After settling in, we went to the top of the hill to visit the Madonna and Child. The wind was quite intense. Already by this time, I knew that I was going to love it here. Wonderful as Paris is, the French countryside is downright magical.
For dinner that night, Khadidja served homemade vegetable soup with a dollop of fresh cream, roast beef with fennil and potatoes, thick wheat-rye bread, and local cheeses. Khadidja is really into locally grown, organic food. She is part of an AMAP (Association pour le maintien ole l'Agriculturre paysanne), basically an association for the preservation of local agriculture. There is a big movement in France to resist genetically modified food. The difference in taste is amazing. Vegetables taste like vegetables. They have a rich flavor, unlike most of the produce here in the U.S.
The 3 1/2-hour train ride sped us through the French countryside, usually too quickly to take it all in. Lots of cute towns with gray, tan, and beige stucco houses with red tile roofs.
We arrived in Clermont-Ferrand, a city of approximately 150,000, about 5 p.m. Khadidja was there to meet us. We drove about 15 minutes to get to her home in the village of Monton. She lives in a three-story house that dates back hundreds of years. Her mother's house is next door, and it contains walls that were part of the castle of the 11th century. What a lovely home Khadidja has! From the kitchen table, we could look out her front door and see the white statue of the Virgin and Child that watches over the town, as well as the caves in the hillside that were used as dwellings up until the 1950s. The view from her third-story veranda is equally lovely and includes the nearby church tower and the roofs of the village.
After settling in, we went to the top of the hill to visit the Madonna and Child. The wind was quite intense. Already by this time, I knew that I was going to love it here. Wonderful as Paris is, the French countryside is downright magical.
For dinner that night, Khadidja served homemade vegetable soup with a dollop of fresh cream, roast beef with fennil and potatoes, thick wheat-rye bread, and local cheeses. Khadidja is really into locally grown, organic food. She is part of an AMAP (Association pour le maintien ole l'Agriculturre paysanne), basically an association for the preservation of local agriculture. There is a big movement in France to resist genetically modified food. The difference in taste is amazing. Vegetables taste like vegetables. They have a rich flavor, unlike most of the produce here in the U.S.
Bees on a Rainy Day
Wednesday the 9th was a rainy, cold day. Helene and I took the Metro to the Luxemburg Gardens, where we met Marie. She is a beekeeper for the French senate's bees. Marie is very adament about the importance of keeping bees, as our food supply depends on them, and their numbers are dwindling.
First we attended a lecture in the bee building about the swarm that Marie had almost single-handedly dealt with the week before. In the end, her efforts were in vain, as the bees flew away.
Unfortunately, it was too rainy to work with the bees. We had planned to suit up and receive a lesson in bee-keeping from Marie, but that was not to be.
That evening, we had dinner at a small French restaurant near Marie and Stefania's apartment building. I had steak with a bleu cheese gravy.
First we attended a lecture in the bee building about the swarm that Marie had almost single-handedly dealt with the week before. In the end, her efforts were in vain, as the bees flew away.
Unfortunately, it was too rainy to work with the bees. We had planned to suit up and receive a lesson in bee-keeping from Marie, but that was not to be.
That evening, we had dinner at a small French restaurant near Marie and Stefania's apartment building. I had steak with a bleu cheese gravy.
Rodin Museum
Helene wanted to take it easy on Tuesday, June 8, and perhaps find Ben's recipe book at a bookstore. I set off to see the Musee Rodin, which is housed in a mansion and surrounded by a large walled garden.
Rodin is mostly known for his rough-hewn figures with clumps of clay sticking onto the bodies, as if he hadn't quite had time to smooth out the rough edges. The museum, however, showed more of his earlier work in which he created idealized human bodies, much like those of the ancient Greeks.
The afternoon I visited, two groups of young schoolchildren were sitting before statues of young, beautiful lovers. I was struck by the children's maturity. They were perhaps 9 or 10 years old. Unlike American kids who would have been snickering at the woman's breasts or the man's penis, these kids were unfazed. I hearkened back to a visit to the Laguna Beach (Calif.) Museum of Art some months ago, when the docent informed Aaron and me that the schoolchildren were "protected" from the nude paintings, not allowed to view them. And here were these French kids taking in the splendor of larger-than-life sculptures, already understanding that the body is not shameful and that sex is a natural component of life. What a different approach to raising and educating children!
Rodin is mostly known for his rough-hewn figures with clumps of clay sticking onto the bodies, as if he hadn't quite had time to smooth out the rough edges. The museum, however, showed more of his earlier work in which he created idealized human bodies, much like those of the ancient Greeks.
The afternoon I visited, two groups of young schoolchildren were sitting before statues of young, beautiful lovers. I was struck by the children's maturity. They were perhaps 9 or 10 years old. Unlike American kids who would have been snickering at the woman's breasts or the man's penis, these kids were unfazed. I hearkened back to a visit to the Laguna Beach (Calif.) Museum of Art some months ago, when the docent informed Aaron and me that the schoolchildren were "protected" from the nude paintings, not allowed to view them. And here were these French kids taking in the splendor of larger-than-life sculptures, already understanding that the body is not shameful and that sex is a natural component of life. What a different approach to raising and educating children!
Perfume Museum and Celebrity Chef
The morning of June 7, we visited Musee de Parfum Fragonard, a fascinating collection of rare and antique perfume vials that leads the visitor to a showroom for the Fragonard line. A little too flowery for both Helene's and my tastes.
We then walked to Eglise Madeleine, a Roman Catholic church built in the classical style. We made our way to the Musee Rodin, only to find that it is closed on Mondays. Before getting on the Metro, we relaxed in a little park beside Invales named Place de la Concorde. There I spied a woman sitting on the grass, her form surrounded by flowers and greenery. She looked like a living Gaughin painting.
We took a very deep Metro to Buttes Chamonte, a large park with a stream, a waterfall, and a lake. The depth of the subway really affected Helene's inner ear, and I too could feel the pressure. We must have been at least four levels underground or about eight flights of stairs.
I was really struggling with all this walking. I suspected I was still anemic, plus this was far more exercise than I was accustomed to at home. Over the last several months, I have experienced a constellation of symptoms that wear on me. They include
* fatigue
* weakness
* lethargy
* chest discomfort and pain
* abdominal discomfort and pain
* nausea
* aching shoulders, neck, and back
* headache
* lightheadedness
* dizziness
* phlegm in my throat that I can't expel
* dry cough
* poor appetite
* chills
* heart palpitations
* heart tightness and constriction
* quivering of the heart (irregular heartbeat)
* labored breathing
It's not that I experience all of them at once, but I experience some of them all of the time.
Throughout the trip, Helene helped me so much. She often carried my baggage up stairs when there was no elevator in a train station or the airport. I was often at the limit of my physical ability just to continue walking, much less carry or pull luggage. Without Helene, I would not have been able to travel in France, as unlike the U.S., it is not set up to accommodate people who need extra assistance.
That night we ate at Marie's apartment. Her ex-boyfriend's nephew, Ben Darnaud, popped by. What a great guy! He is only 25 and already he has published a cooking book and has his own cooking show on French TV. He had just returned from a few days in Dublin, where he attended a food festival. Such a cutie!
We then walked to Eglise Madeleine, a Roman Catholic church built in the classical style. We made our way to the Musee Rodin, only to find that it is closed on Mondays. Before getting on the Metro, we relaxed in a little park beside Invales named Place de la Concorde. There I spied a woman sitting on the grass, her form surrounded by flowers and greenery. She looked like a living Gaughin painting.
We took a very deep Metro to Buttes Chamonte, a large park with a stream, a waterfall, and a lake. The depth of the subway really affected Helene's inner ear, and I too could feel the pressure. We must have been at least four levels underground or about eight flights of stairs.
I was really struggling with all this walking. I suspected I was still anemic, plus this was far more exercise than I was accustomed to at home. Over the last several months, I have experienced a constellation of symptoms that wear on me. They include
* fatigue
* weakness
* lethargy
* chest discomfort and pain
* abdominal discomfort and pain
* nausea
* aching shoulders, neck, and back
* headache
* lightheadedness
* dizziness
* phlegm in my throat that I can't expel
* dry cough
* poor appetite
* chills
* heart palpitations
* heart tightness and constriction
* quivering of the heart (irregular heartbeat)
* labored breathing
It's not that I experience all of them at once, but I experience some of them all of the time.
Throughout the trip, Helene helped me so much. She often carried my baggage up stairs when there was no elevator in a train station or the airport. I was often at the limit of my physical ability just to continue walking, much less carry or pull luggage. Without Helene, I would not have been able to travel in France, as unlike the U.S., it is not set up to accommodate people who need extra assistance.
That night we ate at Marie's apartment. Her ex-boyfriend's nephew, Ben Darnaud, popped by. What a great guy! He is only 25 and already he has published a cooking book and has his own cooking show on French TV. He had just returned from a few days in Dublin, where he attended a food festival. Such a cutie!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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.
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!
* 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.
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.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, May 14, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)