Meet Rasputin!

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

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




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

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

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



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

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

Healing Scriptures

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



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

Concentrated Prayer

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

From Out of Nowhere, a Medical Emergency

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First-in-a-Lifetime Experience

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prayers for Ron and Susie

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

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

A Spiritual Experience at a Strip Club

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears from Outer Space

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

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

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

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

Still Waiting

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

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

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

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

Another Move, A New Friend

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

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

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

UCLA Cardiologist Gives Her OK

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

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

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

Three Blind Dates

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

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

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

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

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

It's a mystery.

Chick Cabin Hug

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

Goodbye, Cal State

On Monday the journalism department gave me a send-off party. After years of slights and shoddy treatment, the department rallied. Interesting how that is, isn't it! I guess people figure, She's out the door. Why not be nice?

And the send-off was very sweet. About 15 people stopped by. They were all very kind. They gave me a $100 Visa card, orchids, balloons, and a card. Four students also gave me heartfelt cards.




Here is the thank-you email I sent out just moments ago:


Thanks so much to everyone who attended my send-off party. Thanks, too, to all who contributed to my day at the spa--what I plan to do with my Visa card. And the orchids are lovely, still looking good atop my kitchen table. As always, thanks to Teri and Carolyn, the force behind so much kindness that issues from the department.

When I first learned that something was being planned for me, I felt my eyes get a little watery. You can't imagine how challenging the last decade has been, and especially the past six months. Acts of kindness--often from unexpected quarters--have done so much to boost my spirits--a neighbor helping me lift some boxes, my son's friends stopping by to say hello, a smile from a passing stranger.



Perhaps you already know this, and practice this on a daily basis, but perhaps, too, it bears iteration: Every day each one of you touches the lives of many. You choose whether your interactions will be ego- or other-centered. You chose whether you will treat each individual as a valuable human being, someone richly deserving of respect and consideration, or whether you will only treat others as vehicles to further your own goals. Ironically, it is when you choose the former path that beautiful things begin to happen, not only for the person to whom you show kindness, but to your own self as well.

The ancient Greeks spoke of a golden light that dwells within every soul and how it is each individual's moral duty to allow that light to shine forth to the world. If one has artistic talent, for example, he would be morally bankrupt if he instead became an accountant--for the money--and never picked up a paintbrush again. And someone who has a knack for numbers would be equally culpible should he waste years engaged in so-so art projects when he could be assisting hundreds of people with their financial woes. So, too, the best teachers have a golden light that they bring forth to their students; they reveal their excellence to the world through their work, and their students see this in their passion for their subject and their concern for their students' advancement and well being.

There is a golden light of kindness as well, a deep knowledge that everyone is a valuable human being deserving of the very best that life can give. I felt this golden light at my send-off party. For this I am grateful.

May this find you in good health and in good spirits,

Heidi

Earthquake--And I'm Alone and Hooked up to a Dialysis Machine!

A 5.0 earthquake just rattled my apartment. I could hear things falling and breaking in the kitchen and living room, but as I'm on a 12-foot leash, I can't investigate. In years gone by when a temblor struck, I would brace myself in a doorless door frame or scoot under my bed. But the only doors within 12 feet of the dialysis machine have doors, and the underside of my bed is loaded to the hilt with dialysis supplies.

So all I could do was sit still. When there's nothing that can be done, why get upset? I realize I'm in an extremely vulnerable situation, being hooked up for 10 hours every night, when it comes to quakes, fires, and any criminal who might enter my living quarters.

This evening's experience reminded me of a bicycle accident I had over a decade ago. I was making a left turn, and a car came racing around a corner into my path. The thought went through my head, "I'm going to hit that car." This acceptance brought with it a great sense of peace and surrender. I completely relaxed, which doubtless saved my life.

I felt that same kind of acceptance just now. In such a situation, I know I have only two not-such-great options--remain hooked up and vulnerable to injury or quickly disconnect in a dusty environment that would most likely cause a site infection or internal contamination. Since nothing big was falling, I simply took the experience calmly and waited for it to pass.

11th Annual Chick Cabin Weekend

Last weekend, as every third weekend of May for the past 11 years, was chick cabin weekend. An annual event in Green Valley Lake, near Big Bear, at the cabin owned by Heather's mom. Mostly it's women who knew Heather in high school or even since early elementary school. But thrown into the mix are a few gals like me who know Heather via different routes. There is a core group--Heather, the two Lisas, Dre, Kim, Debbie, and Diane. This year, Lori Ann, a firefighter in Albequeque; Kristin, whom I met as I was leaving; and Susie, who has been so encouraging in regards to me being kidney-wait listed, were also present.

Though I rarely see or talk with these gals any time except chick cabin, I feel so close to them. They are the only group of female friends I have ever known. In fact, I really haven't had too many female friends over the years, so the CCW gals are that much more special.

Last year--the big 10th annual extravaganza--I couldn't go. I was attempting a 30-day, all-liquid fast and cleanse to bring my body into health and avert dialysis. That didn't last, as I gained seven pounds of water weight in one day and became ill. Besides, my heart was taxed at sea level. I was concerned I would be unable to breathe at the cabin's 5,000-foot elevation.

So attending this year was a big deal for me. I left Long Beach around 2 on Friday afternoon. This was to be my first night away from home since beginning dialysis on Feb. 2. This was also my first experience with CAPD (continuous ambulatory peritoneal dialysis), in which I performed dialysis every six to eight hours. This didn't allow for much sleep, plus the dialysis bags were cold, so there was a bit of cramping during the fill. But it all went fine nonetheless.

About eight years ago, the Lisa who had been a professional dancer was pregnant and asked Heather and me to photograph her nude on the boulders that are scattered about this forested area. That was quite lovely, her breasts and big belly echoed in the roundness of the rocks. This began a tradition of nude photography. Some years it's only Lisa and me who photograph each other. Other years Heather joins in and perhaps Rachel, if she's around.

This year it was important for me to be photographed. Following the placement of the catheter, it took weeks for me to feel comfortable about looking in the mirror. I felt that stipping down would help my body image.

Lisa had brought scarves and a loose shirt for partial covering, but in some photos I opted to take everything off, everything, of course, but the tubing, dressing, transfer set, PD belt, and insulin pump! I guess it's impossible for me to get completely nude!

These photo sessions are so much fun! I enjoy being the photographer as much as I enjoy being the model. Of course, as Lisa is a dancer, she is adept at using her body to create sculpture-like poses.

Shown here are only a few of the tamest shots, as I'm not interested in having my breasts, my sex, and my behind for all the world to see.

Tomorrow You Will be Executed--Whoops!

Yesterday I received this curt, poorly proofed letter from UCLA Transplant Services:
"The patient was seen in Kidney/Pancreas Evaluation Clinic on 4/16/09. Patient current status is: Inactive. The patient is not a candidate at this time and will not be placed on the UNOS Wait List. Patient was seen as a consult only. Patient was seen as a consultation only. The patient is not a candidate for kidney & pancreas transplantation at this time due to inoperative, 3-vessel coronary artery disease. Pleasae see the dictation for detail. Other: Patient was hypertensive at the time of evaluation(170/100 bpm). Please follow-up with your physician."

I immediately got on the phone. I wasn't crying; I was angry. I didn't raise my voice, and I didn't use foul or offensive language. I was firm and direct, not accepting any PC, bullshit answers.

I had seen the UCLA cardiologist last Friday, and she had ordered another test, which I have scheduled for May 26 and 27. "I have a new heart," I told her, as I have told at least five other doctors. "Please don't judge me on the basis of an angiogram done years before I started dialysis." I also asked her not to judge me on the basis of my clinical blood pressure, as my twice-daily, at-home readings are in the neighborhood of 100/60. She said that patients are often nervous about these visits, and consequently, their BP shoots up. Nervous? My God, who wouldn't be! These people are deciding whether I'll live or die!

First I talked with the in-take nurse. How could UCLA send out a letter like this when I had been told by the cardiologist that her decision was dependent upon the results of a test I have not yet taken? She couldn't answer this question and went off to find someone who could. This meant quite a long time on hold. When she got back, I asked to speak with the cardiologist. Of course, one can rarely speak directly to a doctor! Oh, my God, we couldn't have patients talking directly to doctors outside of office visits! The whole system of elitism might come tumbling down. The nurse said the head nurse, Melissa Forest, would review my records and call me.

Melissa said the letter had been sent out prematurely. It had been based on the transplant surgeon and the director of the transplant program's recommendation--even though these two had referred me to the cardiologist. They had told me they would base their decision on the cardiologist's recommendation. Why, I demanded, had this letter been sent out? "Is this part of the psychological testing?" I asked. "Do you mess with patients and see how they handle it?" That question shocked her, and she didn't answer it. I persisted: "Because if messing with patients is part of the workup, then I've passed because I'm not crying and I'm not taking this sitting down."

I explained how I was feeling: "I'm on Death Row. I get a letter saying that my execution is tomorrow. 'But my lawyer has my case in appeal,' I say. 'How can you go ahead with the execution when my case is in appeal?'" She said she understood. I countered with: "So you've been a transplant patient?" She didn't answer. I asked again. "No, I haven't," she said. "Well, then you don't understand," I said.

I said that I am just starting out with UCLA, and if this lack of attention to detail is present at the onset, I'm concerned that such carelessness may pervade the entire process. I am concerned about the carelessness that seems to have gone into sending out this letter, without concern for accuracy or the patient's feelings. I said I worked as an editor and alluded to the carelessness with the language of the letter. Though I didn't specifically cite the errors, here they are--"pleasae," "follow-up" (no hyphen when used as a verb), two cases of redundancy, and the switch from third to second person. "If there is carelessness in the little things, it makes me wonder if there will be carelessness with the big things." I repeated this to help it sink in. Yes, the big things--making sure the organ is a good match and making sure the surgery is successful.

Melissa apologized, but I wanted to know what she was going to do to correct this problem. I asked if this matter would be taken up at a staff meeting. Perhaps people should think before sending out such letters. She assured me she would bring it up. Who knows if that will actually happen.

Now, I must attend to some important business--getting a match and burning the letter.

Yet Another Step in the Kidney Appeals Process

I met with the UCLA cardiologist on Friday. She is charged with determining my suitability as a transplant candidate. I was hoping and praying for a decision, but that has now been delayed. She wants me to undergo another stress test to assess my heart function. This is probably the best news I could have expected at this point, as she did not deny my request and she did not insist on an angiogram, which uses dye that is harmful to the kidneys. So it's yet another step in this long, involved, emotionally exhausting process.

I greatly appreciate all those who have been praying on my behalf, and I ask that you continue to do so. I know that prayer is very powerful, and it touches me deeply to know that so many people have my best interests in mind and in heart.

The One Word That Says it All

"Proswayed," a female student in one of my classes wrote. When I pointed this mistake out to her, she was befuddled. "It's spelled 'persuade,'" I said. "Oh," she replied.

This one word sums up much of what is wrong with education these days: carelessness, inattention, lack of pride in a job well done, unconcern about one's own language, rushing to finish one project in order to hurry through another.

The flip side is that my fellow educators seem unconcerned about the deterioration of standards. Over the years, I have seen such a steady decline, and this has been disheartening for me. I wonder how sloppy we will eventually become, how much further into the mud we will sink.

And that's one reason why I am glad to be leaving Cal State. Professors who don't care and students who care even less. I will certainly not miss either one.