More Cabin Pictures

Friend Heather had asked to see photos of the cabin, so here goes. Please note that I did NOT paint the exterior that amazing green. The former owner, Norm, got it in his head to do so just prior to putting the place up for sale. I guess he thought it would be a selling point!






And here are a few of the shed that is also on the property. It's full of just about everything you'd need to build another cabin, if you had a mind to: flooring, shingles, windows, lumber, lots of nails, curtain rods, molding, a toilet, chairs, a table, and a bath tub.

Work on the Cabin

Though I have had a lot of time to explore and read and generally goof around during my stay in Nova Scotia, I still accomplished some work on the cabin--something that makes me feel really good.

One project that I have wanted to do for five years now is decorate one of the walls in the porch with items I brought with me from California or collected along my way to Nova Scotia during my grand solo camping-back roads adventure of the summer of 2005. Though the task is not completed, and will not be completed this time, it is started for God's sake! Last Monday Aaron painted the wall blue, or as the color is appropriately named "giggles." The next day, Aaron, Helene, and I plastered pebbles, earrings, statues, chipped pottery, shells, state pins, and so many other treasures onto the wall. A lot of it fell off, being too bulky or not flat enough. A few days ago, I added a few more items, including green, yellow, and purple pull rings from my dialysis bags and the plastic ends of the dialysis tubing. One thing did not go according to plan: Though the paint lady added the right amount of color to both the primer paint and the plaster, on the wall, the two are not quite a match, perhaps because the plaster on its own is not a true white. So, next time I will carefully edge each item on the wall with the primer. A big job. But as it is now, I am so happy that I have finally put these items up. As I said to Aaron, now for sure we aren't selling this cabin. Who else would appreciate this!





Embedded in the wall are items that friends gave me in 2005 to include in this grand art project: a moon-and-stars tile from Jamie, bottles of green abundance powder and red love powder from Georgette, and a half-dollar-sized basket woven by Robin.

The other big project was windows for the porch. Back in the summer of 2005, I drywalled the porch, but planned to put in windows the next year. That never happened. Finally, I've got windows, put in by Wayne, a carpenter who works for my general contractor-neighbor Merwin. Wayne used three windows that were in my shed. So happy with my new windows!



Other projects accomplished:
* While Wayne was working, he let me borrow his ladder. I used this to clean out the gutters, which were filled with old leaves and dirt, even little trees.
* Wayne also let me use his power saw to down some trees that were growing too close to the cabin. I thought this was a good deal of fun.
* I replaced a hasp on the front door. Later Wayne redid this, saying that I should have mounted it the other way so that the screws are hidden under the arm when it's locked. Otherwise, someone could just come by with a screwdriver and get into the cabin. I said, "But someone could use a crowbar if they really wanted in." But that was awfully nice of Wayne to redo it because it had taken me about an hour to do it with my manual screwdriver.
* Though Helene had put two coats of paint on the floors of the bedroom and the porch, I had to touch up both because of my cleaning solutions for dialysis hygiene and Wayne's carpentry, respectively.
* I took a broom to the inside of the shed and recycled a bunch of empty plastic containers.

So, I'm happy with the work I accomplished. Next year I'll finish the porch wall, and I'm sure they'll be many more tasks to check off.

Rasputin's Going to Miss This Place

Since his arrival in Nova Scotia almost three weeks ago, Rasputin has become more and more adventuresome. At first he was underfoot when we went for walks in the woods, and I often accidentally stepped on or kicked him. Then he began poking his head into the ferns and grasses at the side of the dirt road near my cabin. And then about a week ago, he took the plunge and went into the wild woods. Many times he has raced off, and I have not known where he is for up to 10 minutes. This is a bit disconcerting, as bears and packs of coyotes abound in this area, and little Rasputin would be an easy meal.

His hunting skills, however, leave much to be desired. His basic strategy is to attempt to scare his victim to death, lunging at a toad or a bug and then jumping back when they move. The only prey he has secured have been several live flies (he makes the most puzzled face as he downs them) and a dessicated gopher, or perhaps a squirrel, shown here.



He does a happy dance whenever I get ready to go outside. He absolutely loves the freedom of being leash-less. He's really going to miss his woodsy adventures when we get back to Long Beach and his outside excursions will be on pavement and concrete--with a leash.

Though the first two weeks of my visit were full of events with people--first with Helene and her friends and last week with Aaron--this week it's been Rasputin and me all the way. Aaron left last Wednesday, and Helene has been at a family reunion in Montreal. I really enjoyed seeing and doing things with other humans, but this week alone with Rasputin has been wonderful too. We've taken a lot of long walks, explored a few of the provinicial parks, and returned to Hampton Beach, where Helene and I had gathered surf-tumbled pebbles during my first week.

I will be leaving my cabin very early Wednesday morning to catch a 9:30 a.m. flight from Halifax, a two-hour drive away. I will miss these woods and the stream, lake, and river near my cabin. So many times during these walks, my mind has been completely clear, devoid of any thoughts, at peace.

I could very easily live for many months like this, taking walks with Rasputin, exploring Nova Scotia's natural beauty, making light conversation with people when I see them, and having a social engagement now and again. This had been my plan only a year ago. I had planned on leaving Cal State, driving to Nova Scotia, living here for six months of the year, and spending the other six camping and traveling throughout the U.S. I would live on writing and editing jobs, with no rent to pay. Well, this had been the plan, but dialysis has changed all that.

Thank You, Helene!

My good friend Helene scrubbed my cabin to get it in shape for my visit. She bought the needed Lysol spray, hydrogen peroxide, paper towels, Lysol wipes, and sundry other supplies for keeping a clean abode. She also was there when the dialysis solution arrived, and she took inventory of the boxes. And she even finished off the bedroom, filling in gaps in the paneling through which the insulation was showing through, then painted the bedroom walls and floor. She put a baseboard in, too, to give it a tidy look. The paint she chose is a beautiful blue that matches the blue in the gnome curtains and table cloths. In short, she put in a lot of work to make my cabin clean and welcoming. So a big thank you to Helene!



Thanks, too, to Helene for including me in her social life. In truth, I have had more social engagements in the past few days than I have in six months in So Cal. And the amount of time I have spent with Helene, even though she is working more than full-time as a cook at the pub, exceeds the time I spend in a given year with any So Cal friend. It's amazing how in small towns, people slow down and take the time to be with one another. This is such a wonderful change of pace.

Would You Laugh if You Swallowed One Month's Pay?

For the last eight months or so, I have been having challenges with my veneers. My upper four front teeth have veneers because, for all of my childhood and much of my adulthood, people would comment about my yellow teeth. Yellow teeth run in my mother's side of the family, and whether that's a genetic thing or a geographical thing linked to the water, I don't know. But I've never liked them, and so about 15 years ago, I did something about it.

Lately, the adhesive has not been holding, so I have made frequent visits to my dentist, who, bless her soul, is always trying new ones on me. Denette gets excited about trade shows, hoping she'll find a miracle product to use on my veneers.

Denette is such a mensch that she hasn't been charging me for all this rebonding. She's probably fit me into her busy schedule a half dozen times during the last eight months. So when one of my veneers kept falling off, I didn't want to bug her. I thought I'd wait for my next teeth-cleaning. So during the past three months, my veneer has come loose a hundred times or more. Sometimes all the way off and sometimes just a little. Sometimes it ends up in my food. Sometimes other people see this!

I wanted to get this taken care of before I left for Canada tomorrow, so I have a dentist appointment in about a half hour. The only thing is during lunch today, I swallowed my veneer! Can you believe it! Three months of me gluing it in place with Elmer's and of futzing with it no end, and then hours before my dentist appointment, I swallow it! The irony of this has not escaped me.

All I can do is giggle.

And then I remembered how much veneers cost. Oh, my God! $500--my entire monthly pension from Cal State! I wonder how many people would laugh about swallowing their entire month's pay! Perhaps that should be an online dating question. It would certainly be a great divider of the world's people--those who could chuckle and those who would curse.

Might as Well Include Health in my Pact Too

OK, from now on, I will not comment on my emotional state regarding dialysis or my health in general. I will only state facts. I can state facts such as "I am depressed due to an antibiotic," as I did in an earlier post today, but it does no good to voice negative emotions. Voicing them merely feeds them. For most of life, I have followed this creed, but it seems that I have slipped quite a bit lately. I will be more diligent and self-controlled from now on.

Another Wait List Update

Well, the results of the MUGA test were not great--35 percent pumping capacity for the left ventricle. Dr. Phan says that anything 35 or lower is a sign of a heart that could stop at any moment without warning. He and Dr. Lee from UCLA are now thinking of an implantable cardioverter defibrillator (ICD). This is generally used for patients with arrhythmia, which I don't have, but in my case it would be used as a preventative, that is, in case my heart does stop, this would restart it.

My trip to Canada will give them a month to mull it over. I have an appt. to see Dr. Lee on Monday, Sept. 14, after I return from my vacation.

Other than that, things are in a holding pattern for the next few weeks.

Belated Birthday Thanks

I would like to say a special thank you to Aaron, Bev, Diana, Chris and Mark for taking me out for my birthday. Aaron bought me a plant for a decorative pot my neighbor gave me, and then took me out for Indian food at my favorite Long Beach restaurant, Kamal Palace. Unfortunately, later that day, I had a violent attack of vertigo and up-chucked the chutney. Diana and Bev took me to dinner in old town Tustin at Rutabagorzand then to a small comedy club in a nearby office complex. We sat in the front row (of three rows) and laughed and laughed, which is always a good thing.

The event with Chris and Mark was a surprise. I knew that the two were flying into LA from San Francisco for Chris's birthday (one day before mine), and Mark and I had talked of the three of us getting together for a meal. But then they invited me to share their box seats at the Hollywood Bowl to see Grace Jones! Wow, what a show! Mark's long-time friend John Halsey accompanied us. This was quite a delightful evening: Grace Jones looked great, she was incredibly sexy, and her costumes were out of this world.



Mark and I are always tremendously silly together, which I enjoy no end. I'm sorry that Chris and I did not get more of a chance to talk, as Chris said, "You two have been speaking your own language all night long!"




So, thanks, guys, for including me, and thanks, Chris, for my ticket.

Off to Canada

I'm off to Canada on Tuesday. This is a huge step. My first trip since beginning dialysis, that is, except for one night away from home during Chick Cabin Weekend in May.

I have had three paramedic-ER-hospitalization dramas in the last five weeks. All episodes of severe vertigo (environment spinning, bouncing up and down, and side to side[ couldn't stand; couldn't walk; closing eyes didn't help), uncontrollable vomiting, and very high blood pressure. The cause of these crises is undetermined, but I tend to agree with my nephrologist, who feels the culprit is ciprofloxacin, which was given to me at the end of July to combat an infection in my dialysis tubing. Cipro was also responsible for bouts of depression and weepiness during the treatment time. Unfortunately, cipro is the only oral antibiotic that can attack micro-organisms living on plastic. The only alternative is to receive antibiotics by IV in the hospital. This would be much preferrable to these vertigo spells and to the depression.

The first bout of vertigo was July 2, which was prior to the cipro, but this was also associated with very low blood sugar. Vertigo has never been a symptom of hyperglycemia for me, but perhaps my symptoms are changing.

I had a less severe episode on Wednesday. I was simply talking on the phone when it came on. I had great difficulty walking (had to move along a wall or a cabinet to remain standing), but I didn't vomit and I didn't have to call the paramedics. Even though I stopped taking the cipro a week ago Thursday, cipro side effects can occur up to a month or more after discontinuation. And as I am a dialysis patient, toxins are removed from my body more slowly than in a person with healthy kidneys.

The long and short of it is that I am envisioning a paramedic-free, ER-free, hospital-free vacation in Nova Scotia!

Keep Your Mind Guarded Like a City in Battle

From an ancient Chinese medicine text, "The Yellow Emperor's Canon on Internal Medicine," comes these sage words: "Keep your mind guarded like a city in battle." I fell in love with these words the first time I encountered them.

Since that encounter, I see myself as a guard stationed above the door to the castle. A stranger comes to the door and wants to be let in. I tell him that he can speak his mind, and I will then decide whether to grant him entrance. The stranger, of course, are ideas, beliefs, advice, theories, and opinions. The guard listens to all of them, just like I am free to listen to anything anyone says. I then must do the most important job: decide whether such an idea should take up residence in the castle or if it should be sent on its merry way.

As so often happens in life, there are two messengers at my gate with divergent messages. The one who has been there for decades are all the folks over the years who have been telling me that I am too independent and that men want to feel needed by a woman. My friend Beverly, with whom I confided on such matters, says that any man who sees me in one of my full-body orgasms will run for the hills, thinking that if I can get set off by a good kiss or even the touch of a hand, what need do I have for him! But whether it's low sexual threshold or traveling by myself or not falling all over every man who comes along, it's my independence that is keeping men away. That's been the prevailing sentiment. But yesterday Susie told me that I am needy and that this is keeping men away.

I have looked deeply at both these messages, and I have decided not to let either one of them enter my castle. I am proud of my resourcefulness and independence. I get a great sense of satisfaction when I can figure out how to fix something on my own. Of course, I would love to have a man in my life who would say, "Oh, honey, let me do that for you." Wow, that would be fantastic. But he's not here, and I'm not going to start compromising who I am at this late stage. As Tracy Chapman sang, "All I've got is my soul." Amen to that! True, the vast majority of men may be insecure, as Beverly is always telling me. The vast majority might give me a kiss and send me into a bout of quivering and writhing, and that might scare them. But I'm not interested in that kind of man. I'm interested in the kind of man who would see that and say, "Damn, honey, that's what you do with a kiss! I can't wait to see what happens when we take our clothes off!"

Is Sad the Same as Needy?

I was in the hospital Saturday and Sunday with another attack of sudden-onset vertigo. While there, I spoke with my friend Susie, the amazing gal who has just donated one of her kidneys to her friend's husband. Susie is a dynamic, playful, intelligent, big-busted, big-hearted woman. Truly remarkable. So when Susie says something, I take heed.

Susie says my posts express a neediness for a man, and that my neediness is keeping men away, that the sadness expressed in my posts are really the writings of a needy woman. As "needy" is not a word I would ever use to describe myself, I thought I had best take a good look at what Susie said.

True, I have been down at times. This last week or so has been very difficult, with bouts of weepiness for seemingly no reason, but I finally associated this with the antibiotic I was taking for the infection of my dialysis tube. I finished the regimen yesterday, and my mood has definitely improved. Other than such pharmaceutically induced blues, I really have been feeling remarkably well since March. (The first month of dialysis and the build-up to dialysis were very difficult, but then I would think they would be difficult for anyone. Surely, no one wants to be doing dialysis.)

I went back and reread the posts in which I share the strategies I have used over the years to boost or maintain my mood--saying aloud "I am loved, I am deeply loved," hugging myself, and going on "fun walks" in which I am very attentive to the beauty around me. In each of these posts I admitted that initially these practices did not bring me joy, that at first they highlighted my aloneness. But in every case, I ended with the deep and profound recognition that something much greater than the little self--call it God if you will--is sending me love. If someone only reads the first half of these posts, yes, I'd agree that they might be downers. But if you read to the end, you see that these are joyful experiences, certainly not desperate or needy.

When I was a child and a young adult and even a not-so-young adult, I was needy. I was in an uninterrupted state of depression and frequent withdrawal from the world. But that Heidi just doesn't exist any more. I had a shift several years ago, a shift that released food as a coping strategy, a particularly life-threatening coping strategy for a diabetic. This shift also included major changes in the way I perceived myself, my mission, and my relationship to other people. Basically, I decided to be happy, no matter what.

Now, of course, things happen in life that challenge that state of being, but these dark times are far less dark than they have been in the past, and they are much more short-lived. Darkness sometimes passes over me like a cold breeze, and I am sad or weepy for a minute or two, and then it is gone.

Susie not only prompted thinking about my own character, but about the wider question: Is sad the same as needy? I sure don't think so. To me, sad is to needy as poor is to moochy (or whatever the adjective is for being a moocher). Sad is personal, something you can keep to yourself, something you can indulge in when you're alone but go out into the world with a smile and a glow about you. One goes home to weep alone, just like one goes home to shit alone, to get out the impurities, so that one can go back into the world refreshed. Needy is 24/7. Sad is personal and can be contained so that it only effects the person who is sad. Others may know the sad person and even be good friends with her and yet always think of her as the happiest, sunniest person going. Needy is a drain on others; needy zaps the people it's around. Similarly, poor is a statement of fact: Someone is poor, he lives in a substandard dwelling, his clothes are worn, and he has few possessions. This is very different from a moocher, who is also poor but who begs, borrows, and cheats his way into getting others to give him a place to live or his next meal or a new set of clothes. He zaps others, whereas the poor man does not. The poor man accepts his state of being and lives as best he can within what has been given to him. So, definitely, all needy people are sad people, but the reverse is not true.

Wait List Update

Several developments in the wait list saga:

* Met with my Kaiser cardiologist, Dr. Phan, who said that my UCLA cardiologist, Dr. Van Herle, is leaving UCLA. I have been assigned a new cardiologist, Dr. Michael Lee--yes, another Michael, which I am taking as a good sign. I have called about an appointment with Dr. Lee, but have not yet secured one.

* I am holding off on the angiogram until after I meet with Dr. Lee. To recap, the angiogram uses a dye that is damaging to the kidneys. Furthermore, patients who are asymptomatic (no chest pain) fare worse with stent surgery (the end result of an angiogram) than without. Also, I have no guarantee that I'll be on the wait list if I do the stent surgery, so this is potentially a lose-lose-lose situation for me.

* Dr. Lee told Dr. Phan that he is willing to begin with a MUGA (Multiple Gated Acquistion) test, which will measure my heart's pumping ability or EF. This should clear up two inconsistent sets of data, one from the nuclear scan done about two months ago that indicated my EF was around 30 and the other from an echocardiogram, which showed an EF of 50, which is the low side of normal.

Months ago I had made plans to go to Canada, thinking that for sure the wait list would be decided by August. Alas, such is not the case. Most likely I will have to wait until after my return on Sept. 9 to undergo the MUGA and see Dr. Lee, so I may not have much news for a while.

Please see my left ventricle pumping like crazy, supplying my heart with all the blood and oxygen it needs to do its job perfectly, smoothly, and effortlessly.

I am Loved, I am Deeply Loved

Every once in a while, I need a boost, even if I have to supply it myself. I have written about the hug-myself and Spassiergang strategies in previous posts, and I'd like to share another means to maintain one's spirits.

Shortly after I began giving massages for a living, I began holding the thought that the person on my table is loved, deeply loved. I did not say this aloud, but I concentrated on these words and sent their power into the person's body and consciousness. As I did this, I visualized and then felt the loving energy of the universe enter my crown and travel to my heart and then down my arms and out my hands. As I held this thought, I, too, felt deeply loved.



This is a very powerful meditation, as it does not name the person, so the "you" who is deeply loved is both the client and me. In fact, the "you" seems to disappear until only love, pure and limitless and unspecified, remains.

Also, the lover is not named, so the love is not contingent upon this or that person's affections. "You are loved, you are deeply loved" is a statement of each and every person's birthright. In this way, it is far more powerful than "John loves Judy" or "John loves Jack." Love is, always and forever, though it's form may change.



Over the years, I have often whispered "I am loved, I am deeply loved" to myself when I was feeling left out of romantic love or when friends were hard to find. Sometimes this helped me feel better, and sometimes I just felt worse, berating myself for having to be the one to say these words to me.

But I kept saying them nonetheless, adopting the fake-it-until-you-make-it strategy. In time, I shifted in this respect as in many others, and the words turned from mockery into an expression of joyfulness. At such times, I enter into the space of the non-specific lover, and I feel love eminating from the moon and the trees and an evening breeze and a ray of sunshine. All are animated, and all seem to be saying, "Heidi, you are loved, you are deeply loved."

Then a few weeks ago, I had a beautiful insight. For decades I have been affirming that with every day that passes, the man who is matched to me is drawing ever closer. I have also asked that he visit me in my dreams and, by so doing, reach out to me in waking life. The insight that came to me when I was actually feeling quite a bit down about spending yet another year boyfriend- and husband-less was that the man who is matched to me--wherever he may be--deeply loves me. Just as I deeply love him and reach out to him through my prayers and affirmations and dreams, and by so doing, deeply love him, so, too, is he reaching out to me and loving me through his prayers, affirmations, and dreams. What a fascinating kind of love that is! Worth a short story, I'd say.

Feeling a Little Down on my Birthday

Rasputin is chewing on a bone, and I'm putting off some editing that I've been putting off for weeks now. After completing this post, I have to get at it. That's how I'm spending this Friday night, which happens to be my birthday.

I am grateful to those friends who remembered the day, calling me with well wishes, posting Facebook comments, or sending a card. And dear Georgette, the Floridian pixie, Photoshopped me as a flirtatous faerie, which is now dangling from my living-room ceiling fan.

Despite the kindness of these friends, I'm feeling a little down, not much, just a little. I no longer stay down, as I did when I was a child or as I did until about six years ago when a lot of things shifted for me. And my downs are not so deep as they once were. Sometimes I feel down for only a few minutes now. Today it's been a few minutes here and there.

Birthdays, like holidays, help us mark the year. They're a time for us to reflect on what we've experienced during the past 12 months and on those things that seem ever-elusive. New Year's Eve, for example, has often been a down time for me, not just because I don't have a date (the first and last time that happened was 1976 with Rod at the Milwaukee Performing Arts Center), but that I think, "Another year and still no love to share it with."

I wonder when I will be with a love who will remember my birthday, go to sleep beside me, wake up next to me, kiss the back of my neck, and rub whatever he can of my taped-up belly. I wonder when I'll go on B&B weekends with a lover, when I'll be invited to parties at which everyone else is in a couple and I will be too, when I'll have someone to give me a ride home from the mechanic, when I'll find a man who actually wants to have sex and is capable of doing something in bed.

I was referred by the Renal Support Network to an article about a PD patient who was very reluctant to begin dialysis but received a transplant a few years back and is now having a wonderful life with her husband. This article is meant to inspire and encourage, but it has not done that for me. All the craziness I have been going through to get on the damn transplant wait list, and the craziness continues. Where will it end, and will it end with me on the wait list or simply having gone through all this drama just to be denied? And the loving, supportive husband--where is he? Whenever you read of someone who has faced tremendous health challenges and has overcome them, there is always a loving, supportive spouse. When do I get mine?

As I wrote these words, little Rasputin came up to me and climbed onto my lap. I am very grateful that he has been sent from heaven to remind me that I am richly deserving of the very best love.

Wait List Update

Thanks to everyone who has been praying on my behalf. Things are at a crossroads. It's far more complicated than this, but basically UCLA wants me to undergo another angiogram and possibly stent surgery before approving me for the wait list; however, the dye used for the angiogram can damage the kidneys, and I don't currently have any cardiac symptoms, so I feel the surgery is unnecessary.

Also, having the surgery does not guarantee I'll be placed on the list. So, my nephrologist is talking to the director of the transplant team to try to get him pinned down: What does he need to see with my heart to get me on the list? If the surgery is just as a preventative, I'm not interested in taking the risk to my kidneys. But if it would ensure my placement on the list, I'd be more agreeable.

So, at the moment, that's where things stand. Thanks so much for your continued support and affirmation. I am affirming that, if the angiogram is done, it will show that I have a completely new and healthy heart, as I have been telling my doctors for months. That it is better than it's ever been. I ask for you to see the same. Thanks so much.

That Delicious Feeling of a Steel Band Being Pulled Tight Across my Chest

Every once in a great while, I meet a man who excites me. In the past almost 10 years--since my last encounter with Mike--only seven men have given me that delicious feeling of a steel band being pulled tight across my chest, that crazy pain in my groin, that electricity shooting through my body.

One was a one-time massage client, my very last client of the day on my last day at a chiropractor's office back in 2000. An instant attraction. We met later for a long, fancy dinner. He was such a Southern gentleman, giving me compliments at every turn. Such sexual tension, but alas, he was married and lived in Atlanta. We almost kissed, but knew that if we did that, we'd do everything. I never saw or heard from him again.

Then there was the 21-year-old surfer. We had three fantastic bouts of kisses, one on a boat. One of the most erotic times I've ever had with anyone was fully clothed with him at an art museum. We took on other personalities. I was Svetlana, complete with a Russian accent, a cynical attitude, and black back-seamed nylons. He was a fish affecienado who was confused about his sexuality. Our favorite game outside the museum was me giving him verbal instructions as to how he was to adjust the passenger-side mirror on my van. That's the best: When there's the thinnest veil of propriety, when an outside observer might think that what we're doing and saying is completely on the up and up, perfectly normal, above board. And yet, to us, it's charged with sex. I told him he should relax about the age difference, think of me as a priestess in ancient Greece who would invite young men to the temple to be schooled in the ways of love. Though he told his parents of his feelings for me, when he found out I was 44 and not the late 30s he had suspected, that was too much for him.

With the third man I had a few amazing times, but the last was ho-hum. He is someone with so many commitments, personal and career, that he never had more than a few hours every six months or so to give me.

Charlie I've written about previously. We had some wonderful kisses in Flagstaff on one October afternoon in 2004, but he, too, was married, and I never saw him again.

When I danced with a stranger at a supper club late last year, I felt that sweet, agonizing pain in my groin. We exchanged numbers and were supposed to get together the following weekend, but he flaked. My friend Bev said he must have been married too.

The email-and-phone trysts with a craigslist guy nearly drove me insane with desire last summer. We never met in the flesh.

And lately I've had a crush on someone. The sexual tension goes both ways but most likely will never be voiced or acted upon because the societal roles we play make manifestation problematic. As with the young surfer, there is that intriguing and delicious duality of propriety and legitimate business vs. sexual undertones. But as long as nothing physical occurs, it's a feeling I can take out from time to time, as I would a book from a shelf. No harm in that.

Sure would be wonderful to have this feeling for someone who is available and who feels the same for me. Wouldn't that be something! But that seems like a fairyland, a world I heard about some time long ago in a dream. All the things I have been imagining! All the things I've been storing up since my days with Mike! WOW, I am so ready to let all that loose!

But it's possible that, like good health, I will have to wait until my next lifetime to actualize all the passion, love, intimacy, wonder, and craziness I've been stockpiling all these many years because letting it out with someone who doesn't thrill me would be so not happening, so dead. I have friends who tell me they don't aspire to feel the steel band being pulled tightly across their chests. That someone who is nice and they get along with is good enough. Well, that's not good enough for me. I'm too much of a romantic. I'm not interested in settling.

Rasputin, the Healer

Though Rasputin the historical figure is often given a bad rap, he had a healing effect on Alexis, the only son of Czar Nicholas and Czarina Alexandra of Russia. After the birth of four daughters, the royal couple was elated when Alexis, the long-awaited heir to the throne, was born. Tragically, he was also a hemophiliac. Rasputin, however, was able to still Alexis's episodes of bleeding. How he did this is not known. Some figure he was a hypnotist, but there is little to support this theory. Rasputin was decidedly a mystic, and I'm going to leave it at that.

Like his namesake, my little Rasputin has definitely had a healing effect on me. Approximately 10 years ago, my heart was literally and figuratively broken. It is then that Mike, the big love of my life, discarded me, and it is then that I developed cardiac symptoms.



I have done my damnest to find a new boyfriend. I take care of my looks, I dress nicely, I talk with guys, I go out on every first date I'm offered, I suggest coffee for those who may be too shy to ask me, I have belonged to at least a half dozen dating sites. And yet, love has eluded me. For this past decade I have slept alone every night.

And then just this past week, Rasputin became the first creature to fall asleep with me. I was sitting in the recliner, and he rested his little head against my chest and his little body against my tummy, and we both fell asleep. So sweet. How I wish I could experience that sweet feeling with a man, that sweetness of falling asleep with someone I love.

Other times Rasputin has sat on my lap with his head over my heart, and his back legs have twitched. This made me think of how, during a massage, I will sometimes flush out the pain or the psychic junk in a client by running my hand very quickly over the troubled area, unruffling the obstruction, clearing it from the body. I feel Rasputin has been doing this for me, clearing my body, and most especially my heart, of any obstructions that have been weighing it down.

Ever since Rasputin has come to live with us, I have had no chest pain. Though the chest pain and pressure had substantially decreased since I started dialysis, they were still there, primarily when I would walk any more than a short distance. Since Rasputin, I have had no pain upon walking or exercising in any other way. In fact, my heart does not keep me from doing anything I would like to do.

What's more, for the first time in 10 years, I am able to sleep on my side. I had always been a side sleeper, but upon the onset of chest pain, I was unable to do so because this put too much weight on my heart. I had to train myself to sleep on my back. Every once in a while I would attempt to lie on my side, but I could only do this for a minute or less before the constriction became unbearable. Now I can spend the whole night on my side if I want.

My friend Araia had always told me that a dog that really loves a human can serve as a conduit for healing the human's ailments. I know this is happening. My little Rasputin is healing my heart.

Definitely a Friendly Neighborhood

On Saturday evening, I was out walking with Rasputin and friend Armando. I was wearing a fitted, hot-pink skirt, a white blouse, and pink flats and was carrying a matching pink purse. I always get plenty of attention when I wear this skirt, and Saturday evening was no exception.

A few blocks from the ocean, we came across a BBQ. About a dozen adults and a few small children were spilling out of an apartment onto the front steps and the sidewalk. The adults held beers, and one guy was grilling on a Webber set up in the grassy strip betweeen the sidewalk and the street. Because this party had no front yard, as the steps to the front door of the apartment came right down to the sidewalk, we had to pass through them to get to the ocean.

One woman called out to us as we passed, "I love your skirt!"

On the way back, we stopped to talk. The same woman came up to me, bottle in hand, with two small children clamoring about her knees. She had long, black hair and really gorgeous tatoos of flowers and birds up both arms. She wore a low-cut sun dress that showed off her ample breasts. She had definitely had a bit to drink.

She cooed, "Oh, I love your skirt. Hot pink. Where did you get it?" Goodwill, I told her. Then she moved closer. "Can I touch your butt?" she asked. Sure, go for it. She rubbed my butt with her open palm. As this is a silk-lined skirt, this felt very nice.

"Oh, what an ass!" she declared. "You should all feel this ass!"

The men looked at me, then at Armando. As he said later, if he had not been there, they probably would have taken turns.

More friends of the birthday girl--you guessed it, the brunette with the tatoos--arrived, and she went to greet them, leaving my butt behind.

I just laughed and smiled about her all the way home. What a friendly neighborhood we live in!

The next day, my son and I passed the party apartment on our evening walk with Rasputin. Two hungover men were sitting on the steps. "How late did the party go?" I asked, reminding them that I was the gal with the nice ass. "It's still going on for some," one said, "and it'll be going on until Tuesday."

Wow, four days of partying! If they do that for all of the adults' birthdays, that's 48 days of partying a year just there. Then add all the holidays, and you begin to wonder how these folks make their drinking money.

Rasputin and I Are Proud of Our Pee

Rasputin and I are proud of our pee. There's no getting around the fact. Unlike most people, who are just happy to relieve themselves once in a while, relieving himself is not Rasputin's aim. Rather, he marks trees, fenceposts, and sign poles with his urine, constantly amazing me by always having some to spare for the next landmark. He is not into blowing his stash in one place. No sir, it's far too precious!

I, too, am proud of my pee, but for a different reason. Each time I pee, I say a big thank you, as peeing means that my kidneys are still doing something. They haven't completely shut down.

Granted, I don't pee nearly as much as I used to, since most of my fluids are expelled during dialysis. But the mere fact that I do pee is always cause for a little celebration, even though it's just me who's celebrating.

Anyone who's reading this, take note. The next time you pee, say a little thank you. Your kidneys are working! This is a great gift.

By Any Chance, Are Your Relatives From Minnesota?

Though my new apartment is a truly happy and sunny place, and though I really like it a whole bunch, it does not have an on-site washer and dryer. So, I'm back to the laundromat.

Yesterday I stepped foot in one that's a few blocks from home. Shortly after I arrived, a man approached me. "By any chance, are your relatives from Minnesota?" he asked. I smiled widely and replied, "Well, as a matter of fact, they are."

My mother was born on a farm in southern Minnesota, and most of my cousins and their kids are still living in the state.

This man, who was named Ray, thought I looked Swedish, and as a Swedish woman he'd met years ago--maybe decades ago--had been from Minnesota, he figured I might be too.

Ray wondered if I were familiar with Rush, Illinois, a town about two and a half hours from Chicago. I believe he had kept Rush in his consciousness for decades because of another gal who had hailed from there. Sad to say, I had never heard of Rush.

Ray was quite a character. Probably 85 if he was a day, wearing a sea captain's hat and pants that were way too big for him.

Turns out, Ray wss into maps. When I told my son this, he quipped, "Oh, good, so now that makes two of you."

At first Ray and I drew maps in the air for each other. I was sure that Iowa is west of the Mississippi, but Ray needed some convincing. He also needed a little help with the positions of Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois. Finally, he came around.

He said if I liked maps, he had something to show me. He pulled a Lyndon LaRouche magazine from the rack on the wall, then paused before opening it. "This publication is so right wing," he said, "I thought I might be going insane reading it." That's always been my experience of LaRouche materials and his fanatical followers.

Amidst all the political hoopla and prophesies of doom was an article on the the great train adventures of the world. Ray pointed to a map of Europe and confessed that he would like to take the Trans-Siberian Railroad some day. Wow, good for him to keep the dreams coming!

The conversation drifted to my former home of Point Arena in Mendocino County. Ray had lived in Los Angeles for 33 years, but he often went on road trips on the weekends and during his vacations. He was very familiar with Hwy 1 north of San Francisco. He nodded and took in a deep breath, remembering the beauty he had apprehended there.

All about us, solitary people went about their business, loading washers and dryers with coins and folding clothes, while Ray and I swapped stories and had a few laughs. So interesting how often this happens to me at laundramats, something I had forgotten until yesterday. So often over the years people have approached me in laundromats and told me their stories, like the woman who related the very complicated case of her run-in with city authorities or the young traveling salesman who had lived in 26 states as an adult and as many foster homes as a child.

This is why, once again, I am reminded of the truth: "There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so." Many would say it's too bad that I don't have use of a washer and dryer in the building where I live or that I don't own a washer and dryer in my own home. But these are probably the same people who wouldn't have given Ray the time of day. Look how much I have gained from what many would label a loss.