After 30 Years Without a Valentine, I've Finally Got One!

Today marks 30 years since a man with whom I was romantically involved remembered me on Valentaine's Day. In short, it's been three full decades since I had a valentine.





















Well, this year breaks that long dry spell for love. I am head over heels in love with a male, and he's head over back paws in love with me. He happens to be only 10 1/2 inches tall and weighs a mere 13 pounds, but he brings me more joy than any man I've ever dated. He doesn't judge me or criticize me or try to control me, unlike the men with whom I have had relationships. I feel completely relaxed with him, again unlike the tension I always felt in these relationships, my body and my mind bracing for the next emotional blow, the next put-down. And when I have cried in front of Rasputin, he looks at me with such deep compassion, a look that I am not sure I have ever seen in a human being. He doesn't look away or at his watch, he doesn't fidget or give me some "shut up" message. He listens with all his heart and soul, and then gives my hand a sweet, little lick of love. What a sensitive guy!



Here's a photo taken today of Rasputin eating a pupcake, a teeny non-sweet, made-especially-for-dogs cupcake. How silly is that!




This past Thursday was a rather typical date for me. Joe and I met for our first--and only--date at a crowded bar with live music. Not the best venue for engaging conversation. Joe was angry, as almost every Republican I've ever met tends to be. He yelled in my ear about how he's perfectly fine with our government imprisoning without charge, torturing, and killing innocent people as long as it keeps him safe. (He didn't explain how doing this keeps him safe.) And he went on and on about how the Bible says women are to be subservient to their men. He also spent a good deal of time telling me I should have worn high heels and a much shorter skirt, trying to control me from the get-go. And for an hour and a half, I remained calm and poised, sipping on my club soda. (Yes, one club soda. Interesting that when he got out his money to pay the $6 bill--he had club soda too--I could have sworn he laid down a ten. But I remember thinking, "He's going to say it was a twenty." Sure enough, when the change came, he was even angrier than he had been. Strangely, he said that he had been gipped out of $5. Hmmmm...He bullied the waitress into giving him another ten. As Aaron said later, "Boy, he made money on that date!") He then wanted to sit in my truck and "talk." In other words, Joe wanted to make out in the parking lot and figured I would be thrilled at this prospect because he had been such a delight all evening and had wowed me with his big spending! I just smiled and said, "No, thanks, I better get going." He repeated his suggestion, grabbing my ass, and I repeated my refusal and drove off.




My policy for many years has been to say yes to any first date because 1) I am so infrequently asked out on a date, and 2) I want to stay in the land of the living. But Joe has done me a great service. He has made it clear that I need to say no to a great many first dates, perhaps all of them. It's one thing when a date isn't fun, but when it's downright painful, it's time to reassess. Actually, the way Joe was talking, if it were up to him, people like me would be imprisoned without charge, tortured, and killed.

And from Joe's perspective, I was no doubt a tremendous waste of his time. So from my point of view and from the guy's, I've got to change my policy. From now on, if someone from a dating site asks me out, I will ask him during our initial phone conversation, "When was the last time you had a good belly laugh? Tell me about the last playful or silly thing you did." Because I want a man who is in love with life, not angry with everything under the sun. I told a massage client this, and she quipped, "Why don't you just ask him if he's a Republican?"

My Intuitions About Haiti

Ever since the early 1980s, when I began to look closely at our government's actions throughout the world, I have been skeptical of official stories. Implausible tales such as the USG having nothing to do with the death squads that tortured, murdered, and "disappeared" tens of thousands of Central Americans in the 1970s and 1980s, despite the School of the Americas at Fort Benning, Georgia, that trained--and continues to train--the torturers of petty dictators in Guatamala, El Salvador, and beyond; that we invaded Panama and killed thousands of its people to put the drug-dealing head of state Manuel Noriega in prison and not to keep him from talking about CIA spooky business; that we invaded Grenada to rescue some U.S. medical students and not to distract the public from Iran-Contra; that the CIA couldn't possibly be in league with drug traffickers in Laos, Columbia, Nicaragua, and Afghanistan; that the Federal Building in Oklahoma City blew up because of a few bags of fertilizer; and, of course, the ridiculous official story of 9/11. Our history is littered with false flag incidents (where killings are staged to look like the work of another country) and supposed humanitarian gestures that are really covers for takeovers by our multinational corporate buddies (read the history of Central America from the perspective of the American Fruit Company, from which derives the pejorative term "banana republic") and excuses for the military to stay well beyond its welcome.

So when I heard about the earthquake in Haiti, I was skeptical. For decades I have read and heard about USG technology that allows for the creation of earthquakes. (If you're interested in going down this rabbit hole, just start googling HAARP.) An underwater detonation could easily have set off the faults around the island. But even if the USG did not orchestrate the quake, it sure fits our government's plans like a glove.

Take a look at a map, folks. If you had plans to invade Cuba or Venezuela, what better place to launch an attack than from Haiit!

Cuba has been a thorn in our side for decades. It shouldn't be because it poses no threat, but we just can't stand it that there's an adamantly Socialist country just a few miles off the tip of Florida. But that isn't the real reason why we would invade Cuba. As usual, it would be to pave a way for unbridled capitalism. Remember the scene in "Godfather II" when the mob is thinking of moving some operations to Havana? Well, the revolution put that plan on hold. This tropical island is ripe for capitalist exploitation. Just send in the Marines, kill a few thousand, and give those left standing the "freedom" to buy McDonald's hamburgers and Tacomas and big-screen TVs.

Venezuela is also ripe for invasion. It has some of the largest oil reserves in the world. And Hugo Chavez has been very outspoken about American imperialism. The mainstream American media, of course, just calls him crazy, but if you actually read the text of his speeches before the UN General Assembly, you see he's far from crazy. He's dead on right.

And so the American people go on their merry way, feeling good that they have given money to relief efforts in Haiti, while not thinking that they are putting the Haitians under the boot of the American military with their tax dollars. We have been messing with Haiti since it gained its independence from France in 1804. It really bugged us to think that a nation of freed slaves could be in our backyard, especially since we did not liberate our slaves for another six decades. In recent decades we've supported the dictators Papa Doc and Baby Doc, and spirited out of the country against his will the democratically elected Bertrand Aristide. (The official story, of course, was that we did it for his own safety.)

There is so much blood on our hands, on the hands of every American who pays taxes to the federal government. And not just blood in Haiti. Our tax dollars are also responsible for the murder of tens of thousands upon tens of thousands of Afghans, Iraqis, Pakistanis, and Palestinians. Our hands are dripping with blood. Dripping.

A Day Without the Damn Insulin Pump

Last night I was woken up about a dozen times by alarms from my insulin pump. People now think of me as a dialysis patient and often forget that, besides the foot of tubing, the tape, the gauze, the transfer set, and the peritoneal dialysis belt, I also wear an insulin pump with another foot of its own tubing under my clothes. Last night the insulin pump was keeping me awake.

The pump first alarmed that the battery was low, so I changed the battery. Subsequent alarms either noted that the battery was low or that the pump wasn't primed. I primed and I primed and I wiggled the battery. Weary with all this fussing, I finally called the 24/7 tech support line. After much more fussing, the rep said she would send out a new pump that should arrive some time tomorrow. But that means I'm without a pump and back to taking shots for almost 48 hours.

The insulin pump I have is about the size of a cell phone. A little beefier.

Every three days at the latest--and often much more frequently--I must remove the insertion needle, refill the insulin cartridge, prime the machine, select a new insertion site, and place the new needle in one of my thighs or in what space there is on my abdomen (what isn't taken up with the dialysis exit-site bandaging and tubing).

One of the most frustrating things about the insulin pump is its failure rate. The mechanism that delivers the needle into my body doesn't cock properly or it hesitates in its delivery. This happens about one in three times. Then I have to start all over because this needle will not be correctly positioned to deliver the insulin. Sometimes I think the delivery is fine, and then a few hours later, I check my blood sugar, and it's sky high because no insulin has been entering my system.

Then there's the challenge of putting on and removing clothes--something that most people give very little thought to. But I must be very careful not to brush the clothes against the insertion site and risk pulling out the needle. So when I take down my underwear, for example, I have to pull the elastic around the top of the thigh a few inches away from my body, rather than just let it slide down my thigh and risk pulling out the needle.

When the insulin pump is working, it works great. I can dial in the grams of carbohydrates I'm consuming and enter my blood sugar, and the machine calculates the recommended amount of insulin. Also, through the pump's basal function, it delivers a steady, low-level stream of insulin around the clock, in much the same way a pancreas does. Even if you're not eating, you still need a small amount of insulin in your system. Then when you eat carbs, your pancreas releases a bolus of insulin to cover the meal. The insulin pump works in a similar way, only I must dial in the insulin that is then carried from the cartridge inside the pump, down the length of the tubing to the insertion site and into my body. The pump parses out the insulin in .05-unit increments, whereas the smallest measurement on an insulin syringe is .5 units.

One of the most frustrating things about the insulin pump is its failure rate. The mechanism that delivers the needle into my body often doesn't cock properly or it hesitates in its delivery. This happens about one in three times. Then I have to start all over because this needle will not be correctly positioned to deliver the insulin. Sometimes I think the delivery is fine, and then a few hours later, I check my blood sugar, and it's sky high because no insulin has been entering my system.

Then there's the challenge of putting on and removing clothes--something that most people give very little thought to. But I must be very careful not to brush the clothes against the insertion site and risk pulling out the needle. So when I take down my underwear, for example, I have to pull the elastic at the top of the thigh a few inches away from my body, rather than just let it slide down my thigh and risk pulling out the needle.

And then, since I place my pump inside a baby sock and tuck it into my underwear, rather than clip it on the outside of my clothes, I have to remember to also hold the insulin pump under my arm as I'm pulling my clothes off. Otherwise, if the pump drops, the needle will pull out, since the tubing is not long enough for the pump to drop to the floor and remain intact.

So, at least for the next day and a half, I'm free of the pump. I can take off and put on my clothes as easily and unthinkingly as the next person. I can go to thebathroom without performing a juggling feat.

Of course, I am back to taking shots, which have their own challenges. I no longer have a long-lasting insulin, which functions like the basal rate does on the insulin pump, providing a steady flow throughout the day. The insulin pump only uses the short-acting insulin, since it parcels it out in 20 micro injections per hour. That means that my blood sugars will not be as well controlled as they usually are with the pump. But it is nice to be just a little less encumbered, a little more free, if only for a short while.

A Dubious Anniversary

Today, February 2, is my first dialysis anniversary. A year ago today, while still in the hospital following surgery to place a tube into my peritoneum, I started dialysis. I had put off surgery for so long and my condition had so deteriorated, that I could not wait a month for the incision to heal.

This also marks a year of attempting to get on the transplant wait list and still not there.

Statistically, it also means one year down, four to go, as the average life span for patients on dialysis is five years. Every 90 minutes somewhere in America a patient who is on the kidney wait list dies, waiting for a kidney that never came. Of course, I am always expecting a miracle, and I have outlived the statistics before. That said, this is a serious matter, and I don't want to be six feet under and my friends are saying, "Boy, I never knew dialysis was a problem for Heidi. She seemed to be doing just fine."



And so, once again, I ask you to consider the following:

* If you are not a donor, please visit organdonor.gov to find out how you can sign a donor card in your state.

* If you are a donor, make sure you talk with your spouse, children, and loved ones about your post-mortem wishes. Make sure your doctor knows your wishes. So often families do not allow hospitals to use desperately needed organs from their deceased loved ones, even though the deceased signed donor cards when they were alive.

* Consider giving the gift of life. Transplants have a much better chance of success if they are performed with kidneys from living donors. Four friends have stepped forward to say they would donate a kidney to me, but two have been eliminated for incompatible blood types and one for health reasons. The fourth does not know her blood type. So if you feel so moved, please let me know. Knowing that four people think so much of me to offer me this precious gift sure means a lot. Their offers have given me hope during this very difficult year.

* Ask your friends and family if they are organ donors. If not, encourage them to sign donor cards.

Thank you so much. My life and the lives of more than 100,000 kidney patients around the country depend on everyone realizing that people are dying needlessly every day. You can do something to change that.

Cardiac Rehab

This morning was my seventh day of cardiac rehab. A half hour on the treadmill and two five-minute spots on the bicycle. Sometimes I sweat a bit, but I never feel short of breath nor do I experience chest pain. What does ache are my knees, my calves, and my thighs, but I keep plugging away, too proud to call it quits before my alloted time is up.

Today I increased my treadmill pace to 3.8 miles/hour with a 1.5-percent grade. Each day I increase the pace and/or the grade. I'm really pleased with my progress.

I e-mailed my Kaiser cardiologist, who then e-mailed the UCLA cardiologist. All that the latter needs to see is a good echocardiogram. If I can do that, he'll recommend me to the transplant team. The charge nurse at the cardiac rehab unit said that from all indications she would expect me to do very well on an echocardiogram. I sure feel that way too.

I want to give the rehab another few weeks before I take the echo. That way, I should be in top shape.

I'm really enjoying rehab for the social aspect as well. The staff are very friendly, and I enjoy talking to the old guys because it's all old guys at my time slot. Today I spoke with Chuck, an 89-year-old man whose grandfather founded Farmers & Merchants Bank. Chuck smiled when he told me of his wife of 64 years and of his three children. Before he retired, he had been a lawyer in practice with his father. I told him that he really seems to have led a blessed life--a wonderful wife with whom he's still in love, three great kids, a meaningful career, and up until his heart-valve replacement, good health. He heartily agreed.

Rasputin is Such a Good Sport!

Rasputin is such a good sport. Case in point: I got a belated Christmas present from Diana. It was tied in a pink ribbon, which I first tied about Rasputin's waist. He loped about from room to room, his curly bows trailing behind him. Then I placed the assemblage on his head, and Aaron snapped pictures. Aaron then edited me out of the photo and touched it up with stars. What a silly boy!

A Whirl with the Wurlitzer Crowd

Bev, Diana, and I attended a Wurlitzer concert Sunday evening at the Old Time Music Hall in El Segundo. I was expecting a concert of old-fashioned music. I was not expecting an engineering marvel.

The organ has more than 2,000 pipes. The console controls a set of hand bells, cymbals, drums, a xylophone, hundreds of flaps and baubles and what-have-you. The organ is something straight out of "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." To think that the organist controls all that through buttons, pedals, and knobs! It takes up the entire stage, and as one affecionado told us, there's another room behind the stage where more of the organ is housed.

Well over 90 percent of those in attendance were men. This came as little surprise to me, as the organ is a mechanical wonder. Two men in the audience were thanked from the stage for their efforts to maintain this amazing piece of machinery.

Later, at the Purple Orchid, the tiki bar across the street, Diana said that joining this group of organ enthusiasts would be a great way to meet men. She also suggested car shows and gun shows. The only thing is that organ buffs, like train hobbyists, might tend to be wonks. But even if I don't connect with any men at these concerts, I sure would love to see more of the old-time organs of So Cal.

And the music hall is well worth a return visit, as a silent film has been shown there every Sunday since 1968--accompanied, of course, by the organ. Next up is "Charlie Chan in Shanghai" and after that, Gene Kelly "Singin' in the Rain." What fun!

Putting a Positive Spin on Rejection

I had a much longer and more involved post about Armen deciding that my tubing et. al was more than he could handle, but my attitude toward his rejection has shifted, so I deleted the original post.

Yes, of course, like anyone, it's not an exhilerating feeling to be rejected, especially by someone who thinks I'm fabulous in every other way besides dialysis tubing and insulin pump. But the way I'm looking at it now is that I had two decent dates. Not flutter-in-my-groin dates, not even flutter-in-my-tummy dates, but still much better than the usual reading-a-good-book or mopping-the-kitchen-floor dates (dates in which my time would have been better spent reading a good book or mopping the kitchen floor). Armen could hold up his end of the conversation, he was interested in my opinions, he certainly was flattering, and he treated me (rather than the usual guy who can't even spring for a cup of coffee). We went to a cute Italian restaurant in Hermosa Beach on the first date and to the Santa Anita horse races on the second--the latter being something I hadn't done for more than 20 years, and it was a bunch of fun. So I am very grateful for two nice dates and, as I always am, even on the dull dates, for meeting another human being, someone who adds to the rich tapestry of life.

And that's the right attitude. The time we shared was pleasant. There will be other men, and there's a high probability of more rejection, but there's also the possibility that I'll have fun on some of the dates and the possibility, albeit slim, that one of those men will say he's willing to explore getting close to me, despite the tubing. I mean, it is possible. I don't know if it's of the probability of being invited for dinner at the White House or of finding a $20 bill on the sidewalk. But it is a possibility. Probably a much stronger possibility is that I'll get on the kidney wait list, a living donor who matches me will offer me his or her kidney, and I'll be rid of the tubing forever. That would be far better than any date!

The Blue Flash

On Thursday night, just after turning off all the lights, a bright blue flash zoomed across my living room. Years ago, perhaps nine or 10 years ago, the same blue energy appeared in my bedroom and moved about the room for a minute or so. Both times I was left with a heightened sense of well-being, a zing. I consider both to be angelic presences, something we all could use now and again.

On both occasions, the blue I saw was a bit more intense than the inner blue of this swirl. I always called this cornflower blue, though in truth cornflowers are more of a true blue.

Encouraging Lab Results

I just checked my lab results for blood that was drawn this morning in preparation for my monthly dialysis clinic visit. They are very encouraging. The measures of kidney function are the best they've been in a long time. Of course, they're still abnormal, but they are improving. And all the other tests, from electrolytes to blood chemistry, are within the normal range.

Creatnine, measure of protein in the urine. If the kidneyes are not functioning properly, protein is leaching out through the urine. My results: 4.5 (normal .6-1.1). But that's the best reading since December 2008, when I had a 4.2. During the past year, my levels have been in the upper 5's and 6's.

BUN, another measure of kidney health. Normal is anything less than 19. Today's level was 49--a level I have not seen since August of 2007, when I was 44. I've been as high as 103 since then and have generally seen levels in the high 50s-70s.

GFR--Even this indicator of kidney health has creeped up from a low of 8 to 10. Anything lower than 15 signals an immediate need for dialysis.

Hemoglobin--an indicator of anemia if it's below 12. I have inched back up to 10.8, from a low of 7.8 post-surgery.

I am taking all this as very positive news. My kidneys are waking up. I am very grateful for this progress toward my vision of perfect health.

How Others Saw my Mother

I have heard from a few cousins who said my mother was a big inspiration for them. They saw her as an adventurer and as a feminist. My cousin Mary saved all the articles that my mother wrote for the local paper about her travels in Europe, 1952-54. She was 12 years old at the time, and my mother's writings had a significant impact on her. And this past year Mary lovingly typed my mother's handwritten memoirs. My cousin Jane was also very moved by my mother and considered her an independent woman.

I truly believe this was my mother before she was married. It was gutsy of her to leave the U.S. and live in Europe for two years. That was certainly adventuresome, and it was the mark of a liberated woman.




It's just that this was not the woman I knew. For some reason, maybe because she was so unhappy in her marriage and maybe because she felt trapped in the role of the mother of two children, she shut down. Far from adventuresome, she downright refused to participate in activities with her family. She grudgingly went camping, but never went exploring with Dad, Tim, and me. Instead she would stay at camp and read the newspaper. A few years back, my brother happened upon a journal I had kept during one of our extended camping trips to Montana and Wyoming. Every entry began with, "Dad, Tim, and I went on a long hike after breakfast. We went exploring. Mom didn't want to go. She stayed in camp and read."

So often I tried to get her to participate, but she always begged out of whatever I suggested. I remember driving 150 or more miles to Joshua Tree National Monument with her and Aaron when she visited California one winter. I was so excited to show her the fascinating boulders in this area--something she definitely could not see in Wisconsin. Despite cajoling, she refused to leave the van and walk a few feet to take in this glorious landscape. This was her reaction to hundreds of things I attempted to entice her to do over the decades. She just wasn't interested and didn't want to try anything new. I'm sorry she shut down her adventuresome side, but perhaps she used it all up in Europe during those two magical years.

But that's not exactly true either. She did go on adventures, only not with her family. I remember that she took solo vacations--a driving trip around the Great Lakes, a barefoot cruise of the islands off Maine, a cross-Canadian train trip. And she vacationed with her friend Marianne in the Caribbean. No, I guess it's just that she didn't want to do anything with her husband and kids. And when I was not yet a teenager, she applied for a permanent position in Germany. Had she gotten the job, she would have left her family and perhaps continued the adventure she started in 1952. So perhaps she was adventuresome, as my cousines maintain. It's just that I never saw that side of her.

And liberated woman, well, that too is not quite right. Yes, she gave money to the National Organization for Women and, yes, she worked in responsible positions. But as my father said, "She wants to be independent, and she wants someone to take care of her." I don't believe she ever read any set of directions. She would simply say she couldn't do it and leave it for someone else to figure out. This kind of helplessness I did not associate with liberation. She would also say very traditional things about men and women, especially as regards relationships. And she would always take the advice of a man over any woman's. In fact, I could say something and she wouldn't hear it, and my brother could say the same thing a few minutes later and she'd take it to heart. I think she wanted to be progressive and thought of herself as progressive, but really would have preferred that a man take care of everything from money to fixing things. Of course, when no man was around, I became the man, running errands, fixing things, taking care of so many things that she was capable of doing on her own but didn't want to. My attitude has always been to do as much as I possibly can for myself and only then ask for help, but this was not my mother's m.o.

As I grow older, however, I think what my dad said cynically actually sounds pretty good. How wonderful it would be to love a man and he love me and have him say--and mean it--"Honey, you just do whatever you want. Take classes at the university. Learn to play guitar. Get a job. Take trips with your girlfriends. Volunteer. Write poetry. Whatever you please. And don't worry about the money. I've got plenty for the both of us." Yes, I think it would be utterly fantastic to be independent and taken care of! A good idea, Mom!

Remembering Mom

Every time I eat a grapefruit, I think of my mom. When I was a young girl, she and I often ate grapefruit halves sprinkled with sugar. Today I skip the sugar. I also think of the fresh blueberries we had with cold milk and the soft-boiled eggs sitting in painted egg cups. It's funny that I should think of her in terms of food because she was not a good cook. But I did like what she made for breakfast--poached eggs, something I've never had anywhere else but in my mother's kitchen; oatmeal; and waffles made from scratch and in a waffle iron. Buttered toast sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar--something else I haven't had since I was a child, though I made it for my own child once in a while.

The other food items I associate with my mother are rhubarb crunch, which she made from a rhubarb plant that grew outside against the wall of the house, and iceberg lettuce with chives that I cut from a plant that grew outside too. Interesting that I bought a chive plant for the bay window in my kitchen a few days ago at Target.

One of her regular entrees was tuna casserole with corn flakes on top for a crunch. On Christmas Eve she would make Swedish meatballs--ground veal smothered in cream-of-mushroom soup. For my birthday, she would make a fruit salad with canned mandarin oranges, bananas, dates, apples, marshino cherries, canned fruit cocktail, and Cool Whip. And a few times on Christmas Day, she pulled out her mother's cast-iron pan and made foeden, a ball of dough seasoned with cardamon and rolled in sugar, a northern German delicacy.

Funny that I should so closely associate my mother with food, since she was not a cook and since meals were often stressful, my dad pouting and refusing to sit with us, or if he did, acting as if it was a big pain. The mind sure is a mystery.

New Decade

The decade that just passed has been a lonesome one. Mike broke up with me in April of 2000, and I have not had a relationship since. Only dates and not many of them.

I am envisioning this decade as one of love, relationship, passion, intimacy, and health. A decade that reverses what was amiss about the last.

Just the fact that I've already had a date this year is a very good sign. I know that things will continue to improve. Amen!

Best Date in Years

Last year I went out with a 32-year-old DJ and professional gambler. Well, if you can really call what we did "going out." I would generally drive over to the coffeeshop where he likes to hang out, and he would tell me the same stories over and again. Once we went to a strip club where he was thinking of working; basically, we were there to check out the dancers. Once we saw a movie--"Transformers," do you believe it! And twice we went for a walk. Other than that, we necked a bit when I dropped him off in front of his apartment building. But he was always said something nice about how I looked every time I saw him. I can't knock that.

Other than this, I had one date all year. I actually had another scheduled, but the man stood me up. The one that did occur was with an X-ray tech. He suggested we meet at noon. I asked if this was a lunch date. He said, "No, just coffee." I got there on time, he was 20 minutes late. I had already bought my own coffee. Then he said he was hungry and was going to have lunch. I had already eaten because he had said it was not a lunch date.

So that was the full extent of dating in 2009.

Today, the third day of the new year and of the new decade, I went on a date. Armen is trim, well-dressed, the best looking man I've been out with in a long time. We met in Hermosa Beach, walked around near the ocean, then had dinner at a little Italian restaurant. Armen kept up his end of the conversation and asked me a lot of questions. He maintained good eye contact. I liked his kisses.

But always in my consciousness was dialysis. He touched my side, but since I was wearing a heavy coat, he could not feel my tubing. If I see him again, I will have to tell him about dialysis, the insulin pump, and the cardiac surgery because I'm sure he would touch or see one or the other. I really don't know how to go about this. Do I tell him over the phone when we make plans for the next date? Do I tell him in person? Do I wait until he's touching me and then say, "I've got something to tell you"?

I tend to think this will be a deal breaker with Armen. He said quite a few times during the evening that he was selfish about his time and that a wife, chidren, and pets never fit in. Someone who is so used to thinking only of himself would have a hard time with my trappings.

So anyways that was the best date I've had in years, though, of course, that isn't saying a whole lot, given the dates I've been on. But I think of what I read in a spiritual book about not thinking, "Why haven't I met the man who is matched to me?" but rather realizing that the universe is sending men my way and with each of them I can say back to the universe, "You know, this and this was really wonderful about him, but I need some more of X or less of Y in the next man you send my way." In short, don't think of the dates as failures but as opportunities to refine what I really want.

After I got home tonight, I took Rasputin for a walk. We were moving down a semi-dark alley, and I tripped over a bump in the pavement and fell. Little Rasputin came right up to me and gave me love. That's what I would like in the man who is matched to me--someone who loves me despite my boo boos.

Freed of a Hopeless Infatuation

For a good part of this year that is ending in a few hours, I was googly about a man who was obviously googly about me. He would frequently lose his train of thought when speaking to me or stop mid-sentence and stare at me or just be utterly confused in my presence. I hadn't experienced that kind of behavior for more than a decade. It was so sweet, so thrilling, so intriguing.

Of course, the cards were stacked high to the ceiling against us: He is 10 years younger than me, he is or was married (halfway through the year he stopped wearing his wedding ring), he and I have a professional relationship, and I'm a dialysis patient. I spent an awful lot of time thinking about him and fantasizing about him during the first 10 months of 2009.

But in the last few months something switched off. I still enjoy seeing him and talking with him, but I realize nothing will ever happen, and with that knowledge has come peace. Now I rarely think of him, and when I do, it's for practical reasons, not to indulge in some never-neverland dreaming.

A few times during the last few weeks, I have returned to an old ritual, talking aloud, as if to a lover, when I bed down at night. And when I went to the movies this afternoon, I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined my love--whoever and wherever he may be--sitting next to me, holding my hand, and smiling. May 2010 will be the year when that man appears in the flesh.

If Only They Would Talk to One Another

Finally, I can begin to see a light at the end of the tunnel. At my monthly clinic visit, I complained to my nephrologist about my weakness, fatigue, drum-tight legs, distended stomach, shortness of breath, and upwelling of fluids into my chest cavity. His solution was to increase the amount of dialysis solution I would be carrying inside me during the day from two liters to 2.5. Well, this sure did not help. Not only did the extra fluid not drain the excess fluids from my body, it accentuated the shortness of breath and oppressive sense of fullness in my diaphragm.

Dr. Mai, my acupuncturist, had been treating me, but could not put needles in my right leg because it was so tight and so painful. When I decided to go back to two liters of solution, Dr. Mai gave me an herbal formula to reduce the swelling. Wow, has it been great! My urination has more than doubled, my right leg is quickly approaching the size of the left leg, and I am no longer plagued by shortness of breath and the oppressive feeling that I could not breathe because of the crowding out of my lungs with the excess fluid.

This is a dramatic example of the need for communication between doctors and alternative health practitioners. Boy, if only doctors and acupunturists could work together on a plan of treatment. Had I continued to follow the Western medical approach and not sought help from my acupuncturist, I really would have been in an awful place. As it is, I am beginning to feel an influx of energy, a lightness in my step.

In large measure, I owe what health and vitality I have to acupuncture. How few dialysis patients are receiving acupuncture treatments. Indeed, acupuncture is not even on their radar screens. I am so thankful that acupuncture is a weekly or even twice-weekly part of my overall health strategy. I would be in sorry shape if I only relied on conventional medicine for help.

The Image vs. the Reality

A few months ago, Aaron and I attended a conference for dialysis patients. Approximately 400 people were in attendance. At one point in the keynote speaker's address, she asked for a show of hands to her question, "How many of you have people in your life who assumed you were incapable of doing things that you were actually quite capable of doing?" Most everyone raised his or her hand. Not me. I actually deal with the opposite situation: friends who must believe my life has changed very little since the onset of dialysis, who believe that I can still do everything I always used to do and more.

On one hand, this says a great deal about how I present myself to the world. I don't focus on limitations and make a point of doing as much as I possibly can for myself. People see me as vibrant, strong, and full of life, and I am grateful for their positive vision of me.

On the other hand, it seems odd that my friends have such a dim idea of what this huge part of my life entails. It would be as if a friend didn't know I was single, or if she didn't know I had a child or that I worked as a writer. It's similar to how many people have said to me over the years that diabetes is "just avoiding candy." Wow, if only that were true! That would be easy. It's how it attacks every organ and every tissue of the body that's the difficult part.

Last summer my friend Araia, who lives in rural northeastern Washington state, said I should visit her. We could float on inner tubes down the river that serves as one of her property lines, she said, not realizing that, though this sounds idyllic, it's no longer possible. Any water activity besides a shower is verboten, since any contact with water carries with it the high possibility of infection through the exit site for the tubing that emerges from my abdomen.

Last week my friend Helene in Nova Scotia asked me if I'd like to go to New Zealand with her. Helene is an Air Canada retiree and has lifetime discount tickets. Plus, she has a friend on the North Island with whom we could stay. I have always wanted to go to New Zealand and was thrilled with this plan. I emailed my globe-trotting, always-up-for-an-adventure friend Heather, who took a year to explore the South Pacific. Though Heather's travels were 12 years ago, I still wanted her tips on kiwi journeys. She enthusiastically wrote back that by all means I should hitchhike as it is totally safe and completely acceptable. Like Araia's plan of floating down a river, this, too, sounds quite romantic and adventuresome, but is completely impossible. The dialysis machine weighs about 35 pounds, and the supplies I need for nightly dialysis weigh another 30 pounds--that's 30 pounds every day! Hitchhiking would only be possible if a U-Haul were following me.

So, though I appreciate Araia's and Heather's image of me as someone who can do anything, I began making a mental list of all the things that are no longer possible with dialysis. They fall into three categories: hygienic, logistical, and aesthetic.

Hygienic--Anything that involves water is out. (I am, thank goodness, allowed to shower, but this does not involve submersion.) Canoing, kayaking, water skiing, surfing, swimming, jacuzzi-ing, inner tubing, bathing. Anything that involves dirty conditions, as the environment in which I hook up to the dialysis machine and cap off in the morning must be as free of germs and dirt as possible. This would mean having a closed-off room in which to conduct dialysis, a room without open windows, ceiling fans, A/C, blowing heaters, animals. No putting down a sleeping bag on someone's living room floor.

Logistical--Travel is limited to personal automobile (in which to lug around all my dialysis solution and other equipment) or staying at one location (such as a resort, hotel, or friend's house). Travel by any other means is not feasible--train, bicycle, foot, boat, horse or other pack animal. No late-night events or all-night events. (Last night, for example, I was a party-pooper, saying no to a 7 p.m. movie, as I had to be home by 9:30 to hook up.) No spontaneous trips, esp. any that involve flying, as arrangements for the shipment of supplies must be made six weeks in advance for domestic travel and three months in advance for overseas travel.

Aesthetic--No midriffs, tight-fitting clothes, or bathing suits, as they would show the outlines of my tubing and exit site. No dirty dancing, as the man would rub against my tubing and dislodge the transfer set from its retaining belt. No crazy sex, as the 12 inches of tubing, 3-1/2-inch plastic transfer set, and exit site bandaging really get in the way--to say nothing for the bulk and the 18 inches of tubing of my insulin pump. No romantic bedroom, as it is piled high with boxes of dialysis solution and encumbered by a therapy table.

So, though I will continue to be strong and positive, doing as much as I possibly can, it would be nice, too, if friends understood that dialysis is not a walk in the park, that it is a major alteration to the fabric of my life, that I want to be free of it as soon as possible, that if I don't get free of it soon I will die, that I absolutely do not want to spend the rest of my days hooked up to a machine every night.

A Merry Night of Caroling

Though this past month has been hell, it finished in a beautiful way--with the annual caroling party. Though about 15 people said they would make it, only four actually did. With Aaron, Rasputin the reluctant elf dog, and me that made seven all told. A good-sized group.




We did less caroling for brandy than we have done in previous years, but still one household poured their last dregs of Christian Brothers into the guys' Solo cups (I just sing and make merry; I don't drink), and O'Connell's gave out free shots. Though some people were too cool to indulge us, in general, our listeners were merry and grateful. One of the highlights of the evening was when we surrounded the old guy who always sits in front of the corner liquor store and sang "Joy to the World" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." He said he had not heard people caroling since the 1940s. Wow, we broke a six-decade dry spell!



Every year we attempt to rouse the hipsters at Porfolio Coffeehouse from their ennui. Once again, we were unsuccessful. The best we can ever get from these bored-with-life, young people is a momentary lifting of their eyes from their laptop screens or iPods and a tiny smirk. They're just too cool to enjoy anything. But we always look forward to this stop, as I'm sure all of you have at one time or another taken perverted pleasure in being overly upbeat around an angry soul.

Besides, lurking deep within these hipsters, as within each and every human being on the planet, is a light of love. It's just that some people are so weighted down by the travails of life or by their post-modern artifice that they are not always accessing that light. Our aim every year during the caroling is to bring that light forward in as many souls as possible.

Merry Christmas to all!

One Helluva Month

Yesterday was the close of one of the most challenging months of my life. My son, Aaron, counts it as his absolute worst.

It all began on Nov. 18 when I had triple bypass surgery. The aftermath of that is something I wouldn't wish on anyone--severe fluid retention, nausea, vomiting, extreme anemia, incision pain, back pain, leg pain, backed-up GI tract, dizziness. And the month closed with my mother's end-of-life suffering and the emotional drama it caused.

Aaron, of course, had to watch one of his very favorite people go through hell and back. Add to this all the extra driving and errands he had to perform in order to visit me and take care of his grandmother and me. Though he took three weeks off from his position with the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, he continued to work three nights a week at the restaurant and as a research assistant for a UCLA professor. He also had the stress and time commitment of getting graduate school applications filed on time.


If this weren't enough, his car was rear-ended, he was badly scraped in a bicycle accident, a girl who seemed perfect for him up and dropped him, and he got in a fist fight with a friend.

Aaron and I are so looking forward to a happier, healthier new year!

A Visitation

Last night after Aaron went to his restaurant job, I began hearing knocking on the walls. This was definitely knocking, not the assorted noises made by the rodents that sometimes lurk in the frame of this old building. Later in the evening, objects in rooms in which I was not present began dropping. Objects that had been securely, not precariously, placed. Finally, before I went to bed, I turned off the lights in the living room, leaving on only the Christmas tree lights. As the four bulbs of the ceiling fan went off, another bout of knocking began. I smiled and asked, "Is that you, Mom?"

Immediately upon making that query, one of the bulbs in the ceiling fan turned on, then off. Interesting because this is one of those cool bulbs that comes on slowly, not all at once, as it did this time. Also interesting is that only one of the four ceiling-fan bulbs turned on, though they are all activated by one switch. I took this to be a "yes."

As an additional confirmation, Rasputin barked and was agitated. Animals know.



I spoke aloud to her in a relaxed and loving way, something that I had not been able to do when she was lying in the hospital bed, a mere shell of a human being. I said something like this:

"Mom, I know these last years and especially these last weeks and days have been difficult for you, and I'm sorry for that. I know that you were not a happy person, and I'm sorry for that too. But what I wish for you now is that you open yourself up completely and unabashedly to accepting love in a way that you never opened yourself up to it when you were on this plane of existence. I wish that you embrace God's love fully, and that it is much, much more than you had ever dreamed love could be.

"I also know you suffered from anxiety, and that is why I wish you peace. I hope that you find peace and comfort, rest for your soul.

"I wish you a peaceful, smooth, easy transition to realms of light and love. Take good care, Mom. You are free to go in peace and in love. Goodbye, Mom."

I then asked my protector, Archangel Michael, to escort her, to lead her to her next assignment.

Since then, there have been no more phenomena. I believe she has transitioned.