I'm feeling much more confident than I was just a few days ago that I will pass the pre-op tests.
I saw my acupuncturist, Dr. Mai, yesterday afternoon. He felt that my distended stomach, due to fluid overload, was putting pressure on my chest and giving me chest pain. He said that he did not feel that the problem was primarily cardiac, only secondarily because of the pressure. He gave me some herbs to help with fluid retention, and I have upped the strength of my dialysate to take off some water weight.
Since then, I no longer am struggling to breathe just from crossing the room. I am able to walk quite a bit farther before the symptoms arise. I am sure that by tomorrow morning when the tests are conducted that all will be in order.
This is a huge relief, taking a lot of emotional pressure off me. You see, if I don't pass my pre-ops, then everyone's surgery is off. So it's not just my life that I would be jeopardizing but three other people's as well. Having everything go smoothly from this point on not only saves my life but the lives of three strangers. We all need to be seen as healthy enough to undergo surgery, surrounded in white, divine light and blue, healing light.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Pre-op Tests Scheduled for Next Monday
I received a call from UCLA around 3 this afternoon. Suzanne said that my pre-op tests are scheduled for next Monday. These include blood tests, EKG, and observation of vital signs by a nephrologist. I will know if I passed by next Thursday.Also on Monday I will meet with the surgeon, who will give his provisional OK to surgery. His final approval is dependent upon the results of the pre-op tests.
If anyone has any practices, meditations, prayers, incantations, or healing modalities to suggest, this would be the time to do it. Please when you think of me during these next few days, and especially on Monday morning, see me as having a strong, vibrant heart that will pass the EKG with flying colors. My very life depends on this.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Surgery Scheduled for Dec. 8
I just heard from UCLA. The donor who was being difficult is now on board. Janet's and my surgeries have been tentatively scheduled for Dec. 8, a little over two weeks away.
A few hurdles still have to be cleared: final blood tests, EKGs, and surgeons' approvals. Suzanne, the UCLA transplant coordinator who works with paired donations, said she would try to get me in sometime this week for tests.
It's amazing to think that by Christmas I could be out of the hospital, have my cute little belly back (no tubing, gauze, or tape), and get an uninterrupted night's sleep (no more continual gurgling and chugging of the dialysis machine, no more of its alarms). This would also mean that I would again have some hope that I might someday be in a relationship. And that I can travel unencumbered (except for the insulin pump, blood glucose sensor, and diabetic supplies).
There will be no caroling for brandy this year. Perhaps those who have caroled with me in previous years will show up at my bedside and regale me. If not, I'm still looking forward to the best Christmas present yet--a new kidney.
A few hurdles still have to be cleared: final blood tests, EKGs, and surgeons' approvals. Suzanne, the UCLA transplant coordinator who works with paired donations, said she would try to get me in sometime this week for tests.
It's amazing to think that by Christmas I could be out of the hospital, have my cute little belly back (no tubing, gauze, or tape), and get an uninterrupted night's sleep (no more continual gurgling and chugging of the dialysis machine, no more of its alarms). This would also mean that I would again have some hope that I might someday be in a relationship. And that I can travel unencumbered (except for the insulin pump, blood glucose sensor, and diabetic supplies).
There will be no caroling for brandy this year. Perhaps those who have caroled with me in previous years will show up at my bedside and regale me. If not, I'm still looking forward to the best Christmas present yet--a new kidney.
Concert in a Private Residence's Music Hall
If you're like me, you've often wondered, "What do the rich do with all their money?" I have one answer: They build a music hall in their home, complete with a two-story pipe organ, a glass-cabineted library, and balcony seating. Yesterday my neighbor Janet and I beheld such an extravagance when I attended a fortepiano concert in Brentwood.
The fortepiano is the precursor of the modern piano. According to a musician I queried at length at the event, the fortepiano's strings are parallel, whereas the piano's are crossed, making for a clearer sound on the former and a more romantic sound on the latter. I heard Andrew Willis play pieces that included sonatas by Bach, Muzio Clementi, Mozart, Scarlotti, and Hayden.
The space is called the Contrapuntal Performances Recital Hall at 655 N. Bundy in Brentwood. It is an addition that producer-screenwriter Bonnie MacBird and computer scientist Alan Kay built onto their ranch-style house. Skylights in the balcony and nearly floor-to-ceiling windows in the main hall provide ample lighting. The hall also features a harpsichord and a piano.
I was once a member of the Southern California Early Music Society and have attended many of its medieval and baroque events over the years. I looked on its web site for venues and found this one. Turns out there are at least two series that allow aficionados to hear early music in private residences. After all, that was how the music was originally performed--in small, intimate settings in the homes of wealthy patrons and royalty.
The fortepiano is the precursor of the modern piano. According to a musician I queried at length at the event, the fortepiano's strings are parallel, whereas the piano's are crossed, making for a clearer sound on the former and a more romantic sound on the latter. I heard Andrew Willis play pieces that included sonatas by Bach, Muzio Clementi, Mozart, Scarlotti, and Hayden.
The space is called the Contrapuntal Performances Recital Hall at 655 N. Bundy in Brentwood. It is an addition that producer-screenwriter Bonnie MacBird and computer scientist Alan Kay built onto their ranch-style house. Skylights in the balcony and nearly floor-to-ceiling windows in the main hall provide ample lighting. The hall also features a harpsichord and a piano.
I was once a member of the Southern California Early Music Society and have attended many of its medieval and baroque events over the years. I looked on its web site for venues and found this one. Turns out there are at least two series that allow aficionados to hear early music in private residences. After all, that was how the music was originally performed--in small, intimate settings in the homes of wealthy patrons and royalty.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Frank Fairfield at the Museum of Jurassic Technology
Yesterday evening, Aaron and I attended a concert at the Museum of Jurassic Technology, an eccentric venue in Culver City that is more of a repository for curiosities than for facts. My absolute favorite place in Southern California.
Since Aaron is a Jurassic member, our tickets were only $12 each. A great deal, but non-members can attend for a mere $15. To think that some people pay hundreds of dollars for a concert in which they have to watch the performer on a screen because the stage is so far from where they're sitting and then think that I was close enough to touch Frank Fairfield last night. Aaron told me that the bottom-of-the-barrel Cher tickets are going for $240. You could see Frank 20 times for that price.
For a piece that NPR did on Frank, see http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128823639
Frank played banjo, guitar, and fiddle. He wore his shirt buttoned all the way up. He was clean-cut and smacked of another era. You could easily imagine that we were all back in the Great Depression, easing our minds from the cares of the day with Frank's music.
Held as all Jurassic concerts are in the museum's Russian tea room, seating is very limited. Perhaps no more than 35 people can jam into the space, which is lit by twisted menorahs and votive candles.
It's hard to convey how deeply Frank moved me. Granted, I projected a whole lot onto him--the resiliance of the American spirit, the honesty and integrity of the salt of the earth, an ineffable something that is inherent, though presently latent, in the American soul that cannot be killed by government intrusion, economic hard times, advertising, consumerism, facebook, and corporations. I had a clear vision that, as this country continues to become a second-rate power, that people across the nation will begin playing music with their neighbors at night, that they'll turn off their TVs and their Internet and begin to know each other again. One can only hope.
Since Aaron is a Jurassic member, our tickets were only $12 each. A great deal, but non-members can attend for a mere $15. To think that some people pay hundreds of dollars for a concert in which they have to watch the performer on a screen because the stage is so far from where they're sitting and then think that I was close enough to touch Frank Fairfield last night. Aaron told me that the bottom-of-the-barrel Cher tickets are going for $240. You could see Frank 20 times for that price.
For a piece that NPR did on Frank, see http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128823639
Frank played banjo, guitar, and fiddle. He wore his shirt buttoned all the way up. He was clean-cut and smacked of another era. You could easily imagine that we were all back in the Great Depression, easing our minds from the cares of the day with Frank's music.
Held as all Jurassic concerts are in the museum's Russian tea room, seating is very limited. Perhaps no more than 35 people can jam into the space, which is lit by twisted menorahs and votive candles.
It's hard to convey how deeply Frank moved me. Granted, I projected a whole lot onto him--the resiliance of the American spirit, the honesty and integrity of the salt of the earth, an ineffable something that is inherent, though presently latent, in the American soul that cannot be killed by government intrusion, economic hard times, advertising, consumerism, facebook, and corporations. I had a clear vision that, as this country continues to become a second-rate power, that people across the nation will begin playing music with their neighbors at night, that they'll turn off their TVs and their Internet and begin to know each other again. One can only hope.
Friday, November 19, 2010
A New Road to a New Kidney
So much has been going on during the last almost-three weeks that I have not been able to write about until now. Three weeks ago this coming Monday, I received a call from Suzanne, the paired-donor coordinator at UCLA. She said she had found a potential match for me in a four-way exchange. This means that four unmatched donor-recipient pairs are matched to others within the four pairs. So I will receive a kidney from a stranger, and Janet (she's an A and I'm an O) will give to someone in Virginia. So, too, with the other five people in the chain, which may in fact be a loop.
A chain is when an altruistic, or non-directed, donor (someone who is donating to a stranger) starts the chain. The recipient of the altruistic donor's kidney then has his or her friend or family member donate to some other stranger who also has an unmatched donor. The chain can conceivably go on forever, though it is generally broken at some point. A loop would be that Friend A (who is friends with Recipient A) donates to Recipient B. Friend B donates to Recipient C. Friend C donates to Recipient D. Friend D donates to Recipient A. The latter may be what's going on in this proposed four-way. I don't know because Suzanne is so harried trying to make arrangements between the four pairs, the surgeons, the four medical centers etc. that she can only give me broad brushstrokes when I speak with her.
This past summer, Janet and I were scheduled for surgery with another pair, but the other recipient turned out to be incompatible with Janet. That is known as a paired donation.
So three weeks ago this coming Tuesday, I went into UCLA for blood tests. Suzanne said that though the computer said I had a match, this needed to be confirmed. Last Friday, about a week and a half after taking the tests, I found out that, yes, I am compatible with my donor. Janet told me today that all four pairs are compatible.
During this wait for results, I didn't want to say anything to Cindy and then have to retract it, should I not be compatible with my donor or should any of the other pairs in the chain not be compatible. But this Monday I called Suzanne and asked her what I should say to Cindy. I didn't want to leave her hanging.
Suzanne told me to tell Cindy that this was not a sure thing, but if it did work out, it would mean that four people would get a new kidney. Suzanne said I could ask Cindy to be my back-up, should things fall apart in one way or another. I called Cindy on Monday and left a message, then left a Facebook message later in the week. Last night she called. She's gotten a promotion and is working a lot of overtime. She seemed happy at the prospect of four people receiving kidneys in this chain. I told her I'd let her know any news as soon as I knew.
Yesterday Suzanne was supposed to tell me if everything had the green light, but yesterday things were still up in the air. She said she'd know for sure by today. But she still doesn't know. The reasons for the delay, however, are becoming clearer: One of the donors farther up the chain (perhaps the person who donates to another UCLA patient whose friend donates to me) is "difficult to reach"--not a good sign. Also, he now wants to fly out to LA to have the transplant done at UCLA because he read that the recipient fares better if the kidney is harvested at the same medical center in which the transplant is taking place. Suzanne said he is looking at old data, that current stats show similar success rates for donor and recipient at the same medical center and for cases in which the two are separated by hundreds or even thousands of miles.
If the surgeon could talk frankly with this donor, he might tell him that four people's lives are held in the balance and that insisting on coming to LA will delay the process or even totally disrupt it as UCLA would then have to follow its own protocol, adding potentially months of retesting. But as the law is, the donor cannot in any way be coerced. So all the surgeon can do is give the potential donor educational information, perhaps email him studies that show similar success rates for same- and different-med center transplants. Suzanne said that if she hears anything over the weekend, she'll call me. Janet and I were scheduled to go into UCLA for final tests and surgeon consults on Monday, but that is on hold until or if Suzanne gets a go-ahead from this donor.
So things are moving in the right direction, but many hurdles still must be cleared. Not least of which is that everyone has to pass his or her EKG. If one person fails, the whole chain is null and void.
If you're a praying person, I sure would appreciate some prayers. Envision every step of the way from here on in going smoothly so that four people will have the best Christmas presents ever--new kidneys!
A chain is when an altruistic, or non-directed, donor (someone who is donating to a stranger) starts the chain. The recipient of the altruistic donor's kidney then has his or her friend or family member donate to some other stranger who also has an unmatched donor. The chain can conceivably go on forever, though it is generally broken at some point. A loop would be that Friend A (who is friends with Recipient A) donates to Recipient B. Friend B donates to Recipient C. Friend C donates to Recipient D. Friend D donates to Recipient A. The latter may be what's going on in this proposed four-way. I don't know because Suzanne is so harried trying to make arrangements between the four pairs, the surgeons, the four medical centers etc. that she can only give me broad brushstrokes when I speak with her.
This past summer, Janet and I were scheduled for surgery with another pair, but the other recipient turned out to be incompatible with Janet. That is known as a paired donation.
So three weeks ago this coming Tuesday, I went into UCLA for blood tests. Suzanne said that though the computer said I had a match, this needed to be confirmed. Last Friday, about a week and a half after taking the tests, I found out that, yes, I am compatible with my donor. Janet told me today that all four pairs are compatible.
During this wait for results, I didn't want to say anything to Cindy and then have to retract it, should I not be compatible with my donor or should any of the other pairs in the chain not be compatible. But this Monday I called Suzanne and asked her what I should say to Cindy. I didn't want to leave her hanging.
Suzanne told me to tell Cindy that this was not a sure thing, but if it did work out, it would mean that four people would get a new kidney. Suzanne said I could ask Cindy to be my back-up, should things fall apart in one way or another. I called Cindy on Monday and left a message, then left a Facebook message later in the week. Last night she called. She's gotten a promotion and is working a lot of overtime. She seemed happy at the prospect of four people receiving kidneys in this chain. I told her I'd let her know any news as soon as I knew.
Yesterday Suzanne was supposed to tell me if everything had the green light, but yesterday things were still up in the air. She said she'd know for sure by today. But she still doesn't know. The reasons for the delay, however, are becoming clearer: One of the donors farther up the chain (perhaps the person who donates to another UCLA patient whose friend donates to me) is "difficult to reach"--not a good sign. Also, he now wants to fly out to LA to have the transplant done at UCLA because he read that the recipient fares better if the kidney is harvested at the same medical center in which the transplant is taking place. Suzanne said he is looking at old data, that current stats show similar success rates for donor and recipient at the same medical center and for cases in which the two are separated by hundreds or even thousands of miles.
If the surgeon could talk frankly with this donor, he might tell him that four people's lives are held in the balance and that insisting on coming to LA will delay the process or even totally disrupt it as UCLA would then have to follow its own protocol, adding potentially months of retesting. But as the law is, the donor cannot in any way be coerced. So all the surgeon can do is give the potential donor educational information, perhaps email him studies that show similar success rates for same- and different-med center transplants. Suzanne said that if she hears anything over the weekend, she'll call me. Janet and I were scheduled to go into UCLA for final tests and surgeon consults on Monday, but that is on hold until or if Suzanne gets a go-ahead from this donor.
So things are moving in the right direction, but many hurdles still must be cleared. Not least of which is that everyone has to pass his or her EKG. If one person fails, the whole chain is null and void.
If you're a praying person, I sure would appreciate some prayers. Envision every step of the way from here on in going smoothly so that four people will have the best Christmas presents ever--new kidneys!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
A Year Ago Today
A year ago today I underwent triple-bypass surgery. I honestly can't say that it's made much of a difference. At the time, I begrudgingly submitted to it because I was told that if I did not have the heart surgery, I would be denied the transplant. Of course, as I found out under pressing the issue, just getting the bypass surgery was no guarantee that I would be approved for a transplant.
For about two months, around July and August of this year, I felt pretty good. I could exercise without getting winded or experiencing chest pain. Since then, I'm often tired, weak, and unable to walk very far without having symptoms. I sure wish I could have had the transplant surgery this summer when it was originally scheduled.
I am avoiding caffeine, exercising as much as I can, eating right, and getting plenty of sleep. And of course maintaining an amazingly positive attitude. Trying to stay as healthy as possible so that I can pass the EKG I will have to undergo before surgery is approved.
I can certainly see why the ideal time to receive a transplant is prior to the onset of dialysis. And if not then, at least in the first year of dialysis. Feb. 2 of next year will make two years for me. I sure hope things will happen sooner than later.
For about two months, around July and August of this year, I felt pretty good. I could exercise without getting winded or experiencing chest pain. Since then, I'm often tired, weak, and unable to walk very far without having symptoms. I sure wish I could have had the transplant surgery this summer when it was originally scheduled.
I am avoiding caffeine, exercising as much as I can, eating right, and getting plenty of sleep. And of course maintaining an amazingly positive attitude. Trying to stay as healthy as possible so that I can pass the EKG I will have to undergo before surgery is approved.
I can certainly see why the ideal time to receive a transplant is prior to the onset of dialysis. And if not then, at least in the first year of dialysis. Feb. 2 of next year will make two years for me. I sure hope things will happen sooner than later.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
More from Mander
I absolutely cannot resist plucking a few morsels from the feast that is Jerry Mander's book "Four Arguments for the Elimination of Televsion." Granted, these morsels are taken out of context and they are often the conclusions of well-thought-out arguments he makes, but I offer them in the hopes of stimulating your thought and encouraging you to read the book yourself.
"People's minds seemed to be running in dogged, one-dimensional channels which reminded me of the freeways, office buildings and suburbs that were the physical manifestations of the same period....Could life within these new forms of physical confinement produce mental confinement?" (p. 23)
"America had become the first culture to have substituted secondary, mediated versions of experience for direct experience of the world." (p. 24)
"A new muddiness of mind was developing. People's patterns of discernment, discrimination and udnerstanding were taking a dive. They didn't seem able to make distinctions between information which was pre-processed and then filtered through a machine, and that which came to them whole, by actual experience." (p. 25)
"People's minds seemed to be running in dogged, one-dimensional channels which reminded me of the freeways, office buildings and suburbs that were the physical manifestations of the same period....Could life within these new forms of physical confinement produce mental confinement?" (p. 23)
"America had become the first culture to have substituted secondary, mediated versions of experience for direct experience of the world." (p. 24)
"A new muddiness of mind was developing. People's patterns of discernment, discrimination and udnerstanding were taking a dive. They didn't seem able to make distinctions between information which was pre-processed and then filtered through a machine, and that which came to them whole, by actual experience." (p. 25)
"I was chiled at the thought, realizing that these conditions of television viewing--confusion, unification, isolation, especially when combined with passivity and what I later learned of the effects of implanted imagery--were ideal preconditions for the imposition of autocracy." (p. 27)
"One movement became the same as the next one; one media action merged with the fictional program that followed; one revolutionary line was erased by the next commercial, leading to a new level of withdrawal, unconern and stasis. In the end, the sixties were revealed as the flash of light before hte bulb goes out." (p. 33)
"When a messaage is squeezed through a twenty-second news spot, so much can be lost that what is left will fail to move anyone enough to make them turn off the set and actually do something." (pp. 37-38)
[preceded by a discussion of the folly of attempting to convey the way of life of indigenous cultures on TV]
"Understanding Indian ways enough to care about them requies understanding a variety of dimensions of nuance and philosophy. You don't need any of that to understand a product, you do not have problems of subtlety, detail, time and space, historiccal context or organic form. Products are inherently communicable on television because of their static quality, sharp, clear, highly visible lines, and because they carry no informational meaning beyond what they themselves are. They contain no life at all and are therefore not capable of dimension. Nothing works better as telecommunications than images of products." (pp. 42-43)
"To speak of television as 'neutral' and therefore subject to change is as absurd as speaking of the reform of a technology such as guns." (p. 47)
"two unfortunate conditions of modern existence: Human beings no longerf trust peronal observation--even of the self-evident, until it is confirmed by scientific or technological institutions; human beings have lost insight into natural processes--how the world works, the human role as one of many interlocking parts of the worldwide ecosystem--because natural processes are now exceedingly difficult to observe." (p. 54)
"Virtually every experience is mediated in some way." (p. 55)
"In three generations since Edison, we have become creatures of light alone." (p. 58)
[To this I comment: Some of the most profound experiences of my life have been alone in the wilderness at night. Fifty or more miles from the nearest dirt town in the desert, standing on the shore of an interior lake on Isle Royal in Lake Superior while the howl of a wolf pack penetrated me to the bones, or being the sole camper on Santa Cruz Island off the coast of Ventura. But how many people in the modern world have had such encounters with absolute isolation and absolute darkness?]
"The moon's cycle affects the oceans, they [the experts] say, but it doesn't affect the body. Does that sound right to you? It doesn't to me. And yet, removed from any personal awareness of the moon, unable even to see it very well, let alone experience it, how are we to know what is right and what is wrong? Most of us cannot say if, this very evening, the moon will be out at all." (p. 59)
This takes us only to p. 59 of the book's 367 pages. This is only the beginning of the journey, as Mander frist sets the stage for television by showing how the world we have created is ideally suited for television's havoc.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Are the Images Inside Your Head Yours or TV's?
If you didn't read my previous post about "Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television," you must read that first to get some context.
One of many, many things about Jerry Mander's book that I found fascinating was a thought experiment he asks readers to take in order to prove that TV images are more powerful than those from the reader's actual experience. I'll give a shortened version of it here.
Bring each of these to mind:
* China
* Africa
* Borneo
* ancient Rome
* a Russian village
* Ben Franklin
* the Old West
* the FBI
* the Old South
* an American farm family
* the Crusades
* the war room at the Pentagon
* a preoperation conference of doctors
* dope smugglers
* the landing of the Pilgrims
* a Stone Age tribe
"Were you able to come up with images for any or all of them? It is extremely unlikely that you have experienced more than two or three of them personally. (Well, I count four.) Obviously the images wer either out of your own imagination or else they were from the media."
"Now let's go a step further.
"Please bring to mind a baseball game or football game. Have you got one? Hold it for a moment.
"If you are like most Americans, you have actually been to a game. You have seen one directly and probably participated in one personally. You have probably also watched at least one of them on television. Here's the question: Which one did you bring to mind? The television version or the one you experienced directly?"
(As I have only been to a half dozen or so games and have never seen a game on TV except in passing through the room in which one was being viewed, I am probably an exception to this confusion. I actually can tell the real games from the TV ones. But I bet this is not the case with most Americans.)
Mander then speaks about an experience that resonates more strongly with me. He asks if you have ever read a book before you've seen the movie. Of course. You make images in your mind as you're reading the book of the characters and the setting. But once you see the movie, you cannot recall the images you created. The movie images have usurped your own.
Mander writes, "Once images are inside your head, the mind doesn't really distinguish between the image that was gathered directly and the one that derived from television." YIKES!
"We are left with a very bizarre phenomenon. Television is capbable of dominating personally derived imagery--from books or imagination--and it is also capable, at least some of the time, of causing confusion as to what is real experience and what is television experience. The mind is very democratic about its image banks, all are equally available for our recall and use. And so when we call on our images for whatever purposes we may have for them, we are as likely to produce an implanted image as one which was originally our own.
"The root of this unfortunate problem lies with the fact that until very recently, human beings had no need to make distinctions between artificial images of distant events and life directly lived."
Mander makes quick business of the person who thinks she is too sophisticated or too savvy or too smart to be fooled by TV, the person who says, "I know the difference between reality and TV." Mander says that we're not discussing facts here, we're talking about images. Your mind may be able to tell fact from fiction, but it treats all images the same.
One of many, many things about Jerry Mander's book that I found fascinating was a thought experiment he asks readers to take in order to prove that TV images are more powerful than those from the reader's actual experience. I'll give a shortened version of it here.
Bring each of these to mind:
* China
* Africa
* Borneo
* ancient Rome
* a Russian village
* Ben Franklin
* the Old West
* the FBI
* the Old South
* an American farm family
* the Crusades
* the war room at the Pentagon
* a preoperation conference of doctors
* dope smugglers
* the landing of the Pilgrims
* a Stone Age tribe
"Were you able to come up with images for any or all of them? It is extremely unlikely that you have experienced more than two or three of them personally. (Well, I count four.) Obviously the images wer either out of your own imagination or else they were from the media."
"Now let's go a step further.
"Please bring to mind a baseball game or football game. Have you got one? Hold it for a moment.
"If you are like most Americans, you have actually been to a game. You have seen one directly and probably participated in one personally. You have probably also watched at least one of them on television. Here's the question: Which one did you bring to mind? The television version or the one you experienced directly?"
(As I have only been to a half dozen or so games and have never seen a game on TV except in passing through the room in which one was being viewed, I am probably an exception to this confusion. I actually can tell the real games from the TV ones. But I bet this is not the case with most Americans.)
Mander then speaks about an experience that resonates more strongly with me. He asks if you have ever read a book before you've seen the movie. Of course. You make images in your mind as you're reading the book of the characters and the setting. But once you see the movie, you cannot recall the images you created. The movie images have usurped your own.
Mander writes, "Once images are inside your head, the mind doesn't really distinguish between the image that was gathered directly and the one that derived from television." YIKES!
"We are left with a very bizarre phenomenon. Television is capbable of dominating personally derived imagery--from books or imagination--and it is also capable, at least some of the time, of causing confusion as to what is real experience and what is television experience. The mind is very democratic about its image banks, all are equally available for our recall and use. And so when we call on our images for whatever purposes we may have for them, we are as likely to produce an implanted image as one which was originally our own.
"The root of this unfortunate problem lies with the fact that until very recently, human beings had no need to make distinctions between artificial images of distant events and life directly lived."
Mander makes quick business of the person who thinks she is too sophisticated or too savvy or too smart to be fooled by TV, the person who says, "I know the difference between reality and TV." Mander says that we're not discussing facts here, we're talking about images. Your mind may be able to tell fact from fiction, but it treats all images the same.
Revolutionary Book--And it's 33 Years Old!
I finally got around to reading a book that has been sitting on my shelf for years: Jerry Mander's "Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television." It discusses radical ideas that you've never heard before because, well, they couldn't be discussed on TV.
Written by a former ad exec who started the first ad firm to cater to nonprofits, Mander wrote a formidable tome, pulbished in 1977. It is sweeping, going far beyond TV, into the basic building blocks of our modern society. For example, Mander writes of how the modern person doubts her experience, her intuition, her feelings. She looks to "experts" to tell her such things as "Mother's milk is good for babies" or "Stay healthy by eating fresh fruits and vegetables." These are things that our experience should tell us, but we need experts to give us cues.
He also writes of the modern world as a sensory-deprived environment. Instead of walking through forests that are teeming with diversity in terms of color, light, shape, form, speed, and size, we whiz by at high speeds down uniform-looking freeways and spend our days under artificial light in white-walled offices that are generally devoid of variations in sound and highly routine.
All of this fits in well with TV, which is also a sensory-deprivation experience. TV must be viewed in a dark or darkened room, otherwise it can't be seen. It is only concerned with the auditory and the visual, but both of these are distorted from everyday life. For example, on TV we can hear the whispered conversation of a couple standing on a distant hill. Time and space are also distorted, as the events we're seeing are not occurring now or here, but somewhere else at some other time.
The book deals with so many facets of the TV experience. It's impossible to do justice to this book. Mander explains why hyperactivity is promoted by TV-watching. Children--and adults--see exciting, threatening, scary things on TV and their bodies are compelled to act, but no action is possible. (We can't hit the bad guy or run away from the rapist or put a stake through the vampire's heart.) The watcher is forever in a state of wanting to act but being unable to do anything. This frustrated action is at the ground of hyperactivity.
Mander spends a great deal of time discussing the plight of indigenous people as portrayed on TV. Whereas the people themselves want to convey a feeling for their land and their way of life and their spiritual awareness of their environment, that is not possible to convey on TV. That takes time, a lot of time, and it takes direct experience. Land-use issues are reduced to legal battles and justice and discrimination, when in fact, the indigenous people see it in much more intimate, creative, encompassing, interconnected terms.
The same is true of environmental/nature programs. Mander finally came to see, with his nonprofit ad clients, that they should avoid TV. The more they attempted to show the beauty and the wonder of the places they were attempting to save from destruction, the more the public felt these lands were expendable. Unless you have walked in a redwood forest and felt the stillness and the wonder down to your very bones, you do not understand what a redwood forest is. If you have just seen redwoods on a tiny TV screen, without the smells, sounds, and sensuality of a forest, you are most likely to concur with Ronald Reagan, who said, "If you've seen one redwood, you've seen them all." Given a TV experience of redwoods, it's much easier to side with economic development and jobs.
What Mander discovered is that death is more effective on TV than life. So instead of showing footage of gorgeous redwoods, he began producing commercials of stump forests. I remember these commercials so clearly. They were shocking. And I vividly recall when I was camping at Kings Canyon National Park and took a bunch of dirt roads to see where I'd end up. I ended up in a stump forest. It was horrifying to be driving through such beauty and splendor and then to turn a corner and see the slaughter of hundreds upon hundreds of redwoods. It was as if nature itself had been killed.
Mander discusses the mediated environment--how people rely on TV for their experiences, their feeling fixes, their guidelines on how to act with other people. And then how eventually we turn into the people on TV.
The bottom line is YOU MUST READ THIS BOOK. If you are a teacher, I implore you to incorporate it into your class. You could easily spend an entire semester discussing it. It would be perfect for a college class in journalism, communication, psychology, pop culture, American studies, political science, philosophy, and of course, advertising.
This book is just too good not to read it. You will continually sigh "Oh, wow" and pull your friend or family member aside and read something aloud to him or her.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Surprised I'm Alive
Yesterday I saw an orthopedic surgeon for a follow-up appointment for the hip socket I broke in March. Every step I take I can feel something poking me. This is especially acute when ascending stairs. Dr. Velasquez said swimming would be the best thing for my leg, but I can't swim with peritoneal dialysis. Too great of a possibility of infection. So he recommended physical therapy, which I'll begin again in a few weeks.
As Dr. Velasquez was looking at my records, he commented that I've been through a lot. Yessir. Type 1 diabetes, hypertension, surgery for a detached retina, cataract surgery, surgery to correct a hemorrhage in my eye, a dozen bouts of laser surgery to stop eye hemorrhaging, stent surgery, triple-bypass surgery, dialysis, broken hip socket. And all the accompanying paramedic visits and hospitalizations. He called me "a brave lady," then said it's a wonder I'm still here.
It's a wonder to me too. I am so weak and worn-out most days that I just don't know as if I can take the next step. Doing the laundry, as I did today, is such a chore. Carrying the full laundry basket, bending over to sort or pick up clothes, and reaching to hang clothes are arduous tasks for me. Yesterday I gave two massages, and that was about at the upper limit of the my physical cababilities. Working in the community garden really wipes me out. Often walking to the end of the block and back is more than I can do. Every morning when I awake, I am a bit gigglish that I've kept death at bay for another day. The bottom line is that I could really use a kidney.
I read in the local paper about a nonprofit called Cleaning for a Reason. At first I thought they might be able to help me do the housework I need to do. Then I saw that they work only with breast cancer patients. I'll just have to plug on, as I did following bypass surgery, doing more than I feel comfortable doing because it's got to get done.
I realize that my recovery from heart surgery was protracted because I was doing more than I should have done. Had I rested and slept, I probably would have been back to normal within a week or two, but as it was, it took upwards of two months.
My hope is that, should I receive a kidney in the next few weeks, my friends will help out afterwards. They might have trouble believing that someone who is only 52 and looks as good as I do struggles with simple tasks. They may think that when I've asked for help, I'm really not serious. Whatever have been the reasons in the past, I am envisioning assistance and support following surgery so that I can enjoy a speedy recovery. Well, and of course to enjoy the presence of friends, not their email presences but their flesh-and-blood presences.
But to have a recovery, first I need surgery. ASAP.
As Dr. Velasquez was looking at my records, he commented that I've been through a lot. Yessir. Type 1 diabetes, hypertension, surgery for a detached retina, cataract surgery, surgery to correct a hemorrhage in my eye, a dozen bouts of laser surgery to stop eye hemorrhaging, stent surgery, triple-bypass surgery, dialysis, broken hip socket. And all the accompanying paramedic visits and hospitalizations. He called me "a brave lady," then said it's a wonder I'm still here.
It's a wonder to me too. I am so weak and worn-out most days that I just don't know as if I can take the next step. Doing the laundry, as I did today, is such a chore. Carrying the full laundry basket, bending over to sort or pick up clothes, and reaching to hang clothes are arduous tasks for me. Yesterday I gave two massages, and that was about at the upper limit of the my physical cababilities. Working in the community garden really wipes me out. Often walking to the end of the block and back is more than I can do. Every morning when I awake, I am a bit gigglish that I've kept death at bay for another day. The bottom line is that I could really use a kidney.
I read in the local paper about a nonprofit called Cleaning for a Reason. At first I thought they might be able to help me do the housework I need to do. Then I saw that they work only with breast cancer patients. I'll just have to plug on, as I did following bypass surgery, doing more than I feel comfortable doing because it's got to get done.
I realize that my recovery from heart surgery was protracted because I was doing more than I should have done. Had I rested and slept, I probably would have been back to normal within a week or two, but as it was, it took upwards of two months.
My hope is that, should I receive a kidney in the next few weeks, my friends will help out afterwards. They might have trouble believing that someone who is only 52 and looks as good as I do struggles with simple tasks. They may think that when I've asked for help, I'm really not serious. Whatever have been the reasons in the past, I am envisioning assistance and support following surgery so that I can enjoy a speedy recovery. Well, and of course to enjoy the presence of friends, not their email presences but their flesh-and-blood presences.
But to have a recovery, first I need surgery. ASAP.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Cindy and I Meet
Cindy, my potential donor, was in town this weekend for a cousin's baby shower, so we met for breakfast. This was our first face-to-face meeting. So good to spend two hours or so talking about things other than kidneys.We still don't know if she is a match, but we should know soon.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Friends Who Don't Return Calls
What is it that causes friends to just stop returning calls and emails? During this past year alone, I have seen this happen with two people who I have long considered among my top five friends. Let's call one Tina and the other John.I've known Tina for about seven years and John for almost 21. Whenever we've gotten together, we always have a really good time. At least it sure seems like that from my perspective. As with most friends throughout my life, it is up to me to call first and suggest a venue or event, though Tina would often secure free tickets and invite me.
I have not seen Tina since late January, and the last I saw of John was shortly after that. I have called and left messages several times for each of them. I have sent group emails and personal emails about a dozen times to both. No response, save for John telling me that he had a cold and so couldn't call me. That reminds me of the "I have to wash my hair" excuse for not accepting a date.
What is it about our world that we can just drop people like that? Without parting words. Without reason. At least no reasons that are stated. What is wrong with us as a society that we can just cut connections with a friend of even two decades' standing as easily as we can neglect to answer an email from a potential suitor on an online dating site?
Though I have received many, many such messages over the years that Southern California is not a good fit for me, perhaps this is just one more. Granted, our entire country and our entire world are fast becoming as disconnected and superficial as So Cal, but So Cal has always been the epicenter.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Hiding my "Yuk"
Yesterday I had one of those insensitive-healthy-people experiences while receiving a service from a 250- to 300-pound woman, let's call her Debbie. She's a sweet gal, but she doesn't know anything about dialysis, as is the case with most people. She didn't know the difference between hemodialysis and peritoneal dialysis, the latter of which I do. When I said that PD necessitates a tube issuing from my abdomen, Debbie made a face and groaned an exaggerated "YUK."
I should have said something then and there, but I didn't. It was a teaching moment. Already several men have rejected me because of dialysis. One of my very best friends said that she wouldn't want to be intimate with someone on dialysis.Another friend's boyfriend said that dialysis made me a "freak." And here is Debbie, reinforcing this rejection.
Granted, she probably thought nothing of her comment, just as people who are in long-term relationships think nothing of giggling and making light of others being without a partner, without even a date.
I wonder what the psychological mechanism of this is. Is that people think that by laughing at another's pain they distance themselves from it? That in this way they perform a ritual to keep sickness and loneliness from ever touching them? I can't answer this because it's not been my response. My heart has always gone out to people who have been dealt a difficult hand, though I have very little sympathy for people who bring difficulties on themselves. But I certainly don't laugh at them!
Interesting, too, that Debbie is showing her "yuk" to the world all the time in the form of her excess weight, whereas I at least am hiding my "yuk" under my clothes.
I should have said something then and there, but I didn't. It was a teaching moment. Already several men have rejected me because of dialysis. One of my very best friends said that she wouldn't want to be intimate with someone on dialysis.Another friend's boyfriend said that dialysis made me a "freak." And here is Debbie, reinforcing this rejection.
Granted, she probably thought nothing of her comment, just as people who are in long-term relationships think nothing of giggling and making light of others being without a partner, without even a date.
I wonder what the psychological mechanism of this is. Is that people think that by laughing at another's pain they distance themselves from it? That in this way they perform a ritual to keep sickness and loneliness from ever touching them? I can't answer this because it's not been my response. My heart has always gone out to people who have been dealt a difficult hand, though I have very little sympathy for people who bring difficulties on themselves. But I certainly don't laugh at them!
Interesting, too, that Debbie is showing her "yuk" to the world all the time in the form of her excess weight, whereas I at least am hiding my "yuk" under my clothes.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
The Cold That Won't Quit
Ever since returning from France in June, I have had a cold. The symptoms change--sometimes phlegm that can be expelled, mostly phlegm that's stuck in my throat and chest, sometimes a ticklish nose and a lot of sneezing, sometimes a bunch of coughing. But it never goes away.
I saw Dr. Mai, my acupuncturist, yesterday, and he said I have to take care of this or it will turn into chronic bronchitis or asthma. Well, I'm certainly ready to be rid of it.
I have been tired and weak for the last month or so. Perhaps the cold is really dragging me down.
I saw Dr. Mai, my acupuncturist, yesterday, and he said I have to take care of this or it will turn into chronic bronchitis or asthma. Well, I'm certainly ready to be rid of it.
I have been tired and weak for the last month or so. Perhaps the cold is really dragging me down.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Kuehl Family Reunion, 1987
Not this coming weekend but the next is the Kuehl family reunion. For many years now, it has been held on the first Saturday of November. Whereas during my childhood and my son's early childhood, the reunion was a picnic held in a Trimont, Minn., park, these days it's a foeden-making party. Foeden are donut-like treats made in a special skillet.
The following is an essay I wrote in 1987 and hoped to publish. It has waited in my document files until now to see the light of day. I am in the process of sorting through all my writing and separating the wheat from the chaff. This piece is part travel story of the small towns of southern Wisconsin and Minnesota, and part philosophical musings on the nature of family, connection to the land, and traditions.
Taking the Long Way Home
Over the Back Roads of Wisconsin and Minnesota
As a young child, the drive to Ormsby, Minnesota, had seemed endless to me, and so I could hardly blame my 14-month-old son for squirming in his car seat and occasionally wiggling his way out when we made the trip with my mother this past summer. At the end of our journey, relatives waited for us and for the Kuehl family reunion, an annual tradition that my mother had tried to make every year when my brother and I were children. Now that she has a grandchild, she feels the pull of time all the more strongly, and so seeing her "people," as she calls her sisters, is becoming more and more important.
I sat in the back seat with Aaron while my mother drove. Mine was the more rigorous detail. Keeping Aaron entertained for two days--five hundred miles--of driving was no easy task, but I quieted his cries and forestalled his screams with my shopping bag full of tricks: picture books of doggies and duckies, a yellow play phone for calling Daddy, a hedgehog hand puppet in a red bandana, Aaron's favorite teddy and, when all else failed, Goldfish crackers I fed him slowly, never more than one per mile.
It was a cool and drizzly June morning when three generations of Kuehl started out for the homestead in southwestern Minnesota, driving west from Racine via Highway 20. At Rochester, what must be one of southeastern Wisconsin's most picturesque towns, we turned north onto 83, on which we passed fences and barns of Kettle Moraine field stone, rain-sprinkled pastures and cows lazily grazing under overcast skies.
We stopped for mid-morning coffee and the best homemade poppyseed cake I'd ever tasted at the family-run Genessee Depot in the town by the same name. Dressed in blue-and-white-striped apron and hat, "Grandma" brought us mugs of hot coffee while her seven-year-old grandson took our order and my mother talked with the boy's father about Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, the Broadway stars who adored the Wisconsin countryside and built their estate outside of town.
At Wales we again turned west, this time on 18, which took us all the way to Madison. Before we reached the capital and what was to be the most congested leg of our journey, we stopped in Dousman, just long enough for me to photograph an unusual building at the side of the road--a barn or a storage shed, I wasn't sure which--painted a soft peach with white filigree woodwork along the eaves that made me think of a cake with elaborate icing.
When I had made this trip with my parents and brother, we had always taken 12 out of Madison, and farther on, 16, highways which have now been all but rendered obsolete for interstate travelers by I-90, which closely parallels them for many of their miles. This summer, however, we opted for a different path--14 and its meanderings through Black Earth, Mazomanie, and after it crosses the Wisconsin River, Spring Green, where we stopped at a roadside park for a picnic lunch. Huddling beneath an open shelter, my mother and I ate the Cornish hens I'd prepared the night before while Aaron played with the hand-pumped drinking fountain.
The skies began to clear in the afternoon as we headed north on 14 through Gotham, Richland Center and Readstown, and by the time we reached Viroqua, we had rolled down our windows for a chance at a cool breeze. Instead of continuing on 14 to La Crosse, I convinced my mother to head west out of Viroqua on 56. She said she had never taken this stretch of road before, and the mere three cars we saw along the 20 miles to the Mississippi River town of Genoa were evidence that not many others had either.
In sleepy Genoa we turned north on 35, a lovely road that made me wish we had more time to take 35 south along the river banks to Praire du Chien and then back north again to La Crosse, our motel stop for the night.
After a McDonald's breakfast the next morning, we crossed the Mississippi. I attempted to focus Aaron's attention on the river, so he could share in my excitement, but all he was interested in were the trucks on the bridge and the teddy in his arms. It was a perfect day for traveling--sunny but not hot, blue sky with plump clouds, not too muggy.
Our first hours were spent in the hill country of southeastern Minnesota, much of which is state park and forest lands. The few small towns along 16 are snuggled beside the Root River, which does much to give Hokah, Rushford and Lanesboro a sense of timeless peace. We detoured at Peterson and Whalen, the two smallest burgs. Located over an old bridge that crosses the Root, Peterson's only inhabitant appeared to be a lone dog. The shops were all closed, and looked as if they had been for some time. The houses didn't appear abandoned, yet there was no one around. We drove to the highest point in town, a steepled church. It was for sale.
Whalen appeared more optimistic, though not much livelier. A gift shop had tried to survive on Main Street, and failed. A grocery store was in the process of shutting down. But the town had a park with two picnic tables and a gazebo, and the historical society maintained a museum, which was closed when we were there. I left the hill country thinking how sad it is that the most beautiful places are usually the ones where it's so difficult to make a living.
At Preston the terrain abruptly turned flat; the vegetation changed from forests to farmers' fields. At Grand Meadow we attempted to piece together a path over county roads, but kept getting turned around, passing through Rose Creek three times before giving up and, reluctantly, joining with I-90. The long, monotonous miles of cornfields prompted my comment: "I bet a lot of farm kids look at this freeway and think, 'That road's my ticket out of here.'"
Just west of Welcome, we left the interstate and drove eight miles north on Minnesota 4 to the first settlement of Trimont. Over the years, my aunts and uncles had left Ormsby, where my Grandma Kuehl had lived until her death in 1965: Gilma, Dorothy and Viola now resided in Trimont; Bernita, in St. James.
We had supper that evening at Aunt Gilma's: pork chops, green-beans-and-Velveta casserole, jello salad with a dollop of Miracle Whip. After the dishes were done, I put Aaron in his stroller and walked along the deserted main street, past the cafe where retired farmers, like my uncle Bill, went to shoot the breeze about the price of corn.
I pushed the stroller to the very edge of town. Strange, but this town really did have an edge. Next to the implement shop, just beyond the railroad tracks, Trimont ended and fields of soybeans, lavender and pinkish in the last rays of sunlight, began.
I thought of all the cities and towns I have known in which the residents were strangers, and of my son who has logged more jet time than most of his Minnesota uncles and aunts have accrued in their lifetimes. Aaron has flown from Los Angeles to Milwaukee for two Christmases, two weddings and one family reunion. He's traveled the West Coast in his parents’ van, his first camping trip when he was not yet three months old.
The long-awaited family reunion took place on Saturday afternoon at the shelter in one of Trimont's two parks. Aaron wasn't yet walking, but I set him down as soon as we got there and didn't pick him up again until we left six hours later. He had plenty of great aunts who were more than willing to fuss over him, and he was pleased to explore on his own, getting dirtier than my cousin Nick's 1000-pound sows.
I hadn't been to a family reunion in nine years, when my husband and I had driven out from Chicago, where we lived before moving to California. Cousins I had remembered as delightful preschoolers were now in junior high, and those who had been fixed in my memory as insecure teenagers had become lawyers, small business-owners, middle managers and teachers in my absence. My cousin Heidi is a now wildlife biologist for the Minneapolis Zoo.
As I now put maps of Wisconsin and Minnesota in Aaron's baby book and mark our route in yellow felt pen, I think of my aunts and uncles in rural Minnesota, who, almost without exception, have never traveled abroad, indeed many rarely leave their immediate area. A shopping excursion to Minneapolis, a little over two hours away by freeway, is a major trip. I thought of L.A., where I now live, and how one city rubs right up against the next with only a sign to let you know you've left one for another.
Even the surrounding areas are not familiar. I had asked my Aunt Dorothy what she knew of Swastika Beach, a town less than 20 miles from her home in Trimont. "How did it get that name?" I wondered. She'd said she'd never heard of the place, yet, in over 70 years, she's never lived more than 50 miles away. "There are so many little settlements no one ever hears about," she had answered. "You only know the towns where someone you know lives."
I think of the traveling my son will do in his lifetime, the people he'll meet and befriend in far-off places and the towns he'll know even though he knows no one in them. I have only two wishes for my young traveler: that he'll also want to "know his roots," as his grandmother would say--the Kuehls who will wait for him every summer at family-reunion time in places like Ormsby, Trimont, St. James and Alpha; and that maybe someday he and I will both discover what goes on in Swastika Beach. Until then, youngest cousin Vonn and best-looking cousins Nick and Neal will continue to farm the rich black earth that provided a livelihood for my grandparents, Reinhold and Augusta, and so assured that their children would grow to adulthood and have children of their own, who would gather together for family reunions like this one
The following is an essay I wrote in 1987 and hoped to publish. It has waited in my document files until now to see the light of day. I am in the process of sorting through all my writing and separating the wheat from the chaff. This piece is part travel story of the small towns of southern Wisconsin and Minnesota, and part philosophical musings on the nature of family, connection to the land, and traditions.
Taking the Long Way Home
Over the Back Roads of Wisconsin and Minnesota
As a young child, the drive to Ormsby, Minnesota, had seemed endless to me, and so I could hardly blame my 14-month-old son for squirming in his car seat and occasionally wiggling his way out when we made the trip with my mother this past summer. At the end of our journey, relatives waited for us and for the Kuehl family reunion, an annual tradition that my mother had tried to make every year when my brother and I were children. Now that she has a grandchild, she feels the pull of time all the more strongly, and so seeing her "people," as she calls her sisters, is becoming more and more important.
I sat in the back seat with Aaron while my mother drove. Mine was the more rigorous detail. Keeping Aaron entertained for two days--five hundred miles--of driving was no easy task, but I quieted his cries and forestalled his screams with my shopping bag full of tricks: picture books of doggies and duckies, a yellow play phone for calling Daddy, a hedgehog hand puppet in a red bandana, Aaron's favorite teddy and, when all else failed, Goldfish crackers I fed him slowly, never more than one per mile.
It was a cool and drizzly June morning when three generations of Kuehl started out for the homestead in southwestern Minnesota, driving west from Racine via Highway 20. At Rochester, what must be one of southeastern Wisconsin's most picturesque towns, we turned north onto 83, on which we passed fences and barns of Kettle Moraine field stone, rain-sprinkled pastures and cows lazily grazing under overcast skies.
We stopped for mid-morning coffee and the best homemade poppyseed cake I'd ever tasted at the family-run Genessee Depot in the town by the same name. Dressed in blue-and-white-striped apron and hat, "Grandma" brought us mugs of hot coffee while her seven-year-old grandson took our order and my mother talked with the boy's father about Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, the Broadway stars who adored the Wisconsin countryside and built their estate outside of town.
At Wales we again turned west, this time on 18, which took us all the way to Madison. Before we reached the capital and what was to be the most congested leg of our journey, we stopped in Dousman, just long enough for me to photograph an unusual building at the side of the road--a barn or a storage shed, I wasn't sure which--painted a soft peach with white filigree woodwork along the eaves that made me think of a cake with elaborate icing.
When I had made this trip with my parents and brother, we had always taken 12 out of Madison, and farther on, 16, highways which have now been all but rendered obsolete for interstate travelers by I-90, which closely parallels them for many of their miles. This summer, however, we opted for a different path--14 and its meanderings through Black Earth, Mazomanie, and after it crosses the Wisconsin River, Spring Green, where we stopped at a roadside park for a picnic lunch. Huddling beneath an open shelter, my mother and I ate the Cornish hens I'd prepared the night before while Aaron played with the hand-pumped drinking fountain.
The skies began to clear in the afternoon as we headed north on 14 through Gotham, Richland Center and Readstown, and by the time we reached Viroqua, we had rolled down our windows for a chance at a cool breeze. Instead of continuing on 14 to La Crosse, I convinced my mother to head west out of Viroqua on 56. She said she had never taken this stretch of road before, and the mere three cars we saw along the 20 miles to the Mississippi River town of Genoa were evidence that not many others had either.
In sleepy Genoa we turned north on 35, a lovely road that made me wish we had more time to take 35 south along the river banks to Praire du Chien and then back north again to La Crosse, our motel stop for the night.
After a McDonald's breakfast the next morning, we crossed the Mississippi. I attempted to focus Aaron's attention on the river, so he could share in my excitement, but all he was interested in were the trucks on the bridge and the teddy in his arms. It was a perfect day for traveling--sunny but not hot, blue sky with plump clouds, not too muggy.
Our first hours were spent in the hill country of southeastern Minnesota, much of which is state park and forest lands. The few small towns along 16 are snuggled beside the Root River, which does much to give Hokah, Rushford and Lanesboro a sense of timeless peace. We detoured at Peterson and Whalen, the two smallest burgs. Located over an old bridge that crosses the Root, Peterson's only inhabitant appeared to be a lone dog. The shops were all closed, and looked as if they had been for some time. The houses didn't appear abandoned, yet there was no one around. We drove to the highest point in town, a steepled church. It was for sale.
Whalen appeared more optimistic, though not much livelier. A gift shop had tried to survive on Main Street, and failed. A grocery store was in the process of shutting down. But the town had a park with two picnic tables and a gazebo, and the historical society maintained a museum, which was closed when we were there. I left the hill country thinking how sad it is that the most beautiful places are usually the ones where it's so difficult to make a living.
At Preston the terrain abruptly turned flat; the vegetation changed from forests to farmers' fields. At Grand Meadow we attempted to piece together a path over county roads, but kept getting turned around, passing through Rose Creek three times before giving up and, reluctantly, joining with I-90. The long, monotonous miles of cornfields prompted my comment: "I bet a lot of farm kids look at this freeway and think, 'That road's my ticket out of here.'"
Just west of Welcome, we left the interstate and drove eight miles north on Minnesota 4 to the first settlement of Trimont. Over the years, my aunts and uncles had left Ormsby, where my Grandma Kuehl had lived until her death in 1965: Gilma, Dorothy and Viola now resided in Trimont; Bernita, in St. James.
We had supper that evening at Aunt Gilma's: pork chops, green-beans-and-Velveta casserole, jello salad with a dollop of Miracle Whip. After the dishes were done, I put Aaron in his stroller and walked along the deserted main street, past the cafe where retired farmers, like my uncle Bill, went to shoot the breeze about the price of corn.
I pushed the stroller to the very edge of town. Strange, but this town really did have an edge. Next to the implement shop, just beyond the railroad tracks, Trimont ended and fields of soybeans, lavender and pinkish in the last rays of sunlight, began.
I thought of all the cities and towns I have known in which the residents were strangers, and of my son who has logged more jet time than most of his Minnesota uncles and aunts have accrued in their lifetimes. Aaron has flown from Los Angeles to Milwaukee for two Christmases, two weddings and one family reunion. He's traveled the West Coast in his parents’ van, his first camping trip when he was not yet three months old.
The long-awaited family reunion took place on Saturday afternoon at the shelter in one of Trimont's two parks. Aaron wasn't yet walking, but I set him down as soon as we got there and didn't pick him up again until we left six hours later. He had plenty of great aunts who were more than willing to fuss over him, and he was pleased to explore on his own, getting dirtier than my cousin Nick's 1000-pound sows.
I hadn't been to a family reunion in nine years, when my husband and I had driven out from Chicago, where we lived before moving to California. Cousins I had remembered as delightful preschoolers were now in junior high, and those who had been fixed in my memory as insecure teenagers had become lawyers, small business-owners, middle managers and teachers in my absence. My cousin Heidi is a now wildlife biologist for the Minneapolis Zoo.
As I now put maps of Wisconsin and Minnesota in Aaron's baby book and mark our route in yellow felt pen, I think of my aunts and uncles in rural Minnesota, who, almost without exception, have never traveled abroad, indeed many rarely leave their immediate area. A shopping excursion to Minneapolis, a little over two hours away by freeway, is a major trip. I thought of L.A., where I now live, and how one city rubs right up against the next with only a sign to let you know you've left one for another.
Even the surrounding areas are not familiar. I had asked my Aunt Dorothy what she knew of Swastika Beach, a town less than 20 miles from her home in Trimont. "How did it get that name?" I wondered. She'd said she'd never heard of the place, yet, in over 70 years, she's never lived more than 50 miles away. "There are so many little settlements no one ever hears about," she had answered. "You only know the towns where someone you know lives."
I think of the traveling my son will do in his lifetime, the people he'll meet and befriend in far-off places and the towns he'll know even though he knows no one in them. I have only two wishes for my young traveler: that he'll also want to "know his roots," as his grandmother would say--the Kuehls who will wait for him every summer at family-reunion time in places like Ormsby, Trimont, St. James and Alpha; and that maybe someday he and I will both discover what goes on in Swastika Beach. Until then, youngest cousin Vonn and best-looking cousins Nick and Neal will continue to farm the rich black earth that provided a livelihood for my grandparents, Reinhold and Augusta, and so assured that their children would grow to adulthood and have children of their own, who would gather together for family reunions like this one
Slipping
About two months ago, I was at my peak. I was working at a good pace at cardiac rehab without any symptoms. I had no chest pain or constriction, no shortness of breath. If only I could have had transplant surgery at that time.
Since then, things have declined. This is the first I've admitted this to anyone, out of concern that, should I say anything, I will be taken off the transplant list. My performance at cardiac rehab has gone down. I have had to scale back on both the incline and the speed on the treadmill. At night I have to sleep almost sitting up because of the chest constriction I feel if I am lying prone.
I am hoping for a miracle or a quick transplant. I have to put my energy into mind over matter, telling myself even when I am symptomatic, "It is easy for me to climb these stairs. It is easy for me to walk this distance. It is comfortable for me to lie in bed."
Since then, things have declined. This is the first I've admitted this to anyone, out of concern that, should I say anything, I will be taken off the transplant list. My performance at cardiac rehab has gone down. I have had to scale back on both the incline and the speed on the treadmill. At night I have to sleep almost sitting up because of the chest constriction I feel if I am lying prone.
I am hoping for a miracle or a quick transplant. I have to put my energy into mind over matter, telling myself even when I am symptomatic, "It is easy for me to climb these stairs. It is easy for me to walk this distance. It is comfortable for me to lie in bed."
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
My First Sweater
Since February of this year, I have been attending a knitting group. I was invited by my massage client Carol (shown here on right; Mary on left), who has been attending for years. I have long wanted to advance beyond scarves and slippers, and so I took on the task of knitting my first sweater.Although I have missed many of the Tuesday sessions due to hospitalization, travel, or other commitments, I have become a regular. Definitely I am the youngest in the group. Some women have me beat by more than 30 years. For the most part, we avoid discussion of sex, politics, and religion, so all goes smoothly.
The meetings are hosted at Fern's house in east Long Beach. Fern has spent hours helping me, showing me new ways of casting on and giving me all sorts of tips. Here she is shown with me in the sweater I finally finished--whew! It turned out way too big, but Fern says that if I bring it next time, she'll block it for me, a way of ironing a finished product to make it lay nicer. We'll see.Despite the imperfections that can be seen in the sweater upon examination, I'm proud of my handiwork. I've learned a lot during these past nine months of working on it. My next challenge: socks.
Though the size and composition of the knitting group change every week, here are a few more of the regulars:
* Marcia (with book)
* Annie to her left, our right, who happens to be my next-door neighbor
*Mel on the right
Mel left for Barcelona today. She and her boyfriend are taking a Mediterranean cruise. Carol told me that years ago, she and her beau would split the travel costs until Mel told him that she could no longer afford to pay her half. The boyfriend said that was OK, he'd pay for everything. At least once a month, the two of them take a major trip. Wow, how do I get that kind of gig? Seems as distant as my shot at landing the presidential nomination for the 2012 election!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Nourishment of Acquaintances
Friday was my last day of cardiac rehab. I've been attending a one-hour workout three times a week since February. I had to take a few months off when I broke my hip, but then I got back to it again. I want to stay in the best possible shape for my eventual transplant surgery--and to keep my heart in good enough condition to stay on the wait list for a kidney.
For the most part, the other rehab patients have been of the World War II generation, though occasionally there has been a person my age or even younger. I especially bonded with Mary Jo, 83, a woman I wished were my mom. She was fun, funny, thoughtful, and "with it." She revealed things about herself as we were walking side by side on our respective treadmills, but she also asked questions about me. She's pictured here, the one with glasses. Lois, the other gal, was also part of the 10 a.m. group.
Lois said to me on Friday that she was a bit sad, leaving cardiac rehab. She had really enjoyed her time with everyone here. I said I have enjoyed it too, that I receive so much nourishment from my interactions with acquaintances and strangers, that on a daily basis, I receive so much more juice from them than from friends, whom I rarely see. She said this is her experience too.
Friends are wonderful, don't get me wrong. But they have always been rare treats in my life, not the meat and potatoes of my existence. For the most part, they just haven't been around. They're busy with work, relationships, family, school, housework, errands, travel, creative projects, dating, other friends and other social obligations. Or they live hundreds or thousands of miles away. Getting together is a real chore. Sometimes I email or phone a dozen times before I get a response, and then it is often that she or he can't see me. Of my So Cal friends, I have seen Susie and Daphne twice this year, Jose just once, and Othman perhaps a half dozen times. I haven't seen Diana since February. Bev and the other Diana maybe twice this year. I see Tom a few times a month, usually to exchange books. Chris and I have long phone conversations, but we only see each other in person every few months, despite the fact that he lives less than a mile away. When I go beyond a year without seeing a So Cal friend, I hold nothing against him, but I realize that he's moved on.
I always have a good time when I see my friends. Just last Sunday, for example, I had two passes for brunch at the Trump National Golf Club in Rancho Palos Verdes. It was a perk for writing an article for Long Beach Magazine that, in part, discussed the club. Susie and I had a great time, chatting over caviar, sushi, oysters, and all the other components of the nicest brunch I have ever attended--with the best view. But Susie is a busy gal, scrambling as she is to make a living. I realize that visits with her, though wonderful, are going to be infrequent. She, like my other friends, are creme brulee--fantastic, but not something I'm going to enjoy every night.
Every night before dropping off to sleep, I give gratitude for the things and persons of my day. Of course, Aaron and Rasputin always top the list. And then there are Janet and Dana, the best neighbors ever. So often, though, I say thank you for pleasant interactions with strangers, other neighbors, and acquaintances. Too often people think of these interactions as nothing special, that the stuff of relationships is found with lovers, family, and friends. I strongly disagree. A great deal of nourishment comes from those I hardly know or don't know at all.
Lois said to me on Friday that she was a bit sad, leaving cardiac rehab. She had really enjoyed her time with everyone here. I said I have enjoyed it too, that I receive so much nourishment from my interactions with acquaintances and strangers, that on a daily basis, I receive so much more juice from them than from friends, whom I rarely see. She said this is her experience too.
Friends are wonderful, don't get me wrong. But they have always been rare treats in my life, not the meat and potatoes of my existence. For the most part, they just haven't been around. They're busy with work, relationships, family, school, housework, errands, travel, creative projects, dating, other friends and other social obligations. Or they live hundreds or thousands of miles away. Getting together is a real chore. Sometimes I email or phone a dozen times before I get a response, and then it is often that she or he can't see me. Of my So Cal friends, I have seen Susie and Daphne twice this year, Jose just once, and Othman perhaps a half dozen times. I haven't seen Diana since February. Bev and the other Diana maybe twice this year. I see Tom a few times a month, usually to exchange books. Chris and I have long phone conversations, but we only see each other in person every few months, despite the fact that he lives less than a mile away. When I go beyond a year without seeing a So Cal friend, I hold nothing against him, but I realize that he's moved on.I always have a good time when I see my friends. Just last Sunday, for example, I had two passes for brunch at the Trump National Golf Club in Rancho Palos Verdes. It was a perk for writing an article for Long Beach Magazine that, in part, discussed the club. Susie and I had a great time, chatting over caviar, sushi, oysters, and all the other components of the nicest brunch I have ever attended--with the best view. But Susie is a busy gal, scrambling as she is to make a living. I realize that visits with her, though wonderful, are going to be infrequent. She, like my other friends, are creme brulee--fantastic, but not something I'm going to enjoy every night.
Acquaintances, neighbors, and strangers are much different. I'm not interrupting their lives to meet up with them. They are simply going about their lives and happen to bump into me going about mine. There is no planning or scheduling involved. They're not going out of their way to see me, and I'm not making an effort to see them. They are simply there, as I am, doing their shopping, walking their dogs, taking out the garbage, watering their lawns, going to cardiac rehab. We may exchange a smile and a few kind words, then we're on our way.
Every night before dropping off to sleep, I give gratitude for the things and persons of my day. Of course, Aaron and Rasputin always top the list. And then there are Janet and Dana, the best neighbors ever. So often, though, I say thank you for pleasant interactions with strangers, other neighbors, and acquaintances. Too often people think of these interactions as nothing special, that the stuff of relationships is found with lovers, family, and friends. I strongly disagree. A great deal of nourishment comes from those I hardly know or don't know at all. Thursday, October 21, 2010
Hooking Up
Every night I hook up for 10 ½ hours,
not with a supernaturally virile man
but a dialysis machine.
All night long it grunts, groans, and moans,
pushing clean fluids into me,
sucking dirty ones out.
Like an ideal man in some fantasy relationship,
my dialysis machine sustains me,
cleanses me, gives me another day of life.
Of course, it’s a life without hope
of romance, relationship, passion, or sex,
since every guy I’ve told so far
has immediately shunned me,
without even a good-bye call or first kiss.
All day long, I carry reminders of these hook-ups:
a foot of tubing that issues from the hole in my belly
and a penis-like transfer set by which I attach to the machine’s tubes.
Each morning after I shower and change the dressing,
I place the transfer set in a baby sock,
wrap the sock with a ponytail tie,
then slip all this inside my panties,
hiding the evidence under my clothes.
All day long, this artificial penis
rubs against my crotch,
the closest I ever get now
to what everyone else calls a hook-up.
not with a supernaturally virile man
but a dialysis machine.
All night long it grunts, groans, and moans,
pushing clean fluids into me,
sucking dirty ones out.
Like an ideal man in some fantasy relationship,
my dialysis machine sustains me,
cleanses me, gives me another day of life.
Of course, it’s a life without hope
of romance, relationship, passion, or sex,
since every guy I’ve told so far
has immediately shunned me,
without even a good-bye call or first kiss.
All day long, I carry reminders of these hook-ups:
a foot of tubing that issues from the hole in my belly
and a penis-like transfer set by which I attach to the machine’s tubes.
Each morning after I shower and change the dressing,
I place the transfer set in a baby sock,
wrap the sock with a ponytail tie,
then slip all this inside my panties,
hiding the evidence under my clothes.
All day long, this artificial penis
rubs against my crotch,
the closest I ever get now
to what everyone else calls a hook-up.
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