I've graduated from UCLA--the UCLA kidney transplant clinic, that is. I no longer have to get up once or twice a week at 4 in the morning and drive to UCLA for 5:30 blood tests and a meeting with a nephrologist to adjust my meds. I passed the three-month mark on March 8, and they set me free.
From now on, I'll get lab work and visit my Kaiser nephrologist only once a month. I'll go to UCLA once every three months for a year, then once a year after that.
Though I wasn't feeling very well for more than a month, I'm feeling much stronger and more vibrant now. I'm back to contemplating an August-through-November road trip. I've done the math: Figuring gas at $5/gallon, living expenses at $40/day (food and camping fees), and not having to pay rent for four months because I'll give up my apartment, my income will cover my expenses. Of course, if gas goes to six or seven dollars a gallon in the next few months, then I'll have to rethink things again.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
I've Graduated from UCLA!
What's more, I just emailed an article to a travel magazine that pays quite well. I had queried the editor last June, and after months of persistence, I landed the assignment. It would be fantastic if she likes my work and would like me to write from the road this fall. That's what I did in the summers of 2005 and 2006. Each time I gave up my apartment and traveled during the summer, conducting interviews via cell phone and writing and emailing articles from public libraries across the continent. I would love to do that again. Now that seems like a possibility again.
Of course, getting lab work done on the road may be challenging. I need to find out more about that.
Monday, March 07, 2011
Summer Dreams, Summer Realities
While I was on dialysis, I envisioned my life post-transplant. I saw romance and relationship coming my way, now that I would be freed of dialysis tubing, tape, gauze, and treatments. I also saw hitting the road as I did big time during the summers of 2005 and 2006 and as I did during shorter trips for decades, camping solo throughout California's deserts, mountains, forests, and coastlands.
In the early weeks following transplant, I felt so fantastic that I planned to leave Southern California in April and perhaps never return. One scenario was to head up the coast, taking my time, visiting friends in the Bay Area, seeing Oregon's Crater Lake for the first time in a quarter century, checking out Portland's intentional communities for a possible move, and spending time with my friend Araia, who lives in the wilds of northeastern Washington state. I'd then meander back south in time to move son Aaron to whichever graduate school he was going to--it now looks like Penn State. From there I'd head up to Nova Scotia to see my sweet, little cabin and my friend Helene, where I'd spend the fall, perhaps traveling to Minneapolis for the annual family reunion during the first weekend in November.
That's where plans get a little fuzzy. If I found a good fit in Portland, I'd head there. If not, I could always return to Long Beach for the winter. A friend said that I could rent a room in his house for $400 plus utilities. It's nice to have a place to land.
During the past few months, however, I have not felt like doing much. Symptoms come and go. Sometimes I'm weak and tired, other times I have respiratory problems. What's of most concern, however, are the cardiac symptoms--water retention, tightness, constriction, a feeling of oppression, sometimes pain and difficulty breathing. And then there's the fact that my meds are adjusted or meds completely dropped or others added practically every week, based on my lab results. Not sure how weekly lab results would be possible if I were on the road. Kaiser is only located in California, Oregon, Hawaii, Ohio, Georgia, and Maryland/Washington, D.C./Virginia.
The only things I can do are do as much as I can to stay as healthy as possible, maintain a fantastic attitude, and wait until the end of May to see how I'm doing. If I'm feeling great, then I'll give one month's notice to my landlord June 1. If not, I hope to be in good enough shape to move Aaron to Pennsylvania and make a foray into Nova Scotia.
That's where plans get a little fuzzy. If I found a good fit in Portland, I'd head there. If not, I could always return to Long Beach for the winter. A friend said that I could rent a room in his house for $400 plus utilities. It's nice to have a place to land.
During the past few months, however, I have not felt like doing much. Symptoms come and go. Sometimes I'm weak and tired, other times I have respiratory problems. What's of most concern, however, are the cardiac symptoms--water retention, tightness, constriction, a feeling of oppression, sometimes pain and difficulty breathing. And then there's the fact that my meds are adjusted or meds completely dropped or others added practically every week, based on my lab results. Not sure how weekly lab results would be possible if I were on the road. Kaiser is only located in California, Oregon, Hawaii, Ohio, Georgia, and Maryland/Washington, D.C./Virginia.
The only things I can do are do as much as I can to stay as healthy as possible, maintain a fantastic attitude, and wait until the end of May to see how I'm doing. If I'm feeling great, then I'll give one month's notice to my landlord June 1. If not, I hope to be in good enough shape to move Aaron to Pennsylvania and make a foray into Nova Scotia.
Sunday, March 06, 2011
Pain and Strain
Yesterday afternoon and evening I was in such severe pain that I went to the ER. My right shoulder, neck, back, and right abdomen were beset with continuous, sometimes barely barable pain. I wondered if either I was having a heart attack or I was rejecting the kidney. This was accompanied by chest tightness and constriction, a fairly usual symptom, so generally I don't pay much attention to it. But coupled with this other pain and with nausea, I wondered if something significant was happening.
I drove one-handed to the ER in Downey. I was given priority, given my multiple health challenges. I begrudgingly submitted to a chest x-ray and an abdominal CT scan, both of which showered me with radiation. Both turned up uneventful. The CT scan increased my pain considerably, as I had to put my arms above my head during the procedure. Not only did this strain my shoulder, but it stretched my abdomen too.
I was moaning and carrying on for at least a half hour before I got two Tylenol. They wouldn't give me anything stronger as I had driven myself to the ER.
I drove one-handed to the ER in Downey. I was given priority, given my multiple health challenges. I begrudgingly submitted to a chest x-ray and an abdominal CT scan, both of which showered me with radiation. Both turned up uneventful. The CT scan increased my pain considerably, as I had to put my arms above my head during the procedure. Not only did this strain my shoulder, but it stretched my abdomen too.
I was moaning and carrying on for at least a half hour before I got two Tylenol. They wouldn't give me anything stronger as I had driven myself to the ER.
In the end, the doctor said that everything showed that I had not had a heart attack and that my kidney was fine. That's good news. He diagnosed my pain as muscle strain. The only thing I can think of that I could have possibly done to strain my muscles was lift a suitcase yesterday morning. At the time it hadn't hurt, but six or seven hours later, I felt it, big time.
I slept today away, taking one Vicodin the ER doc had prescribed at 6:30 this morning and another at 1:30 this afternoon. I feel so much better. Though there is still a little discomfort in my shoulder and neck, my belly feels fine. I'm done with the Vicodin, but this time I'm not going to give them to a friend who has pain but no health insurance. I amassed quite a stash of Vicodin in the past two years, what with four surgeries: dialysis catheter insertion, January 2009; triple bypass heart surgery, November 2009; twice-broken femur and rod placement, March 2010; and transplant surgery, December 2010. Each time, I took no more than two of the Vicoden after returning home from the hospital. This time, though, I'm keeping them, as I may need them in the future if I am really this sensitive to physical exertion.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Sorting Through the Past
I have very little storage space in my apartment, and a fair amount of it is consumed by a few large boxes filled with family pictures and writings and with journals I have kept since I was a small child. This afternoon I finally began the long process of reading through those journals and deciding their fates.
Today I made my way through an ancestor's account of his trip back to Germany in 1902. It had been translated from the German into English by someone of my mother's generation. I am unclear as to how this man is related to me, but he could be a cousin of my maternal grandfather's. Claus Kuehl primarily wrote of what he ate and which relatives he visited in which cities. His insights and observations are rare: Chicago's buildings are tall; occasionally, the girls on board ship danced a bit too wildly for the captain's tastes; and Americans are better-looking than the Germans he left behind. How fascinating if he would have described the grit and grime of Chicago, the way in which the girls' dancing was too wild, and in what ways the Americans had it over on the Germans. The only interior shot we're given is that he's frequently homesick. Other than that, Claus provides no record of his inner life during this once-in-a-lifetime, three-month journey from his farm in Iowa to the nation of his birth and back again.
I also read my mother's 1952-54 diary of her travels in Europe while serving as a serviceman's club director for Special Services. This had been lovingly typed by my cousin Mary, who also took other hand-written work by my mother and spent many long hours typing perhaps 200 pages. She sent the fruit of her labor in hard copy and electronically, so copies will always be available. Though my mother offers more local color than did Claus, insight into her emotional life is also sorely lacking--and this is precisely what I was hoping to uncover. I never knew what made my mother tick, but I did know that these two years in Europe were seemingly the only happy times of her life. I was hoping that her diaries would grant me access to the interior life she always kept under lock and key.
Not to be outdone by my relatives, I figured I had to look at my own musings as well. I selected a diary from 1984. What Claus and my mother lacked, I more than made up for in my missive. Page after page of my hand-wringing about my marriage until I nearly wanted to shout at my former self, "Oh, shut up! Just do something, will you!"
Definitely my notebook is heading for recycling. I have contacted a distant relative who is heavily into geneology. She may be interested in Claus's and my mother's writings, especially since Claus makes so many references to other relatives.
This is just the beginning of this project. Who knows, maybe somewhere in all these pages will be some real gems, something that can be reworked into a great short story. But much of what I'll read no doubt will end up in the recycling bin.
Just as our lives fade into obscurity and as our memories and the records of them fade, so too will they be recycled into other forms. Our bodies into food for trees and our diaries into paper that will save a tree. Unlike us, trees say nothing and make no fuss, but in the end, they get all the goodies of our silly dramas.
Today I made my way through an ancestor's account of his trip back to Germany in 1902. It had been translated from the German into English by someone of my mother's generation. I am unclear as to how this man is related to me, but he could be a cousin of my maternal grandfather's. Claus Kuehl primarily wrote of what he ate and which relatives he visited in which cities. His insights and observations are rare: Chicago's buildings are tall; occasionally, the girls on board ship danced a bit too wildly for the captain's tastes; and Americans are better-looking than the Germans he left behind. How fascinating if he would have described the grit and grime of Chicago, the way in which the girls' dancing was too wild, and in what ways the Americans had it over on the Germans. The only interior shot we're given is that he's frequently homesick. Other than that, Claus provides no record of his inner life during this once-in-a-lifetime, three-month journey from his farm in Iowa to the nation of his birth and back again.
I also read my mother's 1952-54 diary of her travels in Europe while serving as a serviceman's club director for Special Services. This had been lovingly typed by my cousin Mary, who also took other hand-written work by my mother and spent many long hours typing perhaps 200 pages. She sent the fruit of her labor in hard copy and electronically, so copies will always be available. Though my mother offers more local color than did Claus, insight into her emotional life is also sorely lacking--and this is precisely what I was hoping to uncover. I never knew what made my mother tick, but I did know that these two years in Europe were seemingly the only happy times of her life. I was hoping that her diaries would grant me access to the interior life she always kept under lock and key.
Not to be outdone by my relatives, I figured I had to look at my own musings as well. I selected a diary from 1984. What Claus and my mother lacked, I more than made up for in my missive. Page after page of my hand-wringing about my marriage until I nearly wanted to shout at my former self, "Oh, shut up! Just do something, will you!"
Definitely my notebook is heading for recycling. I have contacted a distant relative who is heavily into geneology. She may be interested in Claus's and my mother's writings, especially since Claus makes so many references to other relatives.
This is just the beginning of this project. Who knows, maybe somewhere in all these pages will be some real gems, something that can be reworked into a great short story. But much of what I'll read no doubt will end up in the recycling bin.
Just as our lives fade into obscurity and as our memories and the records of them fade, so too will they be recycled into other forms. Our bodies into food for trees and our diaries into paper that will save a tree. Unlike us, trees say nothing and make no fuss, but in the end, they get all the goodies of our silly dramas.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Why I Left Facebook
Not more than an hour ago, I liberated myself from facebook. I was never really thrilled about it, but I was curious as to what all the fuss was about, so I joined to find out. Perhaps it's best to compare this curiosity with what I held for Vegas. I had always been dismissive and even derisive of both before I even had any direct experience, so in both cases, I bravely set out with an open mind to discover their respective allures. You can read about my utter disappointment with Vegas at my September 14, 2010, post, "Viva Las Vegas--For Somebody Else." Actually the city was worse than I figured it would be.
After more than two years of membership, the universal fascination with facebook remains a mystery to me. During my tenure, 99 percent of the messages I received were advertisements for friends' businesses, requests that I purchase "farm animals" or send "roses," and comments from strangers about things I knew nothing about. I also was treated to photos of people's breakfasts or lunches--nothing spectacular, mind you, just crackers or cucumbers.
Facebook takes me back to a time I was supposed to have experienced when I was in sixth or seventh grade, but avoided then too. I was never into goofy junior-high-school silliness like "I'm mad at you" or "If you're her friend, you can't be mine" or "My cute, pink socks are so much cuter than yours." I didn't want anything to do with that kind of time- and energy-wasting activity then, so why should I want it at age 52?
Now I'm sure that some people must get a lot more out of facebook than I could ever hope to. They build business empires by hitting up their friends first and hoping their friends will help them go viral. They may meet the loves of their lives on facebook. And, God bless the Tunisians and Egyptians, they may use it to start a revolution.
If the American use of facebook ever makes a radical shift and it is used to bring freedom and democracy to the USA, well, then, sure, I'll reactivate my account and join in the demonstrations and peaceful toppling of our corporate and government overlords. I don't see that happening any time soon, though, as long as most Americans are more concerned with sharing what they had for a snack this afternoon and acquiring more "livestock" for Farmville than they are about preserving the Constitution or thwarting the onslaught of the police state..
After more than two years of membership, the universal fascination with facebook remains a mystery to me. During my tenure, 99 percent of the messages I received were advertisements for friends' businesses, requests that I purchase "farm animals" or send "roses," and comments from strangers about things I knew nothing about. I also was treated to photos of people's breakfasts or lunches--nothing spectacular, mind you, just crackers or cucumbers.
Facebook takes me back to a time I was supposed to have experienced when I was in sixth or seventh grade, but avoided then too. I was never into goofy junior-high-school silliness like "I'm mad at you" or "If you're her friend, you can't be mine" or "My cute, pink socks are so much cuter than yours." I didn't want anything to do with that kind of time- and energy-wasting activity then, so why should I want it at age 52?
Now I'm sure that some people must get a lot more out of facebook than I could ever hope to. They build business empires by hitting up their friends first and hoping their friends will help them go viral. They may meet the loves of their lives on facebook. And, God bless the Tunisians and Egyptians, they may use it to start a revolution.
If the American use of facebook ever makes a radical shift and it is used to bring freedom and democracy to the USA, well, then, sure, I'll reactivate my account and join in the demonstrations and peaceful toppling of our corporate and government overlords. I don't see that happening any time soon, though, as long as most Americans are more concerned with sharing what they had for a snack this afternoon and acquiring more "livestock" for Farmville than they are about preserving the Constitution or thwarting the onslaught of the police state..
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Transplant Update
For the first month post-transplant, I was feeling like a teenager, walking a little bit farther each morning, getting up to 24 blocks. I was filled with energy and enthusiasm. Now I realize that was because I was on steroids!
I never knew anything about steroids, but now I can certainly understand why athletes love them. And it's not just because they can make for bigger muscles. It's because you have all the energy you need to build those muscles. Steroids are an absolute kick in the butt, a big high.
When I got off the prednizone at a month post-op, I headed into a quick decline. I became sluggish, weak, lethargic, exhausted, fatigued. Carrying a basket of laundry to the wash machine was at the upper limit of my abilities. I would be out of breath after washing the dishes or getting dressed. Taking Rasputin for a walk was a real chore.
So many somewhat minor symptoms that add up to a general malaise:
* An occasional tremor in my right thumb and forefinger when I'm holding a piece of paper, a book, or a utensil. This is due to prograf, one of the immune suppressants. Hopefully, in time I can reduce the dose.
* My left leg usually is somewhat to severely impaired from the break a year ago in Brooklyn. I can feel the rod poking me in the hip, the knee, or the side of my leg. Going up stairs is painful. I would have thought that by now I would not feel the metal rod at all and that I'd be walking normally. Not so.
* Then there are the sometimes piercing pains in my lower abdomen, where the largest transplant scar is located. My stomach is still swollen from a huge internal bruise from the surgery. The blood is very slowly being reabsorbed, though the doctors tell me this is taking an unusually long time.
Of course, I am not complaining. I am so happy to be free of the nightly dialysis treatments and the foot-long piece of tubing emerging from my abdomen. I am sure that things are on the mend and that soon I will be feeling like a teen-ager for the third time. And we all know that three's a charm.
I never knew anything about steroids, but now I can certainly understand why athletes love them. And it's not just because they can make for bigger muscles. It's because you have all the energy you need to build those muscles. Steroids are an absolute kick in the butt, a big high.
When I got off the prednizone at a month post-op, I headed into a quick decline. I became sluggish, weak, lethargic, exhausted, fatigued. Carrying a basket of laundry to the wash machine was at the upper limit of my abilities. I would be out of breath after washing the dishes or getting dressed. Taking Rasputin for a walk was a real chore.
Then my weight started to increase, a little at first, then 16 pounds in a few days. Last Friday I was put on Lasix to drain the excess water. In the first 12 hours, I lost seven pounds; in the next 24, I lost three. Still have a few pounds to go. Losing that weight has made so much of a difference. The water put a tremendous strain on my heart. It curtailed my activity to an absolute minimum. Now I feel so much better.
* An occasional tremor in my right thumb and forefinger when I'm holding a piece of paper, a book, or a utensil. This is due to prograf, one of the immune suppressants. Hopefully, in time I can reduce the dose.
* My left leg usually is somewhat to severely impaired from the break a year ago in Brooklyn. I can feel the rod poking me in the hip, the knee, or the side of my leg. Going up stairs is painful. I would have thought that by now I would not feel the metal rod at all and that I'd be walking normally. Not so.
* Then there are the sometimes piercing pains in my lower abdomen, where the largest transplant scar is located. My stomach is still swollen from a huge internal bruise from the surgery. The blood is very slowly being reabsorbed, though the doctors tell me this is taking an unusually long time.
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Primer for a Solo Valentine's Day
My approach to Valentine's Day has radically improved over the past 31 years of spending it solo. Yes, it was when I was a bright-eyed 21-year-old that I had my last conventional VD--roses, cards, and a fancy dinner with a man with whom I was romantically involved.
After that, my husband gave up on the holiday, even though we remained married for another decade. I have had only two relationships since then, one a long-distance affair with a man from Beijing and another with an alcoholic surfing legend from No Cal, again long-distance. Neither man was big on gifts or American traditions, and so Valentine's Day went unrecognized. A few days before VD 1997, I was in So Cal having just laid down to sleep when at the foot of my bed a vision of Mike appeared and told me he had drank my Valentine's roses, in other words, he had gone off the wagon and spent flower money on booze. Sure enough, that's what had happened. My son, good guy that he has always been, bought me a single rose the next year, knowing that Mike would not.
Other than that, a male co-worker once gave me a card on VD, and a few years back, my male friend Chris gave me a plastic box of carrot and celery sticks, knowing that, as I am a diabetic, I shouldn't have chocolate. These were certainly kind gestures, but hardly romantic. And my friend Bev is very good about sending cards for every occasion, bless her soul.
After that, my husband gave up on the holiday, even though we remained married for another decade. I have had only two relationships since then, one a long-distance affair with a man from Beijing and another with an alcoholic surfing legend from No Cal, again long-distance. Neither man was big on gifts or American traditions, and so Valentine's Day went unrecognized. A few days before VD 1997, I was in So Cal having just laid down to sleep when at the foot of my bed a vision of Mike appeared and told me he had drank my Valentine's roses, in other words, he had gone off the wagon and spent flower money on booze. Sure enough, that's what had happened. My son, good guy that he has always been, bought me a single rose the next year, knowing that Mike would not.
Other than that, a male co-worker once gave me a card on VD, and a few years back, my male friend Chris gave me a plastic box of carrot and celery sticks, knowing that, as I am a diabetic, I shouldn't have chocolate. These were certainly kind gestures, but hardly romantic. And my friend Bev is very good about sending cards for every occasion, bless her soul.
I used to really work myself up into a silly state on VD, crying and carrying on, if to no one but myself. Those days are long gone. Sure, once in a while, I wonder how amazing it might be to actually be in love on Valentine's Day and have that same person be in love with me. Seems like something as fairy-magic-unicorn-ish as dancing among the stars or sliding on a moonbeam.
The big reason for my transformation is a different attitude. I now know I am richly deserving of love, whereas I somewhat doubted that before. It doesn't matter if no one notices that I'm so deserving, I still am.
Over the years, I have reinforced this message by telling myself, either silently during the day or out loud just before I drop off to sleep, "I am loved, I am deeply loved." At first this brought more pain, but then a shift occurred, and I firmly took hold of the truth of these words. Saying them brought so much comfort, made me grin ear to ear, giggle with joy, embrace myself, and rub my chin affectionately against my shoulder. I felt so incredibly loved saying these words to myself. In many ways, more security, trust, honesty, commitment, and, yes, gosh darn it, love than I had ever truly felt from my husband, the man from Beijing, or the surfer. They had always held back, but I am like a child, no inhibitions, no fears of rejection, just proclaiming my truth: I am loved, I am deeply loved.
So my advice for those who are down on VD because they have no one to sweep them off their feet:
* Tell yourself you are loved, deeply loved, and richly deserving of love.
* Give yourself a hug and smile widely while you're doing it.
* Give chocolates or flowers to someone who may need some cheering up. I bought an orchid and made a card for a nextdoor neighbor to whom I bring sunflowers from the community garden in the summer months and roses from the store every so often during the winter. She's a wonderful gal who is struggling with throat cancer.* Call the other solo fliers you know and tell them how they, too, are richly deserving of love.
* Give a gift to charity in someone's name, someone you love or appreciate, though not necessarily romantically. One of my favorite things to do, as I did for my son's new girlfriend, is to have a tree planted in someone's name by TreePeople.
If you do these things, I bet you'll have a happier Valentine's Day than many of the couples you currently envy. Remember, just because people are together doesn't mean they're necessarily together.P.S. My son, Aaron, surprised me with a bouquet of red tulips, wrapped in a pink bow that I gave to my little valentine, Rasputin. And Aaron's girlfriend gave me a pretty bag in which to put my knitting paraphenalia, bath salts, scrub, lotion, and some very fancy soaps. The best VD in memory.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
An All-Too-Common Mini-Tragedy in Today's Society
I relate the following minor incident, not because it in itself is terribly noteworthy, but what it says about a major shift in our society over the past decade or two. Also, because it's so very common.
Tonight I attended the Radical Cinema screening at a downtown coffeehouse. Tonight's feature was "Blackout" about the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections' disenfranchised blacks in Florida and Ohio, respectively, and the other African-American candidate for president in 2008 and former Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney's ongoing struggle to tell truth to power. My friend and I sat on a couch behind two older men on bar stools, all of us facing the TV screen. The organizer of the event, a late 30s-ish or early 40s-ish man, was standing next to the bar stools, facing me but talking with the men.
Tonight I attended the Radical Cinema screening at a downtown coffeehouse. Tonight's feature was "Blackout" about the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections' disenfranchised blacks in Florida and Ohio, respectively, and the other African-American candidate for president in 2008 and former Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney's ongoing struggle to tell truth to power. My friend and I sat on a couch behind two older men on bar stools, all of us facing the TV screen. The organizer of the event, a late 30s-ish or early 40s-ish man, was standing next to the bar stools, facing me but talking with the men.
I addressed the bar stool guys with a lilt and a playfulness in my voice: "OK, now, guys, that's perfect. Don't move. Well, you can lean back a bit, but don't lean forward."
The organizer sternly reprimanded me, "That's nerve-wracking, Heidi."
What not so long ago would have been considered playful, fun-loving, even flirtatous is now considered insulting and irritating, even to grown men. Why and when did we become so hyper-sensitive to the point of blocking out fun and possibilities for further communication or flirting? Why is everything taken first as an insult unless proven otherwise? What does this say about our national character? Where will this hyper-sensitivity end? With people refraining from communication except through some officially sanctioned, PC-sanitized New Speak? Oh, yuk!
I am going to continue to be playful and have fun. Perhaps someday I'll meet someone who also wants to have fun and we'll become famous friends or, if he hasn't forgotten how to flirt, crazy lovers.
Monday, February 07, 2011
What a Disappointment We Are to Our Founding Fathers
I sometimes imagine that, through some miracle of time travel, I am host to Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, Merriwether Lewis, and William Clark. I know, it's a stretch. My apartment can hardly handle two people and a dog, much less four guests, but, hey, are my space constraints really the biggest obstacle to making this happen!
I wonder if anything these men would see in our society would give them pride that they had set this chain of events in motion. For the life of me, I cannot come up with one thing that they might appreciate.
Jefferson had envisioned a land of well-read, well-informed farmers. We are none of these three. We are the most poorly educated and poorly informed populace among the developed nations. Very few of us work the land. Jefferson's nemesis, Andrew Jackson, with his emphasis on banking, finance, and commerce, has won out over Jefferson's vision. With this Jacksonian triumph has come the stock market, commodities, and housing bubbles, as well as a great redistribution of wealth from the lower and middle classes to the ungodly wealthy.
Jefferson also was a strong believer in a free press, contending that if he had to choose between government and a free press, he'd choose the latter as it is far more important to the functioning of democracy. How horrified he would be with government collusion with corporations and corporations' stranglehold on information.
Thomas Paine, who would be a radical even today, would doubtless rail against Homeland Security, the military-industrial complex, the oil-spy-military-banking cabal, surveillance of all kinds, the trashing of the Constitution, an elite establishment that rules our government, and plans to scrap help for the elderly, the poor, and the sick. In "Rights of Man," which I recently read, Paine advocates for guaranteed retirement (Social Security), health care for those who can't afford it, and cutting the armed forces almost back to nothing. He strongly pushes for progressive taxes, i.e. taxing the rich heaviest and the poor not at all.
Lewis and Clark would be utterly despondent. How could all this vast, beautiful, untouched wilderness be gobbled up by hoardes of people, their structures, their vehicles, and their things in just 200 years? What a cancer humanity is to so utterly destroy paradise in such short order!
All four would find the lack of quiet unnerving, the poor quality of food and water outrageous, and the lack of civility and the overwhelming insanity of hyper-consumerism, materialism, selfishness, greed, and general unhappiness devastating to their psyches as they are to mine.
If these men ever do show up on my doorstep, I will keep them close by so that when they are beamed back to their time, I can go with them.
I wonder if anything these men would see in our society would give them pride that they had set this chain of events in motion. For the life of me, I cannot come up with one thing that they might appreciate.
Jefferson had envisioned a land of well-read, well-informed farmers. We are none of these three. We are the most poorly educated and poorly informed populace among the developed nations. Very few of us work the land. Jefferson's nemesis, Andrew Jackson, with his emphasis on banking, finance, and commerce, has won out over Jefferson's vision. With this Jacksonian triumph has come the stock market, commodities, and housing bubbles, as well as a great redistribution of wealth from the lower and middle classes to the ungodly wealthy.
Jefferson also was a strong believer in a free press, contending that if he had to choose between government and a free press, he'd choose the latter as it is far more important to the functioning of democracy. How horrified he would be with government collusion with corporations and corporations' stranglehold on information.
Thomas Paine, who would be a radical even today, would doubtless rail against Homeland Security, the military-industrial complex, the oil-spy-military-banking cabal, surveillance of all kinds, the trashing of the Constitution, an elite establishment that rules our government, and plans to scrap help for the elderly, the poor, and the sick. In "Rights of Man," which I recently read, Paine advocates for guaranteed retirement (Social Security), health care for those who can't afford it, and cutting the armed forces almost back to nothing. He strongly pushes for progressive taxes, i.e. taxing the rich heaviest and the poor not at all.
Lewis and Clark would be utterly despondent. How could all this vast, beautiful, untouched wilderness be gobbled up by hoardes of people, their structures, their vehicles, and their things in just 200 years? What a cancer humanity is to so utterly destroy paradise in such short order!
All four would find the lack of quiet unnerving, the poor quality of food and water outrageous, and the lack of civility and the overwhelming insanity of hyper-consumerism, materialism, selfishness, greed, and general unhappiness devastating to their psyches as they are to mine.
If these men ever do show up on my doorstep, I will keep them close by so that when they are beamed back to their time, I can go with them.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Acutely Aware that I Don't Have a Man by my Side
Yesterday morning I was acutely aware that I don't have a man by my side. Every so often this happens, generally when a man is a jerk to me, and I know he would be far less of a jerk or even downright respectful if I was not alone.
The maintanence man has been angry at me for more than a week, every since my friend Rick, who is a plumber, gave me a laundry list of what's unsafe and unhealthful around my apartment. Most of these items would be clear to anyone, even those who don't know a hammer from a nail. Things like the threshold that's in several pieces and the termite-riddled porch railing, things I noted when I first moved in.
As yesterday was the first of the month, rent was due. I told the young guy who picks up the checks that I was writing a note and my envelope would be ready in a few minutes. Before I could finish, let's-call-him-Don, who must have been waiting in the truck, stormed up to the door and started yelling at me. I pointed out that the crawl space at the back of the house had been wide open for more than a week, creating a superhighway for rodents. Don said that he had left it off for the plumber who is supposed to reposition the dryer vent so that it discharges water and heat outside the house rather than under my bedroom. I wondered why it was taking so long to find a plumber. Don said he didn't know when he was coming. I wondered why the plumber couldn't loosen a few screws to access the crawl space. Don said that this was "building work," something beyond the purview of a plumber. I couldn't believe this. You mean if a plumber went to a job site and found a secured crawl space, he would be dumbfounded and wouldn't know how to use a screwdriver! I just hate it when people lie like this to me.
When I said that I had called five times about rats since moving in and that nothing more than placing poison and setting traps was accomplished, Don started yelling, three times in a row, "You should move!" I said it would be much cheaper and efficient to just fix the places where the rats are gaining access--the unsecured crawl spaces and the gaps between the boards. But this of course involves too much effort.
The maintanence man has been angry at me for more than a week, every since my friend Rick, who is a plumber, gave me a laundry list of what's unsafe and unhealthful around my apartment. Most of these items would be clear to anyone, even those who don't know a hammer from a nail. Things like the threshold that's in several pieces and the termite-riddled porch railing, things I noted when I first moved in.
As yesterday was the first of the month, rent was due. I told the young guy who picks up the checks that I was writing a note and my envelope would be ready in a few minutes. Before I could finish, let's-call-him-Don, who must have been waiting in the truck, stormed up to the door and started yelling at me. I pointed out that the crawl space at the back of the house had been wide open for more than a week, creating a superhighway for rodents. Don said that he had left it off for the plumber who is supposed to reposition the dryer vent so that it discharges water and heat outside the house rather than under my bedroom. I wondered why it was taking so long to find a plumber. Don said he didn't know when he was coming. I wondered why the plumber couldn't loosen a few screws to access the crawl space. Don said that this was "building work," something beyond the purview of a plumber. I couldn't believe this. You mean if a plumber went to a job site and found a secured crawl space, he would be dumbfounded and wouldn't know how to use a screwdriver! I just hate it when people lie like this to me.
When I said that I had called five times about rats since moving in and that nothing more than placing poison and setting traps was accomplished, Don started yelling, three times in a row, "You should move!" I said it would be much cheaper and efficient to just fix the places where the rats are gaining access--the unsecured crawl spaces and the gaps between the boards. But this of course involves too much effort.
After he left, I cried for about 15 minutes. It's difficult enough to sleep alone every night, go on a date maybe once or twice a year, sometimes not at all, never have a partner with whom to attend parties or dinners, never have the back of my neck kissed or my hand held or my feet rubbed, but to be treated as a second-class citizen on top of that!
Once in a while it's overwhelming that I've missed out on so many of life's "biggies"--health, love, relationship, support from my family of origin, social life, satisfying career, and money. Of course, I have the best son I could hope for and a dog that loves me like that's his sole purpose in life. The other wonderful thing is that these overwhelming times don't last weeks and months as they did in my youth and early adulthood, but only a few seconds or a few minutes.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Mold and the Eight-Month-Long Cold
Finally, I hit upon why I've had a cold for eight months. That's right--eight months. At various times, runny eyes and nose, nasal congestion, dry cough, phlegm-laden cough, sneezing, chest constriction. The only time I have been free of symptoms was in the weeks following transplant when I was taking heavy-duty steroids that knocked everything out. Now that I'm off the steroids, the symptoms have returned.
My bedroom is the darkest spot in the apartment. It only has two windows, one of which is shaded by a large tree, the other by a fence and banana tree. Though the rest of the apartment has been updated, the bedroom has popcorn texture on the ceiling and the walls above the tops of the windows. When I moved in mid-June 2009, I asked the landlord about the dark spots on the popcorn. He assured me it was only dirt or shadowing. I asked him about the cracks in the walls, and he said they weren't going to topple over. So I figured everything was OK.
During the year and a half I performed nightly dialysis in the bedroom, I kept the door closed at all times, per the instructions of the nurses who trained me, so that dust and other contaminants would not enter. Little did I know that I was trapping contaminants inside. This no doubt worsened the problem, as it prevented air flow and created a cold environment during most of the year--fantastic conditions for growing mold.
I began to notice that I felt better when I was outside or away from the apartment. At last something clicked. I asked my friend Rick, who is a licensed plumber and general contractor, if he would take a look. He came over this morning. He found that the dryer vent (the laundry room is next to my bedroom and accessible through a door at the back of the house) was not hooked up, so instead of discharging heat and water vapor outside the building, it was blowing underneath the house, creating a damp environment. Add to this a continuously dripping shut-off valve on the back side of the house and the lack of rain spouts to direct water away from the shaded area next to my bedroom, and Rick was not surprised that the walls in my bedroom were crumbling and spongy. He said he could have easily poked his finger through the drywall.
A few hours after Rick left, John, the handyman, took a look. He seemed insulted by Rick's assessment, but in the end agreed. He said he would ask the owner what she wants to do. He also admitted that he could smell the dampness upon entering the apartment. John said he'd fix the vent tomorrow and get a tree-trimming company to down the tree. I was really hoping that Rick would get some work out of this, since obviously he knows what he's talking about and is more than qualified to do the job.
For the past few nights Aaron has been sleeping at a friend's house or at his dad's, and I've been sleeping on his bed on the opposite side of the apartment from the bedroom in what is to have been a breakfast nook, the sunniest place in the apartment. I've felt much better sleeping there than in my own room, but still not great.
I have never liked a neighborhood and its people as much as I like this one. I sure hope that the landlady adequately resolves this problem. Rick said that if she doesn't, the city will come down hard on her, sending in guys with all kinds of meters that can pick up every last spore. They might have her take the whole place down to the frame, and she wouldn't want that.
My bedroom is the darkest spot in the apartment. It only has two windows, one of which is shaded by a large tree, the other by a fence and banana tree. Though the rest of the apartment has been updated, the bedroom has popcorn texture on the ceiling and the walls above the tops of the windows. When I moved in mid-June 2009, I asked the landlord about the dark spots on the popcorn. He assured me it was only dirt or shadowing. I asked him about the cracks in the walls, and he said they weren't going to topple over. So I figured everything was OK.
During the year and a half I performed nightly dialysis in the bedroom, I kept the door closed at all times, per the instructions of the nurses who trained me, so that dust and other contaminants would not enter. Little did I know that I was trapping contaminants inside. This no doubt worsened the problem, as it prevented air flow and created a cold environment during most of the year--fantastic conditions for growing mold.
I began to notice that I felt better when I was outside or away from the apartment. At last something clicked. I asked my friend Rick, who is a licensed plumber and general contractor, if he would take a look. He came over this morning. He found that the dryer vent (the laundry room is next to my bedroom and accessible through a door at the back of the house) was not hooked up, so instead of discharging heat and water vapor outside the building, it was blowing underneath the house, creating a damp environment. Add to this a continuously dripping shut-off valve on the back side of the house and the lack of rain spouts to direct water away from the shaded area next to my bedroom, and Rick was not surprised that the walls in my bedroom were crumbling and spongy. He said he could have easily poked his finger through the drywall.
A few hours after Rick left, John, the handyman, took a look. He seemed insulted by Rick's assessment, but in the end agreed. He said he would ask the owner what she wants to do. He also admitted that he could smell the dampness upon entering the apartment. John said he'd fix the vent tomorrow and get a tree-trimming company to down the tree. I was really hoping that Rick would get some work out of this, since obviously he knows what he's talking about and is more than qualified to do the job.
For the past few nights Aaron has been sleeping at a friend's house or at his dad's, and I've been sleeping on his bed on the opposite side of the apartment from the bedroom in what is to have been a breakfast nook, the sunniest place in the apartment. I've felt much better sleeping there than in my own room, but still not great.
I have never liked a neighborhood and its people as much as I like this one. I sure hope that the landlady adequately resolves this problem. Rick said that if she doesn't, the city will come down hard on her, sending in guys with all kinds of meters that can pick up every last spore. They might have her take the whole place down to the frame, and she wouldn't want that.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The State of my Health
In general I'm feeling well, though anemia is wearing me down. The doctor said that it takes a while for the new kidney to start doing everything it's supposed to do, like help in the production of red blood cells. When I was on dialysis, I took injections of epogen, also known as procrit, once or twice a week, to catalyze the production of red blood cells. Epogen is a black box drug, the FDA's most dire category of legal drugs. This means that it can easily cause death if it is administered incorrectly or in too high a dose. Last week because my hemoglobin level was low, I was given a large dose of procrit. That often takes up to six weeks to fully kick in, so I'm feeling a bit less exhausted, but not where I'd like to be.
The other challenge is my legs, especially the leg that was broken back in March. Every step I take, I can feel pain in my knee or in my hip, as if the metal rod is poking me. This has been going on for many months, but it seems to have worsened lately. And then in general my knees ache upon even the least bit of walking. I know that dialysis and transplant patients are prone to bone deterioration, but I really didn't think this would happen so soon.
Though I lost 16 pounds in the four days following surgery, I began gaining them back until I was almost at my pre-surgery weight. This was due to water retention and increased appetite. When on dialysis, I had very little appetite and often consumed no more than 600 calories a day. Since transplant, I have felt much more like eating, though I certainly have not overeaten, and I have no desire to eat the wrong things. Ice cream, which used to be a treat, is something I haven't even wanted once since the transplant. But I suppose I currently consume 1,800-2,000 calories daily, which is three times what I was eating. In the last few days, however, my weight has dropped six pounds, so perhaps my body is finding its base weight.
Two weeks ago, the doctors were considering draining the blood that has collected around Pinky, so they had me stop taking aspirin in preparation for surgery. The swelling had diminished by my clinic appointment on Jan. 11, so the surgery was canceled. I forgot to resume the aspirin, but at my clinic visit on Jan. 14 (last Friday), I was told to discontinue the aspirin as they were considering a kidney biopsy. My creatinine, an indicator of kidney health, had gone from 0.9 to 1.0 to 1.1. Normal is between 0.5 and 1.5, so I was still doing well. Prior to transplant, my creatinine had reached 7.8, a clear indicator that dialysis doesn't do the complete job of the kidneys.
As I thought about this biopsy over the weekend, I decided not to have it performed. I mean, if the creatnine level is still within the normal range and if the creatnine level shows the health of the kidney anyway, why go in and poke around at Pinky and take a slice of her! It just didn't make sense to me. Yesterday I found out that my creatnine had gone down to 1.0, so the biopsy was canceled. And that meant that I could resume the aspirin, a good thing since, without it, I was experiencing chest pain and had to sleep sitting up to relieve the pressure on my chest.
Add to this I somehow contracted a cold, despite avoiding sick people and washing or sanitizing my hands at least 20 times a day. Runny eyes, runny nose, sneezing, and chills initially, now stuffy nose and fatigue. I thought I would be put on antibiotics, but since my white blood cell count was not outrageous--actually, the lowest since the transplant--I was told to watch my symptoms. If I get a fever, I am to call the clinic immediately.
Last night, sitting in the dark, watching an episode of "Mad Men" on my laptop (Aaron and Rasputin are spending a few days at a friend's apartment in L.A.), I cried. Not sure exactly what prompted this, perhaps the wistful, romantic sadness of the closing song. I wondered, as I used to do quite frequently and which I now do only once or twice a year, if I will ever find the man who is matched to me, who will be in sync with me sexually like Mike was but who is also matched to me in spirit. One friend recently told me that now that I'm off dialysis there is the possibility I could find someone. Well, I was not on dialysis for decades during which I was alone.
The kind of man I'd want would be far from the typical American. He wouldn't have a blackberry, an Iphone, an iPod, or even cable TV. He wouldn't run around like a rat in a cage; he'd be completely present. He wouldn't be thinking about his business meetings or his stock prices or his surfing prowess or even about his next move when he was making love; he would be pure, spontaneous, in-the-moment action with no thought. He'd know exactly what I meant when I said, "Use your body to lose your body." He'd be playful and silly, but he also would be able to tackle the deepest and most painful subjects, those that most Americans refuse to even acknowledge. And ours would not be a long-distance relationship. I've only had three relationships in my life, all of them long-distance: My husband traveled on business up to three weeks a month; Shizeng lived in Beijing and only stayed with me for eight weeks; and Mike lived 600 miles away in coastal Mendocino County.
And I've had one "understanding" with a man for a long, long time. When we were young, I'd show up on his doorstep, and without a word, we'd jump to it. But then I wouldn't hear from him for months or even years and he wouldn't return my calls. Though this bummed me out, eventually I just accepted it and stopped caring so much. He dropped out of touch completely for almost 10 years, then tracked me down through a magazine for which I was writing. Even though he came to Southern California at least once a month on business, it took him more than two years to see me. During that time, emails and calls would again go unanswered. In the last year or so, he's called at least once a month, but the understanding is now more of two old friends, though when he gave me a long hug recently, it felt really good.
It would be nice to know what it's like to love someone who's actually physically there. It's possible that such a man exists, but I have not yet encountered him. As society "progresses" (read: "digresses") toward a robotic, unthinking, unquestioning future, such a man will become even more elusive.
The other challenge is my legs, especially the leg that was broken back in March. Every step I take, I can feel pain in my knee or in my hip, as if the metal rod is poking me. This has been going on for many months, but it seems to have worsened lately. And then in general my knees ache upon even the least bit of walking. I know that dialysis and transplant patients are prone to bone deterioration, but I really didn't think this would happen so soon.
Though I lost 16 pounds in the four days following surgery, I began gaining them back until I was almost at my pre-surgery weight. This was due to water retention and increased appetite. When on dialysis, I had very little appetite and often consumed no more than 600 calories a day. Since transplant, I have felt much more like eating, though I certainly have not overeaten, and I have no desire to eat the wrong things. Ice cream, which used to be a treat, is something I haven't even wanted once since the transplant. But I suppose I currently consume 1,800-2,000 calories daily, which is three times what I was eating. In the last few days, however, my weight has dropped six pounds, so perhaps my body is finding its base weight.
Two weeks ago, the doctors were considering draining the blood that has collected around Pinky, so they had me stop taking aspirin in preparation for surgery. The swelling had diminished by my clinic appointment on Jan. 11, so the surgery was canceled. I forgot to resume the aspirin, but at my clinic visit on Jan. 14 (last Friday), I was told to discontinue the aspirin as they were considering a kidney biopsy. My creatinine, an indicator of kidney health, had gone from 0.9 to 1.0 to 1.1. Normal is between 0.5 and 1.5, so I was still doing well. Prior to transplant, my creatinine had reached 7.8, a clear indicator that dialysis doesn't do the complete job of the kidneys.
As I thought about this biopsy over the weekend, I decided not to have it performed. I mean, if the creatnine level is still within the normal range and if the creatnine level shows the health of the kidney anyway, why go in and poke around at Pinky and take a slice of her! It just didn't make sense to me. Yesterday I found out that my creatnine had gone down to 1.0, so the biopsy was canceled. And that meant that I could resume the aspirin, a good thing since, without it, I was experiencing chest pain and had to sleep sitting up to relieve the pressure on my chest.
Add to this I somehow contracted a cold, despite avoiding sick people and washing or sanitizing my hands at least 20 times a day. Runny eyes, runny nose, sneezing, and chills initially, now stuffy nose and fatigue. I thought I would be put on antibiotics, but since my white blood cell count was not outrageous--actually, the lowest since the transplant--I was told to watch my symptoms. If I get a fever, I am to call the clinic immediately.
Last night, sitting in the dark, watching an episode of "Mad Men" on my laptop (Aaron and Rasputin are spending a few days at a friend's apartment in L.A.), I cried. Not sure exactly what prompted this, perhaps the wistful, romantic sadness of the closing song. I wondered, as I used to do quite frequently and which I now do only once or twice a year, if I will ever find the man who is matched to me, who will be in sync with me sexually like Mike was but who is also matched to me in spirit. One friend recently told me that now that I'm off dialysis there is the possibility I could find someone. Well, I was not on dialysis for decades during which I was alone.
The kind of man I'd want would be far from the typical American. He wouldn't have a blackberry, an Iphone, an iPod, or even cable TV. He wouldn't run around like a rat in a cage; he'd be completely present. He wouldn't be thinking about his business meetings or his stock prices or his surfing prowess or even about his next move when he was making love; he would be pure, spontaneous, in-the-moment action with no thought. He'd know exactly what I meant when I said, "Use your body to lose your body." He'd be playful and silly, but he also would be able to tackle the deepest and most painful subjects, those that most Americans refuse to even acknowledge. And ours would not be a long-distance relationship. I've only had three relationships in my life, all of them long-distance: My husband traveled on business up to three weeks a month; Shizeng lived in Beijing and only stayed with me for eight weeks; and Mike lived 600 miles away in coastal Mendocino County.
And I've had one "understanding" with a man for a long, long time. When we were young, I'd show up on his doorstep, and without a word, we'd jump to it. But then I wouldn't hear from him for months or even years and he wouldn't return my calls. Though this bummed me out, eventually I just accepted it and stopped caring so much. He dropped out of touch completely for almost 10 years, then tracked me down through a magazine for which I was writing. Even though he came to Southern California at least once a month on business, it took him more than two years to see me. During that time, emails and calls would again go unanswered. In the last year or so, he's called at least once a month, but the understanding is now more of two old friends, though when he gave me a long hug recently, it felt really good.
It would be nice to know what it's like to love someone who's actually physically there. It's possible that such a man exists, but I have not yet encountered him. As society "progresses" (read: "digresses") toward a robotic, unthinking, unquestioning future, such a man will become even more elusive.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Overdoing It
When I left the hospital following transplant surgery, I was told to not lift anything over 10 pounds. I have been pretty darn good about following that advice, even splitting up a load of laundry and carrying it to the washer in two smaller loads.
I figured that since mopping floors, doing dishes and laundry, and reaching above my head to put dishes away or hang clothes didn't involve lifting over 10 pounds, I was OK. Wrong.
During the past week, I have had sharp pain around my new kidney. Then over the weekend, the area around the kidney became hard and distended. Following surgery, my belly had been fairly even on both sides and after a few days of fluid release was actually flat.
Yesterday at my clinic visit, I saw that my lab values had changed significantly. Though still within the normal range, my creatnine level had risen from .9 last week to 1.2 yesterday. My GFR had gone from a remarkable 66 to 47. (GFR is roughly percent of optimum kidney function, so I went from 66 percent down to 47 percent.) OUCH!
I was sent for an ultrasound, which showed several hematoma, basically internal bruises. Had there been only one hematoma, the surgeon said he would have inserted a needle and sucked out the blood, but since there are multiple bruises, this was not possible. As it is, there isn't much to do about it except take it easy so that the blood will reabsorb into my body.
The surgeon told me to limit my activity to walking, reading, and writing and get my big, strong son to do the rest. Knowing that he is already working six days a week at two jobs and that friends seem averse to housework, I have asked Janet, my nextdoor neighbor and donor, if her cleaning gals would be interested in more work, at least for a few weeks. I'm sure that two professionals can mop my kitchen and bathroom floors, clean the bathroom, and vacuum my teeny apartment in an hour. Perhaps they'd even have time to wipe down the mini-blinds.
Things have been going so perfectly up until this juncture. I certainly can attempt to be lazy for a few weeks.
I figured that since mopping floors, doing dishes and laundry, and reaching above my head to put dishes away or hang clothes didn't involve lifting over 10 pounds, I was OK. Wrong.
During the past week, I have had sharp pain around my new kidney. Then over the weekend, the area around the kidney became hard and distended. Following surgery, my belly had been fairly even on both sides and after a few days of fluid release was actually flat.
Yesterday at my clinic visit, I saw that my lab values had changed significantly. Though still within the normal range, my creatnine level had risen from .9 last week to 1.2 yesterday. My GFR had gone from a remarkable 66 to 47. (GFR is roughly percent of optimum kidney function, so I went from 66 percent down to 47 percent.) OUCH!
I was sent for an ultrasound, which showed several hematoma, basically internal bruises. Had there been only one hematoma, the surgeon said he would have inserted a needle and sucked out the blood, but since there are multiple bruises, this was not possible. As it is, there isn't much to do about it except take it easy so that the blood will reabsorb into my body.
The surgeon told me to limit my activity to walking, reading, and writing and get my big, strong son to do the rest. Knowing that he is already working six days a week at two jobs and that friends seem averse to housework, I have asked Janet, my nextdoor neighbor and donor, if her cleaning gals would be interested in more work, at least for a few weeks. I'm sure that two professionals can mop my kitchen and bathroom floors, clean the bathroom, and vacuum my teeny apartment in an hour. Perhaps they'd even have time to wipe down the mini-blinds.
Things have been going so perfectly up until this juncture. I certainly can attempt to be lazy for a few weeks.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Does Your Lifestyle Match Your Principles?
It's the beginning of the new year and time to take stock of one's life. Many people make resolutions to lose weight, save more money, or exercise more often. I'm asking us all to take this a bit further.
Take an inventory of your beliefs and your principles. Then ask yourself if your lifestyle is in alignment with your principles. For example, if you are a proponent of sustainablity, environmental protection, biodiversity, animal rights, social justice, peaceful resolutions to conflicts, building community, and/or the preservation of constituional rights--a seemingly diverse agenda--do you:
* Buy as little as possible?
* Buy the non-perishables that you absolutely need from thrift stores, yard sales, and consignment stores or get these items as hand-me-downs from friends and family or from stashes left curb-side or in alleys, free for the taking?
* Do you make gifts, buy them used, or perform a service for the receiver rather than give a thing? For example, a massage, a home-cooked meal, four hours of housecleaning, or a half a day of yard work.
* Do you make every effort to buy from local, small businesses rather than from corporations?
* Do you limit your air travel?
* Do you walk, bicycle, or take public transportation whenever possible?
The above is not an exhaustive list, but it gives you something to think about. You may not see the connection between the principles I listed and the guidelines, so I'll explain.
Take an inventory of your beliefs and your principles. Then ask yourself if your lifestyle is in alignment with your principles. For example, if you are a proponent of sustainablity, environmental protection, biodiversity, animal rights, social justice, peaceful resolutions to conflicts, building community, and/or the preservation of constituional rights--a seemingly diverse agenda--do you:
* Buy as little as possible?
* Buy the non-perishables that you absolutely need from thrift stores, yard sales, and consignment stores or get these items as hand-me-downs from friends and family or from stashes left curb-side or in alleys, free for the taking?
* Do you make gifts, buy them used, or perform a service for the receiver rather than give a thing? For example, a massage, a home-cooked meal, four hours of housecleaning, or a half a day of yard work.
* Do you make every effort to buy from local, small businesses rather than from corporations?
* Do you limit your air travel?
* Do you walk, bicycle, or take public transportation whenever possible?
The above is not an exhaustive list, but it gives you something to think about. You may not see the connection between the principles I listed and the guidelines, so I'll explain.
Multi-national corporations are cancers on this planet. They rape virgin lands, exploit cheap labor, kill off habitat and plenty of flora and fauna in the process, are structured in such a way as to suppress free thinking, critical analysis, divergent viewpoints, and constitutional rights that encourage challenges to authority. Moreover, huge corporations have their tentacles in all sorts of sinister ventures, including weapons systems.
So if you are interested in preserving the planet, making a more peaceful and free world, and seeing to it that all people are treated with respect and are paid their due, you are working against your principles if you buy from corporations and if you buy new.
Since I left my husband in 1990, I have been adhering to such a program as much as possible. Granted, I buy perishables (food and toiletries), often from large firms like Ralph's and Vons. But I do also seek out small businesses, like the liquor store on the corner when I just need a block of cheese or a quart of milk. Everything in my apartment--furniture, clothes, jewelry, dishes, wall hangings--was purchased used or gotten for free, everything except my laptop, printer, camera, underwear, and tights.
I liken buying from large corporations to buying illegal drugs that were produced in Mexico. With 30,000 murders in the past decade attributable to the drug trade with the U.S., how can anyone in good conscience consume illicit drugs knowing that so much blood is on their hands? Likewise with corporations. They are responsible for so much evil in this world, from out and out murder of union leaders to the collapse of the global economy to the corruption of the political system through armies of lobbyists. How could anyone in good conscience put more money in corporate pockets to further this global web of evil?
As you enter this new year, why not make it truly new? Not the same old, same old, but a transformational year, a year of change that begins inside you and reaches out to affect the entire planet.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Weaning Myself Off Prednisone
Following transplant, I was given a whole pharmacy of drugs to begin taking, one of which is prednisone, a steroid that acts as an immune-suppressant. Though I understand that these drugs are essential for the preservation of my new kidney, they are not without side effects.
In the first four days following surgery, I dropped 16 pounds of excess fluids, going from 151 to 135. Since then, I have put on 10 pounds, now up to 145. This is due to the prednisone. Yesterday at my clinic visit, the nephrologist told me that she has seen patients who were very thin prior to surgery become obese because of prednisone. She said that the insomnia, elevated blood sugar, and elevated blood pressure I have been experiencing are also attributable to prednisone. I literally have not had a good night's sleep since the surgery. I wake up often and have trouble getting back to sleep. At most, I have gotten six or seven hours, often a lot less. My blood sugar is way out of whack. I have had to more than double my insulin to compensate for the high blood sugars. Even so, my control is not good. And my blood pressure has gone from perfect (117/54) to dangerous (160/74).
Initially I was taking 40 mg prednisone a day, then it was lowered to 30, then 20, and yesterday to 10. The nephrologist said that I am a good candidate for getting completely off the drug, as I am not African American or Latino, two groups that tend to have to continue on the drug, and I do not have a certain lab marker that is an indicator of continued use. Since after a month, the body becomes hooked on prednisone, making withdrawal difficult or impossible, the nephrologist said that she most likely would take me off the drug completely at next Monday's visit. Fingers crossed.
In the first four days following surgery, I dropped 16 pounds of excess fluids, going from 151 to 135. Since then, I have put on 10 pounds, now up to 145. This is due to the prednisone. Yesterday at my clinic visit, the nephrologist told me that she has seen patients who were very thin prior to surgery become obese because of prednisone. She said that the insomnia, elevated blood sugar, and elevated blood pressure I have been experiencing are also attributable to prednisone. I literally have not had a good night's sleep since the surgery. I wake up often and have trouble getting back to sleep. At most, I have gotten six or seven hours, often a lot less. My blood sugar is way out of whack. I have had to more than double my insulin to compensate for the high blood sugars. Even so, my control is not good. And my blood pressure has gone from perfect (117/54) to dangerous (160/74).
Initially I was taking 40 mg prednisone a day, then it was lowered to 30, then 20, and yesterday to 10. The nephrologist said that I am a good candidate for getting completely off the drug, as I am not African American or Latino, two groups that tend to have to continue on the drug, and I do not have a certain lab marker that is an indicator of continued use. Since after a month, the body becomes hooked on prednisone, making withdrawal difficult or impossible, the nephrologist said that she most likely would take me off the drug completely at next Monday's visit. Fingers crossed.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Increasingly Popular Anecdotal Fallacy
So often these days I encounter people who want to argue by anecdote. Haven't they ever read Aristotle! Anecdotes can never prove a case, they can only disprove an "always" or "never" hypothesis. Let me explain.
If I say that television has had the overall tendency to make people stupider, less physically active, less creative, less aware of their surroundings, less able to read social cues and respond appropriately, more passive, more prone to manipulation, more withdrawn and isolated, less able to distinguish reality from fantasy, and less able to support their opinions with reasoned arguments, you do not disprove my statement by telling me that you watch a lot of TV yet are intelligent, jog two miles every day, wrote a poem last night, are intensely aware of the color scheme in your wallpaper, know when your spouse is getting angry by the way his fingers curl up, have never once in your life been manipulated, withdrawn, or isolated, are able to tell a real cowboy from a fake one on TV, and are currently supporting your opinion with a reasoned argument. Even if your examples proved that you were a superior human being despite excessive TV watching, it only tells me about you. My hypothesis was not about you but about a general tendency. If I had said that TV always has these effects on people, then, yes, you providing one sound example would disprove my theory. For example, if you could find one human being who is immortal, it would disprove this classic deductive argument: All men are mortal. Socrates is a man. Therefore, Socrates is mortal.
Here are a few more examples of the folly of anecdotal reasoning:
* I told a nurse that I was considering islet transplantation to rid myself of diabetes. She was horrified. She said that she had had a patient who had islet transplant and was doing worse than before transplantation. I asked her how many patients she had known who had had the procedure. Only that one, she said. Then I asked how long ago the patient had undergone islet transplant, and she said, "Five years ago." Now why would I base my decision on some woman who I don't know anything about--what shape she was in prior to transplant, how heavy she was, how well she follows a sensible diet, how much she exercises, how old she is, etc.--who had the procedure a half decade ago, during which time advances in technique have occurred.
* Einstein flunked math, yet he became the world's most brilliant theoretical physicist, a profession that requires a high level of mathematical acumen. Therefore, if you want to be a theoretical physicist of world-class standing, flunking math is the path you need to take.
* Studies say that smoking causes lung cancer, but my uncle Albert smoked a pack of cigarettes a day from the time he turned 13 until the day he died at 93. He never developed lung cancer, and as I recall, he never so much as caught a cold. So smoking really isn't bad for your health.
* Every mother tells her child that he should look both ways before crossing a street. I always hated it when my mother told me to do that. Such a worry wart she was! I make a point of closing my eyes when I cross a street. I've been doing this for at least 15 years, and I haven't been hit yet. It's stupid advice, and I say, "Close your eyes. You'll be just fine."
Why are so many people relying so heavily on anecdotes to support their opinions? I've got two theories:
* Our educational system at best gives lip service to critical thinking. It's something tacked on at the end of the year after all the memorization and standardized tests have been taken care of. Critical thinking should be a part of every lesson, but it's not because the school system is aiming at turning out unthinking, unquestioning robots who will fit into cubicle jobs that require no critical thinking.
I saw this at the college level, which is one of the major reasons why I am so glad I am no longer a part of that travesty. The university has become as Mickey Mouse as grade school with quantification and standardization the mantra, which means a dumbing down of material and no room for true cultivation of critical thinking.
* We are an extremely self-absorbed society. People argue from anecdotes because they feel the world and truth revolve around their own personal experience. If they can smoke and haven't developed lung cancer, then smoking is safe. If they can watch lots of TV and still have what they consider an engaged life, then TV is harmless.
Now this is not to say that personal experience is not valid. It's just that it is just that--personal. It does not speak for everyone.
So, folks, if you don't know how to support your opinions, please enroll in an introductory logic class at your local community college. Aristotle came up with 13 fallacies. I've only discussed one here.
If I say that television has had the overall tendency to make people stupider, less physically active, less creative, less aware of their surroundings, less able to read social cues and respond appropriately, more passive, more prone to manipulation, more withdrawn and isolated, less able to distinguish reality from fantasy, and less able to support their opinions with reasoned arguments, you do not disprove my statement by telling me that you watch a lot of TV yet are intelligent, jog two miles every day, wrote a poem last night, are intensely aware of the color scheme in your wallpaper, know when your spouse is getting angry by the way his fingers curl up, have never once in your life been manipulated, withdrawn, or isolated, are able to tell a real cowboy from a fake one on TV, and are currently supporting your opinion with a reasoned argument. Even if your examples proved that you were a superior human being despite excessive TV watching, it only tells me about you. My hypothesis was not about you but about a general tendency. If I had said that TV always has these effects on people, then, yes, you providing one sound example would disprove my theory. For example, if you could find one human being who is immortal, it would disprove this classic deductive argument: All men are mortal. Socrates is a man. Therefore, Socrates is mortal.
Here are a few more examples of the folly of anecdotal reasoning:
* I told a nurse that I was considering islet transplantation to rid myself of diabetes. She was horrified. She said that she had had a patient who had islet transplant and was doing worse than before transplantation. I asked her how many patients she had known who had had the procedure. Only that one, she said. Then I asked how long ago the patient had undergone islet transplant, and she said, "Five years ago." Now why would I base my decision on some woman who I don't know anything about--what shape she was in prior to transplant, how heavy she was, how well she follows a sensible diet, how much she exercises, how old she is, etc.--who had the procedure a half decade ago, during which time advances in technique have occurred.
* Einstein flunked math, yet he became the world's most brilliant theoretical physicist, a profession that requires a high level of mathematical acumen. Therefore, if you want to be a theoretical physicist of world-class standing, flunking math is the path you need to take.
* Studies say that smoking causes lung cancer, but my uncle Albert smoked a pack of cigarettes a day from the time he turned 13 until the day he died at 93. He never developed lung cancer, and as I recall, he never so much as caught a cold. So smoking really isn't bad for your health.
* Every mother tells her child that he should look both ways before crossing a street. I always hated it when my mother told me to do that. Such a worry wart she was! I make a point of closing my eyes when I cross a street. I've been doing this for at least 15 years, and I haven't been hit yet. It's stupid advice, and I say, "Close your eyes. You'll be just fine."
Why are so many people relying so heavily on anecdotes to support their opinions? I've got two theories:
* Our educational system at best gives lip service to critical thinking. It's something tacked on at the end of the year after all the memorization and standardized tests have been taken care of. Critical thinking should be a part of every lesson, but it's not because the school system is aiming at turning out unthinking, unquestioning robots who will fit into cubicle jobs that require no critical thinking.
I saw this at the college level, which is one of the major reasons why I am so glad I am no longer a part of that travesty. The university has become as Mickey Mouse as grade school with quantification and standardization the mantra, which means a dumbing down of material and no room for true cultivation of critical thinking.
* We are an extremely self-absorbed society. People argue from anecdotes because they feel the world and truth revolve around their own personal experience. If they can smoke and haven't developed lung cancer, then smoking is safe. If they can watch lots of TV and still have what they consider an engaged life, then TV is harmless.
Now this is not to say that personal experience is not valid. It's just that it is just that--personal. It does not speak for everyone.
So, folks, if you don't know how to support your opinions, please enroll in an introductory logic class at your local community college. Aristotle came up with 13 fallacies. I've only discussed one here.
Emotional Release
A few times since surgery, I have been close to tears, but critical mass was not reached and no tears fell. Yesterday morning while putzing around the apartment, medieval carols playing on the boom box, I suddenly was overcome with emotion. What emotion it was, I can't really say. It certainly wasn't sadness, but I can't say it was joy either. It was as if a backlog of all sorts of feelings came rushing forth in physical form without accompanying emotion.The sensation was so powerful that, weeping, I dropped to my knees in front of the Christmas tree, which was already lit up. As tears streamed down my face, I said my thanks aloud for how very fortunate I am to have received a kidney. Most people are dead before they reach five years on dialysis, and I was just shy of two years before I received one. The vast majority of people die before a kidney is offered.
I know how fortunate I am to have had so many people pulling for me. Even if you don't believe in God or some universal force, you have to realize that maybe a hundred people concentrating their thoughts, their energy, and their visualizations on my healing is powerful. The concentrated intention of one person is a force to reckon with, but if you multiply that a hundredfold, you've got something unstoppable. I am so grateful for this assistance.
After about five minutes of weeping, I got up and resumed my putzing. That release was cleansing and complete. No need to dwell on it or overanalyze it. It simply was for five minutes, and then it was gone without leaving any residue.
Post-op Miscellany
A few observations and experiences that don't necessarily warrant individual posts:
* In the week following surgery, I had a lot of dark dreams. I hesitate to call them nightmares because I wasn't scared, but their content was potentially frightening. Shadowy presences, demons, malevolent entities, darkened rooms. Other dreams were lucid, perhaps even astral travel. They were like waking life with no sudden shifts from venue to venue.On reflection, this makes sense that the subconscious should be stirred up following surgery. The surgeons cut deep into my physical core, and so the core of my psyche would also be disrupted. Gunk like blood, tissue, and fluids drained from the body post-op, so no doubt psychic gunk also was released. I don't interpret this as unacknowledged fears on my part, as I am really good at soul-searching, and not a whole lot about my inner workings escapes my scrutiny and contemplation. I was very calm going into surgery, prepared for wherever it took me, even into death. Once you reconcile with the prospect of death, you can face just about anything.
* I have managed the pain exceedingly well. Post-op I had morphine only twice, one dose a half dose, and one Tylenol. Then nothing until I got home. One day the pain was so bad I took two Tylenol. Other than those four times, I have had nothing. The incisions are generally on the level of discomfort, not pain, so there isn't really any justification for pain meds, which I feel are more trouble than they're worth.
* I started driving one day shy of two weeks post-op. Though six weeks is the recommended resumption of driving, I didn't see any reason why I should wait that long, since I wasn't taking pain meds and didn't feel impaired.
* Have been very careful about staying away from people with colds. Diana had invited me over to her mom's house for Christmas, but then called today to tell me she was coming down with something. I thought it best to stay home with Rasputin. Pinky is doing so well that I don't want to do anything to disturb her.
I canceled the annual holiday tradition of caroling for brandy this year in order to avoid infections. Sure missed caroling from one stranger's door to another and brightening the hearts of many and confusing and/or embarrassing a few others. To view past years' posts on caroling for brandy, see 2009, 2008, and 2007.http://heidisheart.blogspot.com/2007/12/caroling-in-carol-park.html
I canceled the annual holiday tradition of caroling for brandy this year in order to avoid infections. Sure missed caroling from one stranger's door to another and brightening the hearts of many and confusing and/or embarrassing a few others. To view past years' posts on caroling for brandy, see 2009, 2008, and 2007.http://heidisheart.blogspot.com/2007/12/caroling-in-carol-park.html
* Before surgery, I had bought a foot-high living tree from the market because I didn't know how long I'd be in the hospital. When I got home only four days following surgery, I really wanted a tree, and damn if we didn't get the best tree we've ever had. Enough room to put up all the ornaments.
* Pictured here with snowflake sunglasses--Elton John, step aside!--and a bird whistle from Georgette, a pixie of a gal who lives in Florida and each birthday and Christmas sends me gifts that make me giggle. Also a cashmere scarf from my neighbor Annie. I've always loved cashmere but have never owned any until now. A generous gift.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
More Hospital Photos
Here are a few photos from the morning after surgery. The woman with the mask is Janet, my friend and neighbor. The woman in bed is Brandie, the woman who gave me her kidney. The guy on the cell phone is Constantine, one of my favorite nurses, who hailed from Romania. Look how I'm beaming!
Weight Loss, Bruising, Increased Pain
One of the most remarkable things post-surgery has been the tremendous loss of water weight. I went from 151 the day of surgery to 136 four days following surgery. That loss of excess fluids in itself has so improved my energy. The fluids were constricting my lungs and my heart, wearying me, exhausting me. With those fluids gone, I'm so much lighter and without constriction.
I truly have been struggling with excess fluids for about a dozen years. A lot of this manifested as cardiac symptoms, but the root cause was the buildup of fluids. That's why I have been telling people that this is the best I've felt in 12 years. And, of course, the healing process is far from over. Three months from now, I may just feel like a teenager again.
The bruising of my belly has expanded. Much of my tummy is now black and blue.
And this morning I took two Tylenol because the incision was not just uncomfortable but painful. This is only the fourth time I have taken pain meds post-op and the first time since leaving the hospital.
Tomorrow is another clinic visit at UCLA. Up at 4:20 a.m., leave the apartment by 5, so that I can get to the lab when it opens at 6. Whew!
I truly have been struggling with excess fluids for about a dozen years. A lot of this manifested as cardiac symptoms, but the root cause was the buildup of fluids. That's why I have been telling people that this is the best I've felt in 12 years. And, of course, the healing process is far from over. Three months from now, I may just feel like a teenager again.
The bruising of my belly has expanded. Much of my tummy is now black and blue.
And this morning I took two Tylenol because the incision was not just uncomfortable but painful. This is only the fourth time I have taken pain meds post-op and the first time since leaving the hospital.
Tomorrow is another clinic visit at UCLA. Up at 4:20 a.m., leave the apartment by 5, so that I can get to the lab when it opens at 6. Whew!
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