Up until just recently, I've lived in a decent area. Single-family homes interspersed with ugly block apartment buildings. People walking their dogs, talking to each other, riding bicycles, tending their yards, if they have yards. Very friendly. None of that has changed. But now we've got an overlay of crime.
As with most urban areas in this country, of course, there have been homeless guys in the alley, looking for cans, sometimes drinking, sometimes smoking cigs or pot. But now there have been guys smoking crack, which adds a whole 'nuther layer of seediness. Also, a few cars have been riffled through for cash or cell phones, bicycles have been cut from their locks and stolen off people's porches, and someone was robbed at gunpoint.
The overall feeling of the neighborhood has not changed. People are still friendly. I still walk my dog alone at night. The flowers and plants are just as pretty. The craftsman-style houses are still cute. It's just that the crime from the alley or from outside the area makes me think of the film "Blue Velvet." Starring Dennis Hopper, the film is unsettling. It takes place in picture-perfect suburbia during the 1960s. A land of beautiful stay-at-home moms; handsome, strong dads; cute dogs; healthy, obedient kids; and white picket fences. Then the camera angle focuses on the ground level, where ants are crawling about. Next we're in a seedy part of town, ruled over by psychopath Dennis Hopper. Like the movie, my neighborhood is just fine until it's not.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Another Activist Pulls Back
In 2005 and 2006, my mail arrived opened or previously opened and taped shut. Also, letters I left for the letter carrier never arrived at their destination. I complained to the post office by phone and by letter. Eventually, after four or five months, this tampering stopped. Since the landlord and I were the only ones who had my mail key, and since I could see no reason why he would want to read my mail--he was pretty hands-off--the post office or agencies of the USG working with the p.o. were the culprits.
During this time and continuing for years after that, I would hear clicks on my phone during conversations. My brother said that he had been hearing those clicks for years too. Realizing that current technology must allow for silent wire taps--how else could an effective program against drug dealers or other suspected criminals be carried out--I knew that the USG must want me to know they were listening.
Though I have continued to speak out, call and write my representatives, write of injustices and government lies, and attend peace marches, I know that I am on some list. Even before the mail tampering and eavesdropping, I was aware of being watched. When I crossed the border four times during the summer of 2005, for example, I was detained for questioning and my van was thoroughly searched at each crossing.
Lately, however, with the militarization of local police forces and their funding and direction from the Department of Homeland Security, with the rapid erosion of constitutional protections, with the legalization of torture, imprisonment without charge and without trial, with hundreds of incidents of the federal government's boot on the face of anyone who steps just slightly out of line, I have begun to rethink my activism.
Do I really want to risk being jailed without charge, food, water, or access to my meds for days, as has happened to some activists? This would be a death sentence for a Type 1 diabetic-heart patient-kidney transplant recipient. And so when I have been asked to participate in recent protests at FBI headquarters, I have declined. Unlike in the past, I am now concerned for my personal safety.
Such is the case of an acquaintance, Leonard, who has been very vocal and active in the Long Beach peace group. His mail is now being opened prior to delivery, and he hears clicks on his phone line.
As my friend Helma, who lived through Nazi Germany, said after Bush II was "elected," "This is how it starts," with thumbing your nose at the law here and there and then more and more. I recently asked her what she thought of Obama, she scoffed, "He is no different than the Bush." Exactly what I've always said.
So for those of you in other countries or in this country too who still believe that Obama is the savior of the free world, think again. He is continuing the work of his predecessor, only with nicer words, a calmer demeanor, and a more polished look. But fascism is fascism whether it's delivered up by Hitler, Bush, or a biracial man.
During this time and continuing for years after that, I would hear clicks on my phone during conversations. My brother said that he had been hearing those clicks for years too. Realizing that current technology must allow for silent wire taps--how else could an effective program against drug dealers or other suspected criminals be carried out--I knew that the USG must want me to know they were listening.
Though I have continued to speak out, call and write my representatives, write of injustices and government lies, and attend peace marches, I know that I am on some list. Even before the mail tampering and eavesdropping, I was aware of being watched. When I crossed the border four times during the summer of 2005, for example, I was detained for questioning and my van was thoroughly searched at each crossing.
Lately, however, with the militarization of local police forces and their funding and direction from the Department of Homeland Security, with the rapid erosion of constitutional protections, with the legalization of torture, imprisonment without charge and without trial, with hundreds of incidents of the federal government's boot on the face of anyone who steps just slightly out of line, I have begun to rethink my activism.
Do I really want to risk being jailed without charge, food, water, or access to my meds for days, as has happened to some activists? This would be a death sentence for a Type 1 diabetic-heart patient-kidney transplant recipient. And so when I have been asked to participate in recent protests at FBI headquarters, I have declined. Unlike in the past, I am now concerned for my personal safety.
Such is the case of an acquaintance, Leonard, who has been very vocal and active in the Long Beach peace group. His mail is now being opened prior to delivery, and he hears clicks on his phone line.
As my friend Helma, who lived through Nazi Germany, said after Bush II was "elected," "This is how it starts," with thumbing your nose at the law here and there and then more and more. I recently asked her what she thought of Obama, she scoffed, "He is no different than the Bush." Exactly what I've always said.
So for those of you in other countries or in this country too who still believe that Obama is the savior of the free world, think again. He is continuing the work of his predecessor, only with nicer words, a calmer demeanor, and a more polished look. But fascism is fascism whether it's delivered up by Hitler, Bush, or a biracial man.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Censorship on the Local Level
Censorship happens at every level--federal, state, local. It is carried out by government agencies, corporations, political officials, and the media. Sometimes it's subtle, sometimes blatant.
My most recent experience was with the Grunion Gazette, a weekly community newspaper that claims it "encourages letters to the editor, and will try to print all letters received." Except those that take issue with the opinions of the editor, that is.
In the June 16 edition, the editor proposed that surveillance cameras be installed in public places and on residential streets throughout the city in order to cut down on rowdy behavior outside bars. Boy, did I take issue with that suggestion, sending the following email to the paper the same day the paper was published:
Dear Editor:
It was with horror that I read the June 16 editorial "High-Tech Solution May Help Bar Issue" in which the writer advocated the installation of surveillance cameras in public places and on residential streets. It is a continual source of amazement to me how easily Americans give up their constitutional rights.
The writer even "supported" his case with the argument "If you aren't doing anything wrong, you don't have anything to worry about." The airline passengers who are groped and porno-scanned aren't doing anything wrong either, and yet their Fourth Amendment right to be free of warrantless searches without probable cause is violated countless times each day. And the so-called Patriot Act allows for the collection and storage of some 1.7 billion cell phone calls and emails (no doubt this one) every day, as well as the indefinite detention of persons who have not even been charged with a crime.
If this kind of anti-democratic, police state thinking goes on much longer and people fail to wake up to government intrusions into their lives, I suspect that next year the Gazette will be making a case for the microchipping of all citizens. That way, the authorities will know exactly where everyone is at any time. But of course if you're not doing anything wrong, what's the big deal!
My letter was never published, though another writer's letter was published this week--two weeks after the original editorial. A letter that felt that the editor had not gone far enough and which suggested further intrusion by the police.
I wonder how many times each day the media are preventing citizens from airing their concerns about the erosion of constitutional rights and other issues that question the status quo. A friend of mine who lives in Tucson was barred from online discussions at the local paper's web site because he voiced his pacifist concerns and made note of a major employer in the area, Raytheon, one of the key players in the killing--oops, defense--industry.
My most recent experience was with the Grunion Gazette, a weekly community newspaper that claims it "encourages letters to the editor, and will try to print all letters received." Except those that take issue with the opinions of the editor, that is.
In the June 16 edition, the editor proposed that surveillance cameras be installed in public places and on residential streets throughout the city in order to cut down on rowdy behavior outside bars. Boy, did I take issue with that suggestion, sending the following email to the paper the same day the paper was published:
Dear Editor:
It was with horror that I read the June 16 editorial "High-Tech Solution May Help Bar Issue" in which the writer advocated the installation of surveillance cameras in public places and on residential streets. It is a continual source of amazement to me how easily Americans give up their constitutional rights.
The writer even "supported" his case with the argument "If you aren't doing anything wrong, you don't have anything to worry about." The airline passengers who are groped and porno-scanned aren't doing anything wrong either, and yet their Fourth Amendment right to be free of warrantless searches without probable cause is violated countless times each day. And the so-called Patriot Act allows for the collection and storage of some 1.7 billion cell phone calls and emails (no doubt this one) every day, as well as the indefinite detention of persons who have not even been charged with a crime.
If this kind of anti-democratic, police state thinking goes on much longer and people fail to wake up to government intrusions into their lives, I suspect that next year the Gazette will be making a case for the microchipping of all citizens. That way, the authorities will know exactly where everyone is at any time. But of course if you're not doing anything wrong, what's the big deal!
My letter was never published, though another writer's letter was published this week--two weeks after the original editorial. A letter that felt that the editor had not gone far enough and which suggested further intrusion by the police.
I wonder how many times each day the media are preventing citizens from airing their concerns about the erosion of constitutional rights and other issues that question the status quo. A friend of mine who lives in Tucson was barred from online discussions at the local paper's web site because he voiced his pacifist concerns and made note of a major employer in the area, Raytheon, one of the key players in the killing--oops, defense--industry.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Why Don't I Have Female Intellectual Buddies?
About a month ago, I had a revelation: I have never had female friends who were my intellectual buddies. It's not that the women I hang around with are mental lightweights. Far from it. It's just that talk seems to focus on emotions of all sorts and relationships of all sorts--family, friends, lovers, spouses, coworkers--rather than on ideas. 
Even when I bring up the subjects of politics, religion, the nature of the universe, insights into human nature, science, the death of democracy, the corruption of the press, etc., I've found that women either let me talk, even when I ask for their input; seem uncomfortable and change the subject; parrot things they've heard on the radio or TV stations they listen to; or argue by personal example. There is not the give and take I have so thoroughly enjoyed with male friends over the years.
With Christan, Ken, Ed, Mark, Tony, Y, Truc, Tuyen, Rod, Jose, Othman, and son Aaron, among others, one person has presented an idea, the other has listened and added something about what he's read or what his take on the situation is, back and forth like this. He says something I hadn't considered, and I acknowledge and appreciate his insight. And the reverse is true: I say something, and he says, "Boy, I never thought of it that way!" These conversations have often gone on for hours. Give and take. By the time we finally call it quits, we both feel as if we have gained new insights and are much richer for the experience.
It's not that all my relationships with men have been purely intellectual. Of course, with several there has been sexual tension or sexual give and take. And with a few men, there has been no intellectual relationship at all to speak of, only sex.
I wonder why I have never had more than a few minutes of intellectual exchange with women. Little more than a book recommendation. Perhaps women are too sensitive. They feel that an intellectual exchange may offend others or disturb the emotional balance of the relationship. I have not found this to be the case with men. Disagreements have been easily handled with a laugh or my classic, "Ahhhhh...I don't know about that one, ___________." Of course, I can think of one man who would not answer crucial questions I had about his position, which did leave me frustrated.
This is not to say I don't like the company of women. It's as interesting to see how they negotiate the world as it is to see how men do so, or how dogs or plants do too. All these ways seem to work, so there's no reason to tinker with them.
Even when I bring up the subjects of politics, religion, the nature of the universe, insights into human nature, science, the death of democracy, the corruption of the press, etc., I've found that women either let me talk, even when I ask for their input; seem uncomfortable and change the subject; parrot things they've heard on the radio or TV stations they listen to; or argue by personal example. There is not the give and take I have so thoroughly enjoyed with male friends over the years.
With Christan, Ken, Ed, Mark, Tony, Y, Truc, Tuyen, Rod, Jose, Othman, and son Aaron, among others, one person has presented an idea, the other has listened and added something about what he's read or what his take on the situation is, back and forth like this. He says something I hadn't considered, and I acknowledge and appreciate his insight. And the reverse is true: I say something, and he says, "Boy, I never thought of it that way!" These conversations have often gone on for hours. Give and take. By the time we finally call it quits, we both feel as if we have gained new insights and are much richer for the experience.
It's not that all my relationships with men have been purely intellectual. Of course, with several there has been sexual tension or sexual give and take. And with a few men, there has been no intellectual relationship at all to speak of, only sex.
I wonder why I have never had more than a few minutes of intellectual exchange with women. Little more than a book recommendation. Perhaps women are too sensitive. They feel that an intellectual exchange may offend others or disturb the emotional balance of the relationship. I have not found this to be the case with men. Disagreements have been easily handled with a laugh or my classic, "Ahhhhh...I don't know about that one, ___________." Of course, I can think of one man who would not answer crucial questions I had about his position, which did leave me frustrated.
This is not to say I don't like the company of women. It's as interesting to see how they negotiate the world as it is to see how men do so, or how dogs or plants do too. All these ways seem to work, so there's no reason to tinker with them.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Obama's "Troop Withdrawal" is Like a Gambler's "Win"
Obama announced last night that he's bringing troops home from Afghanistan. He and his handlers are hoping that's all the information that will register with most Americans. He's banking on the fact that we're not much good at math.
If we were more gifted at addition and subtraction, we might note that there were roughly 70,000 troops in Afghanistan when Obama took office. He implemented a "surge" of 30,000 troops, bringing the total to about 100,000. Now he's bring 10,000 home. That leaves some 90,000, plus untold numbers of "contractors" (you remember Blackwater, don't you).
This makes me think of all the people I've spoken to after they've returned from gambling in Vegas. I have never heard a single one tell me that he or she lost money. Everyone always seems to win. Of course, upon further questioning, it becomes clear that they all experienced a net loss. They may have won $300 one day, but lost $300 each day for the next two days, for a net loss of $300.
This kind of magical thinking is what Obama is engaged in. He hopes that the general feeling Americans will come away with is "By God, the man is doing what he said he was going to do--pull troops out of Afghanistan. We've got to give him another four years so that he can finish the job." GROAN!
Perhaps a better analogy than the gambler is that of the dieter: Sally weighs 200 pounds and tells you she is going to lose weight, but first she wants to go on a binge, have one last hurrah before she buckles down and loses those extra pounds. So she pigs out and gains 30 pounds, then loses 10. At this point, she calls all her friends and tells them she's lost 10 pounds, isn't that fantastic!
Magical thinking. That's what runs Washington, D.C.
If we were more gifted at addition and subtraction, we might note that there were roughly 70,000 troops in Afghanistan when Obama took office. He implemented a "surge" of 30,000 troops, bringing the total to about 100,000. Now he's bring 10,000 home. That leaves some 90,000, plus untold numbers of "contractors" (you remember Blackwater, don't you).
This makes me think of all the people I've spoken to after they've returned from gambling in Vegas. I have never heard a single one tell me that he or she lost money. Everyone always seems to win. Of course, upon further questioning, it becomes clear that they all experienced a net loss. They may have won $300 one day, but lost $300 each day for the next two days, for a net loss of $300.
This kind of magical thinking is what Obama is engaged in. He hopes that the general feeling Americans will come away with is "By God, the man is doing what he said he was going to do--pull troops out of Afghanistan. We've got to give him another four years so that he can finish the job." GROAN!
Perhaps a better analogy than the gambler is that of the dieter: Sally weighs 200 pounds and tells you she is going to lose weight, but first she wants to go on a binge, have one last hurrah before she buckles down and loses those extra pounds. So she pigs out and gains 30 pounds, then loses 10. At this point, she calls all her friends and tells them she's lost 10 pounds, isn't that fantastic!
Magical thinking. That's what runs Washington, D.C.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Little Less Stressed
I had to take a break for a few days. I was getting so stressed I was not sleeping well. I would stay awake thinking, "Where am I to live? Where is the right place for me to face the crash?" 
You see, I feel a bit left out. It seems as if everyone I know is already in his or her right place.
* That right place is a chunk of farmable land for my friend Rachel and her husband, Matt. They also have all the skills they need, everything from baking bread and growing crops in a sustainable way to building a cabin and making baskets out of tree bark. They've been at this sort of thing for a long time, having spent five years or so learning everything they could on a permaculture farm in Bolinas.
* Daphne has her daughter, son, and granddaughter within a 15-mile radius.
* Tom is living with the love of his life, and they have friends in Arkansas who keep telling them about three-bedroom houses for $40K, complete with an acre of land.
* Chris's youngest son just started living with him, and Chris has a secure job.
* Tim lives with his wife and three kids. They have a large house as well as a cabin in the mountains.
* Helene in Nova Scotia lives in a sweet, little town with a healthy sense of community, surrounded by organic farmers and lots of water.
* Araia has lived for many years in northern Washington state on a beautiful chunk of land next to a river.
* Diana's family is all nearby. My nextdoor neighbors, Janet and Dana, have a lovely craftsman-style house, a dog that could protect them, and a thriving community through their Buddhist temple.
* Sharon is happily married with a young daughter in Santa Cruz.
* Ken's land and house in Tucson is almost paid off, and he has the skills to do just about anything.
* Rick's daughter and grandson are living with him, and, like Ken, he can do anything that needs fixing or building.
* Jose has his house, his family and extended family, a secure job, and money.
* Bev believes that the transition may cause untold suffering and death to millions or even billions but that she will still live to be 100.
* Heather's living in Denver in a cooperative community with her boyfriend.
Everyone seems to be set in their own way for what is to come, whether they realize it or not. I, however, am not. Ideally, I would like an acre in a moderate climate with water and a man who loves me and is loved by me and who is strong and skilled enough to fix things, build things, and know how to do things. Health, too, would be fantastic. It would also be great if my son were living somewhere nearby, but he will soon be on the other side of the country, attending grad school at Penn State.
Most people are in the state of not knowing what's coming their way or, if they have gotten a whiff of what's coming, they've escaped into denial. Then there are a few people who have resources, friends and family who are with them, and the means to carry out their plans. They're the ones who have been creating a sustainable life off the land for years or who have relocated to Nicaragua or Venezuela or some other place as far as possible from American influence. But I'm in neither of those boats. I'm in the unfortunate place of knowing a freight train is barrelling down the tracks right at me and being unable to move off the tracks.
Though my kidney function is fantastic--creatinine 0.7 at the last reading, with normal being 0.6-1.1--my heart is giving me trouble. My chest is always tight. Exercise frequently produces pain and constriction. Going uphill is exceedingly difficult. I just had an echocardiogram. My EF rate, which tells how well my heart is pumping, has declined from 50, the bottom end of normal, last June to 35. Basically, even if I had an acre of land, I wouldn't be up to growing anything on it.
So this is why I've been stressed--I'm not in right place (cities are rarely the right place, but certainly not during a time of crisis), I'm without a partner, my son is leaving the area, friends are forever busy with their own concerns, and my heart is taking a dive.
So my m.o. is what it has been since I moved to Southern California in 1981. You see, ever since moving here I have been keen on leaving and have gone on road/camping trips to explore and look for right place. So, as has been the case all these years, I am open to right place and right situations. In the meantime, I am here, in Southern California, for good or for not so good.
I'm taking a Red Cross first aid class that recommends having two to three weeks of food and water in your abode. Since the debaucle of Hurricane Katrina, the Red Cross has upped this from three days to three weeks. See, even the Red Cross does not have much faith in the U.S. government. So if the Red Cross is saying three weeks, perhaps it's better to have three months' supplies. Whew! Well, it's something to aim for.
You see, I feel a bit left out. It seems as if everyone I know is already in his or her right place.
* That right place is a chunk of farmable land for my friend Rachel and her husband, Matt. They also have all the skills they need, everything from baking bread and growing crops in a sustainable way to building a cabin and making baskets out of tree bark. They've been at this sort of thing for a long time, having spent five years or so learning everything they could on a permaculture farm in Bolinas.
* Daphne has her daughter, son, and granddaughter within a 15-mile radius.
* Tom is living with the love of his life, and they have friends in Arkansas who keep telling them about three-bedroom houses for $40K, complete with an acre of land.
* Chris's youngest son just started living with him, and Chris has a secure job.
* Tim lives with his wife and three kids. They have a large house as well as a cabin in the mountains.
* Helene in Nova Scotia lives in a sweet, little town with a healthy sense of community, surrounded by organic farmers and lots of water.
* Araia has lived for many years in northern Washington state on a beautiful chunk of land next to a river.
* Diana's family is all nearby. My nextdoor neighbors, Janet and Dana, have a lovely craftsman-style house, a dog that could protect them, and a thriving community through their Buddhist temple.
* Sharon is happily married with a young daughter in Santa Cruz.
* Ken's land and house in Tucson is almost paid off, and he has the skills to do just about anything.
* Rick's daughter and grandson are living with him, and, like Ken, he can do anything that needs fixing or building.
* Jose has his house, his family and extended family, a secure job, and money.
* Bev believes that the transition may cause untold suffering and death to millions or even billions but that she will still live to be 100.
* Heather's living in Denver in a cooperative community with her boyfriend.
Everyone seems to be set in their own way for what is to come, whether they realize it or not. I, however, am not. Ideally, I would like an acre in a moderate climate with water and a man who loves me and is loved by me and who is strong and skilled enough to fix things, build things, and know how to do things. Health, too, would be fantastic. It would also be great if my son were living somewhere nearby, but he will soon be on the other side of the country, attending grad school at Penn State.
Most people are in the state of not knowing what's coming their way or, if they have gotten a whiff of what's coming, they've escaped into denial. Then there are a few people who have resources, friends and family who are with them, and the means to carry out their plans. They're the ones who have been creating a sustainable life off the land for years or who have relocated to Nicaragua or Venezuela or some other place as far as possible from American influence. But I'm in neither of those boats. I'm in the unfortunate place of knowing a freight train is barrelling down the tracks right at me and being unable to move off the tracks.
Though my kidney function is fantastic--creatinine 0.7 at the last reading, with normal being 0.6-1.1--my heart is giving me trouble. My chest is always tight. Exercise frequently produces pain and constriction. Going uphill is exceedingly difficult. I just had an echocardiogram. My EF rate, which tells how well my heart is pumping, has declined from 50, the bottom end of normal, last June to 35. Basically, even if I had an acre of land, I wouldn't be up to growing anything on it.
So this is why I've been stressed--I'm not in right place (cities are rarely the right place, but certainly not during a time of crisis), I'm without a partner, my son is leaving the area, friends are forever busy with their own concerns, and my heart is taking a dive.
So my m.o. is what it has been since I moved to Southern California in 1981. You see, ever since moving here I have been keen on leaving and have gone on road/camping trips to explore and look for right place. So, as has been the case all these years, I am open to right place and right situations. In the meantime, I am here, in Southern California, for good or for not so good.
I'm taking a Red Cross first aid class that recommends having two to three weeks of food and water in your abode. Since the debaucle of Hurricane Katrina, the Red Cross has upped this from three days to three weeks. See, even the Red Cross does not have much faith in the U.S. government. So if the Red Cross is saying three weeks, perhaps it's better to have three months' supplies. Whew! Well, it's something to aim for.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
A Dream Within a Dream
Early Monday morning I had a number of fascinating dream experiences. Dreams within a dream. Memories within the mind of my dream self. My dream self observing me sleeping. Orchestrating my dreaming. Some of this I've experienced on previous nights, but never a dream within a dream, not that I can recall at least. Following is my account. 
Outer-frame dream: A young boy, sometimes Latino or Lebanese, 3 or 4 years old, and sometimes blond and white, 8 or 9 years old, who talked quite a bit. Was he my dream guide? He and I were in an alcove of a waiting area in a large institution, like a hospital or government building. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was writing down a dream. I could see my handwriting in a stenobook, like the one I use in waking life to write down my dreams. I returned to the boy several times, each time after going off to another dream within the outer-frame dream.
In one inner-frame dream, I stood in a large, dusty, neglected yard. I had a memory of the yard as lush and green, but now it was almost devoid of plant life. I looked at the few plants that were still alive in the flower beds. I remembered them when they had flourished. I figured I needed to water them and so got a hose.
Then I heard Rasputin’s excited yip, which he does when he’s happy to see me. The yip came from inside the house, but when I climbed the four or so stairs and opened the door to step inside, he wasn’t there. Instead, I encountered my mother, looking the way she had perhaps a year before her death. She was clearly senile and was talking nonsense. I had to keep shifting position because she continued to shift her gaze, as if she were speaking to someone I couldn’t see.
I left her and explored the rest of the building, which didn’t seem like a house at all but an abandoned office or warehouse. I sensed a male presence, always out of sight.
In another inner-frame dream, I was acutely aware that I was dreaming. In fact, I was either thinking with determination or saying instructions aloud. The instructions offered by Carlos Castaneda in his book “The Art of Dreaming.” He suggests that the dreamer focus on one object upon entering a dream and allow this object to be one’s anchor. If you feel as if you are leaving the dream space and you want to stay rather than shift to another dream space, you look again at the anchor object. Also, do not stare at objects, but rather keep your gaze moving. If you stare at an object, you will be pulled into another dream space. So, as I was dreaming, I was thinking or saying these instructions to myself.
But I encountered a bougainvillea that was so lovely, its color so intense and which took up so much of my view that I was drawn to it and could not stop looking. Very soon, I felt myself lifting from the dream space, floating for a short time, then being transported back to the outer frame, almost sucked back to that frame.
At one point, the dream self was observing the dreamer. I, whoever I was at that point, could see me lying in bed. Moreover, the dream self could hear some noises in the courtyard next to my bedroom. This sure smacks of astral travel.
Last night I slept fitfully, but tonight I hope to do some more exploring. I especially want to work on controlling my dreams and traveling beyond my bedroom. We'll see...
Outer-frame dream: A young boy, sometimes Latino or Lebanese, 3 or 4 years old, and sometimes blond and white, 8 or 9 years old, who talked quite a bit. Was he my dream guide? He and I were in an alcove of a waiting area in a large institution, like a hospital or government building. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was writing down a dream. I could see my handwriting in a stenobook, like the one I use in waking life to write down my dreams. I returned to the boy several times, each time after going off to another dream within the outer-frame dream.
In one inner-frame dream, I stood in a large, dusty, neglected yard. I had a memory of the yard as lush and green, but now it was almost devoid of plant life. I looked at the few plants that were still alive in the flower beds. I remembered them when they had flourished. I figured I needed to water them and so got a hose.
Then I heard Rasputin’s excited yip, which he does when he’s happy to see me. The yip came from inside the house, but when I climbed the four or so stairs and opened the door to step inside, he wasn’t there. Instead, I encountered my mother, looking the way she had perhaps a year before her death. She was clearly senile and was talking nonsense. I had to keep shifting position because she continued to shift her gaze, as if she were speaking to someone I couldn’t see.
I left her and explored the rest of the building, which didn’t seem like a house at all but an abandoned office or warehouse. I sensed a male presence, always out of sight.
But I encountered a bougainvillea that was so lovely, its color so intense and which took up so much of my view that I was drawn to it and could not stop looking. Very soon, I felt myself lifting from the dream space, floating for a short time, then being transported back to the outer frame, almost sucked back to that frame.
At one point, the dream self was observing the dreamer. I, whoever I was at that point, could see me lying in bed. Moreover, the dream self could hear some noises in the courtyard next to my bedroom. This sure smacks of astral travel.
Last night I slept fitfully, but tonight I hope to do some more exploring. I especially want to work on controlling my dreams and traveling beyond my bedroom. We'll see...
Saturday, June 04, 2011
Adbusters
If you're not familiar with Adbusters, I suggest you check out this publication. Calling it social commentary is an understatement. Canadian-based, it was founded by advertising people who became critics of the system they once extolled.
A typical Adbusters spread is a still photo from the security camera video of the Columbine gunmen with the tag line INSANITY on one page, and on the facing page, an Army recruiting poster with the tag line SANITY. Adbusters are the folks who sponsor Turn Off Your TV Week and Buy Nothing Day, the day after Thanksgiving, which is notoriously the pinnacle of American consumption.
Adbusters has taken on the collusion between the pharmaceutical industry and the "researchers" who are paid by the pharmaceutical industry to test the drugs. They've tackled psychotropic drugs and the American duty to be happy, or at least act that you are. They've looked at military recruiting and always at consumerism.
Adbusters is as critical of Obama as they were of Bush--and well they should be. Really, what's the difference except that Obama delivers evil in a more intelligent, nicer-sounding package. The current issue has an article on the U.S.'s weaponized drones in the air over more than a dozen countries. In Pakistan alone, American drones have killed 14 supposed terrorists and another 700-1,000 civilians. A cartoon in the latest issue shows Obama at a podium, taking a question from a reporter, who asks, "Mr. President, your administration acknowledges it has carried out extrajudicial assassinations, an illegal practice. Would you therefore consider yourself to be a legitimate target of assassination?"
Lately, Adbusters has been spending a lot of time musing about the end of the world as we know it. The total collapse of the economy and resulting food and medicine shortages, civil unrest, that sort of thing.
I have been thinking a lot about the same recently. I've known this was coming for decades, but I've never known what I in particular am supposed to do about it. When I consider moving some place where I could have a vegetable garden, I take stock of my physical condition and reconsider. Walking around the block sometimes gives me chest pain. Preparing soil for planting, hoeing, weeding, watering, and harvesting are much more strenuous tasks.
I've also considered moving to Berkshire County, Massachusetts, where the small communities there have an alternate currency, Berkshares. Currently, you can trade your U.S. dollars for Berkshares, which are accepted by local merchants and banks. Some employers even pay in Berkshares. That way, when the dollar collapses, those communities can continue functioning. Other communities throughout the country have currencies, but none are as sophisticated as Berkshares. Many other towns, including Long Beach, have time exchanges in which one hour of your work is equal to one hour's of anyone else's work. These are basically service barters. I'm all for those, and as a massage therapist, I've traded for hair services, massages, and facials for years, but they are services only, not the things you need for life like shelter and food. The only thing about Massachusetts is that I don't know anyone there, and what is most important during difficult times is knowing your neighbors and having people you can count on. To be a newcomer when the shit hits the fan won't be the best thing.
With my son moving to Pennsylvania in August, I certainly am free to move. But where?
A typical Adbusters spread is a still photo from the security camera video of the Columbine gunmen with the tag line INSANITY on one page, and on the facing page, an Army recruiting poster with the tag line SANITY. Adbusters are the folks who sponsor Turn Off Your TV Week and Buy Nothing Day, the day after Thanksgiving, which is notoriously the pinnacle of American consumption.
Adbusters has taken on the collusion between the pharmaceutical industry and the "researchers" who are paid by the pharmaceutical industry to test the drugs. They've tackled psychotropic drugs and the American duty to be happy, or at least act that you are. They've looked at military recruiting and always at consumerism.
Adbusters is as critical of Obama as they were of Bush--and well they should be. Really, what's the difference except that Obama delivers evil in a more intelligent, nicer-sounding package. The current issue has an article on the U.S.'s weaponized drones in the air over more than a dozen countries. In Pakistan alone, American drones have killed 14 supposed terrorists and another 700-1,000 civilians. A cartoon in the latest issue shows Obama at a podium, taking a question from a reporter, who asks, "Mr. President, your administration acknowledges it has carried out extrajudicial assassinations, an illegal practice. Would you therefore consider yourself to be a legitimate target of assassination?"
Lately, Adbusters has been spending a lot of time musing about the end of the world as we know it. The total collapse of the economy and resulting food and medicine shortages, civil unrest, that sort of thing.
I have been thinking a lot about the same recently. I've known this was coming for decades, but I've never known what I in particular am supposed to do about it. When I consider moving some place where I could have a vegetable garden, I take stock of my physical condition and reconsider. Walking around the block sometimes gives me chest pain. Preparing soil for planting, hoeing, weeding, watering, and harvesting are much more strenuous tasks.
I've also considered moving to Berkshire County, Massachusetts, where the small communities there have an alternate currency, Berkshares. Currently, you can trade your U.S. dollars for Berkshares, which are accepted by local merchants and banks. Some employers even pay in Berkshares. That way, when the dollar collapses, those communities can continue functioning. Other communities throughout the country have currencies, but none are as sophisticated as Berkshares. Many other towns, including Long Beach, have time exchanges in which one hour of your work is equal to one hour's of anyone else's work. These are basically service barters. I'm all for those, and as a massage therapist, I've traded for hair services, massages, and facials for years, but they are services only, not the things you need for life like shelter and food. The only thing about Massachusetts is that I don't know anyone there, and what is most important during difficult times is knowing your neighbors and having people you can count on. To be a newcomer when the shit hits the fan won't be the best thing.
With my son moving to Pennsylvania in August, I certainly am free to move. But where?
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
$188 in New Dehli, $1,020 Here
Harken back to my recent post Third World Wages, First World Prices in which I wrote:
My competitors for writing jobs are in places where the cost of living is a whole lot cheaper than it is here. I can't imagine, for example, that a small, poorly maintained one-bedroom apartment in a town in Bangladesh or a village in Mali rents for $1,020/month. For someone in these circumstances, writing 20 articles for less than $500 is no doubt a boondoggle.
My suspicions were confirmed when the next day, I spoke with a Dell technical rep when my laptop's desktop was upside down and right side left. The icons were turned on their heads, and those that had been on the lower right were now on the upper left and vice versa. In addition, the cursor went up when I moved it down and right when I moved it left and vice versa. What a mess! The ever-polite, young man from New Dehli and I chitchatted during down times when diagnostics were running on my slow PC. He told me about his sweetheart and his studies to improve his lot in life, and I told him about my dog (which he could see, through screen sharing, on my desktop), my line of work, and the cost of living here.
I asked him what would a one-bedroom apartment in New Dehli go for in a decent, working person's neighborhood. Not a fancy neigborhood, but not one where you could expect to have a gun pointed at your head either. He said 8,000-9,000 rupees. I looked that up on a currency converter. On that day, it meant that my $1,020 apartment would rent for $188 in New Dehli. I pay 5 1/2 times what he pays for a place to lie his head. How is an American writer supposed to compete with Indian writers who are paying so much less for their necessities?
This makes me believe what I've so often heard and read: The main reason behind globalization is not to improve the lot of poor countries but to bring developed countries' standards of living down to those of developing countries. In other words, to make everyone poor and only a tiny, tiny few exceedingly wealthy.
America, long seen as the land of opportunity and of freedom, had to be brought to its knees by the globalists. That has been their aim for the last 30 years, duing which time there has been
* a major redistribution of wealth from the already poor and the middle class to the super-rich;
* the offshoring of good-paying manufacturing and service jobs;
* an at-first slowly encroaching and now rapidly expanding police state with all its surveillance apparatus and unconstitutional manuevers;
* the government- and corporate-engineered decline of the dollar against other currencies;
* the orchestrated boons and busts of the dot com, stocks, housing, and commodities markets;
* the uncontrolled federal, state, and personal credit debts;
* the destruction of unions that once helped to keep tariffs intact and wages high;
* the wholesale sellout of the corporate mainstream media, as well as much of public media, to their corporate and government masters;
* the robbing of Social Security, which was designed to be self-supporting and separate from the federal budget;
* the ungodly amount of money American taxpayers have been saddled with because of savings and loans, bank, and other bailouts, and corporation-serving, otherwise-meaningless wars; and
* the destruction of personal wealth at one time held in home equity, savings, pension contributions, 401(k)s, and stock holdings.
In the New World Order of all countries under the overarching iron fist of corporatism, America was seen as a threat, and so the global elite have done all in their power to make the American public stupid, lazy, disenfranchised, disheartened, fearful, confused, and misinformed. The final blow has not yet been delivered.
There still is time, and people are finally beginning to wake up to things I saw 44 years ago, when, as an 8-year-old girl, I had a vision that someday, America would become a dictatorship. There is still a little bit of time left before the final death knell is sounded to the Constitution. Wake up, folks, and start looking for the truth yourself and not listening to the government or its corporate sponsors.
My suspicions were confirmed when the next day, I spoke with a Dell technical rep when my laptop's desktop was upside down and right side left. The icons were turned on their heads, and those that had been on the lower right were now on the upper left and vice versa. In addition, the cursor went up when I moved it down and right when I moved it left and vice versa. What a mess! The ever-polite, young man from New Dehli and I chitchatted during down times when diagnostics were running on my slow PC. He told me about his sweetheart and his studies to improve his lot in life, and I told him about my dog (which he could see, through screen sharing, on my desktop), my line of work, and the cost of living here.
I asked him what would a one-bedroom apartment in New Dehli go for in a decent, working person's neighborhood. Not a fancy neigborhood, but not one where you could expect to have a gun pointed at your head either. He said 8,000-9,000 rupees. I looked that up on a currency converter. On that day, it meant that my $1,020 apartment would rent for $188 in New Dehli. I pay 5 1/2 times what he pays for a place to lie his head. How is an American writer supposed to compete with Indian writers who are paying so much less for their necessities?
America, long seen as the land of opportunity and of freedom, had to be brought to its knees by the globalists. That has been their aim for the last 30 years, duing which time there has been
* a major redistribution of wealth from the already poor and the middle class to the super-rich;
* the offshoring of good-paying manufacturing and service jobs;
* an at-first slowly encroaching and now rapidly expanding police state with all its surveillance apparatus and unconstitutional manuevers;
* the government- and corporate-engineered decline of the dollar against other currencies;
* the orchestrated boons and busts of the dot com, stocks, housing, and commodities markets;
* the uncontrolled federal, state, and personal credit debts;
* the destruction of unions that once helped to keep tariffs intact and wages high;
* the wholesale sellout of the corporate mainstream media, as well as much of public media, to their corporate and government masters;
* the robbing of Social Security, which was designed to be self-supporting and separate from the federal budget;
* the ungodly amount of money American taxpayers have been saddled with because of savings and loans, bank, and other bailouts, and corporation-serving, otherwise-meaningless wars; and
In the New World Order of all countries under the overarching iron fist of corporatism, America was seen as a threat, and so the global elite have done all in their power to make the American public stupid, lazy, disenfranchised, disheartened, fearful, confused, and misinformed. The final blow has not yet been delivered.
There still is time, and people are finally beginning to wake up to things I saw 44 years ago, when, as an 8-year-old girl, I had a vision that someday, America would become a dictatorship. There is still a little bit of time left before the final death knell is sounded to the Constitution. Wake up, folks, and start looking for the truth yourself and not listening to the government or its corporate sponsors.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
What am I to do About "The Crash"?
Everywhere I look, I see portends of the impending crash of civilization. I'm not talking about a biblical end of the world but a very human-engineered end. I just don't see how we can avoid total economic collapse, total environmental collapse, total oil collapse or all three.The system cannot hold. Need I count the ways for you?
* creeping fascism, surveillance, and the erosion of freedom in the U.S. and other developed countries
* unending, meaningless wars that the populace opposes but which cater to the greed of banksters and defense contractors
* globalization and so-called free trade that benefits no one but the multi-national corporations and the elites that control them
* an exploding population and diminishing resources
* governments and media that lie to the people over and over again (9/11, the "death" of Osama bin Laden, the "safety" of nuclear power, vaccinations, genetically modified food, radiation, pharmaceuticals, fish from the Gulf oil spill, on and on)
* skyrocketing government and personal debt
* widening gap between super-rich and the rest of us
* declining wages
* rising prices
* increased demand for oil, diminishing reserves
* governments that are beholden to business interests not to the people
* the stealing of elections
* the declining dollar
OK, that's enough. You can fill in the other hundred or so reasons for concerns.
So, the post-crash world will be fine for the young, the strong, the healthy, the landed, and the partnered (spouse or friend), but not so great for the aging, the weak, the ill, the renters, and the single.
For the rest of us, we'll just have to:
* Live fully in the here and now.
* Be good to our neighbors, our family, and our friends.
* Work at building community and relationships with the people who live in our surroundings.
* As much as possible, prepare for the crash as we would prepare for an earthquake. Store water, non-perishables, books, meds, matches, a camp stove, fuel (safely, of course), comfortable clothes, blankets, a deck of cards, paper and pens, and toilet paper. There are more things too, but you can check with any emergency preparedness site for more info.
* Prepare for the big changes that are coming, but don't give into fear. Fear never does any good.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Osama bin Laden, the Dialysis Patient
Here, for example, is an article by the respected British newspaper the Guardian about Osama getting a portable dialysis machine in late 2001. This same article states what has already been reported elsewhere: that Osama was visited by the CIA while hospitalized in July 2001 in Dubai. The New York Times reported that Osama died in December 2001. For extensive links to credible reports of bin Laden's death in 2001, see this site.
Now the American spin doctors--aka American mainstream media--are attempting to cover their tracks, stating that Osama's dialysis is one of the "myths" about him. I love this report from ABC News, which states that there was no evidence of dialysis treatments at the Pakistan compound where Osama was "killed." Well, OK, that could mean one of two things: 1) Osama was not on dialysis, and he was killed a few weeks ago, or 2) Osama may have been on dialysis, but the man who was killed a few weeks ago was not Osama. Guess which one I'm banking on?
Saturday, May 14, 2011
News to Me: Blogspot is a Christian Hangout
In the years since I started this blog, I never before hit the "Next Blog" tab...until tonight. What an awakening! I must have scrolled through 40 of the next blogs. This was the run-down: 90 percent Christian-themed, 5 percent for family and friends only (we had pizza for lunch, Jenny took her first step, that kind of stuff), and 5 percent disease-oriented.
Granted, there must be thousands of blogs on this site, maybe tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands, who knows. And maybe I just happen to be in a Christian zone. I always thought the "next blog" was arranged alphabetically, but it must be based on date of inception or number of visitors or something else.
I don't really fit in very well with my neighbors, as I discuss a lot of things they wouldn't think to cover, like the ridiculous stories the government tells us about 9/11 and the death of Osama bin Laden. I can't imagine any of the Christian blogs questioning authority. Actually, Meister Eckhart, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King Jr., and Matthew Fox are the only Christians that I can think of off the top of my head who have questioned authority.
Oh, well, I'll leave it to you, dear readers, to bring more visitors to Heidi's heart.
Granted, there must be thousands of blogs on this site, maybe tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands, who knows. And maybe I just happen to be in a Christian zone. I always thought the "next blog" was arranged alphabetically, but it must be based on date of inception or number of visitors or something else.
I don't really fit in very well with my neighbors, as I discuss a lot of things they wouldn't think to cover, like the ridiculous stories the government tells us about 9/11 and the death of Osama bin Laden. I can't imagine any of the Christian blogs questioning authority. Actually, Meister Eckhart, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King Jr., and Matthew Fox are the only Christians that I can think of off the top of my head who have questioned authority.
Oh, well, I'll leave it to you, dear readers, to bring more visitors to Heidi's heart.
Third World Wages, First World Prices
One field in which the work world has drastically changed is writing. From the late '80s through the late '90s, I was often making $100/hour for writing magazine articles and corporate newsletters, and as much as $90/hour for editing. Today on craigslist.com, writers can make $5-$10 for a 1,500-word "thoroughly researched" article. For those of you who aren't writers, this would take between 15 and 25 hours of work, at between 20 and 67 cents/hour, well below the federal minimum wage of $7.25/hr. and the California minimum wage of $8.
I recently met up with a former student of mine while I was walking my dog in the neighborhood. Daniel said that I should check out elance.com, the site at which he gets all his work. He has been working through this site for years. He admitted that when he started out, he was shocked at how little he was making, as he was competing against English-speakers throughout the world, many of whom in countries where $150 went 20 or more times farther than it does here. After many years, though, he said that clients come back to him because they like the work he does and they will pay what he's worth. I checked it out.
Like many such sites, elance talent bids for work. You can buy into different plans--five bids per month for free, then the fees increase, depending on the number of bids you wish to submit. In addition to this, elance takes 6.75-8.75 percent of your earnings, the highest percentage going to those contractors who have the least amount of work--boy, isn't that the way the world works! The jobs I've seen so far have been abysmal. Twenty 400-word articles with synopses for less than $500 (the maximum bid). Back in the day, I could make that much for two articles. On a good day, maybe even one.
This wouldn't all be so bad if prices had gone down in the past couple decades, but that sure has not happened. As anyone who has ever shopped for his or her own food knows, the cost of living has skyrocketed. The Bureau of Labor Statistics, the government agency that calculates the Consumer Price Index (CPI), claims that prices have increased by 277 percent since 1980. That, however, is quite deceiving, as the BLS reconfigured the way it calculates the CPI back in 1980. Instead of sticking to the things that everyone needs to survive, like food, housing, medical care, transportation, and clothes, the BLS started to throw in items that you either don't need or you can certainly do without, things like iPads. Because, as has been the case throughout history, when a new technology first hits the scene, it's expensive, but as time goes on and consumers are buying more of the thing and the cost of producing the thing decreases and there's more competition in the marketplace, the price to consumers also decreases. But a lot of these items are durable, which means you don't buy them every week or even every year. They're not like a loaf of bread or a pound of beans. If you look at the real inflation rate from 1980 to 2011, it's more like 1,110 percent.
I can vouch for a much-higher inflation rate than the government reports. My first apartment in 1977 was a cute one-bedroom that rented for $175/month. When I got married in 1978, we rented a much bigger place with built-in mahogany bookcases, a walk-in pantry, two bedrooms, and a sun room that was glass on three sides. This was $300. The place I'm in now is a small one-bedroom that is poorly maintained by the landlord. The railing on my porch is termite-ridden and falling down. Many of the exterior boards are either cracked or not flush, allowing rodents to come in from time to time. It's easy to see the structural damage in this 1920s-era house, of which I rent the back half for $1,020. Though we aren't comparing apples to apples, as my first apartment was much better maintained, yet the percentage increase is 483. I have no basis for comparing medical costs, as I have always had some sort of insurance, but these costs certainly go well beyond the government CPI.
Food prices are even more shocking. Currently, I'm paying up to $3.99 for a single bell pepper, a little more than $4 for a gallon of milk, close to $4 for a loaf of bread, and almost $5 for a dozen eggs. Working for 20-67 cents an hour, I could spend two days earning enough to buy my breakfast.
This brings the point home of what globalization has done. It's drastically lowered wages and the buying power of the American consumer, while taking overseas what once were well-paying jobs. And yet the cost of living continues to climb. My competitors for writing jobs are in places where the cost of living is a whole lot cheaper than it is here. I can't imagine, for example, that a small, poorly maintained one-bedroom apartment in a town in Bangladesh or a village in Mali rents for $1,020/month. For someone in these circumstances, writing 20 articles for less than $500 is no doubt a boondoggle.
I recently met up with a former student of mine while I was walking my dog in the neighborhood. Daniel said that I should check out elance.com, the site at which he gets all his work. He has been working through this site for years. He admitted that when he started out, he was shocked at how little he was making, as he was competing against English-speakers throughout the world, many of whom in countries where $150 went 20 or more times farther than it does here. After many years, though, he said that clients come back to him because they like the work he does and they will pay what he's worth. I checked it out.
Like many such sites, elance talent bids for work. You can buy into different plans--five bids per month for free, then the fees increase, depending on the number of bids you wish to submit. In addition to this, elance takes 6.75-8.75 percent of your earnings, the highest percentage going to those contractors who have the least amount of work--boy, isn't that the way the world works! The jobs I've seen so far have been abysmal. Twenty 400-word articles with synopses for less than $500 (the maximum bid). Back in the day, I could make that much for two articles. On a good day, maybe even one.
This wouldn't all be so bad if prices had gone down in the past couple decades, but that sure has not happened. As anyone who has ever shopped for his or her own food knows, the cost of living has skyrocketed. The Bureau of Labor Statistics, the government agency that calculates the Consumer Price Index (CPI), claims that prices have increased by 277 percent since 1980. That, however, is quite deceiving, as the BLS reconfigured the way it calculates the CPI back in 1980. Instead of sticking to the things that everyone needs to survive, like food, housing, medical care, transportation, and clothes, the BLS started to throw in items that you either don't need or you can certainly do without, things like iPads. Because, as has been the case throughout history, when a new technology first hits the scene, it's expensive, but as time goes on and consumers are buying more of the thing and the cost of producing the thing decreases and there's more competition in the marketplace, the price to consumers also decreases. But a lot of these items are durable, which means you don't buy them every week or even every year. They're not like a loaf of bread or a pound of beans. If you look at the real inflation rate from 1980 to 2011, it's more like 1,110 percent.
I can vouch for a much-higher inflation rate than the government reports. My first apartment in 1977 was a cute one-bedroom that rented for $175/month. When I got married in 1978, we rented a much bigger place with built-in mahogany bookcases, a walk-in pantry, two bedrooms, and a sun room that was glass on three sides. This was $300. The place I'm in now is a small one-bedroom that is poorly maintained by the landlord. The railing on my porch is termite-ridden and falling down. Many of the exterior boards are either cracked or not flush, allowing rodents to come in from time to time. It's easy to see the structural damage in this 1920s-era house, of which I rent the back half for $1,020. Though we aren't comparing apples to apples, as my first apartment was much better maintained, yet the percentage increase is 483. I have no basis for comparing medical costs, as I have always had some sort of insurance, but these costs certainly go well beyond the government CPI.
Food prices are even more shocking. Currently, I'm paying up to $3.99 for a single bell pepper, a little more than $4 for a gallon of milk, close to $4 for a loaf of bread, and almost $5 for a dozen eggs. Working for 20-67 cents an hour, I could spend two days earning enough to buy my breakfast.
This brings the point home of what globalization has done. It's drastically lowered wages and the buying power of the American consumer, while taking overseas what once were well-paying jobs. And yet the cost of living continues to climb. My competitors for writing jobs are in places where the cost of living is a whole lot cheaper than it is here. I can't imagine, for example, that a small, poorly maintained one-bedroom apartment in a town in Bangladesh or a village in Mali rents for $1,020/month. For someone in these circumstances, writing 20 articles for less than $500 is no doubt a boondoggle.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
A More Encompassing View of Motherhood
On this Mother's Day, my hope is that all women and their individual decisions regarding children will be honored and respected. Mothering and motherhood manifest in so many ways that go well beyond the narrow view of giving physical birth.
The woman who lovingly cares for animals or for her garden, the one who brings in homemade baked goods for her coworkers, the gal who remembers her friends' birthdays with cards and calls, the woman who has a deep connection with nature or who works for peace and justice or is a counselor, a therapist, a doctor, a nurse, an acupuncturist, a teacher, or a massage therapist--all these women manifest the loving, nurturing qualities of a good mother.
I'm sure that today many women who do not have children are feeling down. As I have often felt on Valentine's Day, they feel that everyone else but them has been invited to a huge party. Just as the unloved (at least in a romantic sense) are uninvited to the Valentine's Day party, childless women are left out of the Mother's Day celebrations, especially after their own mothers have died. Up until that time, the focus is on the women who gave birth to them, but once they're gone, the focus then shifts to themselves.
Of course, some women are happy with their decision not to have children, but others may have wanted children but never found the right person with whom to have them or were physically unable to conceive. To these women and to society as a whole, I say, Expand your notion of motherhood.
The world could certainly do with more nurturing, caring, loving, attending, healing, helping, guiding, and nourishing. And not simply from biological mothers but from everyone, female and male, of child-bearing years or not. Just think how dramatically life on this planet would change if we all went out into the world beaming love at the world as a mother beams love at her child. And if we cared about each person we met with the concern and consideration that a mother gives to her child.
If each one of us acted as good mothers every day, I can't see how we would ever tolerate the destruction of the rainforests or the drumbeat to war or the imprisonment of the innocent or the torture of the never-brought-to-trial. Also, like a mother, we would insist on punishment and correction if the world strayed. If we looked at banksters, for example, as a mother would look at a child who has committed serious wrongs, we would not allow them to continue their evil work. We would insist that they take a time-out or we'd take away all their toys and privileges. Wouldn't that be fantastic--a time-out from unchecked greed and the ungodly wealthy deprived of their toys and privileges! Now that's the kind of mothering banksters need!
I'm sure that today many women who do not have children are feeling down. As I have often felt on Valentine's Day, they feel that everyone else but them has been invited to a huge party. Just as the unloved (at least in a romantic sense) are uninvited to the Valentine's Day party, childless women are left out of the Mother's Day celebrations, especially after their own mothers have died. Up until that time, the focus is on the women who gave birth to them, but once they're gone, the focus then shifts to themselves.
The world could certainly do with more nurturing, caring, loving, attending, healing, helping, guiding, and nourishing. And not simply from biological mothers but from everyone, female and male, of child-bearing years or not. Just think how dramatically life on this planet would change if we all went out into the world beaming love at the world as a mother beams love at her child. And if we cared about each person we met with the concern and consideration that a mother gives to her child.
So Many of my Female Friends Are Childless
As I was going through my phone list today, searching for friends to whom I could wish a happy Mother's Day, I realized that somewhere around 90 percent of my female friends don't have children. This would not be so remarkable if they were in their teens or twenties, but they're in their late 40s to late 70s.
The rate of childlessness among my friends is much higher than the norm, which now stands at 20 percent for women aged 40-44. According to a June 2010 Pew Research Center study, this is double the rate in 1970, when only one in 10 women beyond child-bearing years was childless. Granted, this study only concerns itself with biological mothers, not adoptive or stepmothers. One does not have to physically give birth to a child to be a mother, but this study only looked at those who did give birth.
As is as to be expected, women with at least a bachelor's degree are more likely to be childless than those with no college degree. For more educated women, the rate of childlessness rises from one in five overall to one in four. White women are more likely to be childless, but rates of childlessness are rising among blacks and Latinas.
One would think that a key reason for increasing rates of childlessness is society's greater tolerance of women who either cannot or choose not to have children. Surprisingly, this is not the case. According to the Pew report, although "about half the public -- 46% in a 2009 Pew Research Center poll -- say it makes no difference one way or the other that a growing share of women do not ever have children, Ssill, a notable share of Americans -- 38% in that 2009 survey -- say this trend is bad for society, an increase from 29% in a 2007 Pew Research survey."
Once again, we are a divided society. Nearly half seem to say it's no one's business but the woman's and her partner's, while almost as many feel childlessness is wrong. I am sorry that so many people feel it is their business to judge another's life path. What a wonderful day it will be when everyone will feel free to fully and completely pursue their own inner vision of their destiny, with or without children.
The rate of childlessness among my friends is much higher than the norm, which now stands at 20 percent for women aged 40-44. According to a June 2010 Pew Research Center study, this is double the rate in 1970, when only one in 10 women beyond child-bearing years was childless. Granted, this study only concerns itself with biological mothers, not adoptive or stepmothers. One does not have to physically give birth to a child to be a mother, but this study only looked at those who did give birth.
As is as to be expected, women with at least a bachelor's degree are more likely to be childless than those with no college degree. For more educated women, the rate of childlessness rises from one in five overall to one in four. White women are more likely to be childless, but rates of childlessness are rising among blacks and Latinas.
One would think that a key reason for increasing rates of childlessness is society's greater tolerance of women who either cannot or choose not to have children. Surprisingly, this is not the case. According to the Pew report, although "about half the public -- 46% in a 2009 Pew Research Center poll -- say it makes no difference one way or the other that a growing share of women do not ever have children, Ssill, a notable share of Americans -- 38% in that 2009 survey -- say this trend is bad for society, an increase from 29% in a 2007 Pew Research survey."
Once again, we are a divided society. Nearly half seem to say it's no one's business but the woman's and her partner's, while almost as many feel childlessness is wrong. I am sorry that so many people feel it is their business to judge another's life path. What a wonderful day it will be when everyone will feel free to fully and completely pursue their own inner vision of their destiny, with or without children.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Paint Your Heart Out
I'm healthy enough to begin volunteering again. Today was my first time back with the meetup.com volunteer group with which I've helped serve breakfast to the homeless, cared for trees in a regional park, and taken a hike with the blind. Today I did some painting for two low-income elderly women through an organization called Paint Your Heart Out.
I arrived at the mobile home park about 8 a.m., the appointed meeting time. I drove about but could only find a group from Target, which was also involved in the Paint Your Heart Out event. I finally located one of the homes that the meetup group was to paint and knocked on the door. A delightful Italian woman--the 90-year-old by the name of Toni--answered the door and invited me in, then made a cup of coffee for me.
Toni's story is typical of many seniors. They bought their houses years ago when prices were cheap and have paid them off, but their living expenses are barely covered by Social Security. Medicare doesn't pay the full bill, so they have hundreds of dollars of uncovered medical expenses each month. In a mobile home park, they may own the home itself outright, but they have to pay a maintenance fee, in Toni's case, it's $700/month, what I consider quite high. So to make a long story short, though she's living in a decent place in a decent neighborhood, she has no money for anything other than food, taxes, medical bills, and car expenses. The last time she had a crew come out and do the painting that we did today, she had to pay $500. So she was very grateful for our help and served us homemade chocolate cupcakes for dessert. (Pizza was provided free of charge to volunteers by a local pizza place.)
I did most of my work, however, at the home of an equally cute 79-year-old named Sonya. She did not interact with us as much as Toni did, though she too was grateful and pleasant. Minthu (pronounced minn tu), a Vietnamese woman about my age, worked alongside me at Sonya's mobile home. We hosed down the outside of her home, then primed her back railing and painted it the same color as her home, a light peach. John, Adrian, and Wiseman, the organizer, painted the eaves on both homes.
Sonya had a shelf that must have been sitting outside for decades. It was covered in dirt. She asked that we paint it. A few of us had a go at cleaning it. I even used the power setting on the garden hose. All to no avail. We left that job undone.
Since I have to be careful about dust and contaminants, I wore a mask the entire day except while eating lunch or taking a water break. I don't want to do anything to damage Pinkie, my new kidney.
At one point during the day, John and I drove to another location to help a Starbucks work group. They were at a hoarder's house, cutting down a bouganvilla bush that had overtaken one side of the house. John and I went with the woman of the house into the backyard and attempted to hide our horror at what we saw. Piles of newspaper that had been left outside for years. Mountains of empty plastic bottles. Machinery that may have worked some time in the past but were now missing multiple parts and had been rusted through and through. Too many odd things for my mind to fully grasp with such a brief look. We politely told the woman that we didn't have the equipment to do the job right now. Through the windows, we could see that stuff was piled to the ceiling. Hoarding is a not-uncommon disorder in America.
I really like the people who volunteer for these meetup events. They tend to be young and enthusiastic. I like their energy. I encourage all to get involved with their communities. It's a far better way to save the world than getting involved with politics. Isn't that the truth!
I arrived at the mobile home park about 8 a.m., the appointed meeting time. I drove about but could only find a group from Target, which was also involved in the Paint Your Heart Out event. I finally located one of the homes that the meetup group was to paint and knocked on the door. A delightful Italian woman--the 90-year-old by the name of Toni--answered the door and invited me in, then made a cup of coffee for me.
Sonya had a shelf that must have been sitting outside for decades. It was covered in dirt. She asked that we paint it. A few of us had a go at cleaning it. I even used the power setting on the garden hose. All to no avail. We left that job undone.
Since I have to be careful about dust and contaminants, I wore a mask the entire day except while eating lunch or taking a water break. I don't want to do anything to damage Pinkie, my new kidney.
I really like the people who volunteer for these meetup events. They tend to be young and enthusiastic. I like their energy. I encourage all to get involved with their communities. It's a far better way to save the world than getting involved with politics. Isn't that the truth!
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Whom Would I Love to Meet?
The Dalai Lama was in Long Beach this past weekend. My dear neighbor and friend bought a ticket for me to attend his talk. On the day of the event, he had a sore throat and had to cancel. Later my friend, who had been a key volunteer in facilitating his stay in Long Beach, had been given a last-minute invitation to see the Dalai Lama for a group blessing. She either arrived too late or wasn't sure where to go, but in any event, she missed. out. As the Dalai Lama is to her like Jesus is to many Christians, this was a big disappointment.
All this made me wonder: Who would I feel bad about not meeting if the opportunity arose? I couldn't come up with anyone. Simply shaking hands or saying hello doesn't interest me. If, however, the person had time to have a good conversation over a cup of coffee, well, then I could think of a lot of people I'd like to chat with. But simply being in the same room holds little appeal.
When I gave the subject some more thought, I realized that the only being I would really hate to miss is an ET. That's right, if someone called me right now and said, "Heidi, hurry over to the football field. A huge flying saucer is going to land, and they want you to come on board and spend a few days," and I missed that opportunity, I'd really be bummed.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
Nightmares Not Scary
For the last decade or so, nightmares have not scared me. Whereas when I was a child or young adult, I frequently had nightmares, I now rarely do. But when I do, they do not frighten me.
In the past few years, I've had dreams of ghosts, ghouls, pursuit by demons and murderers, dark forces lurking in abandoned buildings and near-brushes with death. But each time, I felt no fear. It is as if I am simply observing, just as one would observe a beautiful sunset, a curious dog, or an inert pile of garbage. I sometimes wake up, but I am not sweating, my heart is not pounding, and I don't pull the sheets over my head to "protect" me from the Boogie Man. I just wake up, think, "Wasn't that something!" and drop back to sleep. No problem.
A few weeks ago, I dreamed that I had gotten somehow involved with a criminal gang of hillbillies, not that I ever realized there were such things as hillbilly gangs. The hillbillies' rivals were a crime syndicate of well-dressed, sophisticated, young Iranian women in traditional dress. They had an apartment that overlooked the hillbilly hide-out, and so they peered out their second-story windows at us.
One of the hillbilly gals was pregnant--or was she? She was feigning pregnancy but actually had a tummy full of stolen cash--cash that had been taken perhaps from the Iranians. Though I wasn't involved in any criminal activity, I agreed to drive the "pregnant" woman and her fiance to the hospital, where a doctor was to perform surgery and remove the cash. I witnessed the surgery, which actually took place at a small motel, rather than a hospital. The whole business was quite sloppy and brutal, but the patient was in fairly good condition when she and her fiance entered the back of the van that I drove.
As we were exiting the motel parking lot, a hired gun for the Iranians (I assumed) stood in front of the van and fired three shots, all three of which were direct hits, the final one to my head. The action then stopped, and the dream took place inside my consciousness. I thought, "I must remain perfectly still so he'll believe that I am dead." That's when I woke up. The closest I've ever come to dying in a dream. But I was not at all scared. I found it fascinating from an intellectual standpoint, that's all.
In the past few years, I've had dreams of ghosts, ghouls, pursuit by demons and murderers, dark forces lurking in abandoned buildings and near-brushes with death. But each time, I felt no fear. It is as if I am simply observing, just as one would observe a beautiful sunset, a curious dog, or an inert pile of garbage. I sometimes wake up, but I am not sweating, my heart is not pounding, and I don't pull the sheets over my head to "protect" me from the Boogie Man. I just wake up, think, "Wasn't that something!" and drop back to sleep. No problem.
A few weeks ago, I dreamed that I had gotten somehow involved with a criminal gang of hillbillies, not that I ever realized there were such things as hillbilly gangs. The hillbillies' rivals were a crime syndicate of well-dressed, sophisticated, young Iranian women in traditional dress. They had an apartment that overlooked the hillbilly hide-out, and so they peered out their second-story windows at us.
One of the hillbilly gals was pregnant--or was she? She was feigning pregnancy but actually had a tummy full of stolen cash--cash that had been taken perhaps from the Iranians. Though I wasn't involved in any criminal activity, I agreed to drive the "pregnant" woman and her fiance to the hospital, where a doctor was to perform surgery and remove the cash. I witnessed the surgery, which actually took place at a small motel, rather than a hospital. The whole business was quite sloppy and brutal, but the patient was in fairly good condition when she and her fiance entered the back of the van that I drove.
As we were exiting the motel parking lot, a hired gun for the Iranians (I assumed) stood in front of the van and fired three shots, all three of which were direct hits, the final one to my head. The action then stopped, and the dream took place inside my consciousness. I thought, "I must remain perfectly still so he'll believe that I am dead." That's when I woke up. The closest I've ever come to dying in a dream. But I was not at all scared. I found it fascinating from an intellectual standpoint, that's all.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Osama Brought to Judgment, Not Justice
Osama bin Laden is supposedly dead. Hmmm... Interesting that his body was tossed out to sea. Convenient, isn't it? Reminds me of the cleanup jobs at Oklahoma City and 9/11. Get rid of the evidence as soon as possbile.
For the record, I am sure that bin Laden had something to do with 9/11, so I don't believe he's a good guy. If you want to read a really detailed and insightful book about 9/11, I suggest Michael Ruppert's 600-page, 1,000-footnote "Crossing the Rubicon: The Decline of the American Empire at the End of the Age of Oil." There's a much stronger case to be made against former Vice President Dick Cheney as the mastermind of 9/11 than there is against Osama bin Laden.
I listened to what little coverage of the assassination that I could handle. I found it ironic that commentators talked of the innocents who died on 9/11, but they made no mention of the innocents within the bin Laden compound, specifically, the women who allegedly were used as human shields.
I found it disturbing how often journalists said bin Laden had been "brought to justice." I always thought this meant that someone stands trial and is either convicted and sentenced or found innocent and allowed to go free. But I guess that, too, is changing. Now "brought to justice" means that the government determines your guilt and blows you away without a trial. Is this a new precedent?
On "Bloomberg Market Minute" the reporter said that the markets had gotten a boost with the news that Obama was dead, but then went back down because he's old news and is not all that important to give the stock market a lasting boost. Again, strange to hear a man's death discussed in terms of a temporary asset. I wonder if, at this very moment, Wall Street banksters are wondering, "Whose death would push the market up or down, in our favor, of course?"
The simple truth is that, like Manuel Noriega and Saddham Hussein, Osama bin Laden outlived his usefulness and had to be silenced by prison or death. If the guy would have been captured and put on trial, just imagine what secrets he would have divulged. I seriously can't see him saying to the judge and jury, "You're right. It was 19 of my men, armed with box cutters, who foiled the entire U.S. military forces, intelligence agencies, and air transportation system." In the event of a real Osama trial that was open to the public, we'd all be calling for Dick Cheney to "be brought to justice."
For the record, I am sure that bin Laden had something to do with 9/11, so I don't believe he's a good guy. If you want to read a really detailed and insightful book about 9/11, I suggest Michael Ruppert's 600-page, 1,000-footnote "Crossing the Rubicon: The Decline of the American Empire at the End of the Age of Oil." There's a much stronger case to be made against former Vice President Dick Cheney as the mastermind of 9/11 than there is against Osama bin Laden.
I listened to what little coverage of the assassination that I could handle. I found it ironic that commentators talked of the innocents who died on 9/11, but they made no mention of the innocents within the bin Laden compound, specifically, the women who allegedly were used as human shields.
I found it disturbing how often journalists said bin Laden had been "brought to justice." I always thought this meant that someone stands trial and is either convicted and sentenced or found innocent and allowed to go free. But I guess that, too, is changing. Now "brought to justice" means that the government determines your guilt and blows you away without a trial. Is this a new precedent?
On "Bloomberg Market Minute" the reporter said that the markets had gotten a boost with the news that Obama was dead, but then went back down because he's old news and is not all that important to give the stock market a lasting boost. Again, strange to hear a man's death discussed in terms of a temporary asset. I wonder if, at this very moment, Wall Street banksters are wondering, "Whose death would push the market up or down, in our favor, of course?"
The simple truth is that, like Manuel Noriega and Saddham Hussein, Osama bin Laden outlived his usefulness and had to be silenced by prison or death. If the guy would have been captured and put on trial, just imagine what secrets he would have divulged. I seriously can't see him saying to the judge and jury, "You're right. It was 19 of my men, armed with box cutters, who foiled the entire U.S. military forces, intelligence agencies, and air transportation system." In the event of a real Osama trial that was open to the public, we'd all be calling for Dick Cheney to "be brought to justice."
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Article About Kidney Donor Chain
The following article was written by a young woman who contacted me via this blog. Though I twice offered to talk with her about my experience, she didn't call.
Two corrections: I am a former journalism, not English, professor. My neighbor Janet took the photo, not me. She should receive the credit. Other than this, Gabrielle did a very good job of discussing the process.
I had queried several publications about my experience, but none wanted a first-person piece, so I'm glad that our story got out anyway.
Local Woman Saves Lives Through Kidney Donation Chain
by Gabrielle Moreira
Ventura County Star
Posted April 29, 2011 at 9:16 p.m., updated April 29, 2011 at 9:16 p.m.
.This story is contributed by a member of the Ventura community and is neither endorsed nor affiliated with Ventura County Star
www.heidisheart.blogspot.com - permission from Heidi
Brandie Pabustan (sitting) with Heidi (standing) during their recovery at the UCLA Medical Center.
Brandie Pabustan was just a few days away from donating one of her kidneys to her husband, Conrad, when doctors called off the surgery.
Brandie’s blood type made her a good match for Conrad and her great health made her an ideal candidate to be a donor.
But it came as an unwelcome surprise when doctors told them during their final blood test that Conrad’s disease-fighting antibodies had started attacking Brandie’s blood, making it all but impossible to move forward with the operation.
“We walked out of there thinking, ‘Great we’re back at square one,’” said Brandie, 35, of Newbury Park.
Brandie then learned about the Kidney Exchange Program at the UCLA Medical Center that would still allow her to help someone and find her husband a new kidney.
The relatively new program searches through the National Kidney Registry, which is the largest registry of its kind in the country, to find matches for the recipient and the donor. A donor is given a match by a recipient who has a friend or family member willing to donate on the patient’s behalf. This process creates a life-saving chain of donors and medically compatible kidney recipients.
The Kidney Exchange program was created in Ohio by Michael Rees, a professor at the University of Toledo. UCLA began its program in 2007 and, to date, has completed about 50 exchanges. Dr. Jeffery Veale, the program’s director, was the first doctor to perform these kidney chains in the west.
“One-third of people are in Brandie and Conrad’s situation, where they have someone willing to donate a kidney, but they’re incompatible.” says Veale. “The great potential of this program is that we’re able to reduce the people on the [deceased donor] waiting list and expand the living donor pool by 33 percent.”
Before Conrad, now 35, received his kidney, he was on a costly and draining process called dialysis that replicates the functions of a healthy kidney. He also was waiting on the “deceased donor list” where kidneys are harvested from cadavers, and the average wait time is eight to 10 years, depending on the donor’s blood type.
“It’s tiring after a while. Your entire life is basically on hold. In order to travel you have to schedule something months in advance at a dialysis center,” said Brandie, who recently experienced the pitfalls of traveling with someone on dialysis. Late last year, she and Conrad had their wedding in Vegas and had to schedule the entire event around his treatments.
Brandie knew that the dialysis was taking a toll on her husband, especially on days before his treatment. She’d find him tired and not feeling like himself. She knew he needed a transplant as soon as possible and ignored his requests to drop the idea. He was worried about her health and she wanted him to get healthy.
“My main concern was if I’d be able to get pregnant. Doctor’s said, ‘No Problem.’” she said. “Then I asked, ‘What if I get cancer?’ and they again said, ‘No problem. Just be healthy, don’t get crazy, don’t eat badly, and don’t play any contact sports’ – which I don’t do anyways.”
With minimal risks involved and a healthy pregnancy still possible, Brandie and Conrad enrolled in the exchange program and began a series of physical, medical and psychiatric tests to evaluate her overall health.
“You have to be extremely healthy. They run a battery of tests on you.” she said. “Regardless of the outcome, I was going to help him.”
Before long she received a call from the medical center about a match for Conrad and a recipient. Brandie’s kidney recipient, only known by her first name, Heidi, is a retired English university professor who received dialysis at the UCLA center and enrolled in the program with her neighbor, who donated on her behalf.
In December 2010, Brandie prepared for her surgery while Conrad was at UCLA undergoing his kidney transplant. His new organ was coming from a man named Albert Scholemer of Pittsburg, PA, who wasn’t donating on anyone’s behalf and simply wanted to save another person’s life.
Two days before, Brandie had started a liquid diet and now, with only hours before her surgery, drank two bottles of citrate magnesium, a saline laxative, to completely clean out her system.
The day of surgery she checked into the medical center and received a laparoscopic surgery that requires several small incisions to allow for a shorter hospital stay and recovery period. For most patients, their hospital stay is 24 to 48 hours, with a recovery period of six to eight weeks. This wasn’t the case for Brandie.
After the anesthesia began to wear off, she felt a throbbing pain from the left side of her back through the lower half of her abdomen and had to be placed on an I.V.
“They didn’t want to put me on an I.V. so that I could go home the next day, but my stomach was empty and I couldn’t take down any of the Vicodin they gave me,” she recalled. “I was throwing it all up.”
Her stay at the hospital was about five days and her recovery period took about seven to eight weeks. Heidi and her neighbor visited Brandie when she was in the hospital and thanked her for donating her kidney. Heidi’s neighbor continued the donor chain by giving one of her kidneys to a recipient on the east coast.
While live donations are a more efficient and safer way to help a person with kidney disease, the average kidney lasts 18 years because there are no “perfect matches,” unless patients have a healthy identical twin willing to donate. When asked how he feels about the chance of another transplant, Conrad simply replied, “This was my second surgery – I’m used to it.”
Brandie hopes that the program and her story will encourage others going through similar situations to participate in live donations so people with kidney disease can experience a longer and more fulfilling life.
“You can miss out on so much,” Brandie said. “Just having a normal life – being able to eat, drink, or do whatever you want.”
This story is contributed by a member of the Ventura community and is neither endorsed nor affiliated with Ventura County Star.
Two corrections: I am a former journalism, not English, professor. My neighbor Janet took the photo, not me. She should receive the credit. Other than this, Gabrielle did a very good job of discussing the process.
I had queried several publications about my experience, but none wanted a first-person piece, so I'm glad that our story got out anyway.
Local Woman Saves Lives Through Kidney Donation Chain
by Gabrielle Moreira
Ventura County Star
Posted April 29, 2011 at 9:16 p.m., updated April 29, 2011 at 9:16 p.m.
.This story is contributed by a member of the Ventura community and is neither endorsed nor affiliated with Ventura County Star
Brandie Pabustan (sitting) with Heidi (standing) during their recovery at the UCLA Medical Center.
Brandie Pabustan was just a few days away from donating one of her kidneys to her husband, Conrad, when doctors called off the surgery.
Brandie’s blood type made her a good match for Conrad and her great health made her an ideal candidate to be a donor.
But it came as an unwelcome surprise when doctors told them during their final blood test that Conrad’s disease-fighting antibodies had started attacking Brandie’s blood, making it all but impossible to move forward with the operation.
“We walked out of there thinking, ‘Great we’re back at square one,’” said Brandie, 35, of Newbury Park.
Brandie then learned about the Kidney Exchange Program at the UCLA Medical Center that would still allow her to help someone and find her husband a new kidney.
The relatively new program searches through the National Kidney Registry, which is the largest registry of its kind in the country, to find matches for the recipient and the donor. A donor is given a match by a recipient who has a friend or family member willing to donate on the patient’s behalf. This process creates a life-saving chain of donors and medically compatible kidney recipients.
The Kidney Exchange program was created in Ohio by Michael Rees, a professor at the University of Toledo. UCLA began its program in 2007 and, to date, has completed about 50 exchanges. Dr. Jeffery Veale, the program’s director, was the first doctor to perform these kidney chains in the west.
“One-third of people are in Brandie and Conrad’s situation, where they have someone willing to donate a kidney, but they’re incompatible.” says Veale. “The great potential of this program is that we’re able to reduce the people on the [deceased donor] waiting list and expand the living donor pool by 33 percent.”
Before Conrad, now 35, received his kidney, he was on a costly and draining process called dialysis that replicates the functions of a healthy kidney. He also was waiting on the “deceased donor list” where kidneys are harvested from cadavers, and the average wait time is eight to 10 years, depending on the donor’s blood type.
“It’s tiring after a while. Your entire life is basically on hold. In order to travel you have to schedule something months in advance at a dialysis center,” said Brandie, who recently experienced the pitfalls of traveling with someone on dialysis. Late last year, she and Conrad had their wedding in Vegas and had to schedule the entire event around his treatments.
Brandie knew that the dialysis was taking a toll on her husband, especially on days before his treatment. She’d find him tired and not feeling like himself. She knew he needed a transplant as soon as possible and ignored his requests to drop the idea. He was worried about her health and she wanted him to get healthy.
“My main concern was if I’d be able to get pregnant. Doctor’s said, ‘No Problem.’” she said. “Then I asked, ‘What if I get cancer?’ and they again said, ‘No problem. Just be healthy, don’t get crazy, don’t eat badly, and don’t play any contact sports’ – which I don’t do anyways.”
With minimal risks involved and a healthy pregnancy still possible, Brandie and Conrad enrolled in the exchange program and began a series of physical, medical and psychiatric tests to evaluate her overall health.
“You have to be extremely healthy. They run a battery of tests on you.” she said. “Regardless of the outcome, I was going to help him.”
Before long she received a call from the medical center about a match for Conrad and a recipient. Brandie’s kidney recipient, only known by her first name, Heidi, is a retired English university professor who received dialysis at the UCLA center and enrolled in the program with her neighbor, who donated on her behalf.
In December 2010, Brandie prepared for her surgery while Conrad was at UCLA undergoing his kidney transplant. His new organ was coming from a man named Albert Scholemer of Pittsburg, PA, who wasn’t donating on anyone’s behalf and simply wanted to save another person’s life.
Two days before, Brandie had started a liquid diet and now, with only hours before her surgery, drank two bottles of citrate magnesium, a saline laxative, to completely clean out her system.
The day of surgery she checked into the medical center and received a laparoscopic surgery that requires several small incisions to allow for a shorter hospital stay and recovery period. For most patients, their hospital stay is 24 to 48 hours, with a recovery period of six to eight weeks. This wasn’t the case for Brandie.
After the anesthesia began to wear off, she felt a throbbing pain from the left side of her back through the lower half of her abdomen and had to be placed on an I.V.
“They didn’t want to put me on an I.V. so that I could go home the next day, but my stomach was empty and I couldn’t take down any of the Vicodin they gave me,” she recalled. “I was throwing it all up.”
Her stay at the hospital was about five days and her recovery period took about seven to eight weeks. Heidi and her neighbor visited Brandie when she was in the hospital and thanked her for donating her kidney. Heidi’s neighbor continued the donor chain by giving one of her kidneys to a recipient on the east coast.
While live donations are a more efficient and safer way to help a person with kidney disease, the average kidney lasts 18 years because there are no “perfect matches,” unless patients have a healthy identical twin willing to donate. When asked how he feels about the chance of another transplant, Conrad simply replied, “This was my second surgery – I’m used to it.”
Brandie hopes that the program and her story will encourage others going through similar situations to participate in live donations so people with kidney disease can experience a longer and more fulfilling life.
“You can miss out on so much,” Brandie said. “Just having a normal life – being able to eat, drink, or do whatever you want.”
This story is contributed by a member of the Ventura community and is neither endorsed nor affiliated with Ventura County Star.
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