Mechanic's Helper, Second Half

Mechanic Man begged for my help, I was so good last time. (You have to read this first.) Not really as a mechanic's helper but as a demolition expert. Just call me Ms. Demo. We are taking apart walls at the Ziggy's that is closing on Market. For our labor, we get to keep the wood and particle boards.

I haven't lifted a hammer in my entire life. So, I have been pounding out nails and wrenching out nails since 10:00 this morning. Finished at 5:00.

Hit my head three times with the crow bar, trying to wrench nails loose. So, I guess I can't make fun of Mechanic Man whacking himself with a sledge hammer. Smacked my lip once. After four or five hours of this fun, Mechanic Man looked at me and said, what happened to you??? Blood on my lip, goose-egg on my forehead, bruise on my cheek. I looked like someone beat me up.

The plus side of this - instead of calling me his pet name of Chunkie Butt (we won't go there), he is calling me Cupcake.

That makes me feel like the hammer isn't so heavy after all.

We start again in the morning. I figure it's about five parts hard labor for one part wood product.

So, I guess I am fairly easy to be your slave - if you call me Cupcake. By the way, I may not be writing tomorrow since I can barely move my fingers and could hardly open my bottle of Tylenol. I may not even be able to lift a hammer tomorrow so Mechanic Man better store up a lot of Cupcake calling.
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Just Wondering. . .

I wonder about all the guilt you feel if you fail your vehicle emissions test. Would studying have helped? And why are you so relieved when you pass, like you partied all night instead of studying and skated by THIS one.

Picture Perfect

It's just after 4:00 on Saturday evening, after nearly a full day of snow, coming down, coming down, coming down. I was just looking out the window at the trees across the way, distinctly outlined in inches of snow, the nearing dusk seeming to make them glow, and along crept the Canadian Pacific Railroad red engine, like a moving postcard, snow on its roof, slowly floating across my view. It was perfectly quiet, silent - buffeted by the five inches of snow we just received.

Ah, Snow. . . .

It's coming down now. Reminds me of two years ago when it was the Snow from Hell. I cared then. Then I had a job and needed roads to travel, sidewalks to walk. Now - it's snowing and I don't care. But remember how we had all the adventures of Mechanic Man hopping up on the roof like he thought he was Santa?

That's still a happening thing. Hopping up there like he is a feather-weight. If you have met him, the Santa image is not too far off. You've got the white hair. You've got the jolly belly. Well, in the case of Mechanic Man - jolly is not in his vocabulary when it comes to hopping on the roof. Whaling away at ice blocks. Ho Ho Ho.

I'll keep you posted. He's getting ready.

Hop!

Healthy? Sick? Which is it?

There is a fine line between being healthy and being sick. At least, in my new life as a dialysis patient. That word, patient, is part of the problem. Being on dialysis doesn’t mean I have some disease that makes me sick. I’m actually very healthy. I’m just the right weight. I don’t get colds or flu. I have had every test you can imagine to become eligible for the transplant list – and they don’t allow sickies on the transplant list. So – am I a patient? Am I sick because I’m on dialysis?

I think it all boils down to attitude. If you think you’re sick – you probably are. If you have cancer, you are sick. You will get treatment and you will get better. (Ideally). Being on dialysis is not a cure and yet it’s a treatment. I will never get over kidney failure. I won’t get better. But I’m not sick.

Now I am progressing along this journey of dialysis to the point that I will have what I call “real” dialysis. Right now I am having “not real” dialysis – in that I am not poked with two needles to get access to my blood. I have a “temporary” access site that is a catheter that splits into two tubes that are used for dialysis – no needles. But it is temporary and the nurses and techs can’t stress it enough – t.e.m.p.o.r.a.r.y. Not permanent. Not real. The catheters are famous for failing, clogging, or becoming infected. So, the “real” method is through a fistula – where the veins are prepped and brought closer together in a certain part of your arm (in my arm, it’s the crook of my elbow – you know, that really tender place that they ALWAYS draw blood from – that tender place). Once my fistula heals, about two months, they will start “real” dialysis, where they will insert two 12 gauge needles about an inch apart, for blood to go out and clean blood to go back in. So, every time I go in for dialysis, three times a week, I will be stuck twice with two LARGE needles.

So, needles make me think, I don’t know why, but they make me think I’m sick. I’m having to rethink my thoughts on getting hurt to get better – only I know I’m not getting better, I’m just getting another form of dialysis to keep me alive. It’s a paradox and one I can’t wrap my head around – yet.

Mechanic's Helper For Hire - Cheap

I think I found a job I shouldn't apply for. Mechanic's Helper. Yep. That's me. Mechanic Man needed a helper and so I stood around and acted, well, helpless.

First, he managed to hit his hand with a sledge hammer, totally without any help from me. I just clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming.

Then, he went right back to pounding steel so it would be straight. This is a brace that will be at the top of a 12-foot tall shelving unit, where nobody will be able to tell if it is straight or not, so any advice from me on that topic seems to land on deaf ears. Five minutes after thinking that this was for no good, he went and whacked his thumb on the same hand.

I danced around a bit, trying to think of something positive to say, something comforting, but nothing would come out.

Then he decided to grind down the ends of the braces that he sawed, to shorten the shelving unit, which started out at 14 feet - foregoing the "measure twice, cut once" theory, to now be "measure once, cut, measure again, cut twice." And while he was grinding, the grinder jerked and suddenly grounded out a chunk of Mechanic Man's finger. A chunk - not a piece. If it was MY finger, I would have lost the whole thing. He's got beefy fingers, and now missing a chunk.

I supplied a band-aid and we rolled along with the grinder without blinking an eye. And then his shirt caught on fire. In the meantime, I stood around trying to remember what the emergency number is - 119? 199? 911? Too late, fire's out, and Mechanic Man continues on.

Tomorrow we are going to weld.

Mechanic's Helper, Part II

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Is it Time Yet?

Time, time, time, time.

It’s coming. That time of year again. You know, the time when you change the time to a different time. The trouble is – which time is the correct time? Now that I am not working, knowing what DAY it is has become the thing I revolve around. Is it Monday? Friday? And do I care one little bit??? Not really. So now I have to worry about what TIME it is, too?

The rule is Spring Forward, Fall Back. But, I tend to relate things to my personality. And I’m basically known as a phenomenal K.L.U.T.Z. So, in MY world, the rule would be Fall Forward and Spring Back. And this particular time change (in the fall) is further complicated by my mind going through the motions of falling forward AND falling backward. It all works for me. I KNOW that 5:00 tomorrow will be dark like 6:00 today. So, if it is darker tomorrow at the same time as it is lighter today, does that mean I make the time on my clock “fall forward” or “fall backward.” See what I mean?

So, I mentally have to picture today (pre-time change) at 5:00 as still light out and 6:00 is just starting to get dark. So – if 6:00 is starting to get dark, then tomorrow at 5:00 it will ALSO start to get dark. So – I will move the hour hand forward from 5:00 to 6:00 to get the dark effect. Forward, get it? But for normal people who aren’t klutzes, they are actually using the rule of “Fall Back” (not Spring Forward). So – they Fall Back but they move the clock forward an hour. Get it???? No, I don’t either.

So, what time is it again????? I forget. . . . . And I have a week of going back and forth, backwards and forwards, to and fro, hither and yon, up and down. Are you with me?

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Send in the Clowns

Once upon a time, several Halloweens ago, my co-worker talked me and another co-worker to arrive at work dressed as clowns. She supplied the costumes, hair, and red noses.

She arrived late to work and said she was driving along when a Sheriff's Deputy pulled her over. He approached her and cautiously said, "We've been looking for a clown like you." So, we knew our day was going to be interesting.

Then we could hear this hysterical laughing coming from outside the office building and looked out to see our third clown, ROLLER SKATING from her car to the building, looking like Bambi on ice. She hadn't skated in 30 years since she was a kid. She kept the skates on all day long, skating down hallways wherever she went. And giggling all day long.

Later that day, after a lot of guffawing by non-clown co-workers, the skating clown went to the airport to pick up her husband. He arrived at the same time our Director arrived from a different plane. They were standing in the overpass from the airport greeting each other, when the husband looked down on the street below and said, "um, excuse me, John, but I think I know that clown." And there she was, skating for all she was worth, legs splayed, arms pumping, trying to keep her balance as she traveled along the sidewalk.

As for me, I simply went through my day with my clown hair, my clown nose, and my clown outfit and nobody thought anything of it. What does THAT say about me???
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My Favorite Person

My favorite person in the whole world, outside of my grandmother, was my fourth grade teacher, Hazel Beaulieu. She started teaching as a second career when she was 49. She was absolutely the most loving teacher I ever had – a combination of your grandmother and your favorite aunt. She was one of those people who touched you – physically and mentally. She didn’t hesitate to hug, embrace, pet, and fuss. She was BEFORE the little rules that came along – don’t spank, don’t hit, don’t hug.

Miss Beaulieu loved each one of us as if we were her own children. She is one of the only teachers I can remember who wrote to each of us during the summer after we left fourth grade and headed on to bigger and brighter things, like eighth grade and boys and mixers.

I still have her letter addressed to me and telling me personally what a bright girl I was and that I could be anything I wanted to be.

Hazel Beaulieu never married but she adopted one son, whom she doted on, along with about 700 fourth grade students who all grew up to be special, especially to her.
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Words to Nowhere

There used to be a bridge abutment just north of the Monroe Street Bridge in Spokane. It was there for a gazillion years, or at least since I was six years old in 1956. In my mind, it was the start of a bridge to nowhere. It just stood there, alone, facing the bridge, acting like it might be part of something big – but what? Maybe a trestle for a train bridge across the Spokane River? Maybe a trestle for a foot bridge?

What it became was a communication panel for a million messages from birthday wishes to marriage proposals through decades of people coming together with their paint brushes and paint buckets. Never during the day time. Always in the middle of the night. Like some secretive society, spontaneously appearing, swathing out their message for the world to see as they idled in traffic during countless treks across the bridge.

Why do I know??? One night of shooting pool and three beers later, I found myself on the bridge with several other people as we whitewashed the abutment for the probably ten millionth time, and then prepared our message: Happy Birthday Diana! Black letters on white background. Sitting on layers upon layers upon layers of countless messages before it. It was 3:00 in the morning. On a work night.

It stayed there for at least a week, until the next group of phantom artists rendered their own, new message in the middle of the night.

It was a sad day when that piece of artwork was torn down with its thousands, or millions, of words splashed on its face.
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Hi Mom! I Love Ya!

It was so much easier to communicate with my sons when they were younger, kind of trapped in my house. They pretty much had to talk to me in order to get things like breakfast, or rides to friends, or money to spend, or use of the computer. Now, they are grown and on their own and I wait impatiently by the phone for that occasional call, when their busy lives calm down just for a second where they can say, “Hey, Mom, I love ya!” until they blast away again on the whirlwind ride they call living.

So, my youngest sent me a text message: “Hi Mom! Just wanted to say I love you.” That’s all. Just a nice short note saying he loves me. Only, I’m one of those worrying type Moms and my first thought was, Oh-My-God-He’s-In-Trouble. He's in jail! He's crashed his car! So I tried to text back – only my phone is one of those “smart” phones that tries to think ahead of you and spell out what it thinks you want to say. It won’t let you type out “I love you back” because it thinks you want to say something like “ill gained stocks fall.” I did not type that – I really wanted to say “I love you back.”

And then there was the time he called me because he couldn’t understand my text message. “Hi Mom. Just wanted to call and say I love you!”

“I love you, too, sweetie. What’s that noise – are you driving?”

“Yeah, I just thought I’d call while I’m driving Highway 195 [known to me as the Death Highway] to say I love . . . “ I interrupt with, “Don’t you know it is illegal to talk on your cell phone while driving??????”

SILENCE.

I mean – SILENCE. He’s not on the other end holding his breath, counting to ten before he deigns to speak again to his overbearing worrywart mother. HE HAS HUNG UP ON ME!

I call him back and get his voice mail. “Are you ok?” I ask, figuring he must have crashed his car while he was illegally talking on his cell phone while driving. “Call me!!!”

He calls the next day, saying he wanted to be sure that he was home, not driving, when he called me.

Sigh.

And now that he has made his duty call to his mother, it will be weeks, maybe months, when he calls again (or – shudder – texts).
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A little update

I indeed had surgery to replace the catheter in my chest. I broke a record in keeping what is commonly known as a "temporary" site. All the nurses and techs kind of jump up and down about that, like, you KNOW that is only a TEMPORARY site, like, you may implode any second with that TEMPORARY site.

Yes, I know it's temporary and that is why I am pretty particular about how well you techs take care of me, and how well I take care of my site when I'm not with you. :)

Anyway, a very long day spent with "minor" surgery on my "temporary" site. They removed the old catheter, which my skin had grown around, like, well, a second skin. They replaced the catheter with a new one, to which my skin will again grow attached, like a lover. I went nearly a year with my old catheter buddy. And since my experience was quite rough for something so minor - I am going in soon to have a fistula (commonly known as a "permanent" site) prepared in my arm. Another "minor" surgery.

Anyway - a relatively minor procedure in this bumpy ride called dialysis. The alternative is lilies on my coffin. I don't like lilies.

Just saying.
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The Rise of the Pod People

Friday, I had a pretty crappy morning. It was my final dialysis stint for the week. I always look forward to it because it means by 11:00, I am a free woman! I am on my way to garage sales and yard sales. My name is being called. Tea cups and saucers! Old and ancient books from the turn of the century – and not this century. Jig saw puzzles for a dime. They are all calling my name and asking for a place in my home. Just as soon as I get out of this dialysis chair and get my running shoes on, and I’m off! Mechanic Man is my driver, and we careen around Spokane, making sudden u-turns because we do drive by look-and-see viewpoints of potential treasure troves.

Only, Friday, my preplanned itinerary went up in a puff of disappointing smoke. My dialysis access site was sluggish. They tried to flush it. It still was sluggish. They put some sort of gunk-eating, residue-evaporating fluid in my access site to soak for an hour – suspending dialysis until it was finished. STILL sluggish. They restarted my dialysis and said we’d limp along until Monday when I could have surgery to fix the site or . . . . . REPLACE the site. Only Monday is a holiday. I sat in that chair for over five and a half hours. I’d like to see anybody with half the strength and patience I have do that. Without moving.

Now this gets me riled just a tad. Dialysis patients do not know what “holiday” means. We go in, faithfully, steadfastly, religiously, every other day, three days a week, every week, every month, every year, forever. There are no such things as a three-day-weekend. But hospitals, for “unnecessary” procedures, have holidays. So the procedure can’t be done until Tuesday.

So, I will go in on Monday and see if my body will be able to “do” dialysis. If not, I go in on Tuesday, have the procedure, maybe they can roto rooter it out, maybe they can’t, and THEN I will have dialysis, and then go back on my routine starting Wednesday.

Crappy, crappy, crappy.

I drove home, a crazed homicidal maniac - all of you escaped certain death. I set myself up for a well-deserved pity party. A good old fashioned pouting session. I was prepared to eat ice cream right out of the carton. I was going to get passionately grouchy about this whole dang thing.

But my eye caught the caption on today's Spokesman Review. Staying Positive. Yeah, right! I thought to myself glumly. But I started to read, and I couldn't put it down. Becky Nappi grabbed my heart (thank you, dear friend). (Located here). This article is about Carol Stueckle, who got fired from her latest job (and not for the first time to be fired) and found a new job at age 72. Stueckle is inspiring and funny and uplifting.

I have found my personal life guru. I am going to follow Carol Stueckle for the rest of my life. Whatever wise words she has for me, I am going to take them and emblazon them on my forehead, on my roof, on my car windows, on my bathroom mirror. I am going to make flash cards and put them in all my books, in my purse, in my jewelry box. I am going to pass them out to my friends, to my pharmacist, to my children, to perfect strangers.

Stueckle noted first off, “There isn’t a thing that happens in life that isn’t temporary. And most things have solutions.” So – this failing dialysis site, redoing it, replacing it, slicing and dicing away at my veins – is temporary. This too shall pass. A solution is out there.

Just for giggles and to kind of amuse myself, while I’m sitting there, having my blood race around a machine getting cleaned and filtered and fluffed, losing about five pounds in three and a half hours, I like to mentally visualize a time-lapse film above the room of the 19 or so dialysis patients who are also getting drained and cleansed and losing several pounds in a few hours – just think of it – fast forward your time lapse camera and we are all squiggling and wiggling and shrinking as we sit there – we are pod people being probed by aliens .

Ok, I’m back to earth now. Less cranky.
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Question

I'm just curious if Don Wakamatsu, now former Manager of the Seattle Mariners, is sharing the same boat I am in, called Unemployment Compensation. Does he have to look for three similar jobs, e.g., Managing a national baseball league.

Inquiring minds want to know.

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Ten Annoying Things About Garage Sales

1. No price tags
2. No signs
3. Signs with teeny tiny print so small you have to stop your car, get out of the car, lift up the box, and bring it to your face to read it.
4. Signs without addresses
5. Phantom signs – those are the stupid signs that stupid people leave on the corner long after the garage sale is over. I’d pick up the stupid signs and throw them in the offending lawns but I’d only be doing the stupid people a favor. I passed the same sign today that I’ve passed for the last five days and have yet to find the Huge DVDs and Much More Sale – and it even has the address. Nobody’s home. Curtains are closed. No car in the driveway. Maybe it’s some frenemy making a sick joke.
6. “HUGE Multi-family yard sale” which actually means, baby clothes, baby clothes, baby clothes, baby clothes. (Of course, if my adult sons would cooperate and make me a grandma, I would be cherishing all the baby clothes I could find. After all – baby clothes don’t hardly get used long enough to take the new off)
7. “Estate Sale” which actually means “we are cleaning out our house and this is the stuff we don’t want” including unwashed dishes.
8. Some people’s garbage is still garbage.
9. Clothes, baskets, and flower vases.
10. Asking the seller what he wants for something and he turns around and asks “what do you think it’s worth?”

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Let's Fight!!!

We were out to dinner Friday night and I discovered a new rage - literally. Young guys in their 20s pay to fight! And people pay to watch them! And the girls dress up to the nines in slinky sequined dresses, like they were going to a party. Each guy has coaches and body guards and personal medics. And their own "Rocky" music. Do you believe this????? I am thinking that this has been going on for ever now and I'm just getting in the know. How did my sons make it past this phase of feeling their oats?

Hot Chicks

My “Diners’ Club” friends and I gathered around the kitchen table a few weeks ago, sorting through dozens and dozens of pictures taken over the years, over the last 30 years. I was struck by the younger pictures of us. We are and were five ordinary women who gathered together because we shared one thing in common – we were all single mothers. We were all around the same age, over a ten-year gap. Our children are around the same age, over pretty much the same ten-year gap.

I say “ordinary” but when I saw a photo of us taken in 1993, we were anything but ordinary. Those five women were HOT. I never really thought of myself that way. But there we were, dressed to the nines for our Christmas dinner, gorgeous legs, beautiful smiles, huge brilliant eyes, silky touchable hair. Hot. Hot. Hot.

Our history is ripe and full. We’ve gone into and out of relationships. We have raised our children with no little chaos, but they cleaned up well as adults. We shared grief, joy, announcements, marriage, adoption, new jobs, old jobs, strife, and successes. We have been written about twice! First Becky Nappi wrote about us in 1993, then 15 years later, Cindy Hval wrote about us. (here)

We are meeting tonight at Cedars in Coeur d’Alene. If you are there, we will be the five extraordinary women over in the corner – we are loud, laughing, talking, sharing secrets, ogling each other’s face or eyes or hair or blouse. We won’t notice you but if you stop by, we will wrap you in our friendship. We are definitely not ordinary.

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Happy Father's Day

As Father’s Day comes up in a few days, I am remembering my Dad, gone now for 17 years, which I find almost unreal, because memories of him are more like yesterday! Dad was my hero throughout my life, however, every now and then he would show his imperfections and become merely human for a moment – like when one of us crossed his path between his easy chair and a football game on the television set. Then he was crochety and focused on that line of site that we momentarily interrupted. We grew accustomed to crawling on the floor to get to our destination.

But more often than not, he was all-knowing, all-being – protecting me from any danger. He was my major influence to becoming an independent thinking woman, at the cusp of women finding their own path – in 1969. He always said I could be anything, do anything, I wanted and succeed.

There are so many things I am grateful for and thankful for, that my Dad was responsible for:

Thank you, Dad:

• For letting me dance, my feet on yours, clear until I was 16;
• Your invention of home made toys – like the sling shots we each had made out of old tires;
• The swing you made in a tree out back for my two sons to enjoy. I have a series of pictures, frame by frame of them going up, up, up, leaning back, side-by-side, and laughing out loud with huge glee;
• The infamous “short cuts” on our many Sunday drives, one time driving up a little tiny one-lane cliff side dirt road, for miles and miles, only to have to BACK DOWN for what seemed like eternity;
• Routinely making Sunday breakfast;
• The time it snowed so deep that you made an igloo for us that lasted for two whole months!
• The same year, you made the fantastic toboggan run behind our house that was so sleek and fast that it would propel our six-man toboggan down and around the barn, and whoosh back up to the top – we only had to walk it over to the starting point and do it all again.
• Making up the rule not to sing at the kitchen table or the window would fall on our heads. (Says something about how happy we were that you would have to make up a rule to keep us from singing at the kitchen table!)
• Making up the Quiet Game (again at the kitchen table) where the game was lost at the first peep from a child, so we would spend delicious minutes making faces and sticking out our tongues at hapless siblings until one would burst out laughing. It only would last maybe five minutes before one of us would cave.
• Coming up with titles for the book you never wrote. Naming the cats after events like Sir Odd Leigh Waffled (the result of making waffles that were, well, odd) and Precious Horace D, or PhD, the only doctor in the family.
• The time we were camping at Priest Lake and our beach ball got away from us in the cool morning hours and you rushed in after it in your underwear – boxer shorts! How totally embarrassing to a 13-year old daughter when you came back with the beach ball, shorts plastered to your skin, and an audience of all the campers in the area. Clapping.
• Campfire breakfasts that included bugs on the eggs, that you explained away as just a little ash from the fire, or at the very least, added protein.
• Taking me to the store after my divorce and helping me write my first check; supporting me so much, encouraging me to believe in myself, cheering me on in my role as a single mother;
• Being the father figure for my sons and leading by example so they grew into really wonderful men;

You are the reason I am who I am today – smart, caring, independent, fair, and compassionate. Happy Father’s Day, Dad! You are the father that others should follow.

Fun Without Sun

Wow! What a day. Went garage sailing (saling just doesn't look right) and while we were inside, it just whooped hail like crazy, then it stopped, we went outside, and it rained. Several people moved their stuff from the driveway and crammed in their garages and each place was like a friendly little picnic - people so glad that anyone showed up, and we were so glad to have cover. I got lots and lots of stuff! A children's tea set, a miniature Depression Glass cup and saucer, two really nice Victorian tea cup's and saucers, two salt & pepper sets for my son (vintage!), cards of antique buttons for my friend, Jeanne. Fun! Fun! Fun! Who needs sun??
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POW! Blue One!

POW! Blue One! and then some perfect stranger will haul off and slug you in the shoulder because they saw a Volkswagen (not even Bug) and popped you one. I don't think there is a commercial that irritates me more.

When did this silly game start? Surely not during my childhood. My mother would have had a blue fit if we four siblings started hitting each other in fun. Bad enough that we hit each other NOT in fun.

And any mother of more than one child would turn the television off before inciting a riot amongst her children. Siblings don't need an invitation to open season on their little brothers because a certain car drove by.

When I was a child, the game while road tripping was to yell out the states if they weren't Washington or Idaho. Much nicer than beating each other up.

I bring all this up because on a recent road trip, Mechanic Man turned into a little brat, punching me every time a VW went by.

Pow! Black one!
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Pieces, Parts, and Oddities

ok, back from my parts is parts free-for-all (car parts that is), bringing many more car parts in my trunk and none of them MY car's parts. And car parts have particular, specific, exacting pieces of parts to make up the whole. But, Oh! I found two old OLD radios that Mechanic Man is trying to make work. With a little z-z-z-z-ptz here and a little z-z-z-z-ptz there. If he were bald, he'd look ok. Just sayin'

And, it's official. I am Officially Decrepit. This is a good news, bad news deal. I received my notice that I will be receiving disability. That's the good news. The bad news - I am forever locked into $400 less a month than the pitiful amount I was getting on unemployment. OMG. I think I am officially poverty stricken.

I want a recall on my census report.

9-1-1 Girlfriend

9-1-1 Girlfriend

I have the best support group of my entire life.

My “Girls' Diner Club” (nicknamed by Becky Nappi when she did an article on us for the Spokesman-Review in 1993) has a phone tree that is efficient, speedy, and totally there for you at any given moment.

. . . . Like, during the Dishman Hills fire, when Jill watched the fires slowly but determinedly, climb Park Road toward her house, taking out million dollar homes below her. She was lucky – just the weekend before, she and her husband had slaved on the brush and undergrowth below her house. Her house was saved – the one just below hers was not. And the phone calls began – first one friend, then another, all reaching out to her to make sure she was safe, out of harm's way.

. . . . Like, when Kathy, who has Parkinson's, suddenly realized she was blind in one eye – a piece of plaque had broke off from an artery in her neck, and landed at the back of her eye. Jackie started the phone tree, letting all of us know she was in surgery, she was fine, but now blind in one eye. She's adjusting as valiantly as she always does – but first and foremost – she is rallying because of her four Best Friends Forever standing at her side. And also, her hubby paid for a gift of a permanent eyeliner tatoo – which she proudly displayed at our last dinner.

. . . . Like, when I let them all know I would go on dialysis the next day, a mere two weeks before we were planning on going to Disney World – plane fare, hotel fees, and park tickets all prepaid. The calls started coming in from each friend, supporting me, going all the way for me, preparing to cancel our trip – until my doctor, now my fifth best friend, making arrangements for me to have dialysis in Orlando.

Have an emergency? Just dial 9-1-1 Girlfriend.

:)

Happy Bloodletting

Celebrating Six

Six months ago today, I started dialysis. What I once thought about with dread has turned out to be a really simple ordinary routine that I go through three mornings a week. No fuss. No muss. I simply go to MY chair and sit and relax and leave the driving to the other guy. I watch TV. Read books. Nap (a lot). And generally I actually enjoy my little spa-like rest. I leave rejuvenated and, as I am doing now, I do something that has nothing whatsoever to do with dialysis. I’m doing the laundry and have access to my laptop. Here I go!

I can check my email. I can eat munchies – yes – there are some munchies that are not on the “Forbidden Fruits”. (Yeah, fruit is on that list – strawberries, melons, cantaloupe. Heavy sigh)

Next up for me is to make a decision for a permanent access site for dialysis. I am hoping that this will go like starting dialysis did – piece of cake. Hopefully.

I have two choices. One is to have a fistula surgically made in my arm that “cures” for six months (so I have to decide this pretty darn quick because my temporary site could poop out on me, although so far it’s working great!). This procedure enables the techs to insert very, very large needles in your arm, one for the blood to go out into the dialysis machine and get cleaned and filtered and fluffed, the other needle is for the polished blood to return to your body. (I have watched it leave my body, go through all the hoops and loops and return in about 60 seconds!!). I’m not really keen on needles, especially 14 gauge ones.

The other choice is to do peritoneal dialysis (called PD). This involves a surgically inserted tube in my stomach, into the peritoneum cavity. The membrane is porous and works great as a filter and does the same thing hemodialysis does (hemo meaning blood). But a lot more gentle and at my own schedule. The downside is that it is every day, four times a day (20 minutes). I can travel, go on car trips, go garage sailing to the hinterlands, and bring a bag or two of dialycate with me.

The other downside is that I have to give myself epogyn shots (for anemia) about once a week. Ok, all my brave, strong diabetic friends do this without batting an eye, every day, sometimes twice. So I can’t snivel and whine here. But at least it is a ‘fine” needle – not some dagger like they use at the dialysis center. I can see those suckers from 20 feet away. No Thank You.

So, anyway, I wanted to keep you posted. I am so healthy it’s absolutely silly!!! It’s a wonderful, wonderful feeling. Happy Blood Letting to Me!! Here’s to another 60 6-month anniversaries. (I’ll be 90)

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New driver. Cliff hanging! Grounded Forever!

Six Word Memoir. (Subject: Cheating death)
I'm trying this new thing about writing a memory of some event in six words. Totally fun! And hopefully gets my creative juices going.

The brief story behind my Six Word Memoir:

Home alone, 16 years old, freak snow storm, slid half-way off cliff overhanging farmer's property below; two tow trucks later, truckers wanted paid, I forged Mom's signature - thus grounded for the rest of my life. Go figure.

Ok, the real story. My parents were gone, along with my siblings, so Dad could write a story about the experience of staying in a mock Fall Out Shelter for the weekend, along with about 60 other people just waiting to sleep on the floor and eat unleavened, unsalted survival crackers.

I got to stay home alone. Woo Hoo!! And Sunday morning I was coming home from church, when we had a freak April snow storm that coated the road just enough to make it slicker than snot – especially to someone who had never driven in snow. I was rounding a curve just yards from my house, when the car slowly, but surely, slid to the cliff edge of the road and ended half hanging at a 45 degree angle over Farmer Bruell’s field. You know Farmer Bruell. Rumor had it that he ATE children who trespassed into his property.

This is Farmer Bruell. One heavy snow winter, my Dad had been obsessing over Mr. Bruell. He hadn’t seen him in days. What could be wrong with him? Maybe he fell and broke his hip, and he’s laying on the floor helpless, starving and freezing to death. Maybe he had a stroke. Maybe he had a heart attack. After all, he’s old, and cranky, and grumpy. So Dad dressed for the weather and hoofed on down to Farmer Bruell’s door. Upon inquiring of his health and not seeing him for several days, Bruell blew pipe smoke in my Dad’s face while bellowing, “What damn fool would be out in THIS weather, I tell ‘ya!” And slammed the door shut.

Back to my cliff. As I sat there, scared out of my mind that I would indeed continue sliding until I fell into his field, car and everything, who should appear below me with, I SWEAR, a pitchfork in his hand, but THE Farmer Bruell, bellowing at me “Don’t you fall into my field!” I wasn’t going no where. I was petrified.

Farmer Bruell climbed up to my car and for once in my entire six months of driving, I did NOT lock myself in from “all kinds of predators” as Mom instructed, and Farmer Bruell was able to reach in through the passenger door and YANK me to safety!

It took two tow trucks to attach lines on either end of the car and very, very carefully slide it back on the road. Then these two beefy drivers walked up to my house to seek payment. Thinking my Mom would be jumping for joy that I was ALIVE, I wrote them out a check and signed her name and sent them on their way.

When the family arrived later that day, my dreams of hero worship were dashed to the ground, when Mom went into her frenzied,-I-don’t-know-what-possessed-me-to-give-birth mode, with an accusatory, high-pitched scream, “You did WHAT??” And I’m thinking I have several choices of interpretation here. 1: she is surprised that I was calm enough in the face of death to get out of the car, mildly bruised, or 2: she was worried that I actually trespassed on Farmer Bruell’s property and something would happen at dawn, like tar and feathering, or 3: she was really ticked that I committed a federal forgery act using her name, for God's sake, or 4: Her home had been invaded by two beefy tow truck drivers knowingly forcing her daughter to forge a check. I think it was all but No. 1.

So there you have my adventure in six little words, like a headline portending doom and gloom.

New driver. Cliff hanging! Grounded Forever!

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No Pressure

People are fairly used to seeing me upbeat and positive. I strive to have a good attitude about everything. In working up a mission statement for myself, I came up with this unbelievably high standard, even for me, to “Live to Inspire.”

No pressure.

And then dialysis became a key integral part of my life – in fact, life saving. Now that I have come to that albatross looking so much like Mount Everest, and unconquerable, I have found the experience to be downright pleasant and restful. Absolutely no pressure!

And then, recently, I actually had No Pressure!!! I’m sitting there minding my own business, watching something banal on tv, when the alarms on my dialysis machine go off, red letter warning signs are flashing, and I look over and see my pressure is 80 over 40. Whoa!! That is very low pressure. Heart’s barely beating at 40 beats per minute. And I’m thinking it must be someone else’s machine, because I feel pretty good - not like I'm going to beat my last heart beat in about 30 more seconds. But no, it’s ME! Then every 15 minute checks start and it’s STILL going down. So they quickly stop the dialysis, give me extra fluids to replace the fluids they removed, and I start to feel normal again.

Talk about pressure.

And then the next time, well, I’ve got pressure to spare. I could give my pressure to several people and still have enough left over to keep my heart beating. The heat’s on, I’m thinking to myself. The pressure is on. And rising. 260 over 120. Stroke time. And with my doctor arriving, the pressure doesn’t ease one little bit. Finally, dialysis is over and I’m told to wait until that top number goes down below 200.

No pressure there. I wait. And I wait. And my anxiety is just exploding and I’m thinking that there is no positive thought powerful enough to calm me down. And I wait. Wait some more. And finally, after exactly 60 minutes, it hit 198 over 98 and I kicked back my chair and ran out of the building.

The last two times were perfect – 120 over 60. Heavy sigh.

There’s no pressure like worrying about your blood pressure and then having no blood pressure makes No Pressure a high anxiety stressing hope-I-don’t-die type of heavy duty pressure.

Hopefully, a weekend with friends at Blogfest 2010 will ease all that pressure!

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O Mom!!!

That is said in a whiny, double syllable wail. O, Mo-om!!! After I have done something, anything to embarrass my poor sons. Now that they have become well into their 30s, I don’t hear it at all, but when they were teens and young adults, it seemed to be the only phrase they knew – because I seemed to do things that only embarrassed them.

Like the time I wanted my 14-year-old to quit smoking! I was appalled that my little baby, pink-skinned and perfect, would take up something so disgusting (that, and tattoos!) Who ever thought their little bundle would some day sport dragons and swords on their arms, that you had personally made – perfect!

So – I took copies of his 7th grade picture and posted it on every little Ma & Pa store in the neighborhood. Saying something like, “THIS child you are looking at is a MINOR and you will be arrested if you sell him cigarettes.” I didn’t think it worked until one day he came pounding through the house, whining “Oh, Mo-om!!! I can’t believe you did this!” I just smiled.

Then my older son was in the Army in boot camp and I worried about him all alone and forlorn and maybe clinically depressed and no way for me to stroke his hair and make him feel better. So, I bought 30 blank greeting cards with cutesy sayings (Mary Englebriet) like, “Find Your Own Spot” or “Where Ever You Go, There You Are.” I asked all the attorneys and staff in my law firm to help me cheer up my son – and surprisingly, the men from Viet Nam days grabbed up all of the cards – stamped and addressed to my son.

So, he calls me up and “Mo-om!!!” He thanked me for the cards and asked if I could please slow them down. Why?

“I have to do 50 push ups for every card I receive!”
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Proof

So, I was called in to Unemployment to show Proof of my Job Search for a specific week (the last week of the year when nobody in their right mind would actually hire anyone).

Also, the thought crossed my mind that some higher up was looking for Proof of Life. Like a giant finger poking my forehead, and a deep booming voice asking, “Yo! Anyone in there?” Sometimes I wonder.

Jobs are not exactly pouring over my head. The applications and resumes go out, but nothing comes in. I repeatedly check my phone to see if it self-opted for meeting mode to silence all those hundreds of employers who really, really want me.

In the interview we were told not to whine about looking for three jobs a week because some states require fifteen job searches a week. And it occurred to me that I am relatively lucky – secretaries are a dime a dozen (almost literally). But what about unique jobs, like, say, neurophysicists. What if a neurophysicist was laid off and then had to make 15 contacts in a week? How many neurophysicists do you think live and work in Spokane? New York? Well, that would just suck. So, I’ll follow through on my measly three job searches.

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Market Me

I have decided I need to make a business card for myself (kind of like a calling card), so I can hand them out as I meet people. I met an attorney today at the skating show. She happened to work at a firm that I already applied for, so I couldn't use her name - but I did talk to her and thought - boy, wouldn't it be nice if I could just hand her a card.

So, I need your help. I need something catchy for an eye-grabber. So far, I have my name with my title - Jeanie [lastname], PLS. The PLS was a certification I earned by passing a mini-bar for non-attorneys. It means Professional Legal Secretary.

I have thought of something to go with my full name, Donna Jean [lastname] (and there is a long story there about going by my middle name, which my parents always did, and never being able to actually use my middle name in official papers, like social security, and then always trying to explain that I go by my middle name even though there is only space for a middle initial, etc., ad nauseum):

Just call me "Jeanie"
Just call me for typing or transcribing
Just call me for pleadings, briefs, correspondence
Just call me

Too much I think.

So - what I want to do is let everyone know I am a professional typist, excelling in Word, Excel, and Publisher.

Thanks for any ideas.
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Resurrection!

So, I went to my house, where I don’t live, to wash the weekly laundry, when I broke my microwave. Yep – these things only happens to me.

I used my microwave as a timer for when the wash was done and time to toss the clothes into the dryer. It has a “stand” setting that doesn’t turn on the microwave, just the timer.

So, I got everything ready, set the mock timer, and proceeded to do what I do best – disorganized organizing. There were all those pictures from my vacation on the Oregon coast that needed to be looked at again. And half way through the photos, my pile of books called to me and I had to look at them, too, to decide what I wanted to take with me back to Mechanic Man’s house. Oh, and my laptop beeped at me – I have mail! So, had to read very important stuff about a stranger who called himself my “friend” commenting on my Face Book page. And then I had some Twinkies to eat (the little 100 calorie three packs). You realize, don't you, that Twinkies have no shelf life, or, rather, a “forever” shelf life; and I figure that what’s good for them must be good for me.

And then I noticed that the wash was done. What happened to my timer??? And I smelled burning rubber something. The “stand” button is right next to the “high” button. Good going! Jeanie strikes again! And the microwave was hot, hot, HOT; the light was out, and the time readout was off, and a stack of plastic bread sacks were tucked in beside the microwave, now kind of stuck together in one glob. I unplugged the microwave (mental head slap – pulling the plug was kind of like the cart before the horse sort of thing), moved all flammable or meltable items clear across the room, and then took one long look at my microwave. Oh, good grief! I fried my microwave!!!

I should hire myself out to people who want new appliances because they are, well, just plain tired of their old ones but don't have a good excuse to replace what is already working just fine. For $10, I can drop by and use your appliance, guaranteed to burn it, melt it, bend it, or break it. And you can blame me while you whip out your Visa for that industrial strength, maximum speed, turbo jet what-ever-it-is.

After the clothes were dry, I slunk home – keeping my dead microwave my dirty little secret. One more addle brained thing I have done lately. I decided to just keep that to myself.

And the following week, I went back to do the weekly laundry, eyeballing the dead microwave as I went by, telling myself I really need to buy one of those cheapo timers you see – maybe a ladybug.

I decided, just for grins and giggles, to plug the microwave in – hoping it didn’t explode instantly. And guess what!!!! It had only fainted last week. The light goes on, the clock shows up, and it actually heats water!

I love it when the things I innocently kill revive themselves to work again another day!

Life is good!

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Resolution Revision #1

On the advice of a good friend (Beth Terry):

1. Move the boxes off the piano and start playing now! (organizing the boxes can wait)
2. Don't wait to blog. Just write 3 or 4 sentences and put "to be continued" at the bottom of it.
3. Get a transplant! I am visuaizing my healthy body with a perfect match kidney!
4. Get that great job that pays well, validates me, and gives me lots of satisfaction, bliss, and. . . vacations!

"to be continued. . ."

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Job Identity

This being jobless is just the pits. I am having such a difficult time dealing with it. I've been without a job before, twice – but nothing like this. Before, I had “just” a job. I was “just” a secretary. I have been a secretary for 40 years. Which is funny, since I majored in Social Work in college. I stopped my education at a Bachelor's, because I got married and had a couple children, never going on to get a Master's – and therefore, never really working as a Social Worker. Settling for “just” a secretary.

Then in 2000, my human resources manager, at the firm I was last working for, found an inner switch in me and turned me on. I was working for an attorney in estate and tax planning. I believed strongly that I had found my niche. I found my calling. Both the HR gal and my main attorney saw the light in me and steadfastly encouraged me to bloom.

With their encouragement, I started the Spokane chapter of NALS, a national association for professional non-attorneys – paralegals, legal secretaries, legal assistants – anyone who worked in the legal field who was not an attorney. I had 30 people show up to the initial charter meeting and eight members joined. At the end of my two years as president (oh, yeah, I was elected president, too), I had 18 members.

I wrote articles for the national website and for our state publication. Topics ranged from having an attitude of professionalism, to ethics as a tool to enhance your attorney and your firm. I organized the state magazine for two years, and received great praise and accolades for my efforts.

It was like a spiritual awakening for me to find that “magic” in my job. It was no longer just a job – but a passion. Gone was the attitude of nine-to-five, quit and run at the 5:00 bell. I was no longer “just” a secretary, but a professional, a highly skilled professional secretary with qualifications that included typing at the speed of sound, grammar acuity like a manual in my head, the ability to read my attorney's mind and anticipate his every need, multi-tasking skills and juggling like a pro, excelling at what I did best with efficiency, accuracy, and talent, all with a high standard of professionalism that shown like a bight star.

I rode on the waves of praise and appreciation from my attorneys, my office administrator, and my human resources manager. I jumped out of bed every morning, joyfully looking forward to my chance to go to work, with a thrill of excitement that I had this great gift of the best job ever!

Then the firm hit a snag in the road when one of their top-producing, multi-million dollar attorneys left, taking with him his multi-million dollar clients. Over the next three years, we closed a branch office, we let several people go, then the firm fired the office administrator and months later, the same with the human resources manager. My two greatest fans. Over the last year, we continued to downsize, and ultimately I felt the blade of the ax across my virtual neck, so to speak, and the dream job ended.

It has been devastating to me to not be able to continue with my job. I have discovered that my job was my identity. It defined me, it showed who I was, it declared my integrity and professionalism. There is a person that lumps on the couch, depressed and unfocused, who looks like me – but it is not me. I am the professional secretary with skills and talents that are bubbling up, overflowing. That person on the couch is a total stranger.

I want “me” back!

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Its a Clean Slate!

Wow! Thank God THAT's over. Yeah, thank God 2009 is over. Done. Kaput. Finis. The End. Nada. No more. I can watch 100 more new years come and go and will never, ever miss 2009.

Now on to 2010 and my list of resolutions – none of which includes losing weight.

1.Hopefully get a job on equal footing as my last job, but less hours, with benefits and lots of vacation time.
2.Write more on my blog, and write more that is funny, humorous, touching, beautiful, or poignant.
3.Stay in touch with my friends that aren't co-workers.
4.Continue doing fantastic on dialysis.
5.Maybe get a transplant.
6.Commit several random acts of kindness a week and not tell anyone about them.
7.Walk around the neighborhood every day and make new friends.
8.Take care of all the boxes in this house, make it more MY house, but keep enough of Mechanic Man's Mom to feel her presence and cherish memories of her.
9.Adopt a cat for someone else.
10.Once the house is organized, start playing the piano again.

Happy New Year and may 2010 be a magical year filled with dreams come true, wishes made real, and hopes realized.

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