Nuts and Nonsense

Looking Through the Mirror

2012-02-12T22:51:00.000-08:00

I am looking to my children, watching as they experience the thrill and excitement and pure happiness at expecting two babies in six months. I remember the days, when I carried this son, my second pregnancy. The thrill when I felt the first kick. The moments when I was washed over with speechless awe that a LIFE was growing inside me. I am almost envious. There are things that you permanently give up when you age - being pregnant is one. Carrying inside you a miracle; total and absolute proof of God. I always felt sorry for men when I was pregnant. They have no clue what that is like, only on our word.

I am watching my 30-year-old niece, as she spends her second trip to the island of St. John, temporarily trying out living and working in the island paradise until June. How exciting that is! Isn't it wonderful to have such freedom and spirit as a young woman without hindering yourself with a husband and children. I'm a little envious of her, too.

No - I wouldn't give up my two sweet babies, now men in their 30s. I wouldn't ever give up the miracles I carried.

I "borrowed" my niece just before her 13th birthday and took her to the Oregon coast for a week. My sons were grown and out of the house. She was the daughter I never had. She turned 13 while in my care - my brother kind of sweated that one - afraid I'd return with a yucky snotty Teenager. No matter how I influenced her, she grew into a remarkable young woman, very independent, with goals and dreams and wishes.

I want to live vicariously in both my daughter-in-law and my niece - two young women I love with all my heart. I also want to hold them high, applaud the Heavens for creating such beautiful creatures. Thank you, God, for life, children, adventures, living.

I am looking in the mirror at laugh lines, crinkles, and creases. Signs that I have lived somewhat a happy life. I'd like to do it again. I can't call it a "do over" because I just want to do it again! Maybe I'd put a summer island in there somewhere but I'd also include the wonderful days of new motherhood. It never, never leaves you. They are always my babies.

Being Outrageous!

2012-02-02T11:16:00.000-08:00

We need more fun in our lives. I keep wanting to do something silly and outrageous. Like, skip down the sidewalk. Can you imagine? Picture driving down the street and then glancing over at a gray-haired woman, skipping and laughing beside you. I wonder if I can do it.

Or, hanging your head out the window while you are driving - grinning like a happy puppy basking in the breeze.

Then there is my friend's granddaughter who "flies" to grandma's house from the back seat of the car.

A few weeks ago, I went for a walk with the Spokesman Review's (Spokesman-Review)Paul Turner and we greeted people, all strangers. Their reactions varied from suspicious caution to total I-don't-see-any-strange-weird-people avoidance of eye-contact to hesitant greetings back. It was fun. We got a lot of smiles back but generally everyone was self-aware, looking at their cell phones, looking at the space in front of their shoes, concentrating on their navels.

But wouldn't it be fun to wave at people, while you are at the light, acting like the person on the other side is your long lost best friend from First Grade, and then greeting them with "It's Great to See You!" and smile big, and keep on walking. I might get more reaction.

I've got to go - I'm going to take my car through the car wash and then scream like a wild woman when the spidery webs wash over my windshield. YaHOOOOOOOOO.

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Life! What a Roller Coaster Ride!

2012-01-25T23:46:00.000-08:00

A good family friend called me this morning to tell us her husband had a severe stroke yesterday. My heart just broke. Bud and Lucy are Mechanic Man's parents' best friends. They became our surrogate parents when his mother had a very similar stroke. My first thought when Lucy called was suddenly filled with images of nurses, doctors, hospitals, nursing homes, pneumonia every other day, lost weight, lost spirit, the total devastation and sorrow and tragedy. It was overwhelming.

I hate to think of Bud being incapacitated. He's such a goofy, free-spirited guy. They have been selling antiques at swap meets and antique shows for years. He's been famous for setting up their table and then wandering around the other vendors and coming back with four or five items to re-sell. Half the time, they would load up more than they brought with them.

At the same time, I am gearing up to welcome my first grandchildren into the world. Life. It's a ride. You go up and down - but you go!
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Is Your Spouse a Strange Bedfellow????

2012-01-15T20:55:00.000-08:00

Just curious. Are you sleeping with a politician??? Haven't you been warned about how "politicians make strange bedfellows"?

I for one think I'd kick him out of the bed.

Take our former Mayor of Spokane, for instance. Please take her. Queen Mary [Verner] defines a strange bedfellow. What's that??? My definition of a Strange Bedfellow is a greedy, slimy, snake that is selfish, egotistical, smug, snobbish, money-grubbing (literally money grabbing) and hulks around like a vulture, feeding off the poor and meek.

If I were her spouse - I'd kick her out of my bed!

Why would you even want to go into politics if the prerequisite (it appears) is to be a Strange Bedfellow?

I think they (and specifically HER) should go lay in the bed they made and close the door! Forever!

We village people have much more integrity in each of our humble homes than all the strange bedrooms combined. We'll take care of our country just fine, thank you.

Now go back to your coma.

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Live, Life, Love

2012-01-03T17:01:00.000-08:00

There are so many reasons I am looking forward to 2012 - don't worry! It isn't going to end! I have too many reasons to have 2012 be the best year ever in this century.

For one thing, I have had about 12 years of loss. Little losses. Big losses. But losses, nonetheless. My firm lost one of its big money-maker attorneys, when he left just before the end of the year, in a huff, taking several attorneys with him along with million-dollar clients. The first year following this event saw several losses - of coworkers who had become friends - of clients that I had become attached to - of a whole branch office in Moses Lake, where I had most of my work, along with more friends and beloved clients. By the end of that first twelve months, we had lost over 30% of our people.

Then Mechanic Man's mother had a stroke - and for three years, she was here but she was not. Another loss. More poignant than all the others because we MISSED her while we cared for her. Living, but not living, personality lost, wit lost, spirit lost, heart lost.

A year after that my own mother suddenly became ill and at only 79 she lost her will to live and died three weeks after being told she had cancer. Double loss. Having her just quit, just give up, was another loss, followed by the very real loss at her death.

Then back home to taking care of the shell of the woman who was my "other" mother.

Followed quickly and overwhelmingly by the loss of my kidneys.

The recession.

Continuation of the consequences of failed kidneys, dialysis, losing my job, which was everything to me.

Now we reach a new year and with it the great news that I will become a grandmother for the first time.

The wheel of life turns, and makes a full circle! Life is coming!

Hallelujah! A New Year Approacheth!

2011-12-27T13:14:00.000-08:00

I am so excited to have a New Year unfolding!

I didn't do anything extraordinary to even warrant a Christmas letter (Hi, I did dialysis 1,068 times (oops, 1,069 because one day it didn't work and I had to come back the next day) and went to about 4,000 yard sales);
I avoided being filmed by "Hoarders" (note sentence just above) only because I kept my curtains closed;
Thanksgiving sucked because for the first time in my sons' lives (37 & 38 years), neither one of them were here (sob);
Christmas ads started before Halloween and were just plain annoying!
After two years on Unemployment after losing my precious job - even Unemployment ended;
Maybe I can make bag-loads of money selling all my yard sale stuff on Craig's List;
Maybe I can have Mechanic Man build shelf-units in the walls, which would do double-duty as storage for all my stuff AND insulation for the house!
A New Year means a new slate!
Maybe instead of a job, I'll do fascinating volunteer work and have something to write about other than I'm terrified that "Hoarders" will find me;
Finally, it will be such a fantastic New Year because I just found out I'm going to be a GRANDMOTHER!

Happy New Year everyone! Now, I'm going to crochet about 30 baby blankets, shop for a car seat for my car so I can drive my grandbaby around to show off, sign up for the Gerber College Fund, get a new digital camera for pictures, collect ribbons and buttons and sequins and stars for the 5,000 page scrapbook I'm going to make for my grandbaby, generally go wacko on baby clothes, purchase a year's supply of Pampers, spoil, spoil, spoil my new grandbaby. See ya later!
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Joining the Unemployed

2011-12-07T14:15:00.000-08:00

I am curious - when someone who makes a LOT of money, like WSU Coach Paul Wulff, and is fired from his job - does he go on unemployment??? And how does he do a job search? I mean, are there a lot of college coach positions open in the Eastern Washington area? Does he go through depression like a lot of the newly unemployed? Will he be unemployed for over two years, like me? Just wondering.

Confessions of a HoarderCollector

2011-12-04T22:14:00.000-08:00

I am a collector. I collect tea sets. Santas. Snow Globes. Christmas decorations. Glass animals. Duncan Miller glassware. Stationary. Window box displays. Scrapbook supplies. Books.

And I have embellished on what I collect. Like the tea sets. I actually started by collecting vintage 50’s children’s porcelain tea sets, like what I had when I was a little girl. Three pieces of my tea set survived my childhood and sat on a desk at my mother’s house. When she told me I couldn’t have them returned to me until she died, because she didn’t trust me with them (at the age of 50 years old, let alone when I was 5), I started collecting that set. And then, when I couldn’t find the whole set, I started collecting tea pots. And then I started collecting tea cups and saucers. And then I started collecting adult-sized tea cups and saucers. Or, like the scrapbook supplies. I collected paper. Then I collected ribbon. Buttons. Lace. Doilies. Glitter. Sparkles. Sprinkles. Ink.

And I put these collections in little piles. Cups in cups in cups. Saucers on saucers on doilies. Little boxes with little drawers stacked on top of one another. A stack of books with about 50 books in a column, five columns so far.

Let's just say that I am super easy to shop for.

Oh.My.God!!!!!

I think the film crew from “Hoarders” just knocked on my door! Film rolling!

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Bake a Cake, Win a Turkey, or Starve!

2011-11-22T15:46:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving was just around the corner, years ago, when my sons were 8 and 9. I worried about Thanksgiving, coming and going, without a turkey. It was going to be a pretty grim Thanksgiving; I was eyeballing chickens and wondering how fooled the boys would be.

The boys participated in the Boy Scouts Bake Sale the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The prize was a turkey dinner, complete with potatoes, gravy mix, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie. With $6.00 to my name, I knew this was my only chance. That, or we'd have to settle for chicken.

The scouts were supposed to make their own cake. Home made by the boys. My mind slithered back to the soap box derby earlier that year, where the boys were supposed to make a screaming racing car out of a block of wood, *by*themselves* There was a family at the bake sale that evening - affluent, intelligent, and beautiful parents with equally beautiful twin boys, age 9. The twins showed up at the derby with a cherry-red, cherried-out, speed demon race car that won hands down! My son showed up with a hand carved by him (with a little inadequate help from me), lemon colored (for a reason) obviously home-made car that wouldn't even roll an inch without help.

Now my mind came back to the night before Thanksgiving, and there on the table of 20 cakes was the twins' cake, stunning in its beauty, of course, an absolutely beautiful beehive cake with yellow and white striped icing, and little furry bees on toothpicks "hovering" over the beehive, every detail finely etched as if it were created by some elite French chef. And our cake, Mr. Happy Face, which was bumpy and wavy, black frosting smeared into a crude half circle with a crooked little smile and two globs for eyes – the saddest cake I have ever seen. (But hand-made by my son!)

I grumbled to myself. I had decided I was going to have to buy the cake back for $2.00, leaving me $4.00. I could still get that damned chicken.

It was getting darned close to disaster time in my family as our misshapen cake, made totally by my son (did I say that already?), was sitting forlorn and lonely as all the other cakes were being raffled off – it was down to the beehive cake or the happy face cake.

Bee Family bought my cake AND theirs!

I felt a strange twisting in my gut – I was bitter and angry and jealous and peeved and crabby. They could have bought all 20 cakes! And of course, Bee Family won the turkey dinner. It was a test for me to practice sweetness in the face of total disaster. Now, I had no turkey dinner. And I had no cake!

I told myself that this was a good thing. I still had SIX dollars to buy my "chicken" dinner. And spare change to get two ice cream cones for two pretty sad little boys.

We got to our car and I was loading the kids in, when Mr. Bee came up to me with this HUGE box, the hump of a gigantic turkey peering over the edge; potatoes, stuffing, Pumpkin Pie, the WORKS. "We've already got our turkey – this would just go to waste – would you mind taking it off our hands?"

Well, I tell ya, I could hardly talk to him as I choked up and teared up and tried to stuff all the guilt I was feeling for, well, for feeling cheated, and poor, and pathetic!

There is always something to be thankful for. If you find yourself in a downward spiral, something will come along to lift you out of that hole. I am ever thankful for this family's gift to my family.

May I be able to pay it forward in every moment where I can pass along a kindness or a gentle touch. Hoping everyone finds abundant reasons for being thankful.

Wearing the Suit of Professionalism

2011-11-08T14:13:00.000-08:00

I loved Doug Clark’s take on the Karl Thompson/Otto Zehm issue here in Spokane. It was contrary to his usual funny, witty, and sarcastic commentaries – it was serious, eloquent, and on the mark for the truth that is going on with our police department.

He mentioned the police department’s guide for being a good police officer. (And mind you, most of our police officers follow the guideline; it is the few that are marring the reputation of the whole.)

Ten years ago, I started a chapter of a legal association in Spokane for legal secretaries and paralegals, NALS of Spokane. (NALS is a national association for the education and professionalism of non-attorney law firm personnel.) We have a series of tests we take covering laws, regulations, ethics, and skill sets that guide us in our jobs – even though we are low man on the totem pole, so to speak. A quarter of our eight-hour test covers two Code of Ethics manuals, one for attorneys and one for judges. Secretaries and paralegals follow the same principles as attorneys and judges – we follow, in fact, their Manuals. (The "Model Rules of Professional Conduct" for attorneys was created to resolve issues, like the Watergate scandal.) When I read both manuals (just as long in length as for police officers), I was struck by how it affected me. I wanted to wear the values and philosophy like a suit. I mean that I wore professionalism, integrity, ethics, high ideals, and moral fortitude. I held myself to a high standard, and my actions influenced all the staff around me, and even the attorneys. My attitude held weight for my entire firm – little old me.

When I read Clark’s article, my mind went back to the day I passed my certification test – I thought to myself that the manual police officers follow is the crux of everything wrong with the police department. They are not reading the manual. If a small peg on the board of a whole bunch of holes can read the manual and carry a whole law firm, then a police officer should be able to do it, too.

Conundrum

2011-10-27T16:16:00.000-07:00

Is it too late to do Spring Cleaning??? You never hear about Fall Cleaning. I'm just wondering. I had so many nice days to do Spring cleaning but there were yard sales to go to, friends to visit, scrapbooks to scrap together, puzzles to assemble, games to play. Now that we have a record-breaking Fall (instead of the usual two little days of autumn colors before ten feet of snow clouds our vision), you think today would be too late to do my Spring Cleaning?

Unemployment Blues

2011-10-26T18:32:00.000-07:00

Today I opened my last unemployment check.

[Ominous drum roll]

It had a note at the bottom to the affect: Good luck in your job search and your future life that will not be what you have been accustomed to.

Um, there ain't no job in my future unless it is Tuesdays and Thursdays, pays well enough to feed me and not too well to impinge on my meager social security disability - which is paltry to the point, I should be eligible for food stamps. Yikes. Oh, and also, the job should be glamorous, fun, self-fulfilling, self-gratifying, and - oh, what? You mean I should have a dreary dull job just like the rest of you? Filing files, filing data cards, filing taxes, filing my nails.

Then the news came on - and I was featured!!!! Well, not me specifically, but they talked about the fact that "54% of Americans are unemployed." That is an outrageous number. For me, it has been two years of unemployment. They featured two different women, however, who have been unemployed for three years and are not covered by health insurance (or unemployment insurance).

There are people out there, lots of them, that are far worse off than me. I can't whine about this. At least I have my disability check - and I know of people that need disability but aren't eligible because either they didn't pay into social security, or their ailment isn't "bad" enough to become a category.

This is a very scary road I'm starting to travel down.

Train Lullaby

2011-10-25T00:15:00.000-07:00

We live next to a single train track that goes through Millwood.

I kind of worried when I first moved here, how that would be. Sometimes, it is so heavy and loud, that the pictures on the wall shake, the small bottles collected over 50 years ago, vibrate to the edge of their little shelves - and we unconsciously push them back as we walk by.

I try to guess which way the train is coming from - east? west? And then it appears in my kitchen window, the engineer so close I can see him smile at me, the engine so massive I am surprised at how small the engineer is, how he can control something so huge.

At night, it passes with a different sound - it is rhythmic, subtly clunk-a-clanging along, but muted - as if the night clouds buffer it somehow. If I am awake - I am soon lulled to sleep. In fact, if I am awake, and not able to ease into sleep - I wait for the train. It is faithful and timely. Soon - soon, it will come whispering by, and I will be asleep by the time the caboose comes through.

The Kissing Gate

2011-10-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, we lived on a little farm just outside of Spokane, where my Dad practiced being a gentleman farmer while keeping his day job as a reporter for The Spokane Chronicle. He bought a beat up old tractor and drove it around the fields, plowing just to plow. With that tractor, he built a fairly large vegetable garden outside the back yard. To get to the garden, he built an old fashioned stile. Three steps up to a landing, three steps down to the peas, beets, carrots, beans, corn, tomatoes, lettuce. We had everything you would want for vegetables. It was a heady scent, to sit on the stile at night in the moonlight.

It was to the stile that I would take my date. First we had dinner with my family, then we went hand-in-hand to the stile (I thought everyone had a stile to the garden!), and we would sit on the top step and talk, maybe kiss, smell the tomatoes, until, invariably, the back screen door would whine open, and Dad’s voice would interrupt, only 15 feet away through the Locust trees, “You kids doing anything out there?” It wasn’t really a question. It was more interpreted by my dates as, “You kids are NOT doing anything out there!” And my date would surreptitiously slip away from me a couple inches – not even close enough for kissing.

I had three young suitors go through the dating ritual with me – one became an attorney and politician here in Spokane; one became a missionary and preacher; and I married the third, had two sons, and after seven years we parted.

There was Magic in the garden stile. It was safe and there was a special aura around it – as if little fairies would float up from the garden itself. My sister also “dated” at the garden stile. I’m fairly certain we were the last virgins in Spokane County and it’s probably because of the stile.

Or maybe it was my Dad. It’s kind of hard to fool around when your Dad keeps appearing on the back porch.

The Rumors of My Death. . . .

2011-10-10T13:14:00.000-07:00

I got home last night after being out of town for the weekend, with the first email being from someone I don't know, starting, "Remembering Art especially as the ski season approaches."

Art's dead? O my God! Art - who has been the token male in my women's dinner group for - well, since forever. He knew the rest of the gals way before me. Art - who met us at Disney World and was my personal driver to and from dialysis - where he would camp out in the lobby and visit with all the people coming in to wait for their turn on dialysis - for three and a half hours.

How could this be????

I started to weep, trying to dial one of the group - Kathy. And when I tried to subtlely find out what had happened, she was confused and said she didn't know anything. I sent her the strange email and she finally wrote back and said "I think she is trying to find Art."

This morning we all got an email from Art himself, alive and well, with a picture of him riding his motorcycle around Florida just for the heck of it, long white hair and beard blowing in the wind, and because 75 is NOT too old to have fun.

The rumor of his death is grossly exaggerated. Mark Twain was on to something there.

(Sigh)

His Hands

2011-10-09T23:39:00.000-07:00

I love Mechanic Man's hands.

We were at a swap meet on the west side, and he stopped to check out some clunky big greasy car part, some part that is Greek to me. He placed his hands on it, like he was caressing a baby.

I thought, what beautiful hands. Big, powerful, beefy, strong. He swings a mighty sledge hammer with those hands.

He feels motor parts with those hands. He can tell the fitness of a part, feeling the strength, or the weakness, of some heavy metal car part.

He lifts engines and other heavy equipment with those hands.

He disassembles and puts back together in intricate detail, pieces and parts, with those hands.

Such powerful, beautiful hands.

He touches me gently with those hands.

Gray Power

2011-10-01T21:20:00.000-07:00

I got my hair cut this afternoon - Short! Short! Short!

And Gray! Gray! Gray!

I've decided I kind of like it. So, I think L'Oreal is losing one of their main customers. I should have bought stock in L'Oreal. I've supported them for many years. Once I hit my 30's and my natural auburn hair was getting a few grays in amongst the red, I bought my first hair color from L'Oreal. (After all, women older than me, at the time, were touting that we aren't getting older; we are getting better.)

It's more salt and pepper - streaks of near white. Overall - it's not a bad look. And it might even appear that I have some smarts up there - it somehow gives me a wiser demeanor. I think.

My hair stylist - Mechanic Man, of course. Gives new meaning to "only your hair dresser knows for sure" and he's not talking!!!

:)

Bad, Bad Kidney

2011-09-26T14:27:00.000-07:00

September 30, I will have been on dialysis for two years. The average time spent before transplant is six years. Trivial little facts on the Second Anniversary of Dialysis:

Total Weeks: 104
Total Days: 312
Total Hours: 1,092
Cost per hour average: $1,143.00
Total Cost for two years: $1,248,000 (yes, that is almost one and a quarter MILLION)

In the last two years, I have had four surgeries, multiple doctor visits, 20 drips to unclog my site, bitten by a dog in my dialysis hand once, had my blood pressure crash about 40 times. (This morning, for example - 60 over 40 and still breathing)

Every dialysis day is an event. I call them “Bad Kidney” events. Like, a bad dog. They simply misbehave. Even though they aren’t functioning – those little guys continually act up.

First you get poked by two needles – and there is every chance just one of the needles will not work, or will infiltrate, or will hit a nerve. Sometimes, when any of this happens, you have to go home (they charge you anyway for the needles and the prep of the machine) AND you have to come back the next day! AND, this little scenario is all you think about every time you start dialysis. Will it work? Are they using the right needles? Will the flow be sufficient?
Then once you start – you have to worry about your blood pressure crashing. Which usually happens towards the end. Alarms go off, they have to add back fluid, and you leave needing to have fluid removed but you wait until the next time.
Also, once you start, you have to worry about the blood flow both going into the machine and coming back into your arm. If it is too low or too high, it sets off alarms.
Every time the alarm goes off (an average of 9 times for me each session), it intermittently STOPS my dialysis and then restarts and adds that lost time to the total time spent on dialysis.

I love the other patients at my dialysis center. You get to know each other, say hi, you run into each other at stores – and more often than not – at restaurants – where there’s lots of forbidden foods loaded in our no-no ingredients (sodium, potassium, phosphorous). And there we sit, eyeballing each other – knowing we are indulging in our favorite foods with sinful delight.

Unfortunately, I’ve noticed an ugly trend at my center –around Christmas. Winter is not kind to dialysis patients – we’re worn down, our immune systems are compromised, we get flu shots – but we still get the flu, or something kind of mundane to healthy people. And then we lose people – usually in droves. Last winter, it was two women who both died from heart problems. And then there was that one young kid, 35, paralyzed from the neck down, who went home from dialysis one day and decided not to come back – he died after only four days of no dialysis. It gives you pause. (My Dad did the same thing – lasting seven days.) We lost them all in one weekend, so that Monday morning, I came in and noticed the three empty chairs immediately. The techs aren't supposed to tell us what happened, but they tell me because I have that open honest face and people tell me their deepest secrets - including what patients died this weekend. Yeesh.

Oh – add the above trivia to the 90 patients my one center has (Spokane has seven centers) and these are the center’s numbers:

Total hourly earnings: (this is what insurance pays, not what they charge) $102,857 (an hour)
Total annual earnings: $56,160,000.

Ever wonder why insurance is so high?

P.S. I'm thinking of creating a second blog - called Bad, Bad Kidney just for journaling - except that I've said in this one post what happens to me every day, 156 days a year.

Bennies of Being Old

2011-09-19T16:27:00.000-07:00

There are many benefits of being old, and being an old woman:

1. No periods. I know - if you are a guy, you don't understand, unless you live with someone who has them.
2. No menopause - I'm too old. Again - you don't appreciate this unless you have a gazillion hot flashes in one hour; sleep with someone who has a gazillion hot flashes in one hour; drive behind someone with a gazillion hot flashes in about a two mile stretch, screaming her head off with a string of expletive deleted words.
3. No rush hour traffic. We avoid them. We don't need them. They are a total waste of our energy.
4. No paying for parking downtown at $150 a month. Whoopee!!!!
5. No dressing up - I can go out in my tattered jeans and baggy t-shirt. Pretty much anywhere.
6. I only need two pair of shoes - one pair for the single party I go to a year (to go with the one dress I own)
7. No alarm clock.
8. I'm so old that Medicare pretty much pays all my health bills (about $600,000 a year)
9. I don't have to work. Ok, so I'm disabled and on social security. Still - no work.
10. No boss - unless you count Mechanic Man, and I pretty much humor him.

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This Bites!

2011-09-03T12:24:00.000-07:00

I was bitten by a dog yesterday.

Writing those words seems so bland. Like I just said I was bitten by a mosquito.

No, I was ravenously gnawed on by a large dog with a very strong jaw. Mechanic Man and I were doing our usual browsing through various yard sales. We routinely meet and greet the various dogs and cats who act like we have arrived solely to visit with them and give them our attention and pets. I look forward to these visits because we don’t have room for pets, and I crave the cuddling and warm fuzzy feel.

But not this time.

This time I was going back to the car – and the dog (on a chain inside the owner’s fenced yard) ran up to the fence, both paws on the fence, acting so much like all the other yard sale dogs – I thought in a friendly, “pet me!” attitude.

I was wrong.

He bit down hard on my hand and chewed, then grabbed my other hand as I was trying to get his grip off of me. I came away with dozens of puncture wounds on the top of my right hand, and deep bite marks and cuts on the top of my left hand and middle finger. I now have steri-strips and gauze wrapped around both hands, and a splint on my left middle finger.

More worrisome is that the bites narrowly missed the large vein going across my left hand – my dialysis hand. I have dialysis in my left upper arm – and all dialysis patients need to keep their arms and hands SAFE for future dialysis sites because they always fail eventually and a new site needs to be ready. It’s very scary.

Anyway – three hours spent at Emergency, including the “scrubbing” of all the wounds, sending in a Dog Bite report, and now home – typing with about five fingers.

I will not be petting strange animals anymore. And that is really, really heart breaking for me. It makes me cry.

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Bring Them Home

2011-08-30T22:09:00.000-07:00

The Parting Shot photo on Huckleberries August 30, 2011, was so heart breaking. I worry about every CHILD that is serving as a soldier in these days. Every one of them is a son or daughter, some are even fathers or mothers.

http://www.spokesman.com/blogs/hbo/2011/aug/30/parting-shot-83011/

I am thinking of the soulful song from Les Miserables, Bring Him Home. I can hear it in my head, it bleeds from my heart. Please, God, bring them ALL home.

God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there

He is young
He's afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.

He's like the son I might have known
If God had granted me a son.
The summers die
One by one
How soon they fly
On and on
And I am old
And will be gone.

Bring him peace
Bring him joy
He is young
He is only a boy

You can take
You can give
Let him be
Let him live
If I die, let me die
Let him live
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.

Lyrics from Les Miserables, Bring Him Home

Junk (I mean Yard) Sales

2011-08-27T22:46:00.000-07:00

We've gone to yet more yard sales, and Mechanic Man has made whopping deals - like a huge box of tools (that look like a lot of junk to me) for five bucks. And the huge box of similar "tools" from the "free" pile. (Free.) And the box of true junk that included a gazillion little boxes with a gazillion little bits in them. Five bucks. And now, take a look at our (what we thought was LARGE) shed - where you pull up the door and several boxes threaten to explode out at you from RIGHT THERE. (sigh) And now take a gander at the boxes by the tomatoes - which will never ripen because the sun just does not shine there any more. I ask you - there is a moral to this somewhere, but I don't know where. Is it still a deal if it's starting to sprout parts in your garden? If you run out of shelf "space," how long does the "shelf life" last? Can you ever have enough greasy parts? Can you take it with you when you die? Can Mechanic Man live to be 498 years old? Is there a sale-a-holic association? Is there room for one more?

Oh my God - I think the Hoarders TV crew is coming up the driveway!

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It's Always Something

2011-08-08T15:08:00.000-07:00

So this is one of those things that happens every now and then, when you are on dialysis.

It fails.

I mean - they hook you up with two needles and then discover that it's clogged or stuffed or stopped or failed.

And while they are discovering this, moving from needle to needle and then trying different spots with new needles, they say something innocuous like, "well, if she can't run today, she can come in tomorrow." What? What do you mean by "coming in tomorrow?" Do you mean I have to come in AGAIN and have two needles stabbed into me AGAIN? And then I have to come in on Wednesday to get back on track?

Anyway - that's the story. Dialysis SUCKS. Or in my case, today, DIDN'T suck.

What a pain in the tush, er, arm, er WHATEVER.

It's Always Something.

Nuts and Bolts

2011-07-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

I know it's not that interesting to you wonderful readers out there, but I thought I'd catch you up anyway.

You know that I have spent the last six weeks doing something I thought I would never do in my whole life - at that is sticking long, large, huge needles into my upper arm for dialysis connections. Two needles. I was working toward developing a "buttonhole" which is created by inserting the needles into the same spot over and over, about 12 times, until a channel is created much like the pierced-earring hole you got when you were at 10.

The nurse coaching me (bless her for coming out of her way Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to guide me) was disappointed that the buttonhole was not forming. Friday, what should have been my 17th day, proved unsuccessful. I tried, she tried, my tech tried - and that was that. Not happening.

So Friday was my 1st day of trying again only in two different spots and the tech is doing it instead of me.

I bawled all day long - felt like a total failure. I flunked Poke-Yourself-with-Two-15 Gauge Needles 101.

I am trying to keep an up attitude about this whole dialysis thing. It is my mini spa, after all, and I should be able to relax, put my feet up, get a pedicure and a foot massage, and come out refreshed and gearing up for a busy day.

There, you have the nuts and bolts of it.
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Culinary Cuisine Catastrophes by Calamity Jeanie

2011-07-03T12:19:00.000-07:00

So, it began with my future mother-in-law asking me if I even knew how to cook. Maybe it began with my own mother’s training me how to cook. I mean, she instilled in me the concept that oatmeal raisin cookies were a hearty breakfast. As the oldest of four children, and the fact that Mom liked to sleep in, I was in charge of a “hearty breakfast.” And there’s oatmeal, eggs, butter, raisins, and sometimes nuts in oatmeal raisin cookies. It’s just so logical and right!

So, that’s the first thing I learned to “cook.”

Along came high school and I chose to skip Home Economics for an extra choir class and ended up taking Home Ec for summer school. The teacher assigned us to tables and each table had four students. Each table was further assigned to a course. My table was assigned to desserts.

So my recipe repertoire grew to include pies, cakes, cookies, and the finale was a Baked Alaska! I can throw together a Baked Alaska and have energy left over to go sit on the couch and watch reruns of Desperate Housewives.

When I got married, I was a Junior in college and one of my required classes was Home Economics 101. I got called in towards the end of the quarter because I was. . . . . FAILING!!!!! (And no cooking was involved). I had to convince the teacher that I was indeed domestic, and that I did things like iron my husband’s handkerchiefs and tried to iron his t-shirts but they kept melting into the iron, but I would persist.

Back to cooking. Being struggling and poverty-stricken college students, we went to a wholesale store and bought bulk food by the case. Cases of soup. Cases of fruit. Cases of vegetables. And the ultimate score was a case of Jello. In fact a case of strawberry Jello. A case of raspberry Jello. A case of lemon Jello. And I proceeded to invent about 101 ways you could have Jello. It was whipped, frothed, foamed, layered, fruited, molded, beaten, whisked, fluffed, shaped, diced – you get the idea.

I ventured into the main course cooking routine by following some of my mother’s advice (and I’m forewarning you that I don’t think my mother was a good cook – like you hear all sons around the world claiming that “There’s no home cooking like my mother’s home cooking!”). There’s her famous tuna noodle casserole (Boil noodles, add one can Cream of Mushroom soup (Campbell’s), one cup crushed potato chips, mix into bowl, cover with crushed potato chips, bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes).

Hey, I like it!!! But Mechanic Man’s mother was REALLY a good cook and her idea of tuna casserole involved fresh tuna and nothing from Campbell’s and no potato chips. Eeeeeuuuuu.

So, to answer my future mother-in-law (who is now my ex-mother-in-law), I can do dessert! I am great at dessert!

And I have the main course thing figured out, too. Around time to start assembling all the ingredients for a good dinner, I start out to the kitchen and I mutter to myself out loud (so that Mechanic Man can hear me – this is a must), and I say something like, “I think I’ll do something with hamburger and Cream of Mushroom soup. . .” and Mechanic Man practically tosses his chair over trying to get out of it fast enough to beat me to the kitchen, slamming his hand over the cupboard door that holds anything Campbell’s and he’ll say “Um, I think I’ll start something-something.” And I return to the couch, my job done!

You don’t have to be a cook to have a successful relationship (and I’m not starving!)

~Formerly known as Calamity Jeanie, now Domestic Goddess~

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Viral Mother-in-Law

2011-06-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

Wow - just read this on Yahoo: http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/sex/mother-in-law-sends-worst-email-ever-to-bride-forgivable-2504517/Viral Future Mother-in-Law

And the wedding hasn't even happened yet.

It reminds me of a meeting with my future mother-in-law - not nearly so horrid, and she has mellowed with time and is now a pleasant frail little old lady.

But that meeting was one for the books. We had gone to my parents first and my future hubby did all the old fashioned things - like actually asking my Dad for permission to marry me. And then they had the usual back and forth conversation, like, "How do you expect to support my daughter?" "What if she gets pregnant before you two graduate?" (We were both juniors in college and would have one more year to go before graduating.)

Then we went to his parents, and while my future father-in-law was dizzy with pleasure at gaining a new daughter that he thought was sweet as pie, my future mother-in-law grilled me much more intensely than my Dad grilled my future husband. She wanted to know how I was going to support my husband if I (shock of shocks) DARED to get pregnant before we graduated. And it went down hill from there. Like, "Do you even know how to cook?"

We married, graduated, had two children, and seven years later (when the boys were 2 and 3), he left for another relationship - and it had nothing to do with my cooking.

Later, at his Dad's funeral, my ex-husband told me that I was the lucky one because I got to divorce his whole family. (I kind of thought of that, once the divorce was final. There are some things you are really pleased to lose.)

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No news. . . .

2011-06-28T13:44:00.001-07:00

No news - i can't think of anything fun to write about. Til further notice. :)

Dithers, Drama, & Duldrums

2011-05-27T20:58:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know you didn't ask, but I'm going to say it. I am starting to NOT have fun with this dialysis thing. Do you know there is even a website called "I Hate Dialysis" here???? It's actually quite good - not a pity party but an empathy party. Nobody knows like someone else on dialysis. There is so much stress. So much anger. So much sadness. So much really icky stuff. You try to minimize it and not make it the center of your life - but there it is. You have to watch WHAT you eat. You have to watch HOW MUCH you eat. Your list of what you CANNOT eat is three pages long, while you can put on a little post-it note what you CAN eat (white rice, unsalted green beans, and Mandarin oranges, or any combination thereof). You have to watch your blood pressure and hope that while you are on dialysis, it doesn't crash - which happens so much that when the alarms go off, you have to look at your own machine to find out if it is you or not. Of course, if you really crash, you're unconscious, so you don't even give a rip.

Now, because I want a particular method of dialysis called the Buttonhole, (where two needles are inserted in the same two holes over and over until they create a channel, or track, much like the holes for earrings), I need the same technician over and over to create that track. And there is no guarantee that I will always get the same technician. So, I am (dramatic drum roll) DOING THE NEEDLES MYSELF.

I am in training, but it is hands' on. A nurse guides me. I have had three sessions this week, and only the first one was successful. I missed the track of the second needle on Wednesday and had to start over, and today, I made it, but nicked the vein and had to withdraw the second needle and use my temporary site (a catheter in my chest) for the second tube.

First - it hurts.
Second - it is overwhelmingly stressful.
Third - you have to hold off the two sites at the end for ten minutes to be sure they won't bleed. Wednesday, I was done, got up, and blood started to gush. I had to re-hold for another ten minutes.
Fourth. Time D.R.A.G.S. when the needle isn't in right and is touching a nerve and you sit there for three and a half hours in pain. I'm talking a TEN, on a scale of one to ten. I am THIS close to having them take me off early - which wouldn't help me in the long run. (Now I understand why the corporate headquarters' nurse asks me if I have skipped any treatments. Before this, I thought why would I do that????)

So - this is my sad tale. I'm just no fun.
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Lady Bug, Lady Bug, Birds & Bees

2011-05-18T11:30:00.000-07:00

So, I checked out my newspaper box (the old orange SR box), and it was covered in Lady Bugs, my favorite little critter of all. I always think of them as pretty little ladies, prim and proper. But before my eyes, I see that all of these Lady Bugs are in pairs - one on top of the other. I clapped my hand over my mouth when it suddenly occurred to me that they were. . . . . . .

HAVING SEX!

Oh my God, that's almost like when I found out my parents "did it." (This was early puberty and after the initial shock, it didn't bother me any more, except I really didn't want to go into their bedroom for anything.)

So, I left the paper in the box and came into the house. I think they need their privacy.

Who knew????

(It is a little disturbing to realize that Lady Bugs aren't all ladies.)
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Birthday Thoughts

2011-04-28T18:20:00.000-07:00

Things about April 29 that are very important to me:

* It is my birthday. I have always liked having my own day.
* I am sharing it (unwillingly, I might add) with Prince William and Kate Middleton. I will always remember that it is their wedding anniversary. And I hope they take it to heart that it is MY day and that they need to tie the knot well, and permanently, because I will always remember. Always.
* It also is the date that I can officially take my social security. Which means I can kind of ignore the fact that I'm on disability and can now toss that negative term down the old life tube. I am no longer "disabled" - I am retired.
* I also share this day with my nephew - which is perfectly fine. I know where he lives and he'll honor me for the rest of his days.
* My son's birthday is the day after mine (he was due on my birthday but God knew how very important my own day was to me and He felt that my son deserved HIS own special day). He will honor me for the rest of his days.
* Please note - I celebrate my birthday for a whole month. I expect honor, respect, bowing, and courtseying. Consider me The Queen.

The Queen of the Universe has spoken.
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The House

2011-04-14T19:20:00.000-07:00

We went to an estate sale today and it happened again. I go into someone else's house and imagine if it were mine. I think this is because I live in a little tiny house that is not even big enough for me, let alone engine-lifting, car-moving Mechanic Man. This house had it all - it had the wrap around deck/patio. It had a two car garage. It had a shop that was two stories tall and big enough to probably work on ten cars all under cover PLUS a 20 foot windowed office. The kitchen looked over the back yard and patio (and shop, in case Mechanic Man got lost in there, and I could have an inkling of where to find him). (Note to self: need to plant GPS bug on Mechanic Man.)

Homemade soup was being made in the kitchen for the relatives having the sale. The cook kept going in and out while I was looking at stuff (like I need MORE stuff). I told her I was staying for lunch because there were so many people there, nobody would know a stranger was sitting down at the table. She laughed. But I was serious! Still, Mechanic Man took my hand and said, no, we had to go back to our little hovel and try not to step on each other.

I was envisioning whole rooms for different me's. A craft room (not that I am crafty but I AM working on a scrapbook with my dinner group). A music room where the piano is not covered with boxes that we haven't put in storage yet, because if this were MY house, all that stuff would be on the second floor of the massive shop. A library! (And then I could actually keep all those thousands of books that I don't want to give to Goodwill.) A guest bedroom complete with made bed. A second bathroom (a his bathroom and an everyone else bathroom and I'd only really pay attention to cleaning the second bathroom since the first "his" bathroom is hopeless and I don't want anybody else going in there. ever.) A walk-in pantry. A mud room. A computer room. Rooms! Many rooms!

So, here I sit on the couch, which is my reading room, computer (lap top being on my lap) room, tv room, and music room, even though the piano is covered with boxes.

Tomorrow we are going to more yard sales and estate sales and imaginary this-is-my-home sales.

.... And a laundry room.
.... And maybe a full basement.
.... A den?
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Farewell To My Identity

2011-04-09T23:01:00.000-07:00

I went through my closets and pulled out my prized possessions - several very expensive dress suits that I looked hot in and worked hot in. When I put one of these power suits on, it was like putting on armor. I grew. I flew. I was Power Jeanie, Secretary Extraordinaire. I swear that I could type faster, think sharper, and could toss the grammar book down the elevator shaft because my power suit was ON. People looked at me in awe - I was that good. A professional secretary with crisp lines, brain at snap attention, focus on the prize - a job well done by a super human machine.

I gave them away today to a sweet friend (thank you so much, Ginny) who will delegate them out to a women's transition group where women are stepping back in to the work force.

My very first reaction to watching my suits roll out the door was to sob! I think one of those suits was still wearing my heart on its sleeve. And then there was the huge relief of letting go of one more thing to make a decision about. It's done. I have one more task done. I need a personal coordinator. That brought another sob.

O boy - this business of cleaning house and paring down my stuff to a manageable small pile is just so emotional!

And I haven't even tried to tackle the prized possessions of thousands of books. All books I have read. All books I plan to read again. All mine, mine, mine. All real - no Kindle here. All made of paper and ink. All dog-eared and comfortable in my hands. All alive with characters and adventures and mysteries.

(Sigh)
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Do You Wear Your PJs to Work?

2011-04-07T11:05:00.000-07:00

Recently I posted on Facebook that I was spending the afternoon in my PJs while I was doing the laundry (mainly because I needed to wash my favorite comfy jeans that I usually don’t relinquish very easily). A few people responded, and one noted that I’d be surprised how many places she wears her PJs. So, do you wear your PJs in unconventional places?

I have been able to go out in the summer in pretty PJ bottoms with flower prints, or Betty Boop, or Mickey Mouse, and pretty much go wherever I want – to the store, to the post office, for a walk – and nobody is any wiser. At least that is what I tell myself. Maybe people are whispering to each other about how loony I am to go out in public in my pajamas.

My next door neighbor, a man in his 70s, mows his lawn in his striped pajamas (tops and bottoms). He looks perfectly normal and at home. Because, well, he IS at home. But still.

We had a lady that came into dialysis at 6:00 in the morning in her pajamas. I envied her. Then I started coming in at the same time and found myself slipping slowly into the relaxed dress of slippers. Then pj bottoms. And so now there are two Pajama Ladies. I mean, who’s going to see us??? We’re half asleep anyway and if we are lucky, we’ll go back to sleep while we are sitting there and sleep through the whole thing and wake up three and a half hours later, fully rested, refreshed, cleansed, and refilled. Can’t get any better than that.

Friends were recently discussing their “pajama days” where they just putter around the house in their pj’s and bunny slippers, sipping coffee, eating sweet rolls, reading a book, and doing nothing all day long but enjoying their own company. Never dressing up like an adult. This is the life!!!

So, I’m on my way to Walmart (where I’m pretty sure the dress code is pajamas) to find myself a new pair, since I’m wearing out the one I love (and I need to have one to wear while I wash the other one). I’m planning a Pajama Day a week!

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Bling! Bling!

2011-03-19T14:41:00.000-07:00

Driving along a lonely stretch of road, there on the shoulder, was a solitary little pine tree, with a bright red glossy Christmas ball hanging alone on a branch.
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Loss and Grief and Dinner

2011-03-17T17:37:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with my four friends last night – this is my support group and my bonding group – the ones I play with, cry with, commiserate with, conspire with. There is so much grief and sorrow in our group lately. I left last night feeling depressed and at loss. One of our group, Jackie, shared with us the stress and worry over her son-in-law, who has gradually, slowly, and resolutely lost his vision over several years. He is only 40. They have tried everything, seen every doctor, done every test, tried injections and other mystery meds, trying to save his sight. But to no avail. It stresses the family – the children are suffering – in their early teens and watching their beloved Dad lose one of the five senses that is probably the most important. I cannot imagine this.

Then there is Kathy, whose Parkinson’s is getting worse and more pronounced. She plods along, literally one step at a time, moving forward and remaining positive. I bowl with her (and Jackie) and I notice more tremors. Her once really high bowling average is now 158 (but much higher than my 103). But she remains positive and proactive – paying special attention to any changes and in her monthly meetings with her specialist, informs him of the updates. He has told her that all his patients seem to know much more intimate details of their progressive decline than he does.

Then there is Sharon, whose Lupus has deteriorated in different ways – making her joints ache, causing her difficulty in breathing, causing her to tire much more easily.

And me – while I move on to a different way of receiving dialysis, which requires two large needles every time. I am dreading it – start on Monday.

Anyway – it just seemed like LOSS was the theme for the evening. We have all lost parts of ourselves, and the stress bleeds over to our friends and our family. Mechanic Man holds on – but inside he is brewing, angry at whatever is out there that makes people he loves have to go through processes to keep them alive.

It is hard sometimes to keep “up” when everything seems to be spiraling out of control.

And yet, at the end of dinner, after all the crying and laughing and sharing, we hugged each other close, even though we will see each other in a week. These are my sisters of my heart. We share, love, and empathize, feel each other’s pain.
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Hi Costs, Hi Insurance, Hi Anxiety, Bye Money

2011-03-08T15:40:00.000-08:00

Just now, I noticed all the media attention on the Idaho Medicaid hearing going on. It’s not just Medicaid, but Medicare, health insurance, medical costs, pharmaceutical prices, the recession, so much that just adds to my stress level in a very unhealthy way.

When I first started dialysis, I had the blessing of a staff at the center who manages all my financial worries. It’s a huge relief. Dialysis costs around $250,000 a year per patient. It’s a booming business. But how much of that is actually the cost of running dialysis? That $250,000 is what insurance companies, and also Medicare as secondary insurance, pay – so what was it originally? I ask this because three weeks into dialysis, I went to Orlando and vacationed near a different dialysis center and later was billed for $8,000 for the week. (My center is $12,000 a week.) When Premera wouldn’t pay (because it was “out of network”), the Orlando center sent me a new bill, written down to $800. That is 90% of the total bill. Then, after I paid $100, they zeroed out the balance. So, dialysis for the week cost me $100.

Another little tidbit: A transplant costs around $500,000. Medicare will cover a dialysis patient for the rest of their life on dialysis at $250,000 a year. Medicare will cover the prescriptions (usually around $3,000 a month) for three years post-transplant, around $100,000, and then NOTHING. So, think about this for a second. I can be on dialysis for 30 more years ($7,500,000 – that’s seven MILLION, five hundred thousand). Or I can have a transplant with the initial cost of $250,000 to $500,000, plus three years of medication (which is required to keep my new kidney from rejecting, and that I need to keep taking for the rest of my life, not just for three more years).

My family has a genetic kidney disease that causes End Stage Renal Disease which is fatal if not for dialysis or a transplant. Two of my siblings have had transplants. My sister was doing well until the three-year period had passed, when she became solely responsible for her medication costs. She lost her job because she was out sick too many times (the result of other people’s “common cold” where she would end up in the hospital to save her kidney). (Fact: most people on dialysis lose their jobs because of all the time they are unable to be at their desks). She felt the only recourse was to sell her house, become indigent, and eventually become eligible for Medicaid because Medicare quit after three years post-transplant.

My brother had a transplant five years ago this April. The following is part of an email he just sent to me. I am fearful that the pending health care reform will further hurt the thousands upon thousands of people dependent on drugs or treatments to keep them alive. Will we all become expendable and our expiration tags pulled?

********************

Last Monday I called Group Health Pharmacy to verify that they would not bill a 3rd party drug provider, which they will not. Then I insured that they would be able to fulfill my prescription of cinacalcet at 90MG, once a day and that I would be able to pick up a 90 day supply, verifying that I would indeed need to pay $1954.50 up front. Tuesday I showed up at the pharmacy and the young lady at the counter showed up with the bottle, rolled her eyes and said, "Yikes!". This was the same reaction I got from the pharmacy clerk at Costco, where I had gone to pick up this prescription on the previous Saturday. As an aside CostCo couldn't sell it to me because when they ran my Group Health card the latter refused the payment stating that I had to go to the Group Health Pharmacy for this purchase (those assholes [Group Health] are really on my shit list, btw). Then the afore mentioned young lady said, "Do you know how much this is going to cost?" I dead panned her with my now stock answer, "It's that or die." There is no real come back for that. Then the young lady told me it would be $651.50 - to which postal, nuclear bombs went off inside me (that is a 30 day, not 90 day supply).

Now I know it wasn't her fault, however the previous day I had spent almost 1 1/2 hours on the phone with three different people from Group Health verifying that the prescription would be correct and waiting when I showed up. Really. How does Joe Paying Customer get a mega buck giga corp to listen to him? It wouldn't be that huge, but I have already been shunted down to their pharmacy rather than a pharmacy of my choice, and once I get home I call my 3rd party to tell them I have the drug in hand and would they please send a reimbursement form, which takes 7 to 10 days to arrive, which I then have to fill out, affixing the original receipt plus the sticky prescription label from the bottle, then mail and wait an additional 4 to 6 weeks for reimbursement. Now, because they only coughed up 30 days I have to do this all again on April 1.

Anyway, bottom line, the drug costs $1303.00 per 30 day supply. Group Health will pay 1/2 leaving $651.50. The 3rd party (which happens to be the drug manufacturer) will then pay $500.00 leaving me with the remaining $151.50 per month for this single medication. That is on top of an addition $66.66 for the rest of my medications for a total of $218.16 per month. It could be worse, but, damn - that is coming close to a car payment, and the Wife really needs a new car.

However, the reimbursement form arrived in yesterday's mail which made it only 7 days and I have filled it out affixing all required labels. So, now that Susan Delfino (of Desperate Housewives) is going to be getting her transplant (oh, poor thing) I wonder if the writers will bother following up on how that only solves this handful of problems, but creates a whole new set to deal with.
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A Life Unscripted

2011-02-27T17:09:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have a script for your life - something you plan for and expect and at the end of the day, nothing went as it was written?

My life is like that most of the time. I have intricate, detailed plans for my day and how it is going to go, positively, my way. Why don't the actors in my life read the script!?! I ask you!

I have a plan for dialysis, when I switch over to "real" poke-you-with-needles dialysis. I have a tech who is absolutely perfect. He's thorough, he's detailed, he's an excellent needle poker - his patients say he is virtually painless. So, he is who I planned for my attack.

He's quitting in three weeks. March 19, to be exact.

This was not in my script. No way. He was supposed to be The One. All the others are novices, and I've heard the winces and moans from their patients.

My fistula is almost "done" maturing and the nurses are chomping at the bit to get me started. Now, my plan is to hold off for another two or three years - unheard of in temporary access site legends - these sites are only supposed to last three months and mine is going on 18 months. Another 18 won't kill me, maybe.

I would like someone to apply for the replacement poker - skilled in needle control. Tall, dark, and handsome would help. This is, after all, my mini spa and I would like to carry on that image.

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Desperate Housewives are Desperate!

2011-02-20T22:27:00.000-08:00

Oh, let me count the ways I used to be a fan of Desperate Housewives. That's right - past tense. After tonight's episode, I quit.

I have watched every episode three or four times. I have bonded to Terry Hatcher, as Susan. I have related to her ever since she locked herself out of her house, stark naked. It’s something I would do. I have followed her every antic thinking how I would handle the same situation, and I have found myself thinking, when I’m in a predicament, “What would Susan do?”

And, shazam! They made Susan go on dialysis - just like me! This has got to be good, I thought. BUT - Susan is NOT doing what I do and I would be embarrassed and mortified if I acted as she is.

I am a dialysis patient. I have dialysis three times a week, for three-and-a-half hours every session. Susan has it for six hours every session and let me tell you that no dialysis patient has dialysis for six hours at a time unless they are 400 pounds, diabetic, retaining water like a fish out of water, and have several other diseases tasking their bodies for some kind of normalcy. Also, I do not enter the dialysis room and “choose” where I will sit. I do not whine to police officers that I have dialysis and therefore they should let me go. I do not complain to restaurant hostesses to move up my reservation because I have dialysis. Not to mention the very restrictive diet I am on, which includes the amount of liquid I drink, and the types of foods I eat. No cola. No oranges. No potassium. No sodium. No chocolate. I do not drink a 32 ounce cola just before I go on to dialysis. We get weighed before and after dialysis and our goal weight is deducted from our starting weight and all that extra liquid is taken off during dialysis. Also, dialysis patients don’t all sit around with a beeper for a potential kidney transplant – in fact the majority of dialysis patients have a myriad of other ailments that disqualify them for a transplant, which on a good day would take three to six years to get.

I am totally disgusted with the way Desperate Housewives is moving with regard to dialysis. They should be ashamed of themselves. They are giving all dialysis patients a bad name. I pride myself in having an up attitude and see that same gumption in all the patients around me. And, also, I am surrounded by people on dialysis that are far, far worse than I am – most of them are diabetics, the most common reason someone needs dialysis. Most are in wheel chairs. Most use oxygen. Most have other diseases. We are not exempt to other ailments just because we are already “serving time.”

I don't go through my life acting like dialysis is this huge albatross around my neck. It's a routine I do - I get up, brush my teeth, get dressed, bring in the paper, go to dialysis, shop at the store on my way home, and I LIVE LIFE! Susan needs to get a grip.

I quit you, DH. Quit!

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How Can You Downsize and Rent Out Your House While Suffering From ADD and Possibly Alzheimer’s

2011-01-27T15:03:00.000-08:00

OR
Disorganized Pandemonium

OR

It’s All Trisha’s Fault.

It all started with an article by Trisha on downsizing or organizing your STUFF. Like books.

I started well enough by going through my closet and weeding out all the dresses and business clothes since I don’t work and will probably never work again. And then something caught my eye – my jewelry from when I was a Cookie Lee dealer and so pretty soon, I was on the bed, sorting through all the jewelry I haven’t sold and won’t wear and maybe I’ll try to sell – oh! And there, I found a bracelet that I probably WILL wear and so I looked for something to – oh! An organizing tool box with little cubbyholes, just right for jewelry and so – oh! There are the dress suits I bought when I was a size 8, never to be that thin again unless I stop eating for a month. What to do. What to do. And then as I’m walking through the kitchen with the suits to put in bags for the Women’s Transition Center, I see a couple dirty dishes and I stop and fill the sink, wash the dishes that I have slowly accrued since I am only at the house once a week. And then I walk back in the bedroom – oh! The tool box is sitting there open and empty and I start sorting through the jewelry again and pull out just enough pieces for me to personally wear sometime in the next 20-30 years. And then I see the book case, and start sorting out the books I want to keep with the books I want to give to Goodwill. And then I spy the huge flower vase full of coins and next to it the empty coin rolls to fill and I start sorting the quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies and . . .

Four hours later I have a huge pile of books, dresses, jewelry, rolled up coins and – oh! All those bottles in the utility room. What to do! What to do! What to do!
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Sarah Plain and Small

2011-01-13T19:09:00.000-08:00

When Gabrielle Giffords was gravely wounded along with several others by a young unhinged man, and six innocent bystanders killed, something absolute and unconditional happened: a nation split by politics, debates, innuendos, pointing fingers, blaming others, and selfish prattling, was moved to unite and to reprioritize what is important.

And in a far corner in Alaska, Sarah Palin could only take the low road and interpreted the whole episode in Arizona and references to her “cross hairs map” personally.

Sarah, here’s my message to you: Shut up and sit down. It is not about you.

To repeat the words of President Barak Obama:

We can be better.
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Mommy Magic

2011-01-05T16:49:00.001-08:00

Remember how you used to watch your child leave for First Grade all by himself? You know the time. It was after the 23rd time that you walked him to school and finally released him like a little bird from the nest. You watched him walk down the sidewalk, growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until he was a tiny (tinier than he actually was) little speck in the distance. That watching was your Mommy Magic. It embraced your child and protected him from all kinds of danger, from cars, from strangers, from dogs, from mud slinging from the road, from any manner of harm. You didn’t close the front door until you gave that little speck an extra hard mesmerizing stare that would cover him for the day and bring him home.

I did it. Often. It was a ritual of mine that I just HAD to do. Later, when my oldest joined the Army, I realized I had the power to lift planes with my Mommy Magic. I would stare at that plane until it was a tiny little speck far, far off the horizon and I would not leave my post until I had used up all of my super vision.

I have the same power with words. Like saying, “Drive careful.” Every time my “boys” leave my house, I must say the magic words, “Drive careful.” And I, my power, will make it so. Or, when they were little and we were visiting anyone. My one word would ring out, “Behave.” And like magic, they sat still and didn’t play in dirt and didn’t sock each other in the eye.

Um, the last is actually a poor example. When they visit me and start acting like apes doing a comedy routine and I say, "Behave!", they just laugh at me.

I have discovered I still have the mind power going after 38 years. I blessed my son, moving to Arizona, with my sage advice: “Drive careful.” (Plus, pack your car with two blankets, sleeping bag, water, food to last four days in case you get stuck in the snow and can’t get out.) I watched him walk to his car, my vision boring into the back of his head, memorizing his body, and didn’t close the door until he was a little speck on the road, far, far away.

After two days and the obligatory “Drive careful”, he made it to his new apartment safe, sound, and in one piece.

So, my job is never done. :)
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Mechanic's Helper, Second Half

2010-12-02T17:35:00.000-08:00

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. . .

2010-11-30T19:25:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-27T16:10:00.000-08:00

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. . . .

2010-11-27T10:14:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-11-21T15:20:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-11T18:59:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-10-31T12:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-29T14:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-26T14:59:00.001-07:00

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

2010-10-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-09-19T12:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-14T20:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-04T21:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-14T18:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2010-07-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-07T14:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-17T15:13:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-22T23:23:00.001-07:00

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!

2010-05-19T19:39:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-16T21:20:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T15:11:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-29T13:55:00.001-07:00

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!

2010-02-25T17:09:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-20T18:24:00.001-08:00

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!!!

2010-02-08T14:53:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-01T22:40:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-23T16:47:00.001-08:00

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!

2010-01-06T20:31:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-05T22:11:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-05T01:00:00.000-08:00

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!

2010-01-01T15:04:00.000-08:00

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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Bad Santa

2009-12-20T16:34:00.000-08:00

My one regret as a parent (Oh, ok, I have a gazillion regrets, but this one particular one wasn’t my fault!), and that is that my two sons never got their picture taken with Santa. We tried but failed miserably. It happened that my first son was born on the 10th of December – a little too young for a picture with Santa, mainly because as a new mother, I was NOT going to let just anyone hold my brand new baby. Not even a jolly old saint of a man, wearing red pajamas and ho-hoing loudly, giggling his large belly. No way.

We settled for dressing the baby in a Santa outfit and placing him under the tree for endless adorable pictures.

When my son was one year old, I figured now was the time. I bathed him, powdered him, lotioned him, dressed him in a new outfit, just for the occasion, and set off for Santa who happened to be sitting in repose at Newberries in Val d’Or Quebec, where my husband was stationed in the Air force. And, yes, this little French Canadian village boasted a Newberries – right out of downtown Spokane, Washington – seemingly. I was looking forward to some English speaking Santa and elves.

We got there, all polished and shining and stood in line for eternity waiting for our chance. So, I don’t know if it was time for a bottle, or time for a new diaper, or time for a nap – I know I needed a nap, and fairly certain my one-year-old needed a nap, and possibly for sure Santa needed a nap too. It was finally our turn, and I started toward the great man of my childhood, so excited! And then suddenly I could feel my son tense in my arms, he took one look at Santa and then slowly held his breath. His face turned red, and then his nose crinkled up, his eyes clenched close, he then made a humming noise, opened his mouth, and WAILED. He sounded like a siren on a careening ambulance, going down for the crash. Arms flaying, legs wagging, lungs screaming.

I took a hasty retreat down the hallway, leaving my $10 behind me – knowing that this child would NEVER sit on Santa’s lap.

When I had my second son the following April, I practiced letting him sit on people’s laps, getting used to it before the big day in December. Only now I had two of them and no matter how much I “rehearsed” the picture-taking moment – we had a repeat, down to the last whimper, of the Christmas fiasco of the year before.

I just noticed a contest called “Santa Makes Me Pee My Pants A Little” for pictures of those precious moments when our children are flat out terrorized by Santa. I would offer up pictures of my two little ones – but it never happened! And now, in their 30’s, I think I’ve lost my chance.

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Tea and Apathy and a Little Sloth

2009-12-02T09:12:00.000-08:00

Oh, my God! It's happened! In just two weeks of unemployment, I have digressed to a new low of uninhibited disorganization and total disregard for structure and rules and standards. Take baths, for instance. I mean, I find it absolutely unnecessary to actually “take a bath” every single day. Who cares? Mechanic Man? Yeah, right – a guy that spends his days elbow deep in grease, dirt, and oil; running his fingers through some vile smelling fluid, wiping his hands on his shirt and/or pants and even his hair. He's going to notice if I miss a bath?

I've stopped even looking in a mirror. And that usually gets a reaction from Mechanic Man as I head out the door to go to the store. “Whoa, there little wild woman. Have you even looked at yourself lately?” Who cares? And then I'll glance in a mirror and hair is tousled every which way, no make up, little squinty eyes looking back at me. Who cares?

I'm worse than Scarlett O'Hara. “There's always tomorrow” has become my motto – I'm thinking of having it monogrammed on my sweats that I wear all day long. On my butt.

Why do today what can be done just as easily tomorrow. Take my Christmas cards. I have had all good resolutions to get my cards out right after Thanksgiving. There they sit – labels ready to peel and stick, the dreaded form letter typed and printed (at UPS because my printer, that I need to fix or replace is still on my list of stuff to do), ready to fold and stuff.

I have plenty of stuff to do – it's motivation that I lack. When I was working, I was Wonder Woman. I could have a million tasks on my plate and still manage to handle three bosses, filing, copying, writing, typing, mailing, scheduling, and plan dinner, clean the house, tune the car, organize my financial portfolio, keep track of Mechanic Man. It was a miracle!

Now – I am not working and my very full calendar was efficiently maintained - - - - at work! And the same calendar is NOT here at home. And I am helpless and paralyzed to do any single thing. I have a list of chores I plan to do but I keep getting them out and then putting them back and thinking – there's always tomorrow – and the list doesn't get any shorter and in fact gets longer every day.

I need to replace my printer because the really nice one I have doesn't work and the really cheap one is sitting in a box (over there) just waiting for me to make the switch. But the printer that I have next to my computer has become a shelf for two feet (I do not lie) of bills, notes, files, envelopes, and a shoe box (holding more bills, notes, files, and envelopes) – all belonging to Mechanic Man. I started moving them last night and then decided that my life (staying alive) depended on NOT putting any of this stuff that appears totally disorganized to me – into a different order. So there they sit. Now he tells me that the pile just needs to be organized and I am thinking, yeah, but – that skill has evaded me for the past two weeks. I don't think I can handle it. At all.

I don't set the alarm. Who cares? I have to go to my computer and hover the mouse over the time in the task bar so I can see what day it is. Today is Wednesday. Who cares? I'd get dressed – but it's just as easy to stay in my sweats and thick socks with rubber daisies on the bottoms, and just putter around the house. Do the dishes??? Where are they going? Will it make a difference in my life if I leave a couple plates and forks in the sink?

I think I need one of those organizational coaches. They need to be a drill sergeant or some kind of handler. I think he/she needs to move in. Maybe tomorrow.

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Cookies with Granddad

2009-12-01T15:17:00.001-08:00

I was seven when I went to stay with my grandparents for the summer. It was all I had ever dreamed – I was a star! Little Jerome, Idaho had a brief paragraph in its small town weekly paper, all about ME. “Welcome little Jeanie Rice, age 7, granddaughter of Floyd and Marvel Rice, who is visiting for the summer, , , ,”

My granddad was the postmaster of Jerome, Idaho. I could send letters to him, and they'd always get to the right address even if I only put “Granddad, Jerome, Idaho” on the envelope.

Granddad and I spent the days of that summer delivering mail in the countryside. Every farmer's wife came to the mail truck to greet me and hand me cookies! We had dozens of cookies. Every day we would leave the house with carefully packed lunches so we wouldn't starve to death and every day we would wind our way through town and the rural farmland, and find our way to a little fishing hole, with an old worn dock, and we'd sit on the edge of the dock, dangling our feet in the water, and take our lunches and all our cookies and eat until we had ate every single cookie.

When we got back home and Grandmom asked what we wanted for dinner, we'd both sigh and say, oh, you know – a little fruit, a little cereal – we're just not that hungry. And grin at each other with our little secret. I'm sure she never caught on.

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Which Came First?

2009-11-25T07:26:00.000-08:00

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Oh, I'm not really asking. But that was my first thought in my head when I started to write this article on the insurance industry and the medical industry. Which came first? I mean, they seem to feed on each other, don't you think? The medical industry sets the price for whatever procedure, office visit, surgery, injection, whatever. But the insurance industry decides what they will pay, and “adjust” the amount accordingly.

I am learning way more than I want to about the two. Recently I received a bill for over $8,000 for my one week of dialysis in Orlando. The reason – the insurance company decided the facility I used was “out of network.” At the same time, there were NO “in network” facilities anywhere within a 100-mile radius of where I was staying. And dialysis isn't something you just put back in the closet and forget about it for a week. So, after my social worker argued with the insurance company, they adjusted it down to $790. A whopping 90%.

My question is – if the insurance company marks it down 90%, why then can't the medical facility have started at $790. Why this outrageous difference?

I've seen it all the time on my “normal” doctor visits. The office charges so much for a visit; the insurance company adjusts it down anywhere from 10% to 90%.

When I was in the hospital in late September, the hospital bill for three days was around $20,000, marked down 50% to around $10,000.

So who's the boss here? And what will the new health care plan be like? Same old same old??? Or worse? Or better?

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Recession Depression

2009-11-19T10:11:00.000-08:00

Well, isn't this just ducky.

After 11 years, I got laid off yesterday. On a stress scale, I think I'm off the charts.

First there was the thyroid biopsy (which turned out fine).

Then there was the anemia problem.

Then the failing kidneys.

Then 3-days-a-week, 3.5 hour dialysis sessions.

And now I have no job!

I believe it is highly possible for an elephant to fall on my head.

Actually - I think I'll be ok. I'm eligible for SSI, which could take five months to resolve. In the meantime, I'll do unemployment (think a 60-year-old dialysis patient is readily hireable?). Fortunately Medicare (for kidney dialysis) will kick in December 1.

The good news:, , , , , , I do NOT have to drive in snow to work. :)

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I Can Fix That!

2009-11-18T09:58:00.000-08:00

I’m a computer wizard. Really! With no effort on my part at all – and no license, no degree, no schooling. It just happens. I have built-in radar or aura or something. Maybe a little bit of magic.

I’ve been helping people with their computers for years. I worked at one law firm (as a secretary) where we were switching from DOS-operated Word Perfect to Windows-operated Word. For the first time we needed to use mice, and my job was to teach the attorneys how to use them. To help them get coordinated on the mouse moves, I had them play Solitaire. I cautioned them to not double-click. There are times for double-click and single-click, and the two just never got separated in these attorneys’ minds. They wanted to double-click everything. To this day, in fact just yesterday, I am still cautioning my current attorneys to not double-click on every little thing. I have a coffee mug where a wild-haired man is shouting, “No! No! I said to NOT double-click!”

But here’s where the computer wizardry comes in. Something will go wrong for (usually) an attorney. I’ll get a frantic call to come here right now and fix this whatever-it-is. I’ll show up and stand behind them to have them repeat the problem, and, , , , , , it’s FIXED! Just my showing up fixes the problem. It’s Magic!

They lose their program they were typing in and I’ll show up and can plainly see it in their tool bar, and have them click on the icon, and MIRACULOUSLY, their program reappears.

They have a totally blank screen and call me in a panic, thinking they should just throw in the towel and go home, head in hands, failures, flops, fools, nincompoops. And I will push the power button on their monitor and all is well with the world. Sometimes, I will fiddle with the cords, climb under the desk and make lots of racket, butt waving in the air, and when they aren’t looking, I push the button, slap my hands together, and mutter, “whew, that was a tough one.”

An attorney called me at home on a Saturday, urgently requesting my help with his secretary’s computer because all of a sudden it had hieroglyphics all over the screen. Come now! Hurry! When I arrived and saw her screen I knew immediately that she had turned her field codes on. (This is in Word and the toggle switch is Alt-F9, which she had somehow hit.) So I was there ten seconds, hit Alt-F9, and told her if it happened again, to just hit Alt-F9, to which she crossed her eyes and said, “I think I’ll just keep on filing – these computers just don’t understand me.” And I knew that I would get a call again in days because those funny squiggly {brackets} came back.

My job is never done.

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The Cycle of Life

2009-10-29T12:36:00.000-07:00

I was leaving for work this morning, and just caught a glimpse of something on the roadway behind me. A well-fed, cared for gray cat lay dead in the middle of the road.

I ran back to Mechanic Man and said - "There's a gray cat in the road - I think it's Chowder." Chowder is the kitty next door that stands in our yard and stares at us, never letting us get too close, just close enough to almost pet him, and he darts away. I've been trying for years to coax him into letting me pet him - but he's convinced that I will only maul him instead. Probably this is true.

We went back and looked, not closely, but enough. I turned away towards my car and started bawling! Chowder - who never let me pet him. It broke my heart.

About a mile down the road, Mechanic Man called and said the neighbors had both their cats: Chowder and Jasmine, alive and healthy and sleeping on the couch.

"O, good!" I said, still crying. "So I cried for some strange cat." (sob)

Mechanic Man paused and finally said, "Well, yeah - that was a kind thing for you to do, for the cat whose owner doesn't know."

So I cried some more for a pet that someone has lost, like once happened to me - and I always wondered what happened to her. Maybe somebody cried for her, in my place.
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I'm Coming Back

2009-10-14T12:21:00.001-07:00

I’m coming back around – slowly. Now that I have made the step to actually go on dialysis, the fear and dread has gone away. It’s really not a big deal! I get up, brush my teeth, get dressed, go to work, head out to dialysis, get hooked up, sit still for three and a half hours (and THAT is the hardest thing I have to do), go home, fix dinner, watch tv with Mechanic Man, and feel better than I have in months. I’m not up to snuff yet – and have had a couple set backs, because I was seriously being poisoned by toxins. It will take a while to get that all out.

In the mean time, my dialysis clinic is setting up dialysis for me in Orlando next week. By then I should feel much more perky and will enjoy the sights and sounds of Disney World and Epcot.

The gals I am traveling with have been watching over me like hawks. I get sporadic telephone calls from one or all four of them, asking me how I’m feeling today, if I’ve packed for our trip, if the dialysis is working. Just now received the second call from Kathy. We have a mutual friend who lives outside of Orlando – Art is close to all the other gals having met them at Alcoholics Anonymous for Spouses. They bonded, started skiing together, becoming deep confidants of all things weird with being single parents, dating, marrying, divorcing – Art and the girls stuck with each other through thick and thin. He will drive me to my dialysis appointments. Hallelujah! One less detail to worry about.

So – see – this just isn’t a bad thing at all.

Going down the drain

2009-10-06T16:34:00.001-07:00

Welcome to DialysisLand, best described as a room full of people needing to have their blood washed and toxins removed, all in a sterile setting with the humming of machines, swooshing of nurses (who call themselves techs), and the background sound of water whirling down the drains, washing those bad toxins into the sewer system.

We patients are simply required to sit still for three and a half hours or longer, while all this scientific wonderland of activity drills past us, ticking, ticking the time down to when we get “unplugged”.

It starts with us getting “plugged in.” The tech and her co-workers go through a flurry of sanitation procedures, putting on gloves for one thing, whipping them off, putting on a new set for the next step of exposing my “access site” (direct line to my heart for all my frenemies’ handy knowledge), masks go on (on me too), something is fiddled with, gloves go off, new set goes on, more fiddling, as I divert my gaze to something benign, like the ceiling lights (because if I take my gaze anywhere else, I see other people, other machines, other techs, gloves going off, going on). So I look at the ceiling lights, while Heparin is flushed in my two access sites, then blood is drawn for lab work (first time EVER that I’m not poked), and finally my lines protruding from my access site are snapped onto lines going into the dialysis machine and the wheels start turning, my blood effortlessly leaves my body to go on its own little cruise, taking with it excess fluids, nasty toxins, and anything else I could do without.

After your “run time” is done, the tech does a reverse of the sanitation process, not as many gloves, but still the flurry of fingers, clicking through different tubes and connections, until finally you are officially unplugged. And after all that medically miraculous activity, you simply walk out the door to your car, stop at the store for groceries, and go home, as if you just spent the afternoon sitting at a spa getting your nails done.

So it isn’t all that traumatic and awful, really. I’ve dreaded this day, the official first dialysis. It does have a major impact in my life – for the rest of my life. There is a loss I can’t quite explain. And I have these two tubes hanging from my chest, making me feel very much like a Borg. And the image is only reinforced when I get hooked up. I half expected the 16 of us in the room to universally commune as one. But there is also the feeling that it is us, the Nouveau Borgs, who are being assimilated.

For days now, I have been, you know, sitting back, trying to mind my own business and not dwell on this dialysis thing. Trying to just make my life as normal as possible, cleaning the house, going to work, reading a book, watching a favorite TV show. When something innocuous will happen – the plot will turn just a bit to something sad – just a little – and I’ll sit there and tears will well up and I think, o boy, if I start crying right now, I will not ever stop. Today, at lunch, I went home and scrounged around for cold weather clothes for our bi-annual trek to Monroe, Washington and car parts heaven for Mechanic Man. I’d turned on the TV to a movie I love – Little Women – and it was right at that moment when Beth discovers that the Hummel baby just died of Scarlet Fever and she thinks she has it. WAAAAAAAAA, the tears flowed, I couldn’t stop, I cried and cried and cried.

Ok, I feel better now.
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Contained or Uncontained

2009-10-02T16:20:00.000-07:00

As I idle my time, these days, I tend to live by the Scanner Report, a report that spawns infinite “stories” out of real life situations. Soon, the report will change, like the seasons – our unique population of contained or uncontained animals will go into hibernation. I am assuming that is what contained or uncontained species do when it is too cold to wander about garnering reports from citizens of their uncontained locations. (So I always wonder about the “uncontained” whatever INSIDE a fenced yard.) I don’t know if it is indicative of the Pacific Northwest, to have so many uncontained reports. But it’s entertaining nonetheless.

There are uncontained goats – by far my favorite. Uncontained horses. Uncontained dogs. Uncontained chickens. Even uncontained cows – which makes you wonder if being uncontained has anything to do with being contented or not – you know how cows are. They are contented cows. Always. So – if you are an uncontented cow, then do you wander out the gate in search of your aspirations and dreams and then you unwittingly become lost in some strangers’ backyard and are now adjudged uncontained? An uncontained uncontent cow. How utterly sad.

You actually don’t read about “contained” animals much. Why would that make the news. And you never ever read about uncontained cats. That would be a fete of insurmountable proportions, don’t you think? Or rather, can you contain a cat? I don’t think so. Those cats you see in windows peering out at the life running by their view – they aren’t being held prisoner on that ledge behind the curtain. They are supreme beings who snicker at those poor lost animals wandering the avenues until some neighborhood nosey old lady calls the police to report they are uncontained in her yard. One day it’s a goat. Another day it’s a dog. Another day it’s a cow. And the contained cat just flicks his paw and changes direction of his contemplative musings.

Soon, as all the various uncontained animals find their secret hiding places for winter, I’ll have to focus on other aspects of the Scanner Report. Like “unwanted woman in short skirt in parking lot.” And then I wonder how pertinent is the short skirt as a factor in being unwanted. Would you want the woman if she wore long slacks?
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The Kidneys Lost

2009-09-28T16:17:00.001-07:00

Just to let you all know. I am officially going on dialysis tomorrow. Woo Hoo! Let’s Party – meet me on the 5th floor and we can all watch the set up.

I have chosen peritoneal dialysis as my choice – which can be done at home. For about two months, though, I will have hemo dialysis until my new little appendage is healed and in place.

The good news for me – well of course feeling tons better is that they are arranging for dialysis for me at Disneyworld in the middle of October. My four friends and I have saved for five years for this trip. I was beginning to think that I would lose out on a great trip. (The dialysis center there caters to Mickey maniacs like me.)

Thanks for all your prayers and hugs and good thoughts!!!!

Jeanie

Must be Love

2009-09-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

I was so ticked at my brother-in-law when he announced he was getting counseling because of my sister’s kidney disease, subsequent surgeries, and her transplant. I was flabbergasted that he would need counseling for something not happening to him. I wanted to scream at him, “but it’s US, it’s US that have this disease. Not you! How dare you!” That was ten years ago.

Then last night I saw through Mechanic Man’s eyes and I kind of got knocked in the head with the realization that what I am going through is impacting him as well. I get support from readers like you; friends in two groups – my diner’s group of friends, and the friends I have made in the Red Hats, and lately, especially, my friends through Huckleberries and Community Comment. But Mechanic Man has no support group, other than me.

Last night we were discussing my various options, all of which are the Lessor of another Evil, just can’t decide which is the least Evil. He’s petty mellow, Mechanic Man. But his eyes grew darker and more brooding. “I’m so mad!” he said. “It makes me so mad! I feel like someone is pinching my head till it pops!” And he wasn’t mad at me. He was mad at what was happening to me. He was mad because he couldn’t fix it.

And then I understood what my brother-in-law was going through.

So this is love.
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My Kidneys and Me

2009-09-10T12:47:00.000-07:00

Big Bully Kidneys
or
Kidneys R Us
or
Kidneys Rule

You didn’t ask but after talking with friends, I thought it would be a good idea to give you a basic easy-to-understand synopsis of kidney dialysis. First, though, you should probably prop your head up on something in case you fall asleep or go unconscious or into a coma or something. Prepare to snooze.

I am having to research my plight and decide which is the lessor of several evils.

Did you know that people whose kidneys are failing are experiencing the medical term: End Stage Renal Disease (ESRD). Sounds innocuous enough, doesn’t it. But wait! It says “End Stage” as in - death is knocking at your door, big guy. When your kidneys fail, you need to find some alternative to just sitting back and letting nature take its course – because nature is done with you. Those two little organs (well, in my case not so little) have powers you wouldn’t imagine. Like creating red blood cells. Boosting your energy. Filtering waste. I’m very close to having no kidney function at all. I lay awake wondering what will be the tell tale sign that THIS is it; this is the big one; this is all she wrote, kid. Will I gradually just stop peeing??? Will my guts suddenly clench like a thirsty man in the middle of a desert with absolutely not a drop of water anywhere? Will I just not wake up? What??

So – I am researching the different methods of dialysis. First – you should know that there are two types of dialysis – hemodialysis and peritoneal dialysis. One is through your blood – one is in your peritoneal cavity between the membrane surrounding all your organs and your skin.

There are pluses and minuses on both. So, here’s my take. With hemodialysis, you have to have a fistula prepared, which is a surgically constructed vein utilizing your own vein and it is permanent – usually in your arm. In my Dad’s case, his fistula always needed “roto rootering” or it was relocated entirely to a new site – and there are limited sites. Dad ran out of sites. Also, with hemodialysis, you get two needle sticks every time you have dialysis, three days a week. Plus, getting a shot of epogyn for your anemia (which requires a monthly blood draw). It’s just poke, poke, poke, poke.

Ummmm, that looked like a whole lot of negatives. The plus, if there is one, is that you don’t do a thing. You just go to the dialysis center and nurses and techs will be happy to poke you two or three times; ignore you if the alarms go off until your neighboring dialysis victims start really complaining; stick you AGAIN with something to deaden the pain, but not quite, and then stick you for the start of dialysis, and then for good measure repeat the whole process when you end dialysis.

With peritoneal dialysis – you have to have a tube surgically inserted in your belly, with two little bumps that act as stops so the tube will stay in place – and eventually scar tissue will form around the little bumps and seal the deal. Viola! Your newest body appendage. Yippee. The plus with peritoneal dialysis is that you can do it at home. You can take it with you and do it on trips. At work. Anywhere your little heart desires. The drawback is that you feel pregnant. You have all this dialycate (the solution used to filter your blood) and your peritoneal cavity stores it until you replace it. You feel “stretched.” The documentation also warns that you will have to deal with your “feelings about your body image.” You will look FAT. I’m short enough that I will look very round. Just give me a shove in the general direction, and I’ll just roll there. I already have issues with my body image. Sheesh. And while I’m filling up with dialycate, my kidneys are casually increasing in size all on their own. It’s like girl friends pointed out to me – wouldn’t it be nice if your kidneys were located in your boobs? Mechanic Man would probably think he died and went to Heaven.

So – either of these is a difficult choice to make. One, hemo, offers me every other day off. But at the cost of hours every other day on dialysis, plus working a full time job (because kidney patients are not considered disabled), so I go to work at 8:00, get off at 5:00, go to dialysis at 5:30, leave at 9:00 and somewhere in there I will have a normal life with Mechanic Man. Right?

Or – I can do peritoneal and have my very own recycler machine humming away at night, connected to me through my new little belly button appendage, and when I need to get up at 3:00 in the morning because I can’t sleep, I go through the 30 minute process of closing off my tube, shutting down the machine – all while sleeping romantically cuddled next to Mechanic Man.

Ugh. And all the while I am thinking – ok, now, this should be like brushing your teeth – just a mundane, routine, dull ritual. But – this is the kicker – this will be my way of life for the rest of my life or until I get a transplant.

I’m leaning toward the peritoneal dialysis. Less burden on Mechanic Man, more ME time. So, what do you think?

By the way – I have A negative blood type. Just saying.
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Saturday Night at the Races!

2009-08-31T11:05:00.000-07:00

Saturday night at the races. Yep, that’s what I did. I spent Saturday at the Spokane Racetrack and watched several drag races with lots of Mopars, funny cars, nitro cars, alcohol cars, and one jet car.

It’s totally exciting and heart thrumming. You can feel the engines all the way through the cement bleachers to the top row, which is where I sat from noon to midnight. Twelve hours of muscle cars! Hours of hearing-loss thundering engines, burning rubber, pungent smells of gas, nitro, fuel – smoke filling the air. What a day!

And you ain’t seen nothing until you see a jet car. It’s almost frightening in a kid-in-a-cemetery-on-Halloween-night kind of way. You can’t get enough and you want to hide and you want to get really close and you want to duck, all at the same time. It sounds like a jet is standing right in front of you, powering up. The whine is powerful and mesmerizing. And once it has your attention fully focused on it, it BANGS with flames spewing out. Even the ambulance that is waiting by, backs up 100 feet away from the jet car. It bangs and pops and whines and slowly inches to the lights and then, WHAM, it screams off in front of you and goes 290 miles an hour, RIGHT.NOW. Amazing!!!! It’s a wonder it doesn’t fly.

I think I’m addicted. It’s the most awesome, exciting thing I’ve seen in forever. Can you imagine 290 miles an hour – and it was mere seconds to go a quarter of a mile.

Then we went back to piddly little race cars that went a pokey 100 miles an hour. Kid’s stuff.

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Tea and Sympathy

2009-08-26T14:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve had two occasions this week to partake in “high tea” at the same place. One was sweet and the other will be bittersweet.

I’m struggling here. I have had several ups and downs this week, more downs than ups.

I met with my Red Hat sisters at a high tea in Spokane at the “Taste and See Tea Room.” (See their website.)

(Cindy Hval writes about it here.)

Tonight, there will be 25 women, all co-workers, attending high tea to celebrate one of our own – who is losing her fight with colon cancer. She has been part of this place, a family away from home, for almost 29 years, starting when she was 29 years old. Half her life.

In the middle of all of this, I am facing more tests for a transplant and the likelihood that I will NOT be a candidate. What I am feeling and dealing with is so short of what my co-worker is going through, not even comparable. But I’m still feeling it.

I am experiencing an overwhelming sadness – for things lost, friends slipping away, time moving on and not, damn it, standing still.

Tonight we are gathering in all our finery, hats, jewels, gloves to honor and celebrate the life of our friend. We are helpless in what to say and can only say – we love you. I love you.
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To School We Go, Giggidty Gig

2009-08-21T16:37:00.000-07:00

I just passed a co-worker who is leaving early to plan for Back to School Shopping for the Kids.

I remember those days. For my parents, it had to be pretty bad – four kids, 6, 8, 10, and 12 – shopping for clothes. I could almost hear my Dad’s wallet squeak painfully.

Then with my boys – we combined our visit to the grandparents on the coast with school clothes shopping. Partly because my Dad by this time had a fuller wallet and he would “help” me buy clothes and shoes.

For many years, the boys were the same size and it made it pretty easy to shop. I had convinced them by the time they were in 1st and 2nd grade that everyone, all siblings, all over the world, wore each other’s clothes. There were no personal, this-is-mine clothes, except for shoes. Everything got washed together. Everything got folded together. Everything got worn together. I suppose that is why, when one day we were frantically tearing their bedroom apart looking for matching socks, that they finally gave up and wore mismatching socks. Both boys were wearing one brown sock and one green sock.

And boys are SOOO much easier than girls. I had only one incident (at Walmart) that both boys were stubbornly adamant that they would NOT be caught dead in jeans with yellow thread (I think they were Wranglers). It was “lame” and they weren’t going to do it. They’d go to school naked if I bought jeans with yellow thread.

So – here’s my sympathy to all you parents going shopping this weekend for school clothes.

But – look at it this way – it also means that you are going to be FREE during the day for the next nine months. Hallelujah!

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Mooseknuckle and Huckleberries

2009-08-19T16:58:00.000-07:00

I spent summers on the Oregon coast when I was little. Such memories!

My grandparents started building their home on the beach in 1955. Several great aunts and great uncles lived on the tiny lumber road that twisted and turned up a very steep hill to the top of our very own “personal mountain.” On top sat a little two story cabin, one room on the main floor for a kitchen table and a huge monstrous wood burning stove, one long room upstairs with several beds – enough to sleep my family of six and my mother’s brother’s family of four, AND our grandparents.

The cabin was called Mooseknuckle. So was the Mountain. We have no idea where this name came from, other than my grandfather (Gramps) was a teller of tall tales and his imagination knew no bounds. He would tell us stories that would make our eyes bulge out and we would go to bed totally unable to sleep with all the excited thoughts running around in our heads.

Once upon a time, there was a logger on the Mountain and there was Indian Joe. Indian Joe was like Goliath in the Bible and the logger was like David. Indian Joe was a bully and mean and ugly and terrorized the poor wee logger. But one day the logger grabbed Indian Joe by his little finger and hauled him over his shoulder and off he flew, off the Mountain, while the logger yelled, MOOSEKNUCKLE!, something he yelled whenever he felled a tree. It worked for the trees, so it must work for Indian Joe.

My grandmother was equally adventurous and we would walk everywhere – up the Mountain; up the highway to an old fashioned hamburger joint that served the absolutely best hamburgers I have ever tasted in my whole life; across the fields to the ocean, telling us to watch out for “cow pies;” up the wider logging road south of the cabin, where we picked gobs of wild strawberries or huckleberries and feasted on short cake for dinner. Wherever we went, we would sign a song she taught us in one lazy afternoon.

Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?
Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?

I sang this song exactly as she taught us and it was years before I realized I wasn’t singing la-de-da gibberish. It was actually real words. (Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, a kid will eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?)

Such sweet memories of grandparents as they should be.
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Quail run

2009-08-18T15:56:00.001-07:00

We have one of the last barns standing in the Spokane Valley (just west of Millwood) and a field that lays beside it, which is mowed about once a month just to keep it from getting wild looking. But a little wild is a good thing. There is a family of quail that live in the field, by one of the trees that Mechanic Man has to mow around. He’s very careful in his efforts because the Quail Family will roust itself up and away from the tree and scatter to another corner of the field, while he passes by, Mama, Papa, and several babies. When he would get far enough away from the home ground, the Quails would lift their heads up, and scurry across the grass back to their “home.” This would go on every time he circled – getting further away from them to the point they figured he was finally over his rampaging of their homeland.

That was in the spring time. Mr. and Mrs. Quail raised their little ones, sent them off into the world, and this weekend we chanced upon them crossing our road and scurrying past our car and into the field and to the same home tree. This time with half a dozen NEW little ones, all little puff balls, flitting to and from among the blades of grass. So they have had two sets of families this summer, which means our little space for them is quite perfect.
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Over Thinking

2009-08-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

Don’t you just feel like Winnie the Pooh sometimes? I go around mumbling to myself, “Think. Think. Think.” And then I realize that I’m thinking too much and overanalyzing something that should be very simple.

Like some recipes. I was making my first batch of cinnamon rolls from scratch. Everything went perfectly until the recipe said “place cut side down.” I had my dough rolled up and I had sliced the roll into one-inch pieces and all the pieces were standing up side by side waiting for further instructions. And now it said “place cut side down.” And I thought and thought and thought. I pondered the book from a distance, hands on hips, wondering why they would put this particular instruction in and that I must be missing something. Something really important. I decided that the book was trying to talk to some moron idiot simple-minded twit that didn’t know a cut side down from a cut side up. I’m looking at the roll of pinwheels thinking (because of that silly instruction, that was put in there for SOME good reason, surely) that there must be a “right side” and a “left side” and they want one of those sides down. But which one? It was way too much thinking. The idiot is the person who puts the pinwheel standing up in the pan, hoping that by some miracle it will flip itself on the flat side (either side will do) of the pinwheel. Good grief!!!! In fact, the idiot was the author. How ELSE would you put a cinnamon roll in the pan??? I ask you?

Or those tags on pillows and mattresses that say something like “under penalty of law do not remove this label.” I used to ponder that one too when I was little and sent to my room for my naps because I was tired. This commandment was said by my mother who promptly fell asleep on the couch totally exhausted after I don’t know what while I was still burning with energy after beating pans all morning long, and then finding Mom’s matches and lighting them one by one and dropping them in the dog food to see if the dog food would catch fire. How tiring is THAT? So I’d go to my room and contemplate the tags on my pillow and then after further scrutiny and research would find the same tag on my mattress and I had to really work to rip that tag off to see what a penalty of law was.

I’m still waiting.

And then there’s the form from the State whose first question was: Can you read this? (with a Yes or No box)

How do you answer that?

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The Piano and the Exes

2009-08-10T12:03:00.000-07:00

My parents gave me a piano when I was 11 years old. Yeah. Wow. I mean, it was a HUGE deal to me. And kind of a heavy burden to bear. It meant I felt like I should practice way more and really study at my lessons in order to “earn” the right to have a whole piano to myself. Oh, I shared it with my brothers and sister – and lessons were paid for all around, but I was the only one who continued with it.

So, when I was divorced, my parents helped me move and in one of the truck loads to my new apartment was “the piano.”

I loved that piano. I would play on it for hours. When I was growing up, I would play on it for an hour before school, again after school for several hours. I played and played and played. Actually the reason I did this was, one, well, I enjoyed it, but two, after a meltdown in college where I majored in music, I had to perform in front of a panel of four judges and I suddenly could NOT remember a note of music and had to slither back out to the hallway and gather up all my music books and bring them back to the studio piano and play by reading the music instead of by memory. Ever since, I have not been able to memorize music and have to have it in front of me all the time. I would play a piece over and over, and eventually I would play by memory but only if I had the sheet music right in front of me – just in case.

I had several moments while being a single mother that I just did not have one dime to spare for food or for the light bill. I would scrounge in the cupboards until they were bare. And one day I spiraled down to desperation and I sold my piano for $400 to my piano tuner. $400.

I left the house the day they picked up the piano. I couldn’t bear to watch it leave. It was winter and snow was on the ground. I remember coming home and seeing the tracks of the people who slid it down the sidewalk to their moving van. I cried for a week.

Months went by, holidays went by, a couple boy friends went by, and then one day an ex-boyfriend called, knowing how I felt about my piano, and said he had a friend (the girlfriend before me) who needed to store her piano for a couple years until she got settled. If I could get another set of muscles and a truck, he would help me get the piano. And it just happened that my boys’ Dad was in town and he offered to help.

So, I’m driving my car behind the truck being driven by my ex-boyfriend, carrying his ex-girlfriend’s piano in the back, with my ex-husband bracing it along the way. There’s a moral here, I just can’t quite peg it.

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Attitude Schmattitude

2009-08-05T16:35:00.000-07:00

It really is all in the attitude. How you look at things reflects back to you and “becomes.” It’s like what The Secret tells you – that you attract what you think about.

See, I’ve been going through a whole lot of soul searching and introspection about my progressing illness with kidney disease.

Now – I am a strong believer in positive thinking and in the tenants of The Secret. But then I get all muddled up with 1) thinking positive thoughts and 2) being realistic about what is happening to me. So – if I think about my kidney disease and my failing kidneys and start visualizing me on dialysis and then go further into the type of dialysis (tube in stomach, solution feeds through at night for eight hours) or (surgically installed fistula (extra strong vein) in my arm and going to a center every other day for four hours a day), then according to The Secret I will fulfill my “wish” and be on one of those two types of dialysis.

If I DON’T think about that and visualize me staying fit and healthy just like I am now on less than 10% kidney function (which is hardly noticeable at all!), then am I sticking my head in the sand and not being realistic???

I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Oh, what to do, what to do, what to do.

I’ve got little tapes in my head of Dad’s experience on dialysis (horrible at best), Mom’s viewpoint of Dad’s dialysis (worse than horrible and probably why it WAS horrible), my sister’s experience of passing on dialysis and going directly into a living donor kidney (not great experience if you count the bi-monthly trips to the hospital because of this infection and that infection, losing her house because she couldn’t afford the anti-rejection drugs after the three-year Medicare period was done for), and then my brother’s experience of both dialysis and cadaver kidney transplant (both successful – the dialysis being an annoying inconvenience and dealing with impersonal stoic staff and the continuous, never-ending, always going on, needles.

I’ve been playing these tapes over and over repeatedly (too much) in the last six weeks. I have dreaded dialysis because of my Dad’s experience and I’ve worried about a kidney transplant because of my sister’s experience.

Then I spent the day with my brother on Sunday. What a difference a positive person makes!!

It’s in the attitude. Always. It goes back to that very simple concept – attitude. As my sister-in-law said, dialysis is just another little thing you do in your life, like getting up, brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, hooking up to dialysis, going to work, relaxing and watching TV. It just slips in there and becomes a routine deal. For sure, not a small deal but not a BIG deal either. And one day, you will get “the call” and a new kidney and it will be a perfect match because I’m way more like my brother than I am like my Dad or my sister. And I especially am not like my mother, who seemed to drill into all of us the doom and gloom and death-to-all attitude.

I can do this. I just have to burn those tapes.

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Disgusting Bugs

2009-08-05T13:07:00.000-07:00

I am just not a bug person. I know, I know – every living creature has their place and purpose. And spiders should be placed outside where they came from. But there are a couple bugs that defy all logic. What are they good for, anyway??? Tell me what good a mosquito is. Give me ten good reasons why I shouldn’t try to wipe them off the face of the earth.

And earwigs. Earwigs are the scourge of the earth. Did you know that they lay 100 eggs at a time? They take only two weeks to incubate and about a week to mature. I’m surprised they don’t cover the earth from end to end.

Who named them earwigs? It’s a horrible name. I spent many years as a child, terrified that they would find my ears and crawl inside and hibernate and lay eggs (100) and then frolic and cavort inside my brain until I was totally insane. The bug version of mad cow.

I have a covey of earwigs in my lettuce. Not just a covey – a planet, a solar system, a whole universe of earwigs hiding in the dark places of lettuce leaves. I told MechanicMan that I will Not Ever Bring THAT Lettuce Inside The House. Ever. He finally pulled them up and threw them away. And then later told me he spent about an hour killing earwigs that followed him into the house. Rampaging earwigs out for revenge for the screaming deaths of their children, cousins, aunts, uncles, great grandparents. Later I was getting something out of the fridge and there on the front panel of the fridge was an earwig. Totally absolutely grossed me out and I called to MechanicMan to rescue me. We both got back to the fridge and the villainous earwig had vanished. Where did it go???

So, tell me – in the Biblical sense – is there any thing good about mosquitoes and earwigs? Do they make a beneficial difference by their existence. I think not.

Worms are good for bait. Lady bugs are pretty little creatures that clean the earth of aphids. Who cleans the world of mosquitoes and earwigs?

You should be very pleased (and relieved) that I didn't put up the picture I found of an earwig - actually two earwigs, one female and the other male. Be glad. Be very glad.

Well, there’s my thought for this Wednesday. I’ll ponder it awhile.

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Ten Sucks

2009-07-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

I started the week out so well, with my Ten Things About Monday

And then Tuesday came and I thought I would do Ten things About Tuesday, but the first thing I did was see the Kidney Transplant Center in the morning and that kind of got me stuck on the number “ten.”

So, Ten Things Tuesday went like this:

Ten – the number of my blood count, which has improved from 7, but would be best at 12

Ten – the percentage of my kidney function.

Ten – the length in inches of my kidneys. Yeah – read that again. Ten inches. Let’s see. I’m 5’2” tall; that’s just under 1/6th of my entire body.

You know what? I really don’t like the number ten. It’s too blunt and short. Its numeric form is a silly dinky “one” followed by a zipless “zero”. 10. Nope don’t like 10.

I think I’m not going to do 10 list items anymore.

For more on this delirious subject, http://www.spokesman.com/blogs/commcomm/2009/jul/30/calling-all-organ-donors/
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Ten Things About Monday

2009-07-27T15:04:00.000-07:00

1. You get to start over in the work week and fix last week’s goofs.
2. On the other hand, your building’s air conditioner was turned off all weekend, and Monday is going to be hot, hot, hot.
3. There is no filing to do because you did it Friday (for those who know me, please don’t faint)
4. It is a doubly good Monday if your boss did NOT come in over the weekend; otherwise you can’t find your desk for all the piles he cleared from HIS desk because he wanted a fresh clean slate on Monday.
5. You don’t have to really look to find something to wear because everything is cleaned, ironed, and hung up – you just need to decide if today is a Pink Monday or a Blue Monday. I choose Pink.
6. The work fridge is empty and you can place your food anywhere you want and know that you’ll find it at lunch; by Friday, several unidentified “to go” boxes will be crowded in there with no takers.
7. There are no series of email requests from your boss for this and that and the other thing (yet).
8. You start out the day so organized (savor the moment)
9. You *know* the coffee is fresh and hadn’t been sitting there since yesterday afternoon because anyone who comes in on the weekend doesn’t bother to even make it because their secretaries always make it for them. They don’t know the coffee pot from the sugar bowl.
10. You know it’s going to be a good day when the elevator goes right to your floor without stopping. (Be sure to check that it really is Monday and not Sunday, like what happened the last time you didn’t stop at any of the other floors and the office was dark and empty).

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Giving v. Taking; Transplant 101

2009-07-24T11:06:00.000-07:00

Hey all! I am back from my round of medical tests - you would not even believe all the places on my body that were xrayed, sonogrammed, echoed, CT'd, scanned, poked, pricked, and prodded. I am going to start journaling something like, Kidney Transplant Procedures 101.

One thing that happened throughout the day was that everywhere I went, one diagnostic room after another, each technician asked “are you a giver or a receiver?” It gave me pause to think about donors. I've been thinking about deceased donors - but there are living donors out there too. A lot of them are officially known to the transplant center as “altruistic” donors. Amazingly enough, these altruistic people simply call the transplant center and tell them they wish to donate one of their kidneys, just because. I find that absolutely totally amazing and “altruistic” doesn't even come close to defining such an extraordinary gift.

I also felt kind of selfish when I was asked if I were a giver or a receiver - interpreting the question as “I'm a TAKER.” Take! Take! Take!

I was simply amazed that there are people out there that think nothing about giving up one of their kidneys – they are willing to go through all the medical tests, the surgery, the follow-up, and living the rest of their life with one kidney.

From here, I have to wait for approval from the transplant committee (if any of the tests come back showing some other illness or cancer – things could change badly). I should be officially “on the list” in three weeks.

Here’s a little tidbit: there are three times the amount of people who NEED kidneys over the amount of kidneys available at any given time.

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Will New Health Plan Cover Me?

2009-07-22T15:56:00.000-07:00

So, I start the process of getting on a transplant list tomorrow. It’s a real big deal! I have a typed up schedule of all the different procedures I’m going to have, along with a map of all the locations these procedures will take place. In fact, I have four pages of maps of Sacred Heart Medical Center. I will be visiting one of the parking garages (that’s plural), the Women’s Health Center, Lower Level 1 on the west end, then Lower Level 2 on the east end, then center, then to Lower Level 3 and they’ll treat me to breakfast if I can find the cafeteria, then the 3rd floor in the Doctor’s Building which appears to be next to the garage I’ll aim for.

I’ll have a marathon bloodletting at dawn, and somewhere in there I will have “tissue typing.” Along with CT scan, ultra sound, chest x-ray, another ultrasound, skin tests, echocardiogram – all in one fun day. I am only worried about the “tissue typing.” I mean – “tissue.” Is that like scraping skin off of me??? What’s the difference between skin typing and skin tests? Or are the skin tests to see what happened with the skin scrapings earlier in the day?

I’m taking the day off – maybe I should take Friday, too. After all, I might have no skin by Friday. I’ll definitely be low on blood.

I have a questionnaire to fill out too. “Potential Kidney Donors.” And a big blank space to fill in all my friends’ names. It’s here where I hesitate. How deep and true must a friendship be to ask one friend to go under the knife for another and end up with one working kidney? Yikes. I’m afraid I’m leaving my space empty.

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Run Away With Me

2009-07-17T16:40:00.000-07:00

O boy it’s Friday. 4:34. I’ve got my tennis shoes on and in the ready to run out the door at full blast position. I am tired of this week. Now on to the weekend.

I have garage sales to go to and things to poke around in and other people’s junk to buy as my new treasures.

Mechanic Man found me an old, old very tall book case to hold my thousands of books, and now it’s time to seek out more at yard sales and garage sales and estate sales. It’s in the shed that holds the freezer right now for want of space inside the house but I am seriously considering the few steps from the door to the shed could be considered exercise and I may put my books in the shed with the freezer. Except it is a nice old antique-looking book case that I would like to show off.

And more yard sales to find things to stuff in my book case because book cases are NOT just for books. So boring. No. Book cases are perfect for tea cup collections and glass animal collections and owl collections and old musty-smelling leather bound book collections about nothing I have ever read.

My sneakers are squeaking in anticipation.

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