Loss and Grief and Dinner

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

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

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!

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 myriad 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture Perfect

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

Ah, Snow. . . .

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

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

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

Hop!

Healthy? Sick? Which is it?

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

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

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

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

Mechanic's Helper For Hire - Cheap

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow we are going to weld.

Mechanic's Helper, Part II

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Is it Time Yet?

Time, time, time, time.

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

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

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

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

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Send in the Clowns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SILENCE.

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

Just saying.
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The Rise of the Pod People

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

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

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

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

Crappy, crappy, crappy.

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

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

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

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

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

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