How do you say no???? I need to learn this. I am a people pleaser big time. I want to please everybody around me, be it at home or work or in the store or, well, all the time. I never say no. Most times it’s a good thing and I walk away feeling just a little taller or kinder or gentler. It’s my little self boost. But sometimes, I should just say no.
I was standing at the bus stop downtown to go the short two miles to my home on the lower northwest side of Spokane.
A gal was standing next to me with a couple large boxes at her feet. As the bus arrived she turned to me and in very broken English, in a strong Russian accent, asked if I would help her with one of her boxes. It was more of a command than a request. “You carry box,” pointing at the box and then at me, nodding her head once as if that would seal the deal. I thought nothing of it and lifted up one of the heavy boxes for her.
As we got close to my stop she again said, “You carry box,” along with the curt nod. I asked her when her stop was and she indicated the one right after mine, so I nodded back, once, and then watched as my bus went past my [perfectly good car parked in front of my perfectly good little house] on the way to the next stop.
We got off and she curtly ordered “Carry box” and “Follow.” And I followed. The box got heavier and heavier, my legs got more lead in them, I moved slower and she hustled down the side street, her box on her head, marching resolutely along, every now and then curtly stating “Come.” She was plainly disappointed in my lack of speed. So there we went, a little mini-parade, marching down another side street back around the block until we were exactly across (but two blocks away) from my house.
I would have gladly driven her and her boxes from my house to hers. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t ask. Except for the fact that she probably assumed that since I was taking the bus I did not have a car. Probably a real luxury from where she lived in the Ukraine.
Made me think how we take for granted our material possessions while people from other cultures might consider them precious luxuries that few have.
.
7.13.2009
7.09.2009
Tears for my Dad
I searched for him everywhere. I sought out his friends. I googled his name. I wanted to have him back. My Dad.
Dad went in for the umpteenth time for dialysis. At three times a week, four hours a day, six years – he had dialysis for 730 days of his life, 2,920 hours. And now he was being told they had run out of veins for his dialysis. It was Friday, December 10, 1993. It was my son’s 21st birthday; my Army child, stationed in South Korea. Dad decided not to go back to the center where he spent all those long grueling hours. He chose to die now rather than months from now, under all the same four hours a day, three days a week routine. He died on December 19.
I came home after spending the last week of his life with him and did mundane things, like shop at Albertson’s for milk and bread. All the while thinking that surely the clerks, the other shoppers, the children in the child seats, the baker, the butcher, the florist – would all see the pain in my eyes, the ache of my heart, the hole in my soul. Surely they noticed. I wanted to go up to each one and say “Did you know my Dad?” “Did you know he died?”
I went to his friends and would touch their hands, knowing that their hands had shaken my Dad’s hand. I knew that their hands had affectionately clapped my Dad’s shoulder or embraced him. And I would eagerly and breathlessly wait for anything they would say about my Dad. I wanted to confirm all the good things I knew about my Dad. I would stand there, soaking up his friends’ words like water on a parched throat.
Recently I have watched various news blogs about local people who have met untimely ends in freak accidents and what struck me were how many relatives who had never commented on these blogs, now were writing. They were writing in response to remarks made by various bloggers who didn’t know their lost loved one, and the remarks were sometimes hurtful, tacky, or erroneous. These loved ones have written from Ohio, California, Seattle – outside the scope of Spokane, Washington. And these loved ones have expressed the pain of reading these remarks when all they were doing was what I had done – they searched for anything about their child, their mother, my Dad. They googled their loved one’s name. They wanted anything about their loved one. Just like I did with my Dad. Any positive word to say he was loved by someone else. That someone else misses him as much as I.
Four months ago a good friend’s 24-year-old daughter passed away due to cystic fibrosis. I wrote about it on this blog – in a good way, in a positive way, highlighting what I knew about his daughter from my own experiences with her. I have a comment tracker and I have been amazed that every day, every single day, I have received hits to that particular post, from all over the world. Her friends started commenting to me – that it helped them so much to handle their grief over the loss of their friend. Her mother contacted me. She too wanted to hear that people loved her daughter as much as she did. The loss of her daughter took her breath away with its nearly unbearable anguish. She wanted comfort, she wanted to see her daughter through others' eyes. It confirmed for her that her daughter was vital to many, many people. That particular site gets two dozen hits a day. All because I said kind things about a person that was loved by so many people.
I wrote that story because I desperately wanted someone to write about my Dad in the same way. I wanted someone to say they loved him too. They missed him. They were sorry for my loss.
The empathy I get from others has healed the gaping hole I had felt for months after my Dad died.
Hopefully my treating others as I wish they would treat me makes a difference.
.
Dad went in for the umpteenth time for dialysis. At three times a week, four hours a day, six years – he had dialysis for 730 days of his life, 2,920 hours. And now he was being told they had run out of veins for his dialysis. It was Friday, December 10, 1993. It was my son’s 21st birthday; my Army child, stationed in South Korea. Dad decided not to go back to the center where he spent all those long grueling hours. He chose to die now rather than months from now, under all the same four hours a day, three days a week routine. He died on December 19.
I came home after spending the last week of his life with him and did mundane things, like shop at Albertson’s for milk and bread. All the while thinking that surely the clerks, the other shoppers, the children in the child seats, the baker, the butcher, the florist – would all see the pain in my eyes, the ache of my heart, the hole in my soul. Surely they noticed. I wanted to go up to each one and say “Did you know my Dad?” “Did you know he died?”
I went to his friends and would touch their hands, knowing that their hands had shaken my Dad’s hand. I knew that their hands had affectionately clapped my Dad’s shoulder or embraced him. And I would eagerly and breathlessly wait for anything they would say about my Dad. I wanted to confirm all the good things I knew about my Dad. I would stand there, soaking up his friends’ words like water on a parched throat.
“Your Dad was very kind.”All these words would bathe over me and sooth me.
“Gentle”
“Warm.”
“Intelligent.”
“He was so important to me.”
“Your Dad loved you kids so much.”
Recently I have watched various news blogs about local people who have met untimely ends in freak accidents and what struck me were how many relatives who had never commented on these blogs, now were writing. They were writing in response to remarks made by various bloggers who didn’t know their lost loved one, and the remarks were sometimes hurtful, tacky, or erroneous. These loved ones have written from Ohio, California, Seattle – outside the scope of Spokane, Washington. And these loved ones have expressed the pain of reading these remarks when all they were doing was what I had done – they searched for anything about their child, their mother, my Dad. They googled their loved one’s name. They wanted anything about their loved one. Just like I did with my Dad. Any positive word to say he was loved by someone else. That someone else misses him as much as I.
Four months ago a good friend’s 24-year-old daughter passed away due to cystic fibrosis. I wrote about it on this blog – in a good way, in a positive way, highlighting what I knew about his daughter from my own experiences with her. I have a comment tracker and I have been amazed that every day, every single day, I have received hits to that particular post, from all over the world. Her friends started commenting to me – that it helped them so much to handle their grief over the loss of their friend. Her mother contacted me. She too wanted to hear that people loved her daughter as much as she did. The loss of her daughter took her breath away with its nearly unbearable anguish. She wanted comfort, she wanted to see her daughter through others' eyes. It confirmed for her that her daughter was vital to many, many people. That particular site gets two dozen hits a day. All because I said kind things about a person that was loved by so many people.
I wrote that story because I desperately wanted someone to write about my Dad in the same way. I wanted someone to say they loved him too. They missed him. They were sorry for my loss.
The empathy I get from others has healed the gaping hole I had felt for months after my Dad died.
Hopefully my treating others as I wish they would treat me makes a difference.
.
6.29.2009
No TV for me!
Just got back from a totally relaxing week on the Oregon coast, south of Yachats, north of Heceta Head Lighthouse. I did absolutely nothing. I was totally unproductive. I vegged big time. I lay around in my pajamas and ate cereal for dinner, in the living room, watching bunnies out the front window and ever-watchful bald eagles from the back window. The eagles starved and the bunnies were totally oblivious.
I didn’t watch a clock. I took naps. I didn’t follow rules. I did, however, floss and took my vitamins. I ate whatever I wanted; got up when I felt like it; dressed when I felt like it (some days, never). I became civilized occasionally and dressed appropriately and blended in with other tourists in the quaint Old Town villages of Newport, Waldport, and Florence. I stopped at every wayside along Highway 101 from Lincoln City down to Florence, enjoyed the ocean and all her majesty from as many viewpoints as I could find.
I spent a wonderful full ten days with no phone, no tv, and lots of books. So, I was a little startled as I drove home and all that was on the radio were news items about Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Gale Storm, Billy Mays, and Ed McMahon. All dead. O my. Of all of these deaths, the one that bothered me the most was Gale Storm. She was one of my mother’s favorites. Perky, saucy, funny. Her death was lost amongst all the hype that went with particularly Michael Jackson, but Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon as well. All the loss, turmoil, pain, ups, downs, eccentricities, foibles.
Of all the things I didn’t have on my vacation – the television was the least missed. It brought to point for me that there really is nothing worthwhile on television that enhances my life in the tiniest way. I came home refreshed and revitalized – something that television just does not do for me.
.
I didn’t watch a clock. I took naps. I didn’t follow rules. I did, however, floss and took my vitamins. I ate whatever I wanted; got up when I felt like it; dressed when I felt like it (some days, never). I became civilized occasionally and dressed appropriately and blended in with other tourists in the quaint Old Town villages of Newport, Waldport, and Florence. I stopped at every wayside along Highway 101 from Lincoln City down to Florence, enjoyed the ocean and all her majesty from as many viewpoints as I could find.
I spent a wonderful full ten days with no phone, no tv, and lots of books. So, I was a little startled as I drove home and all that was on the radio were news items about Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Gale Storm, Billy Mays, and Ed McMahon. All dead. O my. Of all of these deaths, the one that bothered me the most was Gale Storm. She was one of my mother’s favorites. Perky, saucy, funny. Her death was lost amongst all the hype that went with particularly Michael Jackson, but Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon as well. All the loss, turmoil, pain, ups, downs, eccentricities, foibles.
Of all the things I didn’t have on my vacation – the television was the least missed. It brought to point for me that there really is nothing worthwhile on television that enhances my life in the tiniest way. I came home refreshed and revitalized – something that television just does not do for me.
.
6.10.2009
Yard Sale or Bust
I had my very first yard sale this last weekend. Suffice to say, it was a bust. So I’m making up a list of How to Have a Yard Sale:
1. Advertise! Toot your horn! Make sure the whole area knows that YOU are having absolutely a must see yard sale right in your own neighborhood. And put your ad in TWO days before, not one. Sign up on Craig’s List – and update your ad every morning under a different email account so it’s always towards the top of the list.
2. Signs. Signs are a must. About twenty signs on every intersection you can think of.
3. BIG PRINT. The sign must be readable from a car a block away as it is driving towards the sign at 30 miles per hour; if your sign is too small or too lightly written, and your drive by car has to slow down to read it, or even stop to read it, other cars get antsy and honk at you until you just say hell with it and drive on to the next sign that MAYBE you can read this time.
4. Print your address – don’t just say “yard sale that-away” with an arrow. Quite often the wind blows the sign and it ends up pointing a totally different direction, like down.
5. Anchor your sign. I didn’t have near enough signs and one of them kept falling over repeatedly until I braced it against a light pole. I worried about my sign incessantly until I thought I’d have to put a “stupid” sign on my forehead.
6. Balloons. Mark your territory and show the whole street that you are having a party!
7. Tell all your friends to stop by. Give them a schedule and have them just park their car at pre-appointed times. They don’t even have to get out. For some reason, a parked car at a yard sale begets other cars. Whenever one stopped, several stopped.
8. Have a tarp for every table and then you just cover them at night and hope nobody helps themselves to freebies in the middle of the night.
9. Don’t have a yard sale when something big might be going on like graduations from all the high schools in your area but they are celebrating downtown and aren’t even going to drive by any time soon to just happen upon your poorly advertised yard sale.
10. It is so true that what is one person’s junk is another person’s treasure. You think that little sole Tupperware lid all by itself is ready for the garbage and some old lady pounces on it because she has been missing hers since the last church picnic.
I’m going to read this list and check it twice and try this whole thing again in a month. O my God what a lot of work.
.
1. Advertise! Toot your horn! Make sure the whole area knows that YOU are having absolutely a must see yard sale right in your own neighborhood. And put your ad in TWO days before, not one. Sign up on Craig’s List – and update your ad every morning under a different email account so it’s always towards the top of the list.
2. Signs. Signs are a must. About twenty signs on every intersection you can think of.
3. BIG PRINT. The sign must be readable from a car a block away as it is driving towards the sign at 30 miles per hour; if your sign is too small or too lightly written, and your drive by car has to slow down to read it, or even stop to read it, other cars get antsy and honk at you until you just say hell with it and drive on to the next sign that MAYBE you can read this time.
4. Print your address – don’t just say “yard sale that-away” with an arrow. Quite often the wind blows the sign and it ends up pointing a totally different direction, like down.
5. Anchor your sign. I didn’t have near enough signs and one of them kept falling over repeatedly until I braced it against a light pole. I worried about my sign incessantly until I thought I’d have to put a “stupid” sign on my forehead.
6. Balloons. Mark your territory and show the whole street that you are having a party!
7. Tell all your friends to stop by. Give them a schedule and have them just park their car at pre-appointed times. They don’t even have to get out. For some reason, a parked car at a yard sale begets other cars. Whenever one stopped, several stopped.
8. Have a tarp for every table and then you just cover them at night and hope nobody helps themselves to freebies in the middle of the night.
9. Don’t have a yard sale when something big might be going on like graduations from all the high schools in your area but they are celebrating downtown and aren’t even going to drive by any time soon to just happen upon your poorly advertised yard sale.
10. It is so true that what is one person’s junk is another person’s treasure. You think that little sole Tupperware lid all by itself is ready for the garbage and some old lady pounces on it because she has been missing hers since the last church picnic.
I’m going to read this list and check it twice and try this whole thing again in a month. O my God what a lot of work.
.
6.03.2009
Kidney Update #2
Here's my sad soppy saga. I am starting to go through tests to get on a transplant list. (no cancer wanted - if I have cancer, they'll just throw me away). Anyway - went to see the kidney doctor today (saw the dentist last Thursday and this last Monday for what can only be described as roto rooter of the gums, with anesthesia and nitrous). So I'm already kind of whacked out of shape.
Then the doc tells me that my kidneys are functioning at ten percent of normal. Ten Percent. yeesh. I feel ok, really. The kidneys are shutting down but not telling the rest of my body - so my brain thinks I'm doing just fine thank you very much. But one of the things the kidneys do is "talk" to the bone marrow who talks to the blood who toils and turns out red blood cells - and the kidneys aren't talking, so I'm really low on blood. I'm getting what's called an EPO shot, once a week for three weeks and then once a month - if that doesn't work - it's a blood transfusion.
Are your eyes falling out of your head yet?
So - he said to watch for these symptoms: fatigue, feeling out of breath crossing the street, going up the stairs; itching skin; nausea; dry heaves; and anorexia (I wish). Well, as he starts clicking these things off, I'm still insisting I "feel FINE" but it's flashing through my mind - last night's itchy leg episode that about drove me insane; yesterday morning I didn't even want to brush my teeth because my gums still hurt and just the thought was making me feel like throwing up - and lately I don't just throw up - I do it repeatedly several times and then go into the dry heaves for several bouts; and I've started taking the elevator to get from the 15th floor to the 16th floor; and last night I gave Mechanic Man half of my hamburger - and no fries. I'm thinking, Jeanie you are so out of shape and need to diet and exercise. But Doc said that wasn't my problem. I have kidney disease related anemia. It's my uncommunicative kidneys again. Those silent buggers.
I went to Riverfront Square and then to Rite Aid over lunch. I was panting the entire way and just pooped by the time I got back. And I've noticed this before when I've gone to the Riverfront to get my hair cut - I'd start back and think, o boy, if someone would just carry me, it would be sheer bliss.
I'm beginning to think I'm SICK.
I’m still insisting I feel fine. I’m still trying to think positive thoughts and not dwell on this. I’m still trying to tell myself I’m not in denial. It’s a quandary. If I think about it, I’ll get worse. I’ll get worse if I don’t think about it. If I think positive thoughts, my kidneys just might go completely gonzo on me and turn out their lights because I’ve got my head in the sand. If I think negative thoughts, like, you’re-going-to-be-on-dialysis-for-the-REST-of-your-life (this is a litany I heard my mother sing to Dad for seven years until he finally pulled the plug on himself), then I’ll be on dialysis that much sooner. They’ll never find a donor kidney for me. I’ll have a permanent tube in my stomach or my arm, depending on what type of dialysis. What about sex? Bikini’s? (well, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a bikini – but what IF?) Slinky dresses? The too-sexy-for-my-jeans look?
.
Then the doc tells me that my kidneys are functioning at ten percent of normal. Ten Percent. yeesh. I feel ok, really. The kidneys are shutting down but not telling the rest of my body - so my brain thinks I'm doing just fine thank you very much. But one of the things the kidneys do is "talk" to the bone marrow who talks to the blood who toils and turns out red blood cells - and the kidneys aren't talking, so I'm really low on blood. I'm getting what's called an EPO shot, once a week for three weeks and then once a month - if that doesn't work - it's a blood transfusion.
Are your eyes falling out of your head yet?
So - he said to watch for these symptoms: fatigue, feeling out of breath crossing the street, going up the stairs; itching skin; nausea; dry heaves; and anorexia (I wish). Well, as he starts clicking these things off, I'm still insisting I "feel FINE" but it's flashing through my mind - last night's itchy leg episode that about drove me insane; yesterday morning I didn't even want to brush my teeth because my gums still hurt and just the thought was making me feel like throwing up - and lately I don't just throw up - I do it repeatedly several times and then go into the dry heaves for several bouts; and I've started taking the elevator to get from the 15th floor to the 16th floor; and last night I gave Mechanic Man half of my hamburger - and no fries. I'm thinking, Jeanie you are so out of shape and need to diet and exercise. But Doc said that wasn't my problem. I have kidney disease related anemia. It's my uncommunicative kidneys again. Those silent buggers.
I went to Riverfront Square and then to Rite Aid over lunch. I was panting the entire way and just pooped by the time I got back. And I've noticed this before when I've gone to the Riverfront to get my hair cut - I'd start back and think, o boy, if someone would just carry me, it would be sheer bliss.
I'm beginning to think I'm SICK.
I’m still insisting I feel fine. I’m still trying to think positive thoughts and not dwell on this. I’m still trying to tell myself I’m not in denial. It’s a quandary. If I think about it, I’ll get worse. I’ll get worse if I don’t think about it. If I think positive thoughts, my kidneys just might go completely gonzo on me and turn out their lights because I’ve got my head in the sand. If I think negative thoughts, like, you’re-going-to-be-on-dialysis-for-the-REST-of-your-life (this is a litany I heard my mother sing to Dad for seven years until he finally pulled the plug on himself), then I’ll be on dialysis that much sooner. They’ll never find a donor kidney for me. I’ll have a permanent tube in my stomach or my arm, depending on what type of dialysis. What about sex? Bikini’s? (well, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a bikini – but what IF?) Slinky dresses? The too-sexy-for-my-jeans look?
.
5.26.2009
Oscar, the Oven Mitt
I love names. I give names to everything – my car, my cat, my kids, spiders, clothes, and oven mitts. Actually, it’s my Mom’s doing. She started it.
When we were growing up, Mom acquired an oven mitt in the shape of an alligator (or a crocodile – I can’t tell them apart), and we were fascinated with “him.” We worried endlessly about how he would survive going into the hot oven to grab something with his teeth. Mom named him Oscar. Oscar was like a Mighty Crock who could withstand innumerous dunkings into the fires of hell, er, the oven. He was singed, and once even caught fire upon which my Dad heroically put out the fire by throwing Oscar into the dishwater and nearly drowning him. Once he actually made it into the laundry and all the little singed parts became little frayed holes. But he still managed to be the chief pot holder in the family, and the only one with a name.
We had a George, too, who was really all our hoodies for camping – only they weren’t called hoodies back in the cold age of camp fires, marshmallows, and ghost stories. They were plain old sweatshirts with hoods and pockets in the front. We each had an identical shirt and they were only used for camping – so at the end of the summer, Mom would make a show of putting the smallest hoodie into the next hoodie, into the next, until finally Dad’s sweatshirt was enveloping the whole family of hoodies. It looked like a torso and sat in the back of the closet. She named him George.
This was handy other times of the year because if we heard creeks or groans from the house, we all chalked it up to . . . . . . George.
And of course, spiders have names. According to my mother. They are all Fred. Fred lives outside – at least that is where he belongs. So she carefully picks Fred up with a tissue and puts him outside where he belongs. All of my siblings and I learned this very valuable skill very early in our lives. Spiders – all named Fred – belong outside as God intended.
However, if the spider happens to be a Black Widow – then all rules about Fred go right out the window – I mean to say – the Black Widow doesn’t get the same privileges as Fred. The Black Widow is killed by Mom at least 150 times until she is absolutely positive that there is no more Black Widow at all, not a single molecule.
So – I was dating a guy I considered pretty macho and we were sitting on the couch watching a movie when a centipede started marching along the wall behind the television. I thought nothing of it – a cousin of Fred – and grabbed a tissue and gently lifted the centipede and put “her” outside where she belonged. I turned back and here is macho man, with his knees up to his chest, looking like some monster had slithered along the floor under his feet. What? You don’t put your little critters out where they belong?
Anyway – Oscar grew old and frayed and finally was relegated to the back of the drawer of old towels and cleaning rags – the nursing home of oven mitts. I still put Fred out where he belongs.
.
When we were growing up, Mom acquired an oven mitt in the shape of an alligator (or a crocodile – I can’t tell them apart), and we were fascinated with “him.” We worried endlessly about how he would survive going into the hot oven to grab something with his teeth. Mom named him Oscar. Oscar was like a Mighty Crock who could withstand innumerous dunkings into the fires of hell, er, the oven. He was singed, and once even caught fire upon which my Dad heroically put out the fire by throwing Oscar into the dishwater and nearly drowning him. Once he actually made it into the laundry and all the little singed parts became little frayed holes. But he still managed to be the chief pot holder in the family, and the only one with a name.
We had a George, too, who was really all our hoodies for camping – only they weren’t called hoodies back in the cold age of camp fires, marshmallows, and ghost stories. They were plain old sweatshirts with hoods and pockets in the front. We each had an identical shirt and they were only used for camping – so at the end of the summer, Mom would make a show of putting the smallest hoodie into the next hoodie, into the next, until finally Dad’s sweatshirt was enveloping the whole family of hoodies. It looked like a torso and sat in the back of the closet. She named him George.
This was handy other times of the year because if we heard creeks or groans from the house, we all chalked it up to . . . . . . George.
And of course, spiders have names. According to my mother. They are all Fred. Fred lives outside – at least that is where he belongs. So she carefully picks Fred up with a tissue and puts him outside where he belongs. All of my siblings and I learned this very valuable skill very early in our lives. Spiders – all named Fred – belong outside as God intended.
However, if the spider happens to be a Black Widow – then all rules about Fred go right out the window – I mean to say – the Black Widow doesn’t get the same privileges as Fred. The Black Widow is killed by Mom at least 150 times until she is absolutely positive that there is no more Black Widow at all, not a single molecule.
So – I was dating a guy I considered pretty macho and we were sitting on the couch watching a movie when a centipede started marching along the wall behind the television. I thought nothing of it – a cousin of Fred – and grabbed a tissue and gently lifted the centipede and put “her” outside where she belonged. I turned back and here is macho man, with his knees up to his chest, looking like some monster had slithered along the floor under his feet. What? You don’t put your little critters out where they belong?
Anyway – Oscar grew old and frayed and finally was relegated to the back of the drawer of old towels and cleaning rags – the nursing home of oven mitts. I still put Fred out where he belongs.
.
5.13.2009
And so it begins. . .
I was blithely going through my day, the normal humdrum of filing, typing, cataloging, typing, time entry, bla bla, more typing, and arrived home to the mail:
A packet starting with the ominous "The Journey of Transplant Evaluation."
O boy.
It's several pages and forms to fill out to start the process of being evaluated to be placed on a kidney transplant list.
I'm half excited about this. Actually I feel too good to really be considered for a transplant. I'll probably go along like I do in sports - and be the last one on the list. Who knows? Evidently my doctor sent my name in to the transplant center - and also to social security. Did you know that I might be able to get Medicaid?
I'm half overwhelmed, too. I'll meet with a team of people - the transplant surgeon, transplant nurse coordinator, social worker, and dietitian. I'll have all kinds of tests done: dental, colonoscopy (well, I've kind of been looking for an excuse to have one done, other than having it done just because I'm "old"), EKG, ECG, Ultrasound, cardiology, vascular, CT, besides draining me of my blood for chemistries, serologies, microbiologies, and cancer markers. Heck, once I pass all of these tests with flying colors, I should be able to live totally free of kidneys - who needs a kidney when everything else is working so well! Well, maybe not.
But what if I fail these tests or it shows something else.
Anyway - here I go, off into the dark world of medical tests on every single cell in my body.
It beats dialysis any day!
.
A packet starting with the ominous "The Journey of Transplant Evaluation."
O boy.
It's several pages and forms to fill out to start the process of being evaluated to be placed on a kidney transplant list.
I'm half excited about this. Actually I feel too good to really be considered for a transplant. I'll probably go along like I do in sports - and be the last one on the list. Who knows? Evidently my doctor sent my name in to the transplant center - and also to social security. Did you know that I might be able to get Medicaid?
I'm half overwhelmed, too. I'll meet with a team of people - the transplant surgeon, transplant nurse coordinator, social worker, and dietitian. I'll have all kinds of tests done: dental, colonoscopy (well, I've kind of been looking for an excuse to have one done, other than having it done just because I'm "old"), EKG, ECG, Ultrasound, cardiology, vascular, CT, besides draining me of my blood for chemistries, serologies, microbiologies, and cancer markers. Heck, once I pass all of these tests with flying colors, I should be able to live totally free of kidneys - who needs a kidney when everything else is working so well! Well, maybe not.
But what if I fail these tests or it shows something else.
Anyway - here I go, off into the dark world of medical tests on every single cell in my body.
It beats dialysis any day!
.
5.11.2009
Take Me Out of the Ball Game
I have found my household glued to the TV lately, watching the Mariners’ games. I’m not a real enthusiast. I only know that my presence is a hindrance to winning games, whether I am watching in the bleachers, or totally at a distance from the hidey-hole of my living room. And I have mystical, magical powers of doom.
If I leave the room, the team scores. If I stay, the other team will get a three-base hit and run. Never fails. So I try to occupy myself elsewhere and give the Mariners a fair chance. :)
All this baseball drama has brought memories of the one summer I was on a softball team for the City. I won’t say when because I think I’d get tarred and feathered. You see, I have the same effect if I am actually on the team. Worse.
I could not hit a ball to save my soul. I couldn’t catch a ball either. Or throw. But I’d try, try, try!!!!
Once, I was thrown the ball to 2nd base, where the runner was flying down from 1st. I just closed my eyes tight and held out the ball towards the runner and, damn! if she didn’t run smack into it with her left boob. She said she was going to go around again and try for the right – so at least they (the boobs) would be even.
I was a terrible but extremely earnest player. I never did make it to a base – so no need to worry about stealing 2nd or 3rd – I never got to 1st.
The legend of my lack of prowess got to be so bad, that BOTH teams would root for me. I caught a ball, playing shortstop. I mean, I actually caught a fly ball. I’m hopping up and down and shouting, “I caught it! I caught it!” and then realized that every one on both sides is doing the same thing. All jumping up and down and screaming “She caught the ball! She honestly caught the ball!” The game stopped so we could all regroup. Even the people on the bases stood still instead of running for all they were worth. Oh, maybe you can’t do that if I caught the fly ball. What do I know. . . .
Sigh.
When we got to the finals and there were several teams playing, I showed up, loyally and diligently, in my uniform, with my mitt, ready to Play Ball. The coach met me at my car and told me he was benching me right off the get go. No hard feelings – we just needed to have all players actually hitting the ball and catching it. You know, we’d like to actually win a game here.
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If I leave the room, the team scores. If I stay, the other team will get a three-base hit and run. Never fails. So I try to occupy myself elsewhere and give the Mariners a fair chance. :)
All this baseball drama has brought memories of the one summer I was on a softball team for the City. I won’t say when because I think I’d get tarred and feathered. You see, I have the same effect if I am actually on the team. Worse.
I could not hit a ball to save my soul. I couldn’t catch a ball either. Or throw. But I’d try, try, try!!!!
Once, I was thrown the ball to 2nd base, where the runner was flying down from 1st. I just closed my eyes tight and held out the ball towards the runner and, damn! if she didn’t run smack into it with her left boob. She said she was going to go around again and try for the right – so at least they (the boobs) would be even.
I was a terrible but extremely earnest player. I never did make it to a base – so no need to worry about stealing 2nd or 3rd – I never got to 1st.
The legend of my lack of prowess got to be so bad, that BOTH teams would root for me. I caught a ball, playing shortstop. I mean, I actually caught a fly ball. I’m hopping up and down and shouting, “I caught it! I caught it!” and then realized that every one on both sides is doing the same thing. All jumping up and down and screaming “She caught the ball! She honestly caught the ball!” The game stopped so we could all regroup. Even the people on the bases stood still instead of running for all they were worth. Oh, maybe you can’t do that if I caught the fly ball. What do I know. . . .
Sigh.
When we got to the finals and there were several teams playing, I showed up, loyally and diligently, in my uniform, with my mitt, ready to Play Ball. The coach met me at my car and told me he was benching me right off the get go. No hard feelings – we just needed to have all players actually hitting the ball and catching it. You know, we’d like to actually win a game here.
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5.06.2009
Joys of Camping
This is for Cindy, who thinks camping is for the birds, in response to my post on Camping at http://jeaniespokane.blogspot.com/2008/07/time-to-go-camping.html.
Ten reasons you can enjoy camping:
1. You can throw your dirty dishes in the campfire with no guilt. (Well, paper plates, unless you are a true camper phobic and have to bring along your good China – then have your sons wash the dishes for you – in a kettle of water they drew from the lake and heated up over the open fire).
2. You can stay up as long as you like and tell ghost stories around the campfire after the sun goes down – no need for tv, radio, or books
3. If it rains during the day – you get to do jigsaw puzzles with your kids
4. If you go camping with your mom, you get to go to bed before the sun sets because she doesn’t like sitting outside in the dark by herself
5. If you go camping with your dad, you get to get up first thing in the morning because the fish are jumping, the fire is going, the eggs are frying, the cold fresh air is invigorating, nature is calling.
6. Those little black thingies in your eggs – that’s just pepper. Really.
7. You can lay in the sun and have absolutely nothing to do but bake (bring sun screen).
8. You can prove your warrior strength by standing over your children so horseflies as big as basketballs don’t carry them away.
9. You experience the Zen of sleeping on the hard ground and waking up energized and ready for a dawn swim in the icy cold river.
10. You love building a fire with twigs you and everyone else gathered when you first set up camp, after you found a fairly flat piece of ground, raked away the rocks, tree limbs, and pinecones, set up the tent, pounded the stakes in the ground so the tent wouldn’t blow away, and if it is really windy, you built a windbreak just for the fire. The fire never goes out because you feed it and feed it and feed it and feed it.
Camping is just so much FUN!!!
.
Ten reasons you can enjoy camping:
1. You can throw your dirty dishes in the campfire with no guilt. (Well, paper plates, unless you are a true camper phobic and have to bring along your good China – then have your sons wash the dishes for you – in a kettle of water they drew from the lake and heated up over the open fire).
2. You can stay up as long as you like and tell ghost stories around the campfire after the sun goes down – no need for tv, radio, or books
3. If it rains during the day – you get to do jigsaw puzzles with your kids
4. If you go camping with your mom, you get to go to bed before the sun sets because she doesn’t like sitting outside in the dark by herself
5. If you go camping with your dad, you get to get up first thing in the morning because the fish are jumping, the fire is going, the eggs are frying, the cold fresh air is invigorating, nature is calling.
6. Those little black thingies in your eggs – that’s just pepper. Really.
7. You can lay in the sun and have absolutely nothing to do but bake (bring sun screen).
8. You can prove your warrior strength by standing over your children so horseflies as big as basketballs don’t carry them away.
9. You experience the Zen of sleeping on the hard ground and waking up energized and ready for a dawn swim in the icy cold river.
10. You love building a fire with twigs you and everyone else gathered when you first set up camp, after you found a fairly flat piece of ground, raked away the rocks, tree limbs, and pinecones, set up the tent, pounded the stakes in the ground so the tent wouldn’t blow away, and if it is really windy, you built a windbreak just for the fire. The fire never goes out because you feed it and feed it and feed it and feed it.
Camping is just so much FUN!!!
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5.03.2009
Perspective
Age is all from perspective, I have decided. This weekend alone I have witnessed the whole continuum. I stopped and chatted with a man I didn’t know, who was on oxygen. He started telling me about the ailments of old age. He said, “You turn 60, and it’s all downhill from there, in a rush! You turn around and there’s another birthday. And then another. And another! All downhill from 60.” And when I told him I just turned 60, he remarked that I look good for my age and maybe that downhill race won’t happen to me.
Then a little friend came over. She’s 11, almost 12, going on know-it-all 30. She saw my birthday cards and upon asking how old I was, her mouth turned into a perfect O and stunned silence for about 30 seconds. The usually chatter silenced in speechlessness.
Just now a young mother with two toddlers in a stroller came by and stopped to talk to me. I’ve never seen them before and they both readily told me “I’m four.” (Twins) They told me their names and asked me for mine. And then chatted nonstop about their adventures in the playground and that they have to go home now because they were sopping wet from jumping around in puddles. And treated me like I was a playmate or at least a doting aunt with an ear for listening. Age meant nothing to them. I still hear the cheerful humming as they both sang “Bye Jeanie” in unison and went on their way.
From young whippersnapper to ancient crone to best pal in 24 hours.
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Then a little friend came over. She’s 11, almost 12, going on know-it-all 30. She saw my birthday cards and upon asking how old I was, her mouth turned into a perfect O and stunned silence for about 30 seconds. The usually chatter silenced in speechlessness.
Just now a young mother with two toddlers in a stroller came by and stopped to talk to me. I’ve never seen them before and they both readily told me “I’m four.” (Twins) They told me their names and asked me for mine. And then chatted nonstop about their adventures in the playground and that they have to go home now because they were sopping wet from jumping around in puddles. And treated me like I was a playmate or at least a doting aunt with an ear for listening. Age meant nothing to them. I still hear the cheerful humming as they both sang “Bye Jeanie” in unison and went on their way.
From young whippersnapper to ancient crone to best pal in 24 hours.
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4.29.2009
Waking Up Old
So, I woke up this morning, my birthday morning, as an older woman. Older than yesterday when I was 59. And somehow jumped into another decade as I have just turned 60. Ok, now I can tell you that I was being kind of optimistically frivolous when I made up my 60 reasons I am excited about turning 60. It's more like, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
I say it – 60 years old – and think to myself, uh, no that's not me. That is not who I am. Age doesn't describe the inner me. I am ageless in my mind – and you ask my two sons and they agree. I'm playful and goofy and pensive and romantic and introspective and soul searching. Has nothing to do with age.
Several years ago, my coworkers started a tradition of "60 presents for the 60th birthday." Little things. So for the past five days I have received 10-12 little presents every day – books, cards, plants, candles, soaps, energy drinks (which seems to draw every single person and they all want to try it). Does an energy drink counter the effects of just plain being old? Inquiring minds want to know. It says it has no caffeine and no sugar. So, if you come to my cubicle and I'm not there, look up – I may be on the ceiling, having sampled some of my energy drink supply, called "Orange Explosion." If that doesn't work, I have several latte gift cards so I can get my double caffeine, triple shot chocolate, Grande latte. Fat, hot, and a hell of a lot.
How do I feel about 60? I didn't notice a big drop in brain cells, so I think the "senior moments" are still in the future. Maybe if I keep working, I'll keep my brain active, and I won't have those moments. I'm playing Sodoku frequently over the last year because I have heard that it improves the mind. However, it hasn't improved my balancing-the-checkbook skills, at all. Instead of a savings account, I have a slush fund in my checking account, to account for my not accounting my account.
Age is relative I suppose. I remember when my grandmother turned 95 years old, still living on her own. Her son-in-law asked, er rather shouted to her good ear, "So, how do you feel today?" to which she replied, louder just for the heck of it, "I'm 95 years old. How the hell do you think I feel!" When you are 95 years old, you can be cantankerous and ornery just for grins and giggles and nobody will fault you. When you're 60 and act like that, well, you're just being a brat and a pill.
So here I am – 60 years old. Am I better? Older? Wiser? I like to think wiser, finally, after many false starts. I'm an all-around better person, through time and through events and experiences. I'm just not older. I'm definitely not elderly – although were I to trip and fall in the street and a reporter happened by (and I'm only a block away from the S-R building), the article in the paper would read "Elderly Woman Breaks Hip on Riverside and Monroe; Traffic tied up for hours trying to get her, screaming and clawing, into ambulance for ride to nursing home."
.
I say it – 60 years old – and think to myself, uh, no that's not me. That is not who I am. Age doesn't describe the inner me. I am ageless in my mind – and you ask my two sons and they agree. I'm playful and goofy and pensive and romantic and introspective and soul searching. Has nothing to do with age.
Several years ago, my coworkers started a tradition of "60 presents for the 60th birthday." Little things. So for the past five days I have received 10-12 little presents every day – books, cards, plants, candles, soaps, energy drinks (which seems to draw every single person and they all want to try it). Does an energy drink counter the effects of just plain being old? Inquiring minds want to know. It says it has no caffeine and no sugar. So, if you come to my cubicle and I'm not there, look up – I may be on the ceiling, having sampled some of my energy drink supply, called "Orange Explosion." If that doesn't work, I have several latte gift cards so I can get my double caffeine, triple shot chocolate, Grande latte. Fat, hot, and a hell of a lot.
How do I feel about 60? I didn't notice a big drop in brain cells, so I think the "senior moments" are still in the future. Maybe if I keep working, I'll keep my brain active, and I won't have those moments. I'm playing Sodoku frequently over the last year because I have heard that it improves the mind. However, it hasn't improved my balancing-the-checkbook skills, at all. Instead of a savings account, I have a slush fund in my checking account, to account for my not accounting my account.
Age is relative I suppose. I remember when my grandmother turned 95 years old, still living on her own. Her son-in-law asked, er rather shouted to her good ear, "So, how do you feel today?" to which she replied, louder just for the heck of it, "I'm 95 years old. How the hell do you think I feel!" When you are 95 years old, you can be cantankerous and ornery just for grins and giggles and nobody will fault you. When you're 60 and act like that, well, you're just being a brat and a pill.
So here I am – 60 years old. Am I better? Older? Wiser? I like to think wiser, finally, after many false starts. I'm an all-around better person, through time and through events and experiences. I'm just not older. I'm definitely not elderly – although were I to trip and fall in the street and a reporter happened by (and I'm only a block away from the S-R building), the article in the paper would read "Elderly Woman Breaks Hip on Riverside and Monroe; Traffic tied up for hours trying to get her, screaming and clawing, into ambulance for ride to nursing home."
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4.26.2009
Identity Redux
I usually enjoy getting my driver’s license renewed. I like to compare pictures and prove that I’m not getting older, I’m getting better.
Something went really bad when I went in to renew my license on Saturday. It’s the most awful picture I have ever seen. It’s a mug shot. It’s a mug shot of a seasoned criminal. I can’t show this in public! What am I going to say to whoever looks at it?
O, yeah, that was one hell of a hangover. (Even though I spent the night before watching old chick movies.)
That? That picture? Oh, it’s evidence for my malpractice suit on Botox injections gone horribly wrong.
What? No, oh no, that’s not me. That’s someone who stole my identity and tried to phony up a picture to look like me. Despicable job.
That really is a mug shot of me trying to steal Dentyne gum from the neighbor store.
I can explain that. Some really old, short, fat lady with no neck invaded my body. And I want it back.
ARRRRGH! I’m stuck with this really awful picture for FIVE years. And the truly horrible irony of all of this is that I had the chance to renew online and keep my really great looking picture for another five years but I kept having trouble with my credit card billing address because I have moved but haven’t really moved and I can’t make up my mind whether to make Mechanic Man’s address MY address or to keep my real address as a place to temporarily go to on lunch hours and weekends. Now I have this truly ugly picture following me around every single solitary second of my life. For five years!
Obviously, the Department of Licensing did not get my memo on 60 reasons to be excited to be 60. They must have received one that said "there is only one reason for this person to look like an old worn boot, because she is ELDERLY, OLD, WRINKLED, and, well, REALLY OLD."
New Year’s Resolutions have nothing on the resolution I am making as a result of having my driver’s license renewed. Oh no. Now I am passionately and resolutely determined to change my identity. I’m going to lose 40 pounds and I’m going to join a gym and I’m going to get massages every other day and I’m going to tape my face up and back and go back in and have the damned picture retaken. Again and again and again until it looks like ME.
.
Something went really bad when I went in to renew my license on Saturday. It’s the most awful picture I have ever seen. It’s a mug shot. It’s a mug shot of a seasoned criminal. I can’t show this in public! What am I going to say to whoever looks at it?
O, yeah, that was one hell of a hangover. (Even though I spent the night before watching old chick movies.)
That? That picture? Oh, it’s evidence for my malpractice suit on Botox injections gone horribly wrong.
What? No, oh no, that’s not me. That’s someone who stole my identity and tried to phony up a picture to look like me. Despicable job.
That really is a mug shot of me trying to steal Dentyne gum from the neighbor store.
I can explain that. Some really old, short, fat lady with no neck invaded my body. And I want it back.
* * * * * *
ARRRRGH! I’m stuck with this really awful picture for FIVE years. And the truly horrible irony of all of this is that I had the chance to renew online and keep my really great looking picture for another five years but I kept having trouble with my credit card billing address because I have moved but haven’t really moved and I can’t make up my mind whether to make Mechanic Man’s address MY address or to keep my real address as a place to temporarily go to on lunch hours and weekends. Now I have this truly ugly picture following me around every single solitary second of my life. For five years!
Obviously, the Department of Licensing did not get my memo on 60 reasons to be excited to be 60. They must have received one that said "there is only one reason for this person to look like an old worn boot, because she is ELDERLY, OLD, WRINKLED, and, well, REALLY OLD."
New Year’s Resolutions have nothing on the resolution I am making as a result of having my driver’s license renewed. Oh no. Now I am passionately and resolutely determined to change my identity. I’m going to lose 40 pounds and I’m going to join a gym and I’m going to get massages every other day and I’m going to tape my face up and back and go back in and have the damned picture retaken. Again and again and again until it looks like ME.
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4.23.2009
The Walk Home
I had a migraine that day. It was set to be one of the bad ones and I decided to leave for home. I had missed the bus and so prepared to walk the two miles. It was cloudy and threatening to rain and so I picked up my yellow polka-dot Mary Englebriet umbrella and set out on my way.
As I got to the Monroe Street Bridge I noticed a man leaning on the cement banister, looking out over the water. I'm always aware of people when I'm walking. I try to assess them and make up a story about them. This one though was different. He was older than me, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. My first thought was, where's his coat – it's going to rain and it's cold still for early April.
I got closer and just wanted to get past this guy. I was chanting in my head "don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around." I was just inches past him when he said "Hey lady." I planned on ignoring him and I planned to keep on going, but there was something about the tone. I stopped and looked back. He looked at me, soft sad brown eyes.
"Yes?" I hesitantly asked.
"Help me. I'm going to jump."
There's dead silence; I can barely hear the river below; I don't notice it has started to rain.
"What?" I ask – surely I didn't hear him right.
"I'm-going-to-jump-you-need-to-help-me."
I pointed my finger at him and I think I only said "STAY", not anything else. In my head I was shouting, "You stay right there and don't you move one muscle!"
I ran up the walk to the first building at the edge of the bridge. Closed! I ran to the next building. Closed! What's with all these closed buildings? I don't have time for this! I went to the next building and couldn't get the door open. I don't know why. My brain stopped working and I was a blithering idiot. I finally noticed a phone booth right next to me and miracle of miracles I even had money on me, in my pocket. I dialed 911 and told them my story. The dispatcher questioned me with "How do you know he's going to jump?" "He just told me!" I yelled back. I hung up in despair and my mind is screaming "O my God O my God O my God"
I ran back down the sidewalk, the man still standing there, O thank God, leaning over the edge. Just then a police car came down the road, the absolutely only car for three blocks! Two officers gently approached the man and lifted his hands off the edge of the cement wall and carefully guided him back to their car. The three of them made one glance at me and then drove away.
And there I stood with my cheery sunny umbrella while it rained in earnest now, pouring tears from Heaven.
Three weeks later, on my birthday in fact, I was reading the paper and I got to the ad section, which I never read, and it just caught my eye, a little ad:
"To the lady with the yellow umbrella. You saved my life. Thank you."
.
As I got to the Monroe Street Bridge I noticed a man leaning on the cement banister, looking out over the water. I'm always aware of people when I'm walking. I try to assess them and make up a story about them. This one though was different. He was older than me, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. My first thought was, where's his coat – it's going to rain and it's cold still for early April.
I got closer and just wanted to get past this guy. I was chanting in my head "don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around." I was just inches past him when he said "Hey lady." I planned on ignoring him and I planned to keep on going, but there was something about the tone. I stopped and looked back. He looked at me, soft sad brown eyes.
"Yes?" I hesitantly asked.
"Help me. I'm going to jump."
There's dead silence; I can barely hear the river below; I don't notice it has started to rain.
"What?" I ask – surely I didn't hear him right.
"I'm-going-to-jump-you-need-to-help-me."
I pointed my finger at him and I think I only said "STAY", not anything else. In my head I was shouting, "You stay right there and don't you move one muscle!"
I ran up the walk to the first building at the edge of the bridge. Closed! I ran to the next building. Closed! What's with all these closed buildings? I don't have time for this! I went to the next building and couldn't get the door open. I don't know why. My brain stopped working and I was a blithering idiot. I finally noticed a phone booth right next to me and miracle of miracles I even had money on me, in my pocket. I dialed 911 and told them my story. The dispatcher questioned me with "How do you know he's going to jump?" "He just told me!" I yelled back. I hung up in despair and my mind is screaming "O my God O my God O my God"
I ran back down the sidewalk, the man still standing there, O thank God, leaning over the edge. Just then a police car came down the road, the absolutely only car for three blocks! Two officers gently approached the man and lifted his hands off the edge of the cement wall and carefully guided him back to their car. The three of them made one glance at me and then drove away.
And there I stood with my cheery sunny umbrella while it rained in earnest now, pouring tears from Heaven.
Three weeks later, on my birthday in fact, I was reading the paper and I got to the ad section, which I never read, and it just caught my eye, a little ad:
"To the lady with the yellow umbrella. You saved my life. Thank you."
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4.22.2009
60 reasons I am excited about being SIXTY:
ONE WEEK AWAY
- I don’t look it – see me next year
- I am healthy (mostly)
- I am content
- I am mature (something I am extremely grateful for – no more hot emotions, no more being jealous or petty; just nice calm maturity)
- However, I can be cranky if I want to. I'm OLD.
- I love the person in the mirror that looks back at me.
- I laugh at myself way too much. And that’s perfectly fine.
- I am hardly ever sad.
- I have the bone density of a 30-year-old, so my doc tells me
- I am mother of two great sons that I don’t have to nag after
- I have dear close friends that hold secrets, tell jokes, and care deeply
- I laugh and laugh and laugh
- I’m alive
- I feel great
- I am comfortable in my skin
- I have become a sensitive, compassionate woman
- I have become an example to follow
- I’m a great mother-in-law and the envy of all my daughter-in-law’s friends who don’t have me as their mother-in-law
- I have a beautiful singing voice, especially in the shower
- I am 1/3 of the way through my list
- I look back at some of the things I write and think, boy, that was really good!
- I am passionate about attitude and living, truly living!
- I am a good listener and confidante.
- Not to worry when you tell me a secret; I can honestly say I have forgotten it by the next day
- I dance when I clean the house, usually to Meatloaf’s “Bat out of Hell.”
- Sunsets
- Beaches
- The ocean
- I can still climb lighthouses
- I am a pretty good photographer
- I might retire in five years; maybe not; maybe work fulfills me still
- I’m good with computers
- Babies – I look forward to being a very young in spirit Grandmother in my 60s
- All-you-can-eat buffet places that give senior discounts to 60 and older. I can eat those 80-year-olds under the table.
- I can skip exercising (well, occasionally) and blame it on "old age."
- I get to take naps!
- I can be weird and eccentric and everyone will love me anyway
- My eyesight is still 20-20
- I actually wasn't born yesterday
- 2/3 through my list
- I am wise and make less mistakes
- When I make mistakes I just write them off as senior moments
- Cats love me (they see an easy mark)
- I'm still active and in more ways than one
- You are only as old as you feel – and sometimes I feel like I'm twelve.
- Some days I feel like I'm 100.
- Life!
- I have God in my heart; God walks with me all day long
- I have a great sense of humor
- Other people laughing is contagious; I surround myself with laughing people
- I am introspective and engage in lots of soul searching and generally find good things in my soul
- A former boss told my current boss to hire me because I was gentle and kind; I really like being thought of as gentle and kind
- I have my teeth; and I floss
- I sleep very well
- I have no regrets
- I have at least 60 friends!
- 20 of my 60 friends are my very best friends forever VBFF!
- Today is the first day of my life, and I get to start all over again with a fresh slate; and it is the last day of my life and I get to fill it up with all kinds of adventures and experiences and memories
- I can still swing to the top of the bar with my feet high and my head back
- Wow! I'm sixty years old! Can you believe it???
4.20.2009
Pieces of Joy
I love finding little things in the day that are joyful.
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- Like, passing a gradeschool during recess and listening to dozens of children laughing;
- Watching the neighbor teen "race" with his little short-legged terrier running like it meant his life, the little dog's tail wiggling so much that he zigzagged as he ran, stopping now and then to smile at his master and let the teen catch up;
- Sitting at a light and hearing loud cheering from the car next door with its window down and realizing the guy by himself is singing at the top of his lungs to the radio, his head thrown back with glee;
- Babies being strolled by on the first spring day;
- Tulips and crocuses have exploded out of the hard wintered soil;
- Putting my coat back in the closet, finally;
- Spring cleaning! Leaving the windows and doors open, sending the old stale air out and letting the fresh spring air in;
- Bliss.
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4.17.2009
Health Report #1
Just wanted all of you to know that I am "good" for a while. I am having tests done to start the process of going on a transplant list but my overall health is very good and that will keep me riding the fence for a while – and I pray for a long, long while. As I told a good friend, I am really good at sitting on fences. I should be a politician.
I feel the good vibes and the prayers. Thank you so much! I'll just keep on keeping on, as they say. Our minds are so powerful and our attitude is magic.
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4.15.2009
Giving up the bottle
Giving up the bottle. . . . . Not the beer bottle – the baby bottle. When my youngest boy was born a mere 17 months after my oldest, I felt a tremendous amount of guilt that I had a second baby while my first born was STILL a baby. I remember walking up the stairs with the brand new baby and looking at the top step where my not even 18-month-old was standing. My heart stopped with a pang. He's only a baby I thought. I wanted to cry. And sometimes, when both were crying, I cried right along with them. How could I have done such a selfish thing! So, I appeased my guilt by letting my now 18-month-old still use a bottle.
I knew that I should be potty training him but it was so much easier to simply make up two bottles instead of one and then there would be about five minutes of silence, with the two munchkins happily and contentedly (and quietly) enjoying their bottle.
When they were 18 months and a month shy of 3 years old respectively and STILL on the bottle, well, things needed to change. I worried about this moment for weeks. I tried to think of plans. Plan A - and Plan B in case Plan A blew up in my face. So – Plan A was to wait until their Dad went on assignment (in the Air Force) where he worked off site three days and three nights. We'd take Daddy to the base on such-and-such morning and then go back to the house and throw all the bottles in the garbage. Cold Turkey! And then we would burrow in for three days and three nights of crying, wailing, gnashing of teeth, pounding heads against crib bars, going through bottle withdrawal – and after three days and three nights we would be boys and not babies. We would be bottleless and ready for potty training! We would be out of diapers and into training pants. Hoo Rah.
So – we drove Daddy to the base and came home. I asked the boys to gather all their bottles together. They happily did so. Like a game! Then I had them go out to the garbage cans and toss them into the brand spanking new empty garbage cans. And we went back inside and they jumped up and down and clapped their hands and asked what else they could throw away. And acted like nothing happened. They went and played with their stuffed animals and their Weebles and their Fisher-Price cars and acted like nothing happened. They had their lunch with their milk in sippy cups and again – no wailing, no tantrums, no kicking and screaming.
My babies miraculously turned into little boys with a snap of a garbage can lid.
And there was no Plan B.
.
I knew that I should be potty training him but it was so much easier to simply make up two bottles instead of one and then there would be about five minutes of silence, with the two munchkins happily and contentedly (and quietly) enjoying their bottle.
When they were 18 months and a month shy of 3 years old respectively and STILL on the bottle, well, things needed to change. I worried about this moment for weeks. I tried to think of plans. Plan A - and Plan B in case Plan A blew up in my face. So – Plan A was to wait until their Dad went on assignment (in the Air Force) where he worked off site three days and three nights. We'd take Daddy to the base on such-and-such morning and then go back to the house and throw all the bottles in the garbage. Cold Turkey! And then we would burrow in for three days and three nights of crying, wailing, gnashing of teeth, pounding heads against crib bars, going through bottle withdrawal – and after three days and three nights we would be boys and not babies. We would be bottleless and ready for potty training! We would be out of diapers and into training pants. Hoo Rah.
So – we drove Daddy to the base and came home. I asked the boys to gather all their bottles together. They happily did so. Like a game! Then I had them go out to the garbage cans and toss them into the brand spanking new empty garbage cans. And we went back inside and they jumped up and down and clapped their hands and asked what else they could throw away. And acted like nothing happened. They went and played with their stuffed animals and their Weebles and their Fisher-Price cars and acted like nothing happened. They had their lunch with their milk in sippy cups and again – no wailing, no tantrums, no kicking and screaming.
My babies miraculously turned into little boys with a snap of a garbage can lid.
And there was no Plan B.
.
4.13.2009
Cars Rule
You would not believe this. I think my cars have personalities. Really. I have a little red Suzuki Swift that I bought brand new in 1989. "She" is tops. Fantastic mileage (40 mpg), doesn't go through oil, likes to travel, never talks back to me, no dings or dents, the upholstery is still perfect. She's a little gem.
And then two years ago, while she was innocently parked across the street along a vacant lot lined with boulders, she was creamed by a drunk driver who sideswiped her totally from back to front and then smashed the other side by squishing her against the boulders. I got up at 3:00 in the morning right after it happened and all I could do was stand there in my jammies and stare. I couldn't believe this had happened to my trusty excellent little car.
So I bought a new car and Mechanic Man parked Little Red in the garden.
The new one just doesn't have my heart. It has a very dull personality. It's boring. It's silver and so are a gazillion other cars. I'll park at the store and when I come out – there are a whole row of silver cars like ticky tacky houses all in a row. It doesn't call out to me. It just sits there, blending in with all the rest.
Maybe that explains why I have had a couple fender benders with it in the last couple months. It's almost like a disease. I'm starting to get paranoid. I'm starting to hyperventilate and second guess myself. Will today be another "bump" in the road?
I don't think my silver car likes me.
So, I went to the store to get stuff for home made tacos. Mechanic Man makes tacos to die for. I got home and discovered the corn shells broke when they were tossed in the bag with everything else, so I went back to the store to replace them.
And I bumped into the car next to where I parked. Don't ask me how. I don't know. It just happened. So I pulled to the spot in front of where I was and checked the damages. Scraped the front bumper on my car. Nice little dent in the door of the victim. I called my insurance company and relayed all the petty information.
Only the owner never came out (turned out she worked there all night). Well, I was so rattled by the whole thing and that it was MY fault AGAIN, I saw that the window was slightly open and I slipped the note through the opening only to just at that moment realize that the car I hit was the next one over and not this one! And this one was a junkie, dented, crapped out piece of junk. I couldn't leave that note in this car saying "I'm sorry I just hit your car here's all my insurance information, my name, my phone number, my first born. . . . ." So I tried sticking my hand through the window and I couldn't get past my elbow. And so I waited. I prayed that the first person to come out would be the wrong person so I could get my note back. Otherwise, if it were the right person then we'd both have to wait for the wrong person. . . . . . Are you with me?
Finally a guy came towards me and to the pile of junk car. I explained my predicament and he laughingly gave me my note back and said "Lady, too bad you didn't hit my car. I would have never noticed."
So – long story short – the gal that owned the car I hit wants to get a new car in a year and she doesn't care about the dent in the door and was very surprised that I even bothered to stick around. And the insurance company said that next time I have an accident I will have to pay two deductibles because I made a claim on this one and even though neither one of us wants our car repaired, you can't save up dings and scrapes and have them applied by one insurance claim if you have already made another claim. It's so confusing.
In the meantime, Mechanic Man found a little white Suzuki Swift and brought it home and parked next to Little Red. He's all excited about getting the car fixed up so we can run around on 40 miles per gallon. We got the little car on Thursday; Friday we were driving his big Town Car, when it suddenly smoked, popped, choked, and died a shuddering, sputtering death, on the freeway. As we waited for the tow truck, he said, "ya know, I think the cars have been talking to each other and this one is jealous."
.
And then two years ago, while she was innocently parked across the street along a vacant lot lined with boulders, she was creamed by a drunk driver who sideswiped her totally from back to front and then smashed the other side by squishing her against the boulders. I got up at 3:00 in the morning right after it happened and all I could do was stand there in my jammies and stare. I couldn't believe this had happened to my trusty excellent little car.
So I bought a new car and Mechanic Man parked Little Red in the garden.
The new one just doesn't have my heart. It has a very dull personality. It's boring. It's silver and so are a gazillion other cars. I'll park at the store and when I come out – there are a whole row of silver cars like ticky tacky houses all in a row. It doesn't call out to me. It just sits there, blending in with all the rest.
Maybe that explains why I have had a couple fender benders with it in the last couple months. It's almost like a disease. I'm starting to get paranoid. I'm starting to hyperventilate and second guess myself. Will today be another "bump" in the road?
I don't think my silver car likes me.
So, I went to the store to get stuff for home made tacos. Mechanic Man makes tacos to die for. I got home and discovered the corn shells broke when they were tossed in the bag with everything else, so I went back to the store to replace them.
And I bumped into the car next to where I parked. Don't ask me how. I don't know. It just happened. So I pulled to the spot in front of where I was and checked the damages. Scraped the front bumper on my car. Nice little dent in the door of the victim. I called my insurance company and relayed all the petty information.
- No – I'm not hurt.
- No – I'm not blocking traffic.
- Hell, no, I'm not fixing it THIS time.
- No – I don't know who owns the other car because they aren't here. It was parked.
- I'm in a parking lot and all the cars are parked.
- The owner isn't here. The owner parked their car and went into the store.
- Fine. I'll leave a note on the other car.
- Thank you so much.
Finally a guy came towards me and to the pile of junk car. I explained my predicament and he laughingly gave me my note back and said "Lady, too bad you didn't hit my car. I would have never noticed."
So – long story short – the gal that owned the car I hit wants to get a new car in a year and she doesn't care about the dent in the door and was very surprised that I even bothered to stick around. And the insurance company said that next time I have an accident I will have to pay two deductibles because I made a claim on this one and even though neither one of us wants our car repaired, you can't save up dings and scrapes and have them applied by one insurance claim if you have already made another claim. It's so confusing.
In the meantime, Mechanic Man found a little white Suzuki Swift and brought it home and parked next to Little Red. He's all excited about getting the car fixed up so we can run around on 40 miles per gallon. We got the little car on Thursday; Friday we were driving his big Town Car, when it suddenly smoked, popped, choked, and died a shuddering, sputtering death, on the freeway. As we waited for the tow truck, he said, "ya know, I think the cars have been talking to each other and this one is jealous."
.
4.07.2009
101 Things You Never Wanted to Know
Wow! I mentioned my kidney disease on my blog and people came out of the woodwork to comment and to offer support and prayers. I was shocked at the sincere concern of my friends. These are people that I blog with, commiserate with, drink with, and laugh and cry with. I had no idea that my personal ailment would impact other people.
Here are the boring details: Polycystic kidney disease (PKD) is a genetic disorder characterized by the growth of numerous cysts in the kidneys. For even more boring reading, you can look at http://www.kidney.niddk.nih.gov/kudiseases/pubs/pdf/PKD.pdf. That will put you to sleep in a couple of minutes.
When I was 23, I called my parents to tell them I was pregnant with my first son. I lived in Indiana at the time while my husband was in the Air Force, stationed in Peru, Indiana. Mom informed me that Dad had Polycystic Kidney Disease, otherwise called PKD. I immediately offered one of my kidneys to him. And that's when I found out that PKD is one of the highest hereditary diseases, even above Diabetes, and that I more than likely had it too. I was officially diagnosed when I was 28.
There is no cure. But science has been making great strides over the years since I first found out about myself. Dialysis has gotten better. It used to be so abrasive to your system that you would run out of veins to use, or, like in my Dad's case, the solution can cause peritonitis and aneurisms. It's kind of scary.
Of my three siblings, one brother does not have PKD. My sister had a transplant, where her brother-in-law was the kidney donor. My brother had a transplant with a cadaver kidney. Both are perfect matches and both have been very healthy.
OK, that's the boring stuff. My brother and I have banded together to have a positive attitude on this and not dwell on the negatives. This was difficult to manage with our mother – who, for some reason, went through life with a cloud over her head. Every time we talked to her, it didn't matter about what, she would go into a tirade that I called "101 things you never wanted to know about polycystic kidney disease and wouldn't ask your mother so she's going to tell you anyway."
And I still don't want to know about those 101 things. Al and I decided 30 years ago that we would not dwell in the negative. We have both watched our health; we have both kept a sense of humor about our bodies and life. You just can't bog yourself down with heavy, negative thoughts. I remember calling Mom and in the conversation I wanted to speak to Dad but he was lying down, not feeling well, and Mom started on the kidney doom tale: "Your Dad is on dialysis six hours a day, three days a week, for the REST of his life and . . . ." I had heard this so many times that I got to the point I could instantly shut it off and all I heard was "bla bla bla bla bla bla bla." If I told her I didn't want to talk about it, she'd accuse me of sticking my head in the sand. My point of being positive was never taken. So, I shrugged my shoulders and turned on the bla bla tape and did something creative – like watered my plants – until she was done and then we could talk about something else entirely, like the Oregon beach. All is good!
Mom passed away three years ago this May. Her attitude finally did her in. One day, April 22, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Two weeks later she was in a coma and one week later, May 11, she was dead. I strongly believe her negativity finally got her.
So – back to me. I'm not discouraged. This is just a little snafu on my way through this life. I have an "attitude of gratitude" and my cup is always half full and getting fuller.
Many people asked me what they could do for me. Now here comes the real kerfunkle. One of the most difficult things for me to do is ask for help. Argghhh. I'd rather pull one of my own teeth. What can I ask for, anyway? I could hardly go around to all my friends asking for one of their kidneys. Eeeek. Hey, I love ya man, give me one of your kidneys. [hangs head in shame]
What I can say unequivocally is that friendship with you, all of you, is my ultimate grace. You are what keeps me going and keeps my humor up and my spirits up. I figure I have about 20 Very Best Friends Forever. Many I have never met in person. I have my dinner group friends, my Red Hat friends, my legal secretary/paralegal friends around the United States, and I have you, my blog friends. I figure I am just about one of the luckiest people on the planet. I have blogging friends who are intelligent, intellectual, and sharp; who are funny, witty, and gifted; who are professionals – attorneys, writers, medical, and who home school their children.
I blurked for quite a while and got to know people on Huckleberries. Then one of the first people to interact with me was Marmitoastie. I think we're twins! I'm fairly certain we are related in some way. And then I met Cindy and I tell you what – I think we're triplets! Way too much in common. Maybe it's because we all have boys. Maybe it's because we all love firemen. I don't know. But it's been a kick in the pants. Cindy and I met face to face early on and "knew" each other without introduction. We have bonded.
How blessed can I get? I have it all! See – attitude is EVERYTHING! Now it's not all so bad, is it?
.
Here are the boring details: Polycystic kidney disease (PKD) is a genetic disorder characterized by the growth of numerous cysts in the kidneys. For even more boring reading, you can look at http://www.kidney.niddk.nih.gov/kudiseases/pubs/pdf/PKD.pdf. That will put you to sleep in a couple of minutes.
When I was 23, I called my parents to tell them I was pregnant with my first son. I lived in Indiana at the time while my husband was in the Air Force, stationed in Peru, Indiana. Mom informed me that Dad had Polycystic Kidney Disease, otherwise called PKD. I immediately offered one of my kidneys to him. And that's when I found out that PKD is one of the highest hereditary diseases, even above Diabetes, and that I more than likely had it too. I was officially diagnosed when I was 28.
There is no cure. But science has been making great strides over the years since I first found out about myself. Dialysis has gotten better. It used to be so abrasive to your system that you would run out of veins to use, or, like in my Dad's case, the solution can cause peritonitis and aneurisms. It's kind of scary.
Of my three siblings, one brother does not have PKD. My sister had a transplant, where her brother-in-law was the kidney donor. My brother had a transplant with a cadaver kidney. Both are perfect matches and both have been very healthy.
OK, that's the boring stuff. My brother and I have banded together to have a positive attitude on this and not dwell on the negatives. This was difficult to manage with our mother – who, for some reason, went through life with a cloud over her head. Every time we talked to her, it didn't matter about what, she would go into a tirade that I called "101 things you never wanted to know about polycystic kidney disease and wouldn't ask your mother so she's going to tell you anyway."
And I still don't want to know about those 101 things. Al and I decided 30 years ago that we would not dwell in the negative. We have both watched our health; we have both kept a sense of humor about our bodies and life. You just can't bog yourself down with heavy, negative thoughts. I remember calling Mom and in the conversation I wanted to speak to Dad but he was lying down, not feeling well, and Mom started on the kidney doom tale: "Your Dad is on dialysis six hours a day, three days a week, for the REST of his life and . . . ." I had heard this so many times that I got to the point I could instantly shut it off and all I heard was "bla bla bla bla bla bla bla." If I told her I didn't want to talk about it, she'd accuse me of sticking my head in the sand. My point of being positive was never taken. So, I shrugged my shoulders and turned on the bla bla tape and did something creative – like watered my plants – until she was done and then we could talk about something else entirely, like the Oregon beach. All is good!
Mom passed away three years ago this May. Her attitude finally did her in. One day, April 22, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Two weeks later she was in a coma and one week later, May 11, she was dead. I strongly believe her negativity finally got her.
So – back to me. I'm not discouraged. This is just a little snafu on my way through this life. I have an "attitude of gratitude" and my cup is always half full and getting fuller.
Many people asked me what they could do for me. Now here comes the real kerfunkle. One of the most difficult things for me to do is ask for help. Argghhh. I'd rather pull one of my own teeth. What can I ask for, anyway? I could hardly go around to all my friends asking for one of their kidneys. Eeeek. Hey, I love ya man, give me one of your kidneys. [hangs head in shame]
What I can say unequivocally is that friendship with you, all of you, is my ultimate grace. You are what keeps me going and keeps my humor up and my spirits up. I figure I have about 20 Very Best Friends Forever. Many I have never met in person. I have my dinner group friends, my Red Hat friends, my legal secretary/paralegal friends around the United States, and I have you, my blog friends. I figure I am just about one of the luckiest people on the planet. I have blogging friends who are intelligent, intellectual, and sharp; who are funny, witty, and gifted; who are professionals – attorneys, writers, medical, and who home school their children.
I blurked for quite a while and got to know people on Huckleberries. Then one of the first people to interact with me was Marmitoastie. I think we're twins! I'm fairly certain we are related in some way. And then I met Cindy and I tell you what – I think we're triplets! Way too much in common. Maybe it's because we all have boys. Maybe it's because we all love firemen. I don't know. But it's been a kick in the pants. Cindy and I met face to face early on and "knew" each other without introduction. We have bonded.
How blessed can I get? I have it all! See – attitude is EVERYTHING! Now it's not all so bad, is it?
.
4.06.2009
Shoulder to Shoulder
Sometimes I need shoulders other than my own.
That's why I have my four friends that meet together religiously once a month for the last 25 years. Sometimes one of us needs all four sets of shoulders. It's the closest thing we have to professional counseling and a hell of a lot cheaper. In fact, I think it's better. A counselor doesn't LOVE you. These four friends do. We love each other like sisters and sometimes like mothers. There isn't a problem or predicament that is too difficult or too convoluted that can't be aided and softened by this particular circle of friends.
We don't always get together to whine about our problems, although we know we can without criticism or judgment. A lot of times we get together and confess our antics and adventures, to gales of laughter. There was that time that "one of us" (never ever will I let on who it was, other than to say it unequivocally was NOT me) dyed her hair. All of her hair. Both on her head and down there. She wanted to look like a natural blonde – everywhere, which left nothing to the imagination for the rest of us on why she wanted to have matching hairdos. Instead of blonde down there, she was temporarily screaming her head off from the pain and was afraid her precious hair was being burned off by the chemicals. Never again – she'd shave it off first.
Another friend of the four recently had surgery for Parkinson's where battery packs were implanted in her chest with wires through her neck to her head that would subtly zap her to keep her shaking down to a low roar. She calls her implants her baby boobs, not to be confused with her big boobs.
She used to be a hair dresser. We've watched her hair go from bald to short, sticking straight up hair that was incredibly soft (so we were at restaurants where all four of us were running our fingers through her new soft hair, exclaiming how soft it was), to a chic new do in her natural salt-and-pepper color. (And no, it wasn't her that had the pubic hair adventure.) She's become stunningly beautiful.
Now it's my turn. I will be seeing my kidney specialist in a couple weeks to discuss either going on dialysis or being put on a transplant list. It is a monumental deal. It's not that I'm surprised because I have known this day would come, for many years. I kind of had hoped it would never come and that I would maintain as I have for so long. But coming it is – and fast.
My dinner with my friends is on the 15th – in time for me to use their shoulders and gain strength to face the verdict from my doctor. And they will be with me afterwards to carry me forward. That's what shoulders are for.
.
That's why I have my four friends that meet together religiously once a month for the last 25 years. Sometimes one of us needs all four sets of shoulders. It's the closest thing we have to professional counseling and a hell of a lot cheaper. In fact, I think it's better. A counselor doesn't LOVE you. These four friends do. We love each other like sisters and sometimes like mothers. There isn't a problem or predicament that is too difficult or too convoluted that can't be aided and softened by this particular circle of friends.
We don't always get together to whine about our problems, although we know we can without criticism or judgment. A lot of times we get together and confess our antics and adventures, to gales of laughter. There was that time that "one of us" (never ever will I let on who it was, other than to say it unequivocally was NOT me) dyed her hair. All of her hair. Both on her head and down there. She wanted to look like a natural blonde – everywhere, which left nothing to the imagination for the rest of us on why she wanted to have matching hairdos. Instead of blonde down there, she was temporarily screaming her head off from the pain and was afraid her precious hair was being burned off by the chemicals. Never again – she'd shave it off first.
Another friend of the four recently had surgery for Parkinson's where battery packs were implanted in her chest with wires through her neck to her head that would subtly zap her to keep her shaking down to a low roar. She calls her implants her baby boobs, not to be confused with her big boobs.
She used to be a hair dresser. We've watched her hair go from bald to short, sticking straight up hair that was incredibly soft (so we were at restaurants where all four of us were running our fingers through her new soft hair, exclaiming how soft it was), to a chic new do in her natural salt-and-pepper color. (And no, it wasn't her that had the pubic hair adventure.) She's become stunningly beautiful.
Now it's my turn. I will be seeing my kidney specialist in a couple weeks to discuss either going on dialysis or being put on a transplant list. It is a monumental deal. It's not that I'm surprised because I have known this day would come, for many years. I kind of had hoped it would never come and that I would maintain as I have for so long. But coming it is – and fast.
My dinner with my friends is on the 15th – in time for me to use their shoulders and gain strength to face the verdict from my doctor. And they will be with me afterwards to carry me forward. That's what shoulders are for.
.
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