Okay, we went to the wedding. The bride was truly beautiful; her Dad (our friend) was, to us, a shockingly insignificant part of the goings-on, though in fact he had a very normal part, as far as normal weddings go; and—drum roll, please—there was no dancing. Well, I take that back. There was one song while the bride and groom danced in a little space in front of the cake. Then there was a snippet of a song while the groom danced with his grandmother, and another snippet while the bride danced with her Dad. That was pretty much it, and like most aspects of most weddings these days, all of it was done for the benefit of the photographer. As Bob said, weddings any more feel like you’ve happened by the set of a TV show, not invited or anything, just kind of peeking in around the edges. I suppose it all looks great in the album afterwards.
The really funny/unfortunate part of this particular wedding was that there were two rooms at the reception, separated by French doors in the corners of both. The end result was that, in one room, there was a wedding reception going on, and in the other (ours) there was something like a church social, with a few random strangers (Bob and I) thrown in. Nothing wedding-like ever happened in our room; the bride never set foot in it, nor did the groom. The only saving grace to our room was that the bar was located in one corner, and every once in a while an emissary from the wedding party would be sent through to get drinks. Then you could gawk at them. The funniest moment came mid-evening, when the wedding coordinator came to the French doors, clapped her hands for attention in our room and then admonished us, as though we were a group of unruly children: “Be quiet! The bride is cutting the cake! Then you can all have some dessert!” And maybe even funnier than that, to me anyway, is the fact that we never got any cake. The cake was abandoned as soon as the first symbolic cuts were photographed, and sat there, inert, for a half hour or so, at which time we finally gave up and left. It occurred to us, as we drove home, that there had possibly been a master plan all along: wait out the B-Room people until they all get bored and go home, then fold up the tables, roll up the rugs and…dance!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
I have a dilemma today
Saturday November 14
I have three more tests to “pass,” before the kidney donation can become a reality. One is a chest X-ray, about which I am, perhaps naively, not worried. The second is a CT scan, to make sure I actually have two kidneys (See? You can pass all these tests with only one kidney!) and also exactly how they are situated in my body, prior to “harvesting” the smaller one. Creepy, I know. So far I’ve passed, in addition to the blood and tissue matching, a battery of psychological questions (I am not crazy), and legal questions (I am not selling my kidney), a stress test, a glucose tolerance test, a very complex blood pressure test (16 readings in all, over a period of 4 days), and at least 20 blood tests, the sum of which would reveal any adverse physical condition known to man or woman, ever. My doctor sent records of clear sigmoidoscopy, mammogram, pap smear, EKG’s and other stuff I can’t remember. I’ve also had a 24-hour urine test, in which you get to save all your pee for one day in a bottle in your frig., and no, I have not been living in squalor so long that I don’t recognize how gross this is.
Now I have to do it again.
The last time, I didn’t study for this test, and it showed. I flunked. But I’ve been told that it's a tricky test, old and touchy, and often needing to be repeated in the course of pre-donation testing. But, unlike most of the tests I’ve had done, this is one that can be prepared for, by not eating too much protein, by drinking lots of water (but not too much), and, most importantly, I am now given to understand, by not exercising too much.
About this last thing, there is, in my mind, a little confusion. I have been told, literally, “don’t, like, carry a bureau for two miles.” I have no problem with this. I rarely carry bureaus for more than, say, three miles. I can cut back. On the other end of the spectrum, and in the same conversation, came the admonition that I should “veg out” for several days before the test. “You know. Hang out on the couch, watch TV.” This is a problem. Our couch came with this place, and it’s not the kind of couch you’d want to “hang out” on, during waking hours. And we don’t have a TV. Don’t feel sorry for us; this is our choice. (Though you can feel sorry for me, on the nights when I absolutely cannot imagine anything that I can manage the goodwill or the energy to do other than watching TV or going to bed.)
We do have books. We are allowed to take an unlimited number of inferior ones from the library, without even having a library card. They don’t take your name or anything. You just tell them how many books you have, and they carelessly jot the number down on a sloppy list they keep on a clipboard at the front desk. It’s a social experiment, as far as I can tell. The list is simply so that they can tell if the general number of inferior books in the library is staying somewhat stable, or decreasing. It could even be increasing, since it appears that all the inferior books donated to the library join these ranks as well.
But back to vegging out. I like to walk, or ride my bike to the boatyard every day. I feel better when I do these things. And my usual day, once I get to the boatyard, involves doing something physical, as long and as hard as I can. So in preparation for this test, which I planned to do tomorrow, I have stayed away from the boatyard for two days. I have scrubbed not the hulls or decks of any boats, nor have I sanded or scraped or struggled with any tools, power or otherwise. I have not walked, or ridden my bike. I have carried no bureaus. This may seem like a lot of trouble to you, but my friend and I have come very far in this process. We have already envisioned our two hospital beds together in the same room, full of friends and family that we both know and love, in happy celebration. Yes, I know they probably won’t let us be in the same room, pre-or post-op. I know we’ll be lucky if we’re on the same floor. But we’ll be lucky if this transplant can take place, and she can be healthy and off dialysis again. We can dream. And if this dream doesn’t come true, I don’t want it to be because of something that (as opposed to almost everything else in this long odyssey) I can actually control. So I want to do everything I can. And I’ve done it. So far. I have put together two days of vegging out, hydrating, and not drinking my protein shake in the morning. None of this has been easy for me. And that makes the tragedy looming on the horizon even more heartbreaking. Are you ready?
We’re going to a wedding this afternoon. Not just any wedding, but the best kind, if you ask me. A wedding of people we hardly know. A wedding where, in exchange for a sugar bowl from Belk’s, we get to dress up, sit in a church and observe human behavior for an hour or so. As if that weren’t cool enough, after that we get to go to the reception, which is being held at a posh country club, so I’m assuming half-decent food and a glass of champagne at the very least. And more people-watching! You may be thinking, at this moment, “these people don’t get out much” and you would be right. For us, this is high drama. So how could I forget?
I didn’t forget, really. I have this strange brain where, on one side, I can be wondering what outfit I can come up with to wear to this wedding that will be fun to dance in, while, simultaneously, in another part of my brain (presumably one with impenetrable walls), I am carefully mapping out three days of minimal physical activity. What is wrong with me?? I am going to a wedding on a day when I can’t dance!! I love to dance!! I cannot be around music and dancing without joining the fray, even if it’s the chicken dance. And this, dare I say it, is the wedding of two black people. They will probably not even do the chicken dance! They’ll probably do something much cooler! And I will want to do it, too!
So that’s the dilemma I’m faced with today. Do I go to this wedding and make myself sit at an empty table with Bob and scrape bread crumbs into little piles, while I die of envy watching other people dance, or do I scuttle the two long days of preparatory vegging out, and hydrating, and modified protein intake, and did I mention no wine?? and start all over again next week? It’s a soap opera, isn’t it? I’ll let you know…
I have three more tests to “pass,” before the kidney donation can become a reality. One is a chest X-ray, about which I am, perhaps naively, not worried. The second is a CT scan, to make sure I actually have two kidneys (See? You can pass all these tests with only one kidney!) and also exactly how they are situated in my body, prior to “harvesting” the smaller one. Creepy, I know. So far I’ve passed, in addition to the blood and tissue matching, a battery of psychological questions (I am not crazy), and legal questions (I am not selling my kidney), a stress test, a glucose tolerance test, a very complex blood pressure test (16 readings in all, over a period of 4 days), and at least 20 blood tests, the sum of which would reveal any adverse physical condition known to man or woman, ever. My doctor sent records of clear sigmoidoscopy, mammogram, pap smear, EKG’s and other stuff I can’t remember. I’ve also had a 24-hour urine test, in which you get to save all your pee for one day in a bottle in your frig., and no, I have not been living in squalor so long that I don’t recognize how gross this is.
Now I have to do it again.
The last time, I didn’t study for this test, and it showed. I flunked. But I’ve been told that it's a tricky test, old and touchy, and often needing to be repeated in the course of pre-donation testing. But, unlike most of the tests I’ve had done, this is one that can be prepared for, by not eating too much protein, by drinking lots of water (but not too much), and, most importantly, I am now given to understand, by not exercising too much.
About this last thing, there is, in my mind, a little confusion. I have been told, literally, “don’t, like, carry a bureau for two miles.” I have no problem with this. I rarely carry bureaus for more than, say, three miles. I can cut back. On the other end of the spectrum, and in the same conversation, came the admonition that I should “veg out” for several days before the test. “You know. Hang out on the couch, watch TV.” This is a problem. Our couch came with this place, and it’s not the kind of couch you’d want to “hang out” on, during waking hours. And we don’t have a TV. Don’t feel sorry for us; this is our choice. (Though you can feel sorry for me, on the nights when I absolutely cannot imagine anything that I can manage the goodwill or the energy to do other than watching TV or going to bed.)
We do have books. We are allowed to take an unlimited number of inferior ones from the library, without even having a library card. They don’t take your name or anything. You just tell them how many books you have, and they carelessly jot the number down on a sloppy list they keep on a clipboard at the front desk. It’s a social experiment, as far as I can tell. The list is simply so that they can tell if the general number of inferior books in the library is staying somewhat stable, or decreasing. It could even be increasing, since it appears that all the inferior books donated to the library join these ranks as well.
But back to vegging out. I like to walk, or ride my bike to the boatyard every day. I feel better when I do these things. And my usual day, once I get to the boatyard, involves doing something physical, as long and as hard as I can. So in preparation for this test, which I planned to do tomorrow, I have stayed away from the boatyard for two days. I have scrubbed not the hulls or decks of any boats, nor have I sanded or scraped or struggled with any tools, power or otherwise. I have not walked, or ridden my bike. I have carried no bureaus. This may seem like a lot of trouble to you, but my friend and I have come very far in this process. We have already envisioned our two hospital beds together in the same room, full of friends and family that we both know and love, in happy celebration. Yes, I know they probably won’t let us be in the same room, pre-or post-op. I know we’ll be lucky if we’re on the same floor. But we’ll be lucky if this transplant can take place, and she can be healthy and off dialysis again. We can dream. And if this dream doesn’t come true, I don’t want it to be because of something that (as opposed to almost everything else in this long odyssey) I can actually control. So I want to do everything I can. And I’ve done it. So far. I have put together two days of vegging out, hydrating, and not drinking my protein shake in the morning. None of this has been easy for me. And that makes the tragedy looming on the horizon even more heartbreaking. Are you ready?
We’re going to a wedding this afternoon. Not just any wedding, but the best kind, if you ask me. A wedding of people we hardly know. A wedding where, in exchange for a sugar bowl from Belk’s, we get to dress up, sit in a church and observe human behavior for an hour or so. As if that weren’t cool enough, after that we get to go to the reception, which is being held at a posh country club, so I’m assuming half-decent food and a glass of champagne at the very least. And more people-watching! You may be thinking, at this moment, “these people don’t get out much” and you would be right. For us, this is high drama. So how could I forget?
I didn’t forget, really. I have this strange brain where, on one side, I can be wondering what outfit I can come up with to wear to this wedding that will be fun to dance in, while, simultaneously, in another part of my brain (presumably one with impenetrable walls), I am carefully mapping out three days of minimal physical activity. What is wrong with me?? I am going to a wedding on a day when I can’t dance!! I love to dance!! I cannot be around music and dancing without joining the fray, even if it’s the chicken dance. And this, dare I say it, is the wedding of two black people. They will probably not even do the chicken dance! They’ll probably do something much cooler! And I will want to do it, too!
So that’s the dilemma I’m faced with today. Do I go to this wedding and make myself sit at an empty table with Bob and scrape bread crumbs into little piles, while I die of envy watching other people dance, or do I scuttle the two long days of preparatory vegging out, and hydrating, and modified protein intake, and did I mention no wine?? and start all over again next week? It’s a soap opera, isn’t it? I’ll let you know…
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Snailing Along...
It’s a rainy day. The after-effects of Hurricane Ida have pushed up the coast, and the trailer was a crazy din of pounding all last night. The only thing louder than rain on the roof of this trailer is the noise made by a local squirrel who regularly drops off a nearby tree and races around there for a minute or two—that sounds like a small child has been dropped out of the sky from his father’s home-made balloon and is desperately trying to find a way down before Wolf Blitzer shows up…
Bob has been working a lot on other peoples’ boats, lately. This is good, in that it brings in money, which turns out to be important, but bad, because it slows up work on Trio. But we’re getting there, slowly but surely, and we both still believe that some day, some very hazy far-off day within the next year we hope, we will get Trio in the water and be on our way to further amusing adventures.
Right now, though, Bob is happily cutting
(with his new pipe cutter) 20’ aluminum pipes into smaller sections, in order to build a bow railing (goes around the front and sides of the boat—keeps the people unexpectedly out of the water) on an old Navy launch, which is the smaller boat that zips the important people to and from the big warship so that they can avoid unnecessary contact with the enlisted people.
Bob also spent a couple of months this fall resurrecting the twin engines
(1968 327 Chevys) on an Elco, a wooden fishing-cruising boat built in 1938. From what I understand, if this old boat could still handle it, structurally, these engines could put it up on plane at around 30 knots, which is fast for any boat. Sailboats, for instance, like Trio and Kalliope, go 8-10 knots at the fastest. Notice I didn’t say “if you’re lucky.” If you’re lucky, in my opinion, the anchor is down and the boat is lying perfectly still in a pretty little harbor on a warm, sunny day.
I finished another book, and sent it off two months ago to three publishers. Have met so far with a resounding silence, so just today came to the conclusion that it is not what they want. It was a formula novel, an experiment in art for money’s sake, so I’m not taking it too personally. Not that I would have spent three months of my precious life writing it if I’d thought it wouldn’t sell, but as I said, I’m not taking it personally.
On a happier note, I have come to nearly the end of so-far successful testing in order to donate a kidney to a friend. Which I say not so you’ll think I’m wonderful or cool, but because it’s a big part of my life, these days. I also say it because, if you’re healthy, kidney donation enables you to give to someone in a way that substantially changes their life, for the better, and, since the human body functions pretty much the same whether it has one kidney or two, will not substantially change yours. If mine changes, I’ll let you know.
Kalliope has not sold yet, though she’s had
lots of interest. The trouble is that the people who are interested in her are from, literally, all over the world, and it takes time for them to arrange to get here. We listed her for sale in August, and it was three months later until anyone actually in the market for a sailboat got to see her, and two sets of them came within a day of each other. The first people were from some southern Gulf state which shall remain nameless; they were dumb and bigoted and the woman kept trying to lecture me into being dumb and bigoted too, while I tried to show her how nice the galley is on Kalliope. Maybe the only thing that saved us both was that shortly before I met them, I’d taken a huge swig of a drink that I thought was a cola, but turned out to be a Manhattan left over from the night before.
The next day a German trio came to see her—30-something son, Dad, and Dad’s girlfriend (think Ingrid Bergman- slim, lovely, and very European). They were very impressed with Kalliope, and I think if she had two separate berths, they would have bought her on the spot. But after a while, the sale of the boat (what boat?) faded in importance, and we simply enjoyed each other’s company for the next few days, as they had repairs they wanted made to their motor home and Bob was happy to make them. We got to practice our German, they got to practice their English, and we all agreed that the $3 wine from Wal-Mart is not bad at all. Heide (Ingrid) and I walked on the beach, and drew pictures in the sand for each other when language and charades failed us. One late afternoon at the boatyard, Heide brought out a little folding table, covered it with a pretty batik cloth, and she and I sat and drank coffee and ate pie, while we observed the amusing antics of the three men running around working on the motor home in the waning daylight, speaking to each other in their quick weird mix of German, English, professional Mechanic and amateur Mechanic.
What else? The days are shorter, working outside is chillier. I can’t escape to the beach to swim and luxuriate in the sun once a week, like I did all summer, but I do walk there almost every day. It’s a good thing to do, and if you live by the beach, and love the ocean as much as I do, it’s the only thing to do. Go be there. It’s free, it’s wonderful, and every day is different.
It’s not an easy time for us, but it’s not a bad time either. It’s a time when we don’t let ourselves be still for even an hour, during daylight. Things take long enough as it is, and if you don’t keep plugging away at them, you’ll start to go backwards. At least that’s the feeling.
It occurred to me yesterday that, in the past when I was unhappy I would mentally squirm around, thinking what is wrong? what can I change? Now when I am unhappy, I just keep working. I live with it. Even co-exist with it peacefully. Whether that’s because we’ve painted ourselves into this corner, and there is no way out other than to work it out, or because I am older and wiser, or because (and I do think this is the reason) we’re actually, (given the circumstances!) doing what we want to do. And in that, we’re lucky.
Bob has been working a lot on other peoples’ boats, lately. This is good, in that it brings in money, which turns out to be important, but bad, because it slows up work on Trio. But we’re getting there, slowly but surely, and we both still believe that some day, some very hazy far-off day within the next year we hope, we will get Trio in the water and be on our way to further amusing adventures.
Right now, though, Bob is happily cutting
(with his new pipe cutter) 20’ aluminum pipes into smaller sections, in order to build a bow railing (goes around the front and sides of the boat—keeps the people unexpectedly out of the water) on an old Navy launch, which is the smaller boat that zips the important people to and from the big warship so that they can avoid unnecessary contact with the enlisted people.Bob also spent a couple of months this fall resurrecting the twin engines
(1968 327 Chevys) on an Elco, a wooden fishing-cruising boat built in 1938. From what I understand, if this old boat could still handle it, structurally, these engines could put it up on plane at around 30 knots, which is fast for any boat. Sailboats, for instance, like Trio and Kalliope, go 8-10 knots at the fastest. Notice I didn’t say “if you’re lucky.” If you’re lucky, in my opinion, the anchor is down and the boat is lying perfectly still in a pretty little harbor on a warm, sunny day.
I finished another book, and sent it off two months ago to three publishers. Have met so far with a resounding silence, so just today came to the conclusion that it is not what they want. It was a formula novel, an experiment in art for money’s sake, so I’m not taking it too personally. Not that I would have spent three months of my precious life writing it if I’d thought it wouldn’t sell, but as I said, I’m not taking it personally.
On a happier note, I have come to nearly the end of so-far successful testing in order to donate a kidney to a friend. Which I say not so you’ll think I’m wonderful or cool, but because it’s a big part of my life, these days. I also say it because, if you’re healthy, kidney donation enables you to give to someone in a way that substantially changes their life, for the better, and, since the human body functions pretty much the same whether it has one kidney or two, will not substantially change yours. If mine changes, I’ll let you know.
Kalliope has not sold yet, though she’s had
lots of interest. The trouble is that the people who are interested in her are from, literally, all over the world, and it takes time for them to arrange to get here. We listed her for sale in August, and it was three months later until anyone actually in the market for a sailboat got to see her, and two sets of them came within a day of each other. The first people were from some southern Gulf state which shall remain nameless; they were dumb and bigoted and the woman kept trying to lecture me into being dumb and bigoted too, while I tried to show her how nice the galley is on Kalliope. Maybe the only thing that saved us both was that shortly before I met them, I’d taken a huge swig of a drink that I thought was a cola, but turned out to be a Manhattan left over from the night before.
The next day a German trio came to see her—30-something son, Dad, and Dad’s girlfriend (think Ingrid Bergman- slim, lovely, and very European). They were very impressed with Kalliope, and I think if she had two separate berths, they would have bought her on the spot. But after a while, the sale of the boat (what boat?) faded in importance, and we simply enjoyed each other’s company for the next few days, as they had repairs they wanted made to their motor home and Bob was happy to make them. We got to practice our German, they got to practice their English, and we all agreed that the $3 wine from Wal-Mart is not bad at all. Heide (Ingrid) and I walked on the beach, and drew pictures in the sand for each other when language and charades failed us. One late afternoon at the boatyard, Heide brought out a little folding table, covered it with a pretty batik cloth, and she and I sat and drank coffee and ate pie, while we observed the amusing antics of the three men running around working on the motor home in the waning daylight, speaking to each other in their quick weird mix of German, English, professional Mechanic and amateur Mechanic.
What else? The days are shorter, working outside is chillier. I can’t escape to the beach to swim and luxuriate in the sun once a week, like I did all summer, but I do walk there almost every day. It’s a good thing to do, and if you live by the beach, and love the ocean as much as I do, it’s the only thing to do. Go be there. It’s free, it’s wonderful, and every day is different.
It’s not an easy time for us, but it’s not a bad time either. It’s a time when we don’t let ourselves be still for even an hour, during daylight. Things take long enough as it is, and if you don’t keep plugging away at them, you’ll start to go backwards. At least that’s the feeling.
It occurred to me yesterday that, in the past when I was unhappy I would mentally squirm around, thinking what is wrong? what can I change? Now when I am unhappy, I just keep working. I live with it. Even co-exist with it peacefully. Whether that’s because we’ve painted ourselves into this corner, and there is no way out other than to work it out, or because I am older and wiser, or because (and I do think this is the reason) we’re actually, (given the circumstances!) doing what we want to do. And in that, we’re lucky.
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