You Like Me! You Really Like Me!

I think it's fair to suggest that very few people in the history of crappy kidneys have experienced a more enjoyable monthly checkup than I had last week at the DaVita clinic in Urbana-Champaign. Not only are all of my most important biological markers (phosphorus, calcium, protein and the like) at or above their recommended levels – "You are doing great," smiled my nephrologist, Dr. Attia – but my ego also received a major booster shot.

No fewer than five employees at the DaVita location, including the regional director herself, Ellie Suhl, took time out of their busy Friday to stop by my examination room to meet "the man who writes the blog" and compliment me on the quality of the work and for bringing attention to kidney disease and the outstanding work DaVita does in patient care. One woman said she especially giggled at my description of Diane King, my angelic dialysis nurse, as "Pollyanna," which meant that she not only really read the blog, she also had reader retention!

Now, this means two things:

(a) Many more people than you and me are reading these blatherings, to my great surprise, and

(b) I'm going to have to stop cussing in this blog and take it much more seriously every time out. After all, ladies are watching!

One nice added attraction of my appointment was being able to tell Ms. Suhl and several other people what I'm telling you now: DaVita's corporate marketing department in southern California somehow got wind of "Just Kidneying," and a delightful young woman interviewed me last week for a potential feature story in DaVita's national magazine!

Amazing. Life is a funny ol' dog, ain't it? Thirty-five years spent writing about other people in magazines national and local, and the first national article ever done on me comes as a result of renal failure.

Why, I could become the King of Kidneys! The Dean of Dialysis!

I'm Beautiful, Inside and Out

Recently Karen and I returned to Carle Hospital in Urbana, IL, for a followup visit with Dr. Michael Neuwirth, the brilliant surgeon who performed the catheter insertion for my dialysis. I know he must be brilliant because every health care professional I've met with since the operation – and I've met with a mess of 'em – refers to him and his work in hushed tones of reverence. That makes for one contented patient.

Actually, I didn't meet with Dr. Neuwirth in person (brilliant people are often busy, too), but with his physician's assistant, who asked to remain nameless here for professional reasons. Henceforth we will call her Unidentified Physician's Assistant, or UPA, which is not to be confused with "Yooper," the slang term for a native of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Which, as it just so happened, is where the UPA was from.

The UPA was extremely pleased to see that, as she told us, my surgical wound showed no evidence of dehiscence, which from this point on will be our Word for the Day.

(de • his • cence, (de-HISS-cents), n.: a bursting or splitting along natural or sutured lines; a splitting open. Separation of the layers of a surgical wound. "We may have to suture him again, Al; the blood indicates his incision is showing signs of dehiscence.")

She didn't stop there, however. UPA went on to gush over how beautifully the edges of the incision were coming together, and that the healing process looked "awesome." By my count, she used the word "beautiful" or a variation seven times during our brief visit, along with "awesome," "perfect" and "excellent" once each.

Well, let me tell you, it's been a very long time since any person of the female persuasion looked at me and said "beautiful" that many times, even if it was in regards to the two-inch slit in my belly.

Leaving the hospital that day, I kept hearing the voice of Natalie Wood in West Side Story sounding in my head: "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty...." UPA made me so proud, I could have just dehissed.

Sick and Tired

I caught a bug this week. Not in the literal sense, although there seem to be millions of bugs available for catching out here in the wilderness.

Sometime Monday my throat began to feel like I had been gargling sandpaper. Then the sweats began, followed in close order by chills, stuffy nose and a cough that makes my whole body shudder. No, it's not the swine flu, but it certainly makes me feel like a porker.

I know how this happened. In between moving out of Champaign and into Decatur, I was also trying to find time to write six stories last week on deadline. I was working late hours, deep into the night, and not taking very good care of myself. Now, voluntarily quarantining myself in bed Tuesday and today and feeling like warmed over doo-doo, I'm paying the price.

I certainly don't want to infect the in-laws, school-going girls and tiny new puppy who live here with me. (Karen's out of town on business this week, so she's immune from my plague.) Ironically, I was afraid that the girls might bring home some deathly virus from their classmates that would find its way to me. Instead, I'm the carrier. And what's worse, with all the medication I'm taking regularly for my kidney distress, there's virtually no over-the-counter cold medicine I can take that won't cause further damage. So I sniff, drip and honk. A lot.

All this is making me think, though, about how much better care I will have to take of myself in the future when (not if, unfortunately) my dialysis regimen begins. Sterility and consistency are such vital parts of the whole Peritoneal Dialysis routine – hooking myself up to a machine every night through a catheter implanted in my body, one of the few downsides of the procedure is the threat of infection at the connection site.

As my lifestyle changes to accommodate my health care needs, I'm going to have to become much more organized and regimented in terms of when and how long I work. And if you know me, that'll be like asking me to become shorter so I won't have to worry about big and tall sizes. I've always contended, "You can't control the muse! You have to write when the inspiration hits you!"

Well, my muse had better buy a watch.

A Moving Experience

                          A Swarm of a Few Good Men Descend Upon Our Home


Well, our move from Champaign to Decatur, Ill., Saturday could not possibly have gone smoother. Six (count 'em!) husky, prairie-strong young men – Ryan, Jeremiah, Rick, Mark, Alan and Michael – from Harvest Bible Chapel where my in-laws are members drove the 50 miles from Decatur to our apartment with pickup trucks, strong backs and cheerful attitudes.

It wasn't so much that they volunteered their free time to haul the furniture, beds and appliances of near strangers on a Saturday morning, though that was remarkable enough. It was the way they did it. You know how sometimes you agree to help out with a big, physical task on the weekend, then dread having made the commitment once the weekend arrives? Not here.

Every one arrived with a smile on their face, goodwill in their heart and a tangible sense of camaraderie. These guys clearly enjoyed being in each other's company, and it showed. Many hands didn't just make light work; they made lighthearted work. We were completely finished in less than four hours, including the one hour for transportation.

Words cannot even begin to express my, and our, appreciation for their efforts. I was deeply touched, and thankful. And the next day at church, they were still happy to see us! Imagine that. The simple acts of caring and compassion, the willing spirit; this is how being a Christian manifests itself in daily life.

And when Emma looked Karen in the eye Sunday night and asked, "Now are you going to be living with us forever and ever and ever?" all the sweat and muscle aches seem justified.

Busting a Move

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Chaos.
Chaos who?
Total chaos.
Oh, I've been expecting you. Come on in!

No, it's not funny. And I'm not laughing. As the crowning blow to this dizzying rollercoaster of a year (and month!), this is the weekend of the Big Move.

On Saturday, at least four wonderful men from Harvest Bible Chapel in Decatur, Ill., where my in-laws are members but we are not, will make the 50-mile trek to Champaign-Urbana to help Karen and me move from our Champaign apartment to the basement of my in-laws' home. I feel like such a slacker whenever I say or write those words, and I've had some fun watching the reaction of my friends. "Yes, we're moving into Karen's parents' basement," I'll say, mournfully. "You know, times haven't been good...."

Actually, they've been very good. The real reason we're relocating is to help take some of the parenting pressure off my in-laws, Linda and Larry, as we all try to raise Emma and Madison, the 9-year-old twin girls entrusted to their care. (And, although we don't talk about it as much, to provide some family assistance in case my condition worsens or I receive a kidney transplant and need continuous care.) The basement has been remodeled, a new bedroom and closet space constructed, and it's all quite nice and cozy.

Now, I can't begin to tell you how impressed I am that Harvest Bible parishioners would give up a chunk of their weekend to help essentially two church visitors move their household. I don't know a single person on earth who enjoys moving in any fashion, and as far as I'm concerned this is Christian charity in action and we are extremely grateful. But if you count the year I spent in a Ferndale, Mich., apartment before marrying Karen and coming to Champaign, this will be my third move in two years. I am plumb sick of moving.

On top of it all, after writing four feature stories on deadline this week, today is the first day I've had time to assist Karen with packing and organizing. One day to prepare for a major life change. Whoopee.

Since our lease in Champaign doesn't expire until the end of the month, our plan is to move the furniture and big items out Saturday and keep a TV and air mattress here so that Karen and/or I can spend the last two weeks cleaning out the place. This actually doesn't sound too bad to me; in Ferndale, I slept on an air mattress in my living room every night, even though I had a bed in my bedroom, because I wanted to stay close to my 50-inch TV. I've never claimed I was sane.

So at least until November, I'll be living in two cities and not completely entrenched in either one. Meanwhile, I'll be packing, discarding, recycling and working steadily. Chaos, as long as you're here, hand me that empty box, willya?

The Man From Glad

On the road again today, driving back home to Champaign from Detroit. Can't wait to see my wife's smile and sparkling blue eyes again. You know, when we were dating, I would always play the Elton John song "Blue Eyes" at some point while traveling to see her, sing along with gusto and get all geeked up to be with her. (I'm not sure she knows that.)

These long road trips are wearying but necessary, since most of my major clients are still located in Motown and many of the stories I write demand I be here for research and interviews. When I think about it, though, I'm glad I have the ability to make these treks.

When I go on dialysis (which will be sooner than later, so I'm told), the journeys will be more challenging – I'll have to lug along a suitcase-sized blood cleaning machine along with several large bags of filtering solution – but I'll still make them. I refuse to let my condition define my lifestyle.

Besides, I remember a couple of years when I couldn't seem to land a job if my life depended on it and was living in Detroit too broke to afford a car. You want to talk about desperation, I was the definition. Detroit, for all its wonders, must have the worst public transportation system of any major city. I've always believed it was by design: We make the cars, and by thunder, everybody here is going to buy at least one.

So even something as unremarkable as having a late-model American automobile to drive on these multi-state commutes makes me glad, and thankful. I'm also glad to have:

The most remarkable wife any man could hope for – funny, smart, beautiful, organized and a more knowledgeable sports fan than I could ever hope to be;

In-laws who are genuinely good and nice people, and who have accepted me into their lives;

Emma and Madison, the twins, who keep me active, engaged, and constantly fascinated;

A friend like Larry Kaplan, who has reserved a room for me at his condo in West Bloomfield, Mich., providing me a place to stay and work whenever I'm in Detroit;

More assignments than I could have dared to wish for in this troubled economy, and most important,

My health, now and for whatever form it may take in the future. Because, like the old folks say, when you've got your health, you've got everything.

How can one man be so blessed?

Can't Forget the Motor City

Today is a travel day for me. I'm driving from Champaign back to Detroit, about six hours, to spend a few days conducting interviews, checking in with editors, reassuring clients and assessing the progress of my new Web site, coming soon to an Internet near you. It's a round trip I take at least once a month.

Detroit is a rush of mixed emotions for me now. It's the city of my greatest victories and my naughtiest iniquities, the place where I became a man, the location where my career soared and swooned. For so many years, it was home. My residence now, in central Illinois, is as far removed from the Motor City as the east is from the (Mid)west. And in the few months since I've relocated, many acquaintances from Detroit and elsewhere have said something to the effect of, "So! You decided to move to small-town Illinois and leave your wild, flamboyant life behind, huh? Huh? Huh?"

While that was not the reason behind my address change, my simple response to them all is, "Yeah." I am far closer today to retirement age than drinking age. I spent my formative young adult years as the rock music critic in the home of Motown, Seger, Nugent and Aretha, writing for the largest evening newspaper in America at the time. I had the coolest job in America, if I say so myself. I sowed so many wild oats, I should buy a couple of acres around my new house. And if you're going to sow 'em, I say do it young, do it till you're satisfied and, if you survive, sit your butt down somewhere and cherish the memories. Cherish mode now.

I'm sublimely happy and calm in my new surroundings, and I believe my best writing is yet to come. Welcome to my Walden phase. I was saying the other day that I still get a rush of excitement when I  return to Detroit, but I predict there'll soon come a day when I arrive and can't wait to escape the noise and tumult of the metroplex to return to my little nest amid the cornfields. When that transition arrives, I truly will have more than a new address. I will have a home.

The End of the Road

I'm writing this entry from the sunroom of a lovely little house at the end of a short road on the outskirts of Decatur, Ill., (home of Archer Daniels Midland, "Supermarket to the World"). There are deep woods next door and behind the house, and cornfields are not far away. Around these parts, they are never far away. This isn't exactly the end of the world, but you can see it from here.

This is my in-laws' home, and it soon will be ours as well: After considerable prayer, discussion and rumination, Karen and I have decided to leave our place in Champaign, Ill., and move 50 miles west to Decatur to help my in-laws, Larry and Linda, co-parent the 9-year-old twin girls they have raised practically since birth, Emma and Madison. A drive-in garage has been converted into a new bedroom and walk-in closet, and Karen and I will set up the downstairs as our separate home. (She's writing a blog of her own about the experience, called Love Nest on the Prairie; you can read it at http://lovenestontheprairie.blogspot.com/ )

Emma and Maddie are typical 9-year-old girls; rambunctious, curious, chatterboxy. My in-laws are...well, nine years older than when they began parenting their second generation of children. Karen and I are committed to serving as the buffer, the DMZ for the well-being of both sides.

For someone who spent three decades amid the bustle and big-city energy of Detroit (which, despite what you continue to hear and read, is a wonderful city), this is the definition of culture shock. I remember the first time I went to visit Karen in Champaign and asked her about the large flat field next to her gated community. "Are they planning an expansion?" I wondered. "No, silly," she replied. "That's where the corn will grow." Stranger in a strange land, come in.

I feel far removed from the life I grew to know and appreciate, but the more I think about it, that may be why I'm here. I'm a firm believer in the will of God and that everything happens for a reason. Here, in this quiet and tranquil place, my body may be relieved of the everyday stress that urban living inflicts, and thus aid in my kidney preservation and overall health. When the loudest noise you're likely to hear is the spontaneous giggling of children, the end of the road feels like a very good place to be.

The precious reasons I'm moving: Emma, and Madison with me on Gull Lake.