A few weeks ago Karen and I had occasion to drive down the street and past the modern brick building where my DaVita dialysis clinic is housed. I didn't think my grumble was audible, but wives hear everything.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know," I said, the softness of my voice surprising even me. "I'm just thinking about DaVita." More likely, I was thinking about the specter of yet another training session in my immediate future, this one to learn how to move from manual at-home Peritoneal Dialysis to a "cycler," an intricate, elaborate machine that will do much of the kidney assist work for me over an eight-hour period.
"What does DaVita mean to you?"
Long silence. "Weakness. Sickness. Total change of life. Mortality." Without even realizing it, I had lapsed into a ripple of depression.
"I choose not to think of it that way," Karen replied. "I prefer to think of information. And hope.
"And life."
She looked at me, the way your spouse looks at you when she or he realizes they've just created a memory. She reached over and touched my hand.
We drove on into the dark night, but the streetlights seemed to glow a little brighter.
Showing posts with label Decatur. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Decatur. Show all posts
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Moving Around the Block
I have been away from this page, my beloved little kidney khronicle, for nearly a month now. There is no way I ever anticipated being gone so long. It wasn't because I grew lazy, or lost interest in the subject matter. I've just been battling through a severe case of writer's block.
Writers understand the effects of this horrible malady, and know that they are rarely pretty. No one can say exactly what brings on the dreadful condition, but in this case I have my suspicions.
A full week away from my trusty MacBook Pro last month for dialysis "boot camp" training at the DaVita clinic in Decatur, IL, was followed almost immediately by the holiday season. My sister-in-law, Julie, her husband Greg and their three kids (two children and a newborn – 2.5 kids?) came here for Christmas and, well, who wants to write when there are 10 other people frolicking merrily and celebrating family ties in your house?
Who could write, for that matter?
On top of that, the feature story I was writing on that incredibly nice Detroit philanthropist Doreen Hermelin, the lady who made me the tuna fish sandwich (see "Doreen," Nov. 6, and "Rootlessness," Nov. 9), wasn't going well. It turns out she didn't want a story written about her in the first place, so she called repeatedly to check on the status of the article and remind me to keep the focus on her charitable organizations, not on her personally. This is the reason you try to maintain a professional distance from the people you write about and try not to write about friends, so they aren't constantly looking over your shoulder chirping, "How's it going? How's it going?" This usually is not conducive to creative productivity.
Typically when an interview subject is reluctant to open up, my strategy is to talk to people who know the individual and have them say glowing things about him or her. But I also have a personal policy that if I talk to a person for a story, I must find a way to include a quote from them in the article; otherwise they may feel their time was wasted. In Mrs. Hermelin's case, there were so many people who had such interesting insights to share that trying to squeeze them all into the feature, along with background on Mrs. Hermelin as well as details about her charitable causes – oh, it all just became a hot mess.
Sweating over that story delayed my work on other deadline assignments, and in order to call yourself a professional writer you must actually finish an article every now and then and get paid for doing so. An old friend of mine, a writer of mystery novels, once told me the easiest way to overcome writer's block is "by applying ass to chair." In other words, just sit down and start writing something. Anything. But that's easier said than penned. Writing may be just like riding a bicycle, especially when you do it for a living, but even Lance Armstrong occasionally loses his brakes or blows a tire.
I remember a second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers named Steve Sax who eventually left baseball because he lost the ability to throw the ball 50 feet from his position to first base. It happens. Who knows why blocks form or why they disappear, but mine appears to have vanished as suddenly as it arrived. Good thing, too, because so much has happened since last we communicated and I've got a lot to share with you. Can't wait to start.
Nice to be back.
Writers understand the effects of this horrible malady, and know that they are rarely pretty. No one can say exactly what brings on the dreadful condition, but in this case I have my suspicions.
A full week away from my trusty MacBook Pro last month for dialysis "boot camp" training at the DaVita clinic in Decatur, IL, was followed almost immediately by the holiday season. My sister-in-law, Julie, her husband Greg and their three kids (two children and a newborn – 2.5 kids?) came here for Christmas and, well, who wants to write when there are 10 other people frolicking merrily and celebrating family ties in your house?
Who could write, for that matter?
On top of that, the feature story I was writing on that incredibly nice Detroit philanthropist Doreen Hermelin, the lady who made me the tuna fish sandwich (see "Doreen," Nov. 6, and "Rootlessness," Nov. 9), wasn't going well. It turns out she didn't want a story written about her in the first place, so she called repeatedly to check on the status of the article and remind me to keep the focus on her charitable organizations, not on her personally. This is the reason you try to maintain a professional distance from the people you write about and try not to write about friends, so they aren't constantly looking over your shoulder chirping, "How's it going? How's it going?" This usually is not conducive to creative productivity.
Typically when an interview subject is reluctant to open up, my strategy is to talk to people who know the individual and have them say glowing things about him or her. But I also have a personal policy that if I talk to a person for a story, I must find a way to include a quote from them in the article; otherwise they may feel their time was wasted. In Mrs. Hermelin's case, there were so many people who had such interesting insights to share that trying to squeeze them all into the feature, along with background on Mrs. Hermelin as well as details about her charitable causes – oh, it all just became a hot mess.
Sweating over that story delayed my work on other deadline assignments, and in order to call yourself a professional writer you must actually finish an article every now and then and get paid for doing so. An old friend of mine, a writer of mystery novels, once told me the easiest way to overcome writer's block is "by applying ass to chair." In other words, just sit down and start writing something. Anything. But that's easier said than penned. Writing may be just like riding a bicycle, especially when you do it for a living, but even Lance Armstrong occasionally loses his brakes or blows a tire.
I remember a second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers named Steve Sax who eventually left baseball because he lost the ability to throw the ball 50 feet from his position to first base. It happens. Who knows why blocks form or why they disappear, but mine appears to have vanished as suddenly as it arrived. Good thing, too, because so much has happened since last we communicated and I've got a lot to share with you. Can't wait to start.
Nice to be back.
Friday, December 4, 2009
It Just Came Pouring Out
At the end of our initial visit to the DaVita dialysis center in Decatur earlier this week (see "Hey! This Stuff Is SERIOUS!" Dec. 2 and "Port of Entry" Dec. 3), we met with the facility's social worker, Theresa Kircher. She presented the mountain of paperwork I had to sign in order to make sure my insurance pays DaVita for its efforts and that they're absolved from liability in case my stomach makes like the classic scene from Alien and something bursts out.
But near the end of our meeting, Theresa hit me with a question I totally was not expecting.
"How do you feel about being here and getting ready to begin dialysis?" she asked.
No one had ever inquired about my state of mind concerning my condition quite so pointedly before. Maybe it was because I was in a particularly vulnerable or emotional state, having just completed my first Peritoneal Dialysis practice session. But when I opened my mouth to answer, not even I could believe the words that came rushing out.
I can't remember my words verbatim, but I sure can recall the general sentiment.
"I'm angry, and I'm disappointed. Like Mickey Mantle said in his last press conference, if I'd known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself. I'm seething with the knowledge that I brought most of this upon myself by not controlling my high blood pressure much sooner, and I feel mortal, weakened, like damaged goods.
"I hate the idea of being dependent on outside sources or mechanical contraptions to stay alive and healthy. I hate having to take more than a dozen pills every day, having to schedule a week's worth of training sessions here to learn my dialysis procedure, having three different specialists sending me bills.
"I hate being pushed and poked and prodded, having my blood drawn so often that I feel like I'm stocking the Red Cross singlehandedly, having all my bodily functions monitored on a constant basis. I hate knowing that this DaVita center soon will become my second home, since I'll have to come back at least once a month for checkups.
"I hate knowing I have to wait for someone else to die, or for a suitable donor with my rare blood type to emerge, before I can even think about receiving a replacement kidney. And I particularly detest the idea that the goal I'm ultimately working toward is to have my body sliced open, getting a foreign organ stuck inside me and praying that my body won't reject it.
"So no, all things considered, I'd rather be anywhere else than here right now. Even Hell seems like a preferable alternative."
The room fell silent. Theresa smiled and said something about a lot of people feeling that way at first.
I don't believe I've ever been so honest about my thoughts about dialysis and my medical condition before – not even to myself. Usually such confessionals can be cathartic, cleansing for the mind and spirit.
Me, I just grew sadder. I felt very empty inside.
But near the end of our meeting, Theresa hit me with a question I totally was not expecting.
"How do you feel about being here and getting ready to begin dialysis?" she asked.
No one had ever inquired about my state of mind concerning my condition quite so pointedly before. Maybe it was because I was in a particularly vulnerable or emotional state, having just completed my first Peritoneal Dialysis practice session. But when I opened my mouth to answer, not even I could believe the words that came rushing out.
I can't remember my words verbatim, but I sure can recall the general sentiment.
"I'm angry, and I'm disappointed. Like Mickey Mantle said in his last press conference, if I'd known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself. I'm seething with the knowledge that I brought most of this upon myself by not controlling my high blood pressure much sooner, and I feel mortal, weakened, like damaged goods.
"I hate the idea of being dependent on outside sources or mechanical contraptions to stay alive and healthy. I hate having to take more than a dozen pills every day, having to schedule a week's worth of training sessions here to learn my dialysis procedure, having three different specialists sending me bills.
"I hate being pushed and poked and prodded, having my blood drawn so often that I feel like I'm stocking the Red Cross singlehandedly, having all my bodily functions monitored on a constant basis. I hate knowing that this DaVita center soon will become my second home, since I'll have to come back at least once a month for checkups.
"I hate knowing I have to wait for someone else to die, or for a suitable donor with my rare blood type to emerge, before I can even think about receiving a replacement kidney. And I particularly detest the idea that the goal I'm ultimately working toward is to have my body sliced open, getting a foreign organ stuck inside me and praying that my body won't reject it.
"So no, all things considered, I'd rather be anywhere else than here right now. Even Hell seems like a preferable alternative."
The room fell silent. Theresa smiled and said something about a lot of people feeling that way at first.
I don't believe I've ever been so honest about my thoughts about dialysis and my medical condition before – not even to myself. Usually such confessionals can be cathartic, cleansing for the mind and spirit.
Me, I just grew sadder. I felt very empty inside.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Rootlessness
Well, I had an amazing first evening back in Detroit Sunday. Drove seven hours to spend 30 minutes with my interview subject, an amazing woman named Doreen Hermelin who I'm profiling for HOUR Detroit magazine. (See "Doreen," Friday, Nov. 6 post.)
A half hour was literally all the time she could squeeze in for me, as she was dashing to fulfill family commitments and business details before boarding a flight to Argentina this morning. I was happy and thankful for every moment. Writers know that face-to-face contact, however brief, still is infinitely better than telephone or Internet communication when you're assignment is to capture the essence of a person through words.
When I arrived at her home for the interview, however, I literally could not believe my eyes. You hear so many Chicken Little stories about the doom and death of Detroit that, even though you know better, you sometimes tend to forget that everyone here is not in foreclosure or waiting for their government bailout.
This is the view from the front gate of her home:
And yes, like a goober I stopped to take a picture, like those gawking tourists on the Hollywood home tour, because little brown people who grew up in Spring Lake, Mich., just don't get invited to places like this every weekend.
As I drove down the long, winding road, over the bridge for the creek that runs through the property and past the gigantic lawn sculptures, I kept looking over my shoulder waiting for security guards to demand some identification, then escort me off the grounds. When I finally got to the door, Ms. Hermelin took me into her dining room, an immense space dominated by a long table surrounded by 12 chairs. And there, in one corner of the table, was a tuna fish sandwich on rye she had prepared for me.
Now, in the 35 years or so I've been interviewing people for a living, I cannot remember any subject ever making me a sandwich. She said she was going to make it when we spoke on the phone as I was racing to her house, but I genuinely thought she was kidding. But as she repeatedly said, she knew I had driven a long distance just to speak with her, and figured I had to be famished.
(Problem with eating tuna fish sandwich while conducting an interview: hard to ask questions when your mouth is full, and you don't want to appear ungrateful by not eating it.)
As I drove away from this magnificent residence, though, I got to thinking. I love Detroit, and I always will; I became a man here, and there are so many fantastic people who live here that I'm proud to call friends. One of them, Larry Kaplan, who was the photographer for the first rock concert I ever reviewed for The Detroit News back in 1979, has devoted a room in his condo exclusively for me so I'll never have to worry about accommodations in my travels back to Detroit.
But this isn't home anymore. I'm so thankful to have a place to stay when I'm here, but I don't have an address to call my own after 30 years of living in this city. When I'm here, I long to return to the pastoral surroundings and endearing chaos of my home in Decatur. When I'm in Decatur, I'm girding up to return to the bustle and intensity of a working visit in Detroit. Right now, I feel like a man without roots. That will change with time, I'm certain, but it's a very strange sensation I've never experienced before.
About the only place I truly feel at home these days is behind the wheel of my car – usually driving between Decatur and Detroit.
A half hour was literally all the time she could squeeze in for me, as she was dashing to fulfill family commitments and business details before boarding a flight to Argentina this morning. I was happy and thankful for every moment. Writers know that face-to-face contact, however brief, still is infinitely better than telephone or Internet communication when you're assignment is to capture the essence of a person through words.
When I arrived at her home for the interview, however, I literally could not believe my eyes. You hear so many Chicken Little stories about the doom and death of Detroit that, even though you know better, you sometimes tend to forget that everyone here is not in foreclosure or waiting for their government bailout.
This is the view from the front gate of her home:
And yes, like a goober I stopped to take a picture, like those gawking tourists on the Hollywood home tour, because little brown people who grew up in Spring Lake, Mich., just don't get invited to places like this every weekend.
As I drove down the long, winding road, over the bridge for the creek that runs through the property and past the gigantic lawn sculptures, I kept looking over my shoulder waiting for security guards to demand some identification, then escort me off the grounds. When I finally got to the door, Ms. Hermelin took me into her dining room, an immense space dominated by a long table surrounded by 12 chairs. And there, in one corner of the table, was a tuna fish sandwich on rye she had prepared for me.
Now, in the 35 years or so I've been interviewing people for a living, I cannot remember any subject ever making me a sandwich. She said she was going to make it when we spoke on the phone as I was racing to her house, but I genuinely thought she was kidding. But as she repeatedly said, she knew I had driven a long distance just to speak with her, and figured I had to be famished.
(Problem with eating tuna fish sandwich while conducting an interview: hard to ask questions when your mouth is full, and you don't want to appear ungrateful by not eating it.)
As I drove away from this magnificent residence, though, I got to thinking. I love Detroit, and I always will; I became a man here, and there are so many fantastic people who live here that I'm proud to call friends. One of them, Larry Kaplan, who was the photographer for the first rock concert I ever reviewed for The Detroit News back in 1979, has devoted a room in his condo exclusively for me so I'll never have to worry about accommodations in my travels back to Detroit.
But this isn't home anymore. I'm so thankful to have a place to stay when I'm here, but I don't have an address to call my own after 30 years of living in this city. When I'm here, I long to return to the pastoral surroundings and endearing chaos of my home in Decatur. When I'm in Decatur, I'm girding up to return to the bustle and intensity of a working visit in Detroit. Right now, I feel like a man without roots. That will change with time, I'm certain, but it's a very strange sensation I've never experienced before.
About the only place I truly feel at home these days is behind the wheel of my car – usually driving between Decatur and Detroit.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
My Halloween Horror
Imagine this: You wake up in the middle of the night, as you do far too many nights, to go to the bathroom. One second you're sitting on the can, thinking about nothing in particular. You begin to cough.
The next thing you know, you're on your hands and knees on the bathroom floor, surrounded by blood. There's blood on your clothes, blood running off your hands and down your arms, blood dripping off your chin. What the blazes is going on here? you think. Suddenly, you realize the blood you're immersed in is yours!
You clamber to your feet, look in the bathroom mirror and discover there's a huge gash above your right eye – and you have no idea how it got there!
Sounds like the beginning of some hackneyed Halloween fiction, right? Well, it actually became fact for me in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, necessitating an overnight stay for observation in St. Mary's Hospital in Decatur, Ill.
What we now believe happened is, I blacked out while seated on the toilet, pitched forward and bounced my head off the corner of the bathroom sink – missing my right eye by no more than an inch – then came to on the floor. For someone who's never passed out before in his life, and coming on the heels of Saturday's terrifying out-of-body experience (see "Death," Oct. 26), I was quite frankly scared a-plenty.
Me in St. Mary's Hospital, Decatur, Ill.
The offending gash – superglued, not stitched! Ain't science sumthin'?
Of course, nothing similar occurred Tuesday night in the hospital. Karen, who spent the night with me, watched over me like a loving mother hen and insisted on walking me to the restroom anytime I had to go, and besides, you know whatever's wrong with you instantly feels better when the doctor's around. Except for the swollen right eye (that's something to see, isn't it?), a stiff neck and bruised knees, I feel pretty fine, everything considered.
Here's the best thinking now about why this happened: I've had a horrible cough for more than a week, but when I begin coughing uncontrollably (which happened in the bathroom Tuesday) the oxygen literally cuts off to my brain for a moment and causes me to black out. Or, the medication prescribed to help ease my coughing spells, Benzonatate, has dizziness as one of its possible side effects. Or a combination of the two. The doctors don't believe I have whooping cough (which would make me feel about 95 years old), but they have decided to treat my condition as if it is, because my symptoms are similar.
Whatever, as I check out of St. Mary's today, I can't help but think about how much differently this incident might have played out if I still lived alone, and to be soooo grateful for my new family: a wife who cares passionately, a father-in-law willing to be awakened from a sound sleep at 5 a.m. to drive to the hospital, and a mother-in-law willing to get on her hands and knees and clean up the bloody bathroom after we departed.
My mother-in-law, Linda, said yesterday, "Things like this are the reason we are supposed to be living together." I think she's very wise.
The next thing you know, you're on your hands and knees on the bathroom floor, surrounded by blood. There's blood on your clothes, blood running off your hands and down your arms, blood dripping off your chin. What the blazes is going on here? you think. Suddenly, you realize the blood you're immersed in is yours!
You clamber to your feet, look in the bathroom mirror and discover there's a huge gash above your right eye – and you have no idea how it got there!
Sounds like the beginning of some hackneyed Halloween fiction, right? Well, it actually became fact for me in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, necessitating an overnight stay for observation in St. Mary's Hospital in Decatur, Ill.
What we now believe happened is, I blacked out while seated on the toilet, pitched forward and bounced my head off the corner of the bathroom sink – missing my right eye by no more than an inch – then came to on the floor. For someone who's never passed out before in his life, and coming on the heels of Saturday's terrifying out-of-body experience (see "Death," Oct. 26), I was quite frankly scared a-plenty.
The offending gash – superglued, not stitched! Ain't science sumthin'?
Of course, nothing similar occurred Tuesday night in the hospital. Karen, who spent the night with me, watched over me like a loving mother hen and insisted on walking me to the restroom anytime I had to go, and besides, you know whatever's wrong with you instantly feels better when the doctor's around. Except for the swollen right eye (that's something to see, isn't it?), a stiff neck and bruised knees, I feel pretty fine, everything considered.
Here's the best thinking now about why this happened: I've had a horrible cough for more than a week, but when I begin coughing uncontrollably (which happened in the bathroom Tuesday) the oxygen literally cuts off to my brain for a moment and causes me to black out. Or, the medication prescribed to help ease my coughing spells, Benzonatate, has dizziness as one of its possible side effects. Or a combination of the two. The doctors don't believe I have whooping cough (which would make me feel about 95 years old), but they have decided to treat my condition as if it is, because my symptoms are similar.
Whatever, as I check out of St. Mary's today, I can't help but think about how much differently this incident might have played out if I still lived alone, and to be soooo grateful for my new family: a wife who cares passionately, a father-in-law willing to be awakened from a sound sleep at 5 a.m. to drive to the hospital, and a mother-in-law willing to get on her hands and knees and clean up the bloody bathroom after we departed.
My mother-in-law, Linda, said yesterday, "Things like this are the reason we are supposed to be living together." I think she's very wise.
Friday, October 23, 2009
A Tree Blows in Decatur
If a tree falls across your driveway overnight and there's no one to hear it, does it make any noise?
Well, it certainly does the following morning. I had another topic in mind to share with you today, but the wild-eyed looks of excitement on the faces of Emma and Madison quickly convinced me that more pressing matters were at hand.
"The tree! Look at the tree!" they wailed in unison.
Well, it was something to see, all right. (That's my mother-in-law, Neena, and our new puppy Sophie surveying nature's revenge.)
Thank the good Lord no cars were damaged (we have four around the house now on a regular basis), nor the brand-new bedroom addition that was just completed for Karen and me. But a single tree branch threw our entire day into a tizzy. Who's going to drive the girls to school? Who's going to move who's car? What about Neena's trip to the doctor this morning? How are we going to cut this monster branch down to size? And what are we going to do with all this WOOD?
Much to my amazement, my father-in-law, Larry, a rugged "man's man" kind of guy if ever I've met one, does not own a chain saw. He's working the phones today, trying to find one he can beg, borrow or rent.
John Lennon has been receiving a lot of credit lately for having once said, "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." I don't know if he said it or not, but it surely does ring true today. My plans have been instantly reordered by forces much greater than you or I.
And watch for our huge blowout sale on firewood, coming soon.
Well, it certainly does the following morning. I had another topic in mind to share with you today, but the wild-eyed looks of excitement on the faces of Emma and Madison quickly convinced me that more pressing matters were at hand.
"The tree! Look at the tree!" they wailed in unison.
Thank the good Lord no cars were damaged (we have four around the house now on a regular basis), nor the brand-new bedroom addition that was just completed for Karen and me. But a single tree branch threw our entire day into a tizzy. Who's going to drive the girls to school? Who's going to move who's car? What about Neena's trip to the doctor this morning? How are we going to cut this monster branch down to size? And what are we going to do with all this WOOD?
Much to my amazement, my father-in-law, Larry, a rugged "man's man" kind of guy if ever I've met one, does not own a chain saw. He's working the phones today, trying to find one he can beg, borrow or rent.
John Lennon has been receiving a lot of credit lately for having once said, "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." I don't know if he said it or not, but it surely does ring true today. My plans have been instantly reordered by forces much greater than you or I.
And watch for our huge blowout sale on firewood, coming soon.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sophie
Say hello to the newest member of our happy new little family in Decatur, IL: This is Sophie, a 10-week-old Lhasa Apso puppy Karen drove 90 minutes into the country to acquire Monday night. (And if I think I already live in the country, you can only imagine where Karen ended up having to go!)
We promised the twins, Emma and Madison, that we would get a puppy for the household after Karen and I moved and got settled in. (That's Emma's right hand hovering affectionately in the photograph.) And although we are faaarrrrr from settled in, we realized after making a few preliminary calls that the cool puppies tend to be snatched up quickly once ads are placed in the newspaper. He who hesitates has an empty leash. So once we saw the classified for home-raised Lhasa Apsos, we leaped into action like the A-Team.
Our new addition had to be a puppy, too; we didn't want to have to deal with an older dog's bad habits. If our dog's going to have any bad habits, by gum, she's going to get them from us!
You can only imagine the response when Karen arrived home with this little hairball in her arms. "Is that our puppy?" Maddie squealed with delight. After watching the whole family, including my mother- and father-in-law, interact with her, I have no doubt Sophie will be the most loved and attended-to puppy in all of central Illinois, if not the nation.
For her part, Sophie was very slow to warm to us. Karen was told that she didn't have a lot of interaction with people because she had been promised to a family member who eventually decided against taking her. (How can that be?) I got to thinking how extraordinarily traumatic this whole experience must be for a dog. One second you're hangin' in the barn with Moms and the rest of the litter, not a care in the world, and the next you're swept up by some stranger, tossed into the back seat of a car and driven away to parts unknown. It's a doggie kidnapping!
She was shy, and I'm betting she was terrified. But the girls couldn't keep their hands off her, of course. And I actually saw the bonding moment when, while in Madison's arms, Sophie realized we weren't holding her for ransom and might actually be OK people. Her tiny tail began wagging, her tongue slithered out into licking position and her chubby little bod began waddling with a lilt in her step.
We all need those bonding moments, when it suddenly hits us that we are loved, we are protected, and none of the people surrounding us are going to let anything cause us harm. Welcome home, Sophie.
Monday, October 19, 2009
A Moving Experience
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.
Friday, October 16, 2009
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?
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?
Monday, September 28, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)