Missed Her, My Sister

This is how God works: Of all the copies of HOUR Detroit magazine Jacqui Thomas could have picked up that day to peruse – and they usually stack pretty high in beauty salons and doctor's waiting rooms, which is where I'm convinced most Detroiters actually read the thing – she happened to grab the May 2012 edition.

She really didn't want it. "Is this all you have?" she asked her stylist before going under the dryer. "Yeah, that's it," the hairdresser apologized.

She flipped casually through the pages until she stumbled upon a story titled "Dramatic Journey," the first-person account of my kidney transplant, accompanied by a full-page shot of my big mugging grin. She read it. Jacqui was delighted, then relieved, then, slowly, enraged. She leaped on Facebook as soon as she could find a keyboard, determined to track me down and get some questions answered.

You see, Jacqui Thomas is my biological sister.

And we hadn't spoken in nearly 30 years.

A little backstory might be needed here. (Ya think?) I was adopted by a wonderful older couple in Spring Lake, Mich., virtually when I was still in the womb. My equally wonderful mother, Josephine, lived in nearby Muskegon. She already had two children, was trying to scrape by as a single mother, and was pregnant with me.

The absolute last thing she needed was one more mouth to fill. The McFarlins, H.G. ("Mac") and Caribell, agreed to make me their son almost sight unseen.

They were as wise as they were big-hearted. To make sure I never anguished over the question "Where did I come from?" and because we lived so close, my parents made certain I knew about my birth family as soon as I could comprehend the dynamic. We often shared Thanksgivings and Christmases together. Every summer, Jacqui would spend part of her vacation at my house or I would visit hers. We grew up together, albeit by long distance.

To further the irony, both Jacqui and I eventually settled in Detroit. We lived no more than 10 miles apart. I was writing for one of the city's major daily newspapers, The Detroit News. I won't go into detail about the factors that caused us to be estranged, except to say that working for a big-city paper can give the impression that one has more influence, income or connections than they actually do. Whatever the reasons, the most important takeaway here is that I was wrong.

Allow me to repeat that: I WAS WRONG. Nothing, or no one, should come between you and your blood. Life's too short. I was petty, I was hurtful, I clung to my ill feelings like a rescue inhaler. How foolish. Please, if you are holding any animosity toward a relative, stop it. Just quit.

At any rate, this incredible, wild kidney ride I've been on since 2008 has produced yet another positive outcome. Jacqui dispatched an impassioned private message to my Facebook account, expressing pain and indignation that I didn't even bother to ask if she would donate a kidney to me. "I never thought you disliked me or the family so much you would never contact us to see if we were a match," she wrote. "Come on! Do you really hate us that much?"

Actually, the thought did cross my mind numerous times while I was on the transplant waiting list. But I kept imagining how that conversation would go:

"Hello?"

"Jacqui? Hey, sis, it's me, Jimmy!"

"Jimmy? I haven't heard from you in years! How are you?"

"Funny you should ask. I know we haven't spoken since the '80s, sis, but do you happen to have any spare organs lying around?"

Pride goeth before a transplant. But that blessed occurrence, the fateful flipping of a city magazine, was the catalyst that inspired a reunion.

My sister, Jacqui Thomas, and me. I'm on the left.

We met one bright Saturday morning in Detroit at what locals call "Anita Baker's restaurant," the IHOP near downtown. It had been so long that I wondered if I'd recognize her, and apparently Jacqui had the same concern: my friend John Mason, the media personality and PA voice of the Detroit Pistons, was sitting in a booth by the door. Jacqui took a long, hard stare into his face before spotting me deeper in the restaurant.

Our conversation was fast, light and surprisingly warm. I think both of us subconsciously had decided to put the past behind us and begin afresh. What a great day!

Thanks to my crappy kidneys, I have a sister again. And a brother, Lionel, too, if I can manage to journey to West Michigan and reconnect with him. What's more, I discovered that through Jacqui alone I have two nieces and two nephews who have 17 kids between them!

If it's God's will that I ever need another transplant....

Blogged Down

I truly enjoy this time I spend with you here, tossing some junk philosophy about life and chronicling my journey from lousy kidneys through dialysis and, hopefully one day, an organ transplant. Not only has the process been surprisingly cathartic for me, but I'm often told this blog has given comfort and entertainment to many, while providing me with contacts and opportunities I can't imagine having received any other way.

You'd never guess the depth of my pleasure from the frequency of my postings, though, wouldja?

I look back at how often I've contributed a new entry to Just Kidneying – two in April, two more in May, a grand total of one last month – and I'm embarrassed. It's not for lack of material. I have so many stories I have yet to tell you: my remarkable visit and experience at the Baxter Healthcare headquarters in Waukegan, Ill.,; my all-day medical endurance test at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis to be evaluated as a kidney transplant candidate; even my observations on the mechanical dialysis cycler that has been my daily companion, home and away, for the past six months.

It's not for lack of passion, either. The heart is willing, but the fingertips are weak. Here's the problem: I write for a living. It's pretty much all I do, seven days a week. (Freelance writers, I have discovered, are afforded neither days off, overtime, sick days, vacations or any other compensation demanded by the modern American worker.) 

I write for four publications pretty much full-time, and I'm working on a new book. Karen (aka The Wife) is quite favorably disposed to the concept of me receiving checks in the mail for sitting around on my butt all day in front of a laptop ("Any windows today?" she will cheerfully inquire, referring to the long business envelopes with the clear windows in front, frequently denoting payment inside), and if I'm not writin', fish ain't bitin'. 

I have known many people in my professional career who literally live to write. If they weren't working for the newspaper or magazine that employed them, they were crafting poetry or maintaining a journal or writing letters or composing grocery lists. OH, how I envied them! Ever since my first job out of college at The Grand Rapids Press in Grand Rapids, Mich., I have written to live. I write something, somebody somewhere pays me. If I wasn't on assignment, I would much rather be watching a ballgame on TV, going to a movie, sticking needles under my fingernails – anything but continuing to write for the pure joy of composition. Blecch.

When I made the decision two years ago to step out on my own and become a full-time freelance writer, I prayed that God would guide me and help keep work coming my way. Boy, can God provide and answer prayer! If anything, my biggest problem has been too much work; at any given time I usually have three or more stories in progress at once. I could use a nap. 

In the past seven days, for example, I've finished a four-figure assignment on a custom publication for a national advertising agency, completed my regular TV column for The Metro Times in Detroit (you can read a sample here if you're interested) and began working on a feature story for HOUR Detroit magazine. (Though I no longer live there, Detroit is still the primary source of my freelance income, for which I am extremely grateful.)

So I have to prioritize. And as much psychic satisfaction and creative fulfillment as I derive from Just Kidneying, it doesn't pay the car note. I'm still trying to figure out a way to integrate writing this blog more regularly in between all the paying gigs, and I will. Because I want to. But in the meantime, hang in there with me, will you? I miss you when we don't talk more often. And I can't wait to tell you the story about St. Looie.

 

Painful As All G'Out

 While writing my recent reflections on Thanksgiving and the many things I have to be grateful for (see "Am I Thankful? Are You Kidding?" Nov. 30), I made an accounting of the remarkable list of life-changing events that have happened to me in 2009. I revisited that list today and was astonished to realize that I completely failed to mention my nearly three months of suffering from gout in both feet, brought about by the inability of my kidneys to filter my blood as effectively as they should.

It was the focal point of the article I wrote about my crummy kidneys for HOUR Detroit magazine last summer (see "Best Foot Forward", if you haven't already), but I haven't even mentioned it in the four months since I've been writing "Just Kidneying." Just goes to show you: This year has been such a dizzying whirlwind of emotion and change that I totally forgot the crippling condition that left me dependent upon canes and a walker just to move around, at the same time I was trying to pack to move from Michigan to Illinois!

In hindsight, I have no idea whether it was the succulent, Béarnaise sauce-drenched steak dinner I enjoyed with Karen at Motor City Casino in Detroit that threw my body's ecosystem into default. What I do know is, two days after savoring that incredible meal, my already imposing tootsies – about 15 DDs, depending upon the shoes – ballooned to almost twice their size, excruciatingly painful to both touch and pressure.

Imagine trying to walk steadily on a pair of small inflatable rafts, each with 100 nails sticking up into your feet. Now double that. That's close to the pain I was suffering.

Maybe the experience was so horrific that I have pushed it out of my memory! I only had one pair of shoes that would fit me, a pair of stretchy black sandals Karen bought for me on a whim. (Thank the Lord it wasn't February in Michigan!) At one point the misery became so unbearable that I would actually crawl around the floor of my apartment, my feet slightly elevated off the floor behind me and tears streaming down my face, rather than even consider the possibility of placing weight on my delicate dogs.

Once I moved to Illinois, I found a general practitioner, Dr. Randall Megeff, who had the courage to prescribe a combination of anti-gout drugs (which are potentially hazardous to the kidneys) in a well-monitored dosage, and I have had no problem with pain or swelling since. But I must tell you about the incredible act of kindness that took place during this ordeal.

Karen and I were in West Michigan for the weekend – I was getting around haltingly by means of a walker – and having Sunday breakfast with our friends Frank and Lisa Johnson from Ann Arbor. I went to high school with Frank, who now owns a very successful heating and cooling business, and have considered him a good friend for decades.

I casually mentioned the fact that we were trying to pack for my move to Illinois and having a devil of a time due to my infirmity. Without missing a beat, Frank looked up from his cup of coffee and turned to his wife.

"Lisa, have we ever been to Champaign, Illinois?" he asked.

"No, we haven't," Lisa replied.

"Would you like to go? It's a college town, you know."

"Fine with me."

"You'll need a truck. We have trucks," Frank said. "I'll just borrow one for a weekend. Tell me when you want to move."

Not only did we escape a truck rental fee, but the Tuesday before we had scheduled the move Lisa and Frank called me. "Are you at home?" Frank asked.

When I indicated I was, about an hour later he and Lisa showed up at my doorstep in a panel van, wearing old clothes and ready to work. They played Ninja Movers with the "priceless" junk I had accumulated over the years.

They sat me in a corner (I still couldn't walk, remember) and proceeded to lay boxes of my stuff before my swollen feet.

One of them would open the lid. "Can you tell me what's in this box?" they asked.

If I couldn't identify the contents within five seconds, I lost the box.

"Not going!" they would shout, and carried the box into their panel van. I was horrified!

By the time they left, they had completely filled the van with boxes of my time-honored garbage, destined for donating, recycling or plain old trashing. Talk about being proactive!

And you know what: to this day I can't tell you everything they took that night, and I haven't missed a single thing.

Needless to say, I cannot begin to imagine how difficult moving would have been without them. God sends angels into your life at the most unexpected moments. Sometimes it can be people you've known for years.

I've said it to them, and to anyone else who would listen, but let me now say it in writing: Thank you, Frank and Lisa. You are amazing human beings. You almost made having gout a blessing in disguise.

                   Me with Lisa and Frank Johnson

Doreen

Last month I was assigned a big feature by my editor at HOUR Detroit magazine, a profile of a southeast Michigan woman named Doreen Hermelin. I had heard her name before, but I think it's fair to say, especially since I now reside at the end of a road in Decatur, Ill., that we don't travel in the same circles.

I had other stories to finish before turning my attention to her article, and I knew I would need to sit down across from her in person, like Mike Wallace used to do on 60 Minutes, if I really wanted to capture the essence of the woman in our brief time together and embellish the story with detail. So, I figured, I would track down Ms. Hermelin this week, solicit her interest in doing the feature, then drive to Detroit sometime next week to meet with her.

Should be more than enough time, right? After all, I'm clearing an entire week on my schedule to meet with her for less than an hour. How busy can any one person be?

Well, did I ever find out the answer to that question! After finally locating Ms. Hermelin and getting her on the phone (no simple task in itself, let me tell you), the cooperative and very gracious lady explained that she was getting on a plane Monday morning to fly to Argentina on business, will travel from there to New York, and doesn't expect to be back in Detroit until a day or so before Thanksgiving.

Hokey Pete! I thought. It turns out, as you may know, that Doreen Hermelin is an internationally renowned professional fundraiser, national president of the educational organization ORT America, former U.S. ambassador to Norway and probably a dozen other things I don't know about yet.

After several minutes on cellphone negotiations, it was decided that she could squeeze in 45 minutes to talk to me while she was packing for her trip to Argentina – and after her grandson's soccer match on Sunday afternoon.

Nobody should be that busy, I thought to myself. Then again, every time we think our lives are too jam-packed and hectic, we run into someone like Doreen Hermelin and realize that by comparison, we're nearly in semi-retirement.

Yet with all that, she makes time for a grandchild's soccer game. I think I'm going to like her.

I'm In, But Only Halfway

I mentioned at the beginning of this journey that my prime motivation for doing a daily kidney diary was the magazine assignment I received from HOUR Detroit to write 2,000 words about my condition.

It was an excruciating experience – I've spent a 35-year career writing about others from the detached perspective of the third person, and disclosing personal details about a serious illness was as weird as it was agonizing – but the response to the piece was overwhelming. I was flooded with letters and messages from friends, long-lost acquaintances and total strangers who were moved by my openness, saying prayers for my good health, diagnosed with kidney disease themselves or keen to tell me about someone else who was. It made me think that documenting my own case beyond the magazine article might be of some help to others.

Still, I wanted you to see the HOUR story so you could read the impetus behind my journal. And Thursday, with the change in the calendar, the October issue of the magazine has become available online. You can see the story, titled "Best Foot Forward," at this address:

http://www.hourdetroit.com/Hour-Detroit/October-2009/Best-Foot-Forward/

Ah, but here's the rub: You can only read half the article online now. HOUR management, those sneaky rascals, posts a portion of their stories on the Internet until the current print issue leaves the newsstands. The online articles are teasers, really, to encourage you to buy the magazine. So you're just getting into the feature when suddenly you read: "There is more to this story. If you wish to continue reading, please pick up the current issue of HOUR Detroit at your local newsstand, or check back when the current issue leaves the newsstands."

It's frustrating, but shrewd marketing. Half a story is better than none, I suppose, though that's cold comfort to those who don't live around Metro Detroit. Ah, well. Take a look at the "first installment," if you like, and tell me what you think.

So How Are YOU Doing?

I must say, I'm as surprised to be here as you may be. My name is Jim McFarlin, and you could have bet me a whole pile o' money that I would never have elected to write a blog.

I'm a writer by profession, you see. I've been writing for a living ever since I graduated from college, and the only time I can remember doing it for free was when I was still IN college, covering pop music for The Anchor newspaper at Hope College in Holland, Mich.

I know many fine wordsmiths who literally live to write: If they're not blogging, they're keeping a journal, working on a spec script or composing poetry. They seem so happy, so lighthearted. I've always envied them. Me, I grew up writing to live. If there was no paycheck attached to the project, I'd rather be in front of the tube watching a game. Any game, but especially a contest involving one of my beloved Detroit sports franchises.

About a year ago, however, something happened that changed my perspective slightly: I was diagnosed with Stage IV kidney failure. Now at Stage V, I'm told, you should start consulting with morticians and florists, so on balance Stage IV isn't too bad. We'll talk more about the illness later, but along the way Rebecca Powers, my wonderful editor at HOUR Detroit magazine where I am a regular contributor, asked if I would write a first-person account of my condition for their annual medical issue.

Now, I like writing about myself as much as I enjoy waterboarding, but after considerable prodding she talked me into it. The article came out in September 2009, and the reader response was unlike anything I've ever experienced – emotional, heartfelt and caring. It made me begin thinking that maybe if I talked about my condition in greater detail, other people might find comfort, or inspiration, or information...or SOMETHING that might help them in some way.

So here I am. HOUR Detroit, in its wisdom, never posts the online edition of its magazine until the newsstand sales have died down, so I don't expect to see the story on the Internet until sometime in October. When it arrives, I'll post a link to it and we'll kick it around a bit together.

My life has changed so dramatically in such a short time: In the last six months I've moved to a different state, from the city to the country, gotten married and assumed co-parenting duties for two amazing 9-year-old twins. Oh, and that kidney thing. We'll talk about it all eventually, I have no doubt. For now, however, welcome to my blog (I NEVER thought I'd read those words!) and let's see how our journey goes from here.