If there's one thing I have learned through this amazing kidney journey, it's that nothing should amaze me.
You remember the story of the anonymous Detroit gentleman, a stranger to me and in terminal condition, who read about my situation and designated that one of his kidneys be given to me upon his passing? (If not, you can read about it here.) That selfless donation had to be declined for numerous reasons, but now, astonishingly, another potential organ donor has stepped forward:
Charlie Sheen.
Apparently during all my coverage of Sheen's tribulations with Two and a Half Men as TV critic for the Detroit Metro Times, one of his people, Stan Rosenfeld, came across Just Kidneying while Googling my name and brought the blog to his attention. In the call I received last night, Sheen says he feels moved to make sure I'm "WINNING!" in my quest for a transplant and is in the process of undergoing a blood test to make sure we're a type match. Even if we're not, he feels the tiger's blood surging through his veins will be enough to overcome any incompatibility issues.
The real issue, as it was with the man from Detroit, will be the overall health and condition of his organs. Charlie believes his kidneys are sufficiently pickled to be well preserved for transplantation, and as a "rock star from Mars" he thinks it's highly possible he may have a third or fourth extra kidney inside him anyway.
We plan to meet in person backstage during his live tour stop at the Fox Theatre in Detroit Saturday to seal the deal, at which time I will tell him what I'm about to tell you now.
Happy April Fool's Day, everybody.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Jimmy Springs a Leak
Why they waited until the day of their mutual birthdays to decide they had to buy presents for each other, I'll never understand. But the twins, Madison and Emma, pleaded with me to drive them to the mall on a recent Friday after school. Happily, in January I bought a 2011 black Chevy Camaro (feel free to oooh and aaah below) because I decided to fully enjoy my only midlife crisis, so I'm pretty excited to drive anybody anywhere these days.
The girls love to shriek and cavort from its back seat over the sheer power of the Camaro's mighty V6 engine – which, come to think of it, may have been the reason they waited until they were sure I would be the one to ferry them in my "rocket car," as they call it. They have even bestowed it with a nickname: 'Black Betty." I'm thinking seriously of getting a vanity license plate for it this summer that will simply read, "BAMALAM." Those who get it will get it.
Anyway, we're in Decatur motoring down Martin Luther King Boulevard en route to the mall (why do bad things always seem to happen on MLK?) when I decide to call The Wife on my Droid and let her know where I'm headed.
"Gadzooks!" (or something like that) I think to myself. "My phone is wet! How can that be?"
Then, in fast order, I realize the right side of my jeans, my leather jacket and, yes, my underwear are soaking through, too. I pull back my jacket and unleash a spout of liquid shooting straight up into the air – all over the interior of my brand-new beautiful car. Worse, that liquid was quickly identified as warm body juice; the joint where my catheter connects to its external tubing had cracked, and the dialysis fluid that should have been circulating around my peritoneal cavity was suddenly circulating around my Camaro.
As the girls squealed and pointed, I grabbed the leak with one hand and steered the car into a church lot, no easy feat when you're driving a stick shift. I put the rocket car in park, leaped from the vehicle and attempted to cap my gusher. The twins, trying to be extremely helpful, grabbed everything they could find to stuff the leak: used paper tissues on the floorboard, a dirty rag on the backseat. I think I even remember seeing an old PayDay wrapper in all the confusion.
Praise God we were less than a mile from my DaVita dialysis clinic. Doubled over like a gunshot victim in a TV show and working my car's clutch with whichever foot was closest, we sputtered into the DaVita parking lot. It was nearly 5 o'clock on a Friday, but I prayed someone would still be there who could help.
Prayer answered. There has been considerable flux and turnover among the Peritoneal Dialysis nurses in Decatur, and Karey was virtually a PD rookie, but she happily agreed to give my catheter repair a try. While she called Champaign for advice and inspiration, I waited anxiously. When you have a manmade hole in your body with a tube hanging out of it, you are repeatedly warned that infection is a constant danger. Peritonitis. Can be fatal if unchecked, you're cautioned. And we've just slapped every filthy thing we could find on top of it to stem the tide. We did everything short of blow on the tube to hold the water back! If the catheter gets infected, or needs to be removed, my days on PD could be over.
Emma and Madison, for their part, were wonderful, supportive and encouraging. It took nearly an hour for the emergency patching to be completed, and the girls busied themselves by watching TV in the clinic lobby, talking up patients coming in for their treatments, and taking a semi-guided tour of the facility. (That is, peeking in the open doors.)
"Jim," Madison enthused, "this is the best birthday ever!"
I'm sure Maddie doesn't know the meaning of hyperbole yet, but for some reason I had a hard time believing that.
Finally the leak was sealed, temporarily; I had to journey to Champaign the following Monday for the permanent fix. As she was putting on her best finishing touches, Karey asked, "Why didn't you use your clamp?"
"What clamp?"
"Do you have a little white clamp they gave you to tie off the fluid line in case of emergencies?"
Sheepishly, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the small pillbox I carry to hold my mealtime medication. I opened it. Yep, there it is, all right. A little white clamp. Good thing I have that, in case of emergencies. Hey, I could use some emergency training!
As we walked back to the car, I heard a small, tentative voice behind me.
"Jim," Emma asked, "can we still go to the mall?"
What could I say? They had done so well, been so helpful, reassuring and patient. Off we went to the mall.
"But remember, ladies, my underwear is still soaking wet!" I announced. "So please shop as quickly as you can!"
Ever try to make two 11-year-old girls shop quickly?
Ever go through a mall walking like John Wayne?
P.S.: The Wife watched me the entire weekend like I was planning an escape, looking for any hint of fever or discomfort, but I came through with flying colors. No peritonitis. No infection. God is good. All the time.
The girls love to shriek and cavort from its back seat over the sheer power of the Camaro's mighty V6 engine – which, come to think of it, may have been the reason they waited until they were sure I would be the one to ferry them in my "rocket car," as they call it. They have even bestowed it with a nickname: 'Black Betty." I'm thinking seriously of getting a vanity license plate for it this summer that will simply read, "BAMALAM." Those who get it will get it.
Happy Black Man With Snappy Black Car
"Gadzooks!" (or something like that) I think to myself. "My phone is wet! How can that be?"
Then, in fast order, I realize the right side of my jeans, my leather jacket and, yes, my underwear are soaking through, too. I pull back my jacket and unleash a spout of liquid shooting straight up into the air – all over the interior of my brand-new beautiful car. Worse, that liquid was quickly identified as warm body juice; the joint where my catheter connects to its external tubing had cracked, and the dialysis fluid that should have been circulating around my peritoneal cavity was suddenly circulating around my Camaro.
As the girls squealed and pointed, I grabbed the leak with one hand and steered the car into a church lot, no easy feat when you're driving a stick shift. I put the rocket car in park, leaped from the vehicle and attempted to cap my gusher. The twins, trying to be extremely helpful, grabbed everything they could find to stuff the leak: used paper tissues on the floorboard, a dirty rag on the backseat. I think I even remember seeing an old PayDay wrapper in all the confusion.
Praise God we were less than a mile from my DaVita dialysis clinic. Doubled over like a gunshot victim in a TV show and working my car's clutch with whichever foot was closest, we sputtered into the DaVita parking lot. It was nearly 5 o'clock on a Friday, but I prayed someone would still be there who could help.
Prayer answered. There has been considerable flux and turnover among the Peritoneal Dialysis nurses in Decatur, and Karey was virtually a PD rookie, but she happily agreed to give my catheter repair a try. While she called Champaign for advice and inspiration, I waited anxiously. When you have a manmade hole in your body with a tube hanging out of it, you are repeatedly warned that infection is a constant danger. Peritonitis. Can be fatal if unchecked, you're cautioned. And we've just slapped every filthy thing we could find on top of it to stem the tide. We did everything short of blow on the tube to hold the water back! If the catheter gets infected, or needs to be removed, my days on PD could be over.
Emma and Madison, for their part, were wonderful, supportive and encouraging. It took nearly an hour for the emergency patching to be completed, and the girls busied themselves by watching TV in the clinic lobby, talking up patients coming in for their treatments, and taking a semi-guided tour of the facility. (That is, peeking in the open doors.)
Madison and Emma, Acting a Fool at the DaVita Dialysis Clinic
"Jim," Madison enthused, "this is the best birthday ever!"
I'm sure Maddie doesn't know the meaning of hyperbole yet, but for some reason I had a hard time believing that.
Finally the leak was sealed, temporarily; I had to journey to Champaign the following Monday for the permanent fix. As she was putting on her best finishing touches, Karey asked, "Why didn't you use your clamp?"
"What clamp?"
"Do you have a little white clamp they gave you to tie off the fluid line in case of emergencies?"
Sheepishly, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the small pillbox I carry to hold my mealtime medication. I opened it. Yep, there it is, all right. A little white clamp. Good thing I have that, in case of emergencies. Hey, I could use some emergency training!
As we walked back to the car, I heard a small, tentative voice behind me.
"Jim," Emma asked, "can we still go to the mall?"
What could I say? They had done so well, been so helpful, reassuring and patient. Off we went to the mall.
"But remember, ladies, my underwear is still soaking wet!" I announced. "So please shop as quickly as you can!"
Ever try to make two 11-year-old girls shop quickly?
Ever go through a mall walking like John Wayne?
P.S.: The Wife watched me the entire weekend like I was planning an escape, looking for any hint of fever or discomfort, but I came through with flying colors. No peritonitis. No infection. God is good. All the time.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Shelter From the Storm
What I'm feeling is something close to survivor guilt. I'm sitting on the king-sized bed in my room at the majestic Four Seasons in Westlake Village, Calif., a room with a chandelier and a mini-bar. I'm scheduled to speak here Thursday morning to offer a "patient perspective" (read: provide the morning entertainment) for Baxter Healthcare's annual national sales convention.
Baxter flew me out to LA and is putting me up at the Four Seasons for two days to give a 15-minute presentation. God bless America.
But back home on the prairie of central Illinois, weathergeddon has arrived. Sleet. Ice. Snow. All together and in various combinations. We're expecting the locusts and frogs by Friday. Chicago is anticipating at least two feet of snow, much of which will be covering my new black 2011 Camaro (love that car) when I return. That's if I can return.
The airports aren't flying. The roads are shut down. The Midwest is closed for the week, frozen into suspended animation. The University of Illinois, where The Wife works, has closed all three of its statewide campuses for the first time in 100 years. This is serious.
I feel like I should be united with my family, battling shoulder to shoulder against the cruel elements, the sporadic power outages, the bone-chilling cold and paralyzing ice. Then I stroll down the richly appointed hallway to the elevator and down to the sushi bar at Onyx, a restaurant in the Four Seasons, where I order a "Hawaiian Volcano," possibly the best thing I've ever put into my mouth, and I break into bursts of uncontrolled giggling. Decatur, Ill., seems very far away.
The "Hawaiian Volcano" sushi roll at Onyx in the Four Seasons Westlake Village, Calif., maybe the single best thing I've ever tasted.
I came so close to not making it here at all. When the dire weather predictions began filtering through last weekend and Wednesday, the day I originally was scheduled to fly out of O'Hare, was targeted as the day all heck would break loose, my family encouraged me to get out of the house and drive to Chicago as early as I could on Monday. (They said it was because of the oncoming storm, but now that I think about it....) The people at Baxter's travel department, so incredibly helpful, understood my concern and paid the change fee to book me on an flight early Tuesday morning.
Which, of course, I missed.
I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express near the airport, but missed my shuttle ride by seconds. By the time I got to O'Hare 30 minutes later, the best United could do was put me on standby for the next flight at 10:30 a.m. I had a little breakfast, went to the gate and waited. And prayed. And hoped.
The 10:30 flight, the update screens said, was completely sold out, and I was seventh on the standby list. Passengers were rushing the gate like U.S. Embassy workers getting out of Egypt. In my mind, I was contemplating the best place to have lunch at the airport.
Then, at the very last moment, I heard, "Passenger McFarlin!" I grabbed that boarding pass like it was a winning lottery ticket and dashed to the last seat on the 747. God is good, all the time. I was meant to be here, I guess. I swear I could see the storm clouds moving in as our plane was climbing above them.
I don't necessarily feel pressure, but I'm thinking I need to be really good Thursday morning to justify Baxter bringing me here and out of the frozen tundra. I'm going to try very hard not to giggle.
Baxter flew me out to LA and is putting me up at the Four Seasons for two days to give a 15-minute presentation. God bless America.
But back home on the prairie of central Illinois, weathergeddon has arrived. Sleet. Ice. Snow. All together and in various combinations. We're expecting the locusts and frogs by Friday. Chicago is anticipating at least two feet of snow, much of which will be covering my new black 2011 Camaro (love that car) when I return. That's if I can return.
The airports aren't flying. The roads are shut down. The Midwest is closed for the week, frozen into suspended animation. The University of Illinois, where The Wife works, has closed all three of its statewide campuses for the first time in 100 years. This is serious.
I feel like I should be united with my family, battling shoulder to shoulder against the cruel elements, the sporadic power outages, the bone-chilling cold and paralyzing ice. Then I stroll down the richly appointed hallway to the elevator and down to the sushi bar at Onyx, a restaurant in the Four Seasons, where I order a "Hawaiian Volcano," possibly the best thing I've ever put into my mouth, and I break into bursts of uncontrolled giggling. Decatur, Ill., seems very far away.
I came so close to not making it here at all. When the dire weather predictions began filtering through last weekend and Wednesday, the day I originally was scheduled to fly out of O'Hare, was targeted as the day all heck would break loose, my family encouraged me to get out of the house and drive to Chicago as early as I could on Monday. (They said it was because of the oncoming storm, but now that I think about it....) The people at Baxter's travel department, so incredibly helpful, understood my concern and paid the change fee to book me on an flight early Tuesday morning.
Which, of course, I missed.
I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express near the airport, but missed my shuttle ride by seconds. By the time I got to O'Hare 30 minutes later, the best United could do was put me on standby for the next flight at 10:30 a.m. I had a little breakfast, went to the gate and waited. And prayed. And hoped.
The 10:30 flight, the update screens said, was completely sold out, and I was seventh on the standby list. Passengers were rushing the gate like U.S. Embassy workers getting out of Egypt. In my mind, I was contemplating the best place to have lunch at the airport.
Then, at the very last moment, I heard, "Passenger McFarlin!" I grabbed that boarding pass like it was a winning lottery ticket and dashed to the last seat on the 747. God is good, all the time. I was meant to be here, I guess. I swear I could see the storm clouds moving in as our plane was climbing above them.
I don't necessarily feel pressure, but I'm thinking I need to be really good Thursday morning to justify Baxter bringing me here and out of the frozen tundra. I'm going to try very hard not to giggle.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Who You Callin' Ugly?
The Decatur Ad Club, which I joined last year to increase my local business connections and get out of the basement occasionally, held its first "Ugly Sweater Christmas Party" this week. Because I wanted to be perceived as a participating member of my new group and share in the holiday spirit, I decided not only to attend, but to jump into the competition with both feet. Or sleeves.
I rummaged through three local thrift shops looking for potential knitted nightmares, but came up empty. (I subsequently learned that Ugly Christmas Sweater Parties have become such the rage that you need to start shopping for appropriate garments around Labor Day or pay outrageous last-minute desperation prices to online merchants. To my surprise, my dear friend Laura Foti Cohen has a Web site/blog devoted to ugly Yuletide sweaters and similar follies at hellishholidays.com.)
I shared my disappointment with The Wife upon returning home, and probably shouldn't have been surprised by her response. "Oh, honey, you don't need to go shopping for ugly sweaters," Karen cooed. "You already have at least one great candidate in your closet."
(As infuriating as it is to have your wife call out anything in your wardrobe as hideous, men take note: women will almost always think any clothes you bought without her guidance or held over from previous relationships are pitiful and offensive.)
She dashed into the closet and hauled out my "rainbow sweater," a multi-striped, hand-me-down crewneck I usually wear around the house for comfort's sake. "This is the one!" she declared, to my chagrin. Then she cheerfully set about making it even more gruesome, if that's possible.
She sewed a few old Christmas ornaments around the neck of the sweater, including a curiously effeminate little elf she said was one of her earliest childhood holiday decorations. Then, for the coup de grace, Karen attached a string of battery powered Christmas tree lights around the sweater's collar with a remote control switch that could conceal under my clothes to switch on, off or on flicker mode. (The preferred setting, of course.) I was girded for battle.
Because she'd now spent time and care in the preparation, Karen became invested. "I hope you do well, honey," she said, coupled with a facial expression that added, "Don't you dare come home without winning this thing."
The party-slash-contest was held in the library room of the Decatur Club, the city's hoity-toity downtown meeting address. I took a cautious look around the room. The competition was scattered about, and potentially formidable, but I felt confident I could compete. (Some of the challengers are pictured below.) I flipped the switch on my ring of necklace lights to "flicker."
Illinois Congressman Bobby Schilling, who was attending an affair next door, agreed to come over with two of his colleagues and serve as judge. He was wearing a Christmas tie that, had it been knitted and sprouted sleeves, easily could have given me a run for the money.
Schilling to me: "That is one damn ugly sweater."
Me to Schilling: "Thank you, Congressman. And the same to you."
Schilling and his associates conferred, votes were cast and – I WON! I WON! I received a small framed plaque that now holds a position of prominence on our mantle, a chocolate Santa (no jokes, please) that I gave to our 10-year-old, Emma, a PEZ dispenser (don't open it – collector's item, you know) and a miniature ugly sweater that supposedly doubles as a decorative bottle warmer.
Best of all, I got to feel a little bit closer to some people here in Decatur, my address now and for the foreseeable future, with the holiday spirit.
And I got to go home that night.
I didn't think this one was particularly "ugly," just interesting. Or should I say, "festive"?
I thought this was my stiffest challenge, especially with the antler accents.
Ladies and gennemen, THE WINNAH!
I rummaged through three local thrift shops looking for potential knitted nightmares, but came up empty. (I subsequently learned that Ugly Christmas Sweater Parties have become such the rage that you need to start shopping for appropriate garments around Labor Day or pay outrageous last-minute desperation prices to online merchants. To my surprise, my dear friend Laura Foti Cohen has a Web site/blog devoted to ugly Yuletide sweaters and similar follies at hellishholidays.com.)
I shared my disappointment with The Wife upon returning home, and probably shouldn't have been surprised by her response. "Oh, honey, you don't need to go shopping for ugly sweaters," Karen cooed. "You already have at least one great candidate in your closet."
(As infuriating as it is to have your wife call out anything in your wardrobe as hideous, men take note: women will almost always think any clothes you bought without her guidance or held over from previous relationships are pitiful and offensive.)
She dashed into the closet and hauled out my "rainbow sweater," a multi-striped, hand-me-down crewneck I usually wear around the house for comfort's sake. "This is the one!" she declared, to my chagrin. Then she cheerfully set about making it even more gruesome, if that's possible.
She sewed a few old Christmas ornaments around the neck of the sweater, including a curiously effeminate little elf she said was one of her earliest childhood holiday decorations. Then, for the coup de grace, Karen attached a string of battery powered Christmas tree lights around the sweater's collar with a remote control switch that could conceal under my clothes to switch on, off or on flicker mode. (The preferred setting, of course.) I was girded for battle.
Because she'd now spent time and care in the preparation, Karen became invested. "I hope you do well, honey," she said, coupled with a facial expression that added, "Don't you dare come home without winning this thing."
The party-slash-contest was held in the library room of the Decatur Club, the city's hoity-toity downtown meeting address. I took a cautious look around the room. The competition was scattered about, and potentially formidable, but I felt confident I could compete. (Some of the challengers are pictured below.) I flipped the switch on my ring of necklace lights to "flicker."
Illinois Congressman Bobby Schilling, who was attending an affair next door, agreed to come over with two of his colleagues and serve as judge. He was wearing a Christmas tie that, had it been knitted and sprouted sleeves, easily could have given me a run for the money.
Schilling to me: "That is one damn ugly sweater."
Me to Schilling: "Thank you, Congressman. And the same to you."
Schilling and his associates conferred, votes were cast and – I WON! I WON! I received a small framed plaque that now holds a position of prominence on our mantle, a chocolate Santa (no jokes, please) that I gave to our 10-year-old, Emma, a PEZ dispenser (don't open it – collector's item, you know) and a miniature ugly sweater that supposedly doubles as a decorative bottle warmer.
Best of all, I got to feel a little bit closer to some people here in Decatur, my address now and for the foreseeable future, with the holiday spirit.
And I got to go home that night.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Flashes From the Frontline
The Wife says I write these blog entries way too long. They're not even blog posts anymore, she claims; they've become "blarticles," a term I hope she copyrights before it becomes all the rage in cyberland.
"They don't all have to be complete, touching essays," Karen says. "Some of them can be just paragraphs." You think she'd know me by now, wouldn't you? I gots a lot to say! And, unlike writing for other publications and their editors, here no one can tell me when to stop! Whoo-HOO!
Still, I believe Karen may have a point, possibly. Maybe. A little. So today I'm going to briefly (I hope) mention a few topics I think are worth sharing with you in bullet-point fashion.
• Happy(?) Anniversary: December marks one year since I started on PD, Peritoneal Dialysis. So far, I'm feeling fine. Hallelujah!
• It's Alive! Alive!: Baxter Healthcare, the Illinois-based colossus that manufactures and supplies my dialysis materials, has just launched a new consumer Web site called Live Now: Rethink Kidney Disease. According to its home page, Live Now is "a movement to start living on your terms, with hope, optimism and strength. Kidney disease doesn't define your life – you do. It's time to get up, get out and live for today."
I am proud to say I was asked to serve as a contributing editor on this breakthrough project. The marketing folks at Baxter knew I was a professional writer (in the sense I can actually find people willing to pay me money to write stuff) and that I travel quite a bit for work while maintaining my Peritoneal Dialysis (PD) routine on the road, so they recruited me to create the main articles for the site.
I wrote pieces on traveling with PD, working full-time while on PD and (heh, heh) maintaining intimacy while on PD. (I consulted with Karen for the last one. Thankfully, she agreed it was possible!) The theme of the articles, and the site itself, is, "Yes! Yes! Whatever you did before you contracted kidney disease you still can do while on dialysis!"
The funny part was, when I got the assignment I approached it very seriously. I did my research, compared other articles on the subjects and wrote my first drafts in a very straightforward, scholarly manner. I'd forgotten that the people at Baxter read this blog, too. "There's something wrong with this," they said upon receiving the first draft. "It's not...funny enough! It needs more Jim in it! Are you all right?"
"You mean, you want it goofier?" I asked, incredulous.
"YES! We want you to write it like you write Just Kidneying!"
And so I did. Or tried to, anyway. You can be the judge. I thought about reprinting the articles here, but I'm sure my new clients at Baxter would rather I send you to their site. It's www.livenow.info.
I'm on Board With This: The miracle of the Just Kidneying blog continues. I have been asked to volunteer to sit on PACt, the Patient Advisory Committee for Baxter Healthcare. (I have no idea what the little "t" stands for.)
That sentence construction is correct: "asked to volunteer." Apparently, the way it works is, Baxter can't reach out and solicit people to join their advisory group. Looks a bit suspicious, like they're stacking the deck in their favor. But if you express some interest and tell Baxter, "Hey, I've got some opinions (I am a critic, after all), and I want to join your board!" then they can extend an invitation to become a member.
As I understand it, representatives from the R&D (research and development) and marketing departments will give presentations on their newest endeavors, and we get to provide input about how far off base they are. As a living, breathing dialysis patient, I hope to provide some real-life insights about how practical their innovations really are. The next meeting is in March 2011.
If you're a dialysis patient (or even if you're not) and would like to add your voice, shoot me a message; I will try to let you know what the bigdomes at Baxter are thinking and solicit your feedback. Think of me as your union rep!
In Praise of the Olfa Touch-Knife: Several months before I started PD, Karen and I were shopping at a Michigan outlet mall and on a whim we bought two Olfa Touch-Knives at the checkout table. They are marvelous little devices, about an inch-and-a-half wide with a retractable blade as sharp as an editor's pen.
They also provide the only real enjoyment I derive from this tedious dialysis process – slicing open the drainage bags after a fluid transfer and watching the liquid gush into the sink or toilet like a waterfall. It's exhilarating!
Sadly, during one of our recent road trips, I lost one of our knives. Crap! I went on the Olfa Web site, but they want you to buy like 100 or more to get an online discount. I only want one or two. So if you spot an Olfa Touch-Knife at any checkout counter or housewares store in the near future, buy a couple for me or let me know where you found them.
Cut me in, so to speak.
"They don't all have to be complete, touching essays," Karen says. "Some of them can be just paragraphs." You think she'd know me by now, wouldn't you? I gots a lot to say! And, unlike writing for other publications and their editors, here no one can tell me when to stop! Whoo-HOO!
Still, I believe Karen may have a point, possibly. Maybe. A little. So today I'm going to briefly (I hope) mention a few topics I think are worth sharing with you in bullet-point fashion.
• Happy(?) Anniversary: December marks one year since I started on PD, Peritoneal Dialysis. So far, I'm feeling fine. Hallelujah!
• It's Alive! Alive!: Baxter Healthcare, the Illinois-based colossus that manufactures and supplies my dialysis materials, has just launched a new consumer Web site called Live Now: Rethink Kidney Disease. According to its home page, Live Now is "a movement to start living on your terms, with hope, optimism and strength. Kidney disease doesn't define your life – you do. It's time to get up, get out and live for today."
I am proud to say I was asked to serve as a contributing editor on this breakthrough project. The marketing folks at Baxter knew I was a professional writer (in the sense I can actually find people willing to pay me money to write stuff) and that I travel quite a bit for work while maintaining my Peritoneal Dialysis (PD) routine on the road, so they recruited me to create the main articles for the site.
I wrote pieces on traveling with PD, working full-time while on PD and (heh, heh) maintaining intimacy while on PD. (I consulted with Karen for the last one. Thankfully, she agreed it was possible!) The theme of the articles, and the site itself, is, "Yes! Yes! Whatever you did before you contracted kidney disease you still can do while on dialysis!"
The funny part was, when I got the assignment I approached it very seriously. I did my research, compared other articles on the subjects and wrote my first drafts in a very straightforward, scholarly manner. I'd forgotten that the people at Baxter read this blog, too. "There's something wrong with this," they said upon receiving the first draft. "It's not...funny enough! It needs more Jim in it! Are you all right?"
"You mean, you want it goofier?" I asked, incredulous.
"YES! We want you to write it like you write Just Kidneying!"
And so I did. Or tried to, anyway. You can be the judge. I thought about reprinting the articles here, but I'm sure my new clients at Baxter would rather I send you to their site. It's www.livenow.info.
I'm on Board With This: The miracle of the Just Kidneying blog continues. I have been asked to volunteer to sit on PACt, the Patient Advisory Committee for Baxter Healthcare. (I have no idea what the little "t" stands for.)
That sentence construction is correct: "asked to volunteer." Apparently, the way it works is, Baxter can't reach out and solicit people to join their advisory group. Looks a bit suspicious, like they're stacking the deck in their favor. But if you express some interest and tell Baxter, "Hey, I've got some opinions (I am a critic, after all), and I want to join your board!" then they can extend an invitation to become a member.
As I understand it, representatives from the R&D (research and development) and marketing departments will give presentations on their newest endeavors, and we get to provide input about how far off base they are. As a living, breathing dialysis patient, I hope to provide some real-life insights about how practical their innovations really are. The next meeting is in March 2011.
If you're a dialysis patient (or even if you're not) and would like to add your voice, shoot me a message; I will try to let you know what the bigdomes at Baxter are thinking and solicit your feedback. Think of me as your union rep!
In Praise of the Olfa Touch-Knife: Several months before I started PD, Karen and I were shopping at a Michigan outlet mall and on a whim we bought two Olfa Touch-Knives at the checkout table. They are marvelous little devices, about an inch-and-a-half wide with a retractable blade as sharp as an editor's pen.
They also provide the only real enjoyment I derive from this tedious dialysis process – slicing open the drainage bags after a fluid transfer and watching the liquid gush into the sink or toilet like a waterfall. It's exhilarating!
Sadly, during one of our recent road trips, I lost one of our knives. Crap! I went on the Olfa Web site, but they want you to buy like 100 or more to get an online discount. I only want one or two. So if you spot an Olfa Touch-Knife at any checkout counter or housewares store in the near future, buy a couple for me or let me know where you found them.
Cut me in, so to speak.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Toughest Decision
I was in the middle of a deliciously hot shower not long ago, singing lustily to some bygone '80s hit (probably by The GAP Band), when my mother-in-law came into the bathroom and thrust her cell phone behind the curtain.
She dropped a bomb on me, baby.
"You MUST take this phone call!" she announced.
"Uh, I'm kinda wet, soapy and naked at the moment," I replied. "This can't wait five minutes for me to dry off?"
"NO!" Mother-in-Law declared. "You have to take it RIGHT NOW!"
I understood the reason for her urgency moments after I took the receiver. My wife, Karen, was on the other end. The transplant office at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis, where my kidney case is located, called her when they couldn't find me. And how could they? I was singing in the shower!
The hospital had located a replacement kidney for me.
My eyes began stinging, and not because soap was dripping into them. Apparently, a gentleman from Detroit whom I had never met (and whose name won't be repeated here out of respect to his family), upon learning of his terminal illness, designated in his will that I was to receive one of his kidneys.
I've wracked my brain ever since trying to recall any part of my past where his name might be familiar, but come up empty. I can only assume he may have read my medical confessional in HOUR Detroit magazine a year or so ago, or somehow became aware of this blog. However it happened, the thought that a complete stranger personally chose me to receive a life-giving organ upon his death is beyond humbling. It's overwhelming. Praise God.
Since Karen was still in her office, she set up a three-way conference call between her, the transplant coordinator and me. The coordinator explained that the kidney being donated to me fell under what they call the "extended criteria" category. It was a match, but the donor was eight years older, suffered from hypertension (high blood pressure) and had a history of smoking in his past.
"Geez," I thought, "this sounds like my own kidneys, only with more mileage."
If I wanted the kidney, they would start to make arrangements for the transplant operation straightaway. If I decided not to take it, there would be no harm, no foul for me because of the condition of the organ; I would simply be placed back on the transplant waiting list. Whatever I decided, I had to give my answer immediately, if not sooner. The kidney was being harvested, and if I didn't want it, someone else could benefit from the transplant.
I asked the coordinator if we could have a little time to make our decision, and she agreed. (And it is our decision, by the way; the entire family lives with kidney disease, suffers through a transplant operation and assists in the recovery. Everybody gets a vote in this election.) Take as long as you like, she said. You can have a couple of hours.
I thought I had agonized over other major decisions in my life, but they were easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy compared to this. I tried to contact my kidney specialist, Dr. Attia, for a second opinion but couldn't reach him. Karen and I talked intensely, and my mother-in-law had a few more words of wisdom for me once I was out of the shower.
We prayed. We discussed. We debated. Then we prayed and discussed and debated some more. Ultimately, the verdict would be mine.
Two dizzying hours later, I had made up my mind. My decision might have been different if I was in worse condition, or if I wasn't coping so well on Peritoneal Dialysis. But somebody else might need that kidney more desperately right now, and I could afford to wait for a younger, healthier, more ideal organ to come along.
I called the transplant coordinator back and politely said thanks, but no thanks.
It was a gut-wrenching call to make. I felt as if I was slapping a dead man in the face, spitting on his final wishes. Think about his family, Karen offered. They've probably gone through so much already with his illness and death, and rejecting his kidney is almost like you're rejecting him, and the rest of them as well.
Thanks, honey. That helps a lot.
For what it was worth, at my next scheduled appointment with Dr. Attia we discussed my decision at great length. He agreed with my thought process. If some surgeon is going to cut you open and stick a foreign object inside you, he said, do it once, do it right, and do it with the best organ you can find.
Which doesn't mean I don't think about that man I never met and his amazingly selfless offer every day. Did I insult his memory? Did I make the right choice? Who can say for sure?
And what if that perfect kidney never comes along?
She dropped a bomb on me, baby.
"You MUST take this phone call!" she announced.
"Uh, I'm kinda wet, soapy and naked at the moment," I replied. "This can't wait five minutes for me to dry off?"
"NO!" Mother-in-Law declared. "You have to take it RIGHT NOW!"
I understood the reason for her urgency moments after I took the receiver. My wife, Karen, was on the other end. The transplant office at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis, where my kidney case is located, called her when they couldn't find me. And how could they? I was singing in the shower!
The hospital had located a replacement kidney for me.
My eyes began stinging, and not because soap was dripping into them. Apparently, a gentleman from Detroit whom I had never met (and whose name won't be repeated here out of respect to his family), upon learning of his terminal illness, designated in his will that I was to receive one of his kidneys.
I've wracked my brain ever since trying to recall any part of my past where his name might be familiar, but come up empty. I can only assume he may have read my medical confessional in HOUR Detroit magazine a year or so ago, or somehow became aware of this blog. However it happened, the thought that a complete stranger personally chose me to receive a life-giving organ upon his death is beyond humbling. It's overwhelming. Praise God.
Since Karen was still in her office, she set up a three-way conference call between her, the transplant coordinator and me. The coordinator explained that the kidney being donated to me fell under what they call the "extended criteria" category. It was a match, but the donor was eight years older, suffered from hypertension (high blood pressure) and had a history of smoking in his past.
"Geez," I thought, "this sounds like my own kidneys, only with more mileage."
If I wanted the kidney, they would start to make arrangements for the transplant operation straightaway. If I decided not to take it, there would be no harm, no foul for me because of the condition of the organ; I would simply be placed back on the transplant waiting list. Whatever I decided, I had to give my answer immediately, if not sooner. The kidney was being harvested, and if I didn't want it, someone else could benefit from the transplant.
I asked the coordinator if we could have a little time to make our decision, and she agreed. (And it is our decision, by the way; the entire family lives with kidney disease, suffers through a transplant operation and assists in the recovery. Everybody gets a vote in this election.) Take as long as you like, she said. You can have a couple of hours.
I thought I had agonized over other major decisions in my life, but they were easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy compared to this. I tried to contact my kidney specialist, Dr. Attia, for a second opinion but couldn't reach him. Karen and I talked intensely, and my mother-in-law had a few more words of wisdom for me once I was out of the shower.
We prayed. We discussed. We debated. Then we prayed and discussed and debated some more. Ultimately, the verdict would be mine.
Two dizzying hours later, I had made up my mind. My decision might have been different if I was in worse condition, or if I wasn't coping so well on Peritoneal Dialysis. But somebody else might need that kidney more desperately right now, and I could afford to wait for a younger, healthier, more ideal organ to come along.
I called the transplant coordinator back and politely said thanks, but no thanks.
It was a gut-wrenching call to make. I felt as if I was slapping a dead man in the face, spitting on his final wishes. Think about his family, Karen offered. They've probably gone through so much already with his illness and death, and rejecting his kidney is almost like you're rejecting him, and the rest of them as well.
Thanks, honey. That helps a lot.
For what it was worth, at my next scheduled appointment with Dr. Attia we discussed my decision at great length. He agreed with my thought process. If some surgeon is going to cut you open and stick a foreign object inside you, he said, do it once, do it right, and do it with the best organ you can find.
Which doesn't mean I don't think about that man I never met and his amazingly selfless offer every day. Did I insult his memory? Did I make the right choice? Who can say for sure?
And what if that perfect kidney never comes along?
Monday, November 8, 2010
It's Not Kidney Disease, It's the Lions
There is a small part of me that knows I'm sick, but generally I feel so good and have adapted so well to dialysis (knock on wood) that I rarely tend to think about it. God is good, all the time. However, it's a comforting feeling to know that should I ever really fall ill in public, there are still caring people in the world that might rush to my aid.
Sunday afternoon Karen and I were shopping at the Nordstrom store in the giant Woodfield Mall outside Chicago. (Ah, Nordstrom: Like so many things in life, I didn't realize how much I appreciated it until it was gone, after I moved to a city that didn't have one.) I was browsing through the men's department while watching pro football updates through the NFL Red Zone app on my Droid cell phone.
(Now let me interject right here that, after years of insisting my cell phone needn't do anything more exotic than send and receive calls, I was given a Droid recently by my wonderful wife when she upgraded to a new model. (Growing up as an only child, this may have been my first hand-me-down ever.) How could I have been so wrong? I am proud to declare that I am a Luddite no longer. This Droid is the best invention since peanut butter cups. With the Red Zone app I can watch NFL game action in real time on my telephone. I feel like Dick Tracy with a two-way wrist radio. My mother, if she were still alive, might faint dead away over these technological marvels we now take for granted.)
While looking over white Oxford shirts – no wardrobe can ever have enough – I was monitoring the Detroit Lions game at home against the powerful New York Jets. I am a foolhardy Detroit sports fanatic, as you may know. And though every Lions fan knows better than to invest too much passion or emotion in the outcome of their games, the team has been playing better of late. They held a 10-point lead over the Jets with mere minutes to play.
I kept shopping and checking the score, back and forth. Nice price on these chinos. The Jets have tied the score! Do you have this shirt in extra jumbo? They're going into overtime! Oh, the Nordstrom shoe department is so wonderful! And the Jets storm back to win the game on a field goal in OT!
I was momentarily crestfallen. Dagnab it, those Lions did it to me again! I emitted an audible groan and slumped against a rack of sale slacks.
In the blink of an eye, a dark-haired young saleswoman was at my side. (It was Nordstrom, after all.)
"Sir, are you all right?" she asked, breathless.
"No, I'm not," I replied.
"Should we get you somebody?"
"Yes. Maybe a better defensive backfield."
"What?"
"My team just lost in overtime."
A nervous laugh leaped from her lips, a combination of relief and confusion. Then her eyes narrowed, and a shot of anger flashed.
"You mean this is all because your football team lost a game?" she asked.
I straightened up and looked at her with calm resignation.
"Obviously, miss," I said, "you have never been a sports fan."
Go Lions.
Sunday afternoon Karen and I were shopping at the Nordstrom store in the giant Woodfield Mall outside Chicago. (Ah, Nordstrom: Like so many things in life, I didn't realize how much I appreciated it until it was gone, after I moved to a city that didn't have one.) I was browsing through the men's department while watching pro football updates through the NFL Red Zone app on my Droid cell phone.
(Now let me interject right here that, after years of insisting my cell phone needn't do anything more exotic than send and receive calls, I was given a Droid recently by my wonderful wife when she upgraded to a new model. (Growing up as an only child, this may have been my first hand-me-down ever.) How could I have been so wrong? I am proud to declare that I am a Luddite no longer. This Droid is the best invention since peanut butter cups. With the Red Zone app I can watch NFL game action in real time on my telephone. I feel like Dick Tracy with a two-way wrist radio. My mother, if she were still alive, might faint dead away over these technological marvels we now take for granted.)
While looking over white Oxford shirts – no wardrobe can ever have enough – I was monitoring the Detroit Lions game at home against the powerful New York Jets. I am a foolhardy Detroit sports fanatic, as you may know. And though every Lions fan knows better than to invest too much passion or emotion in the outcome of their games, the team has been playing better of late. They held a 10-point lead over the Jets with mere minutes to play.
I kept shopping and checking the score, back and forth. Nice price on these chinos. The Jets have tied the score! Do you have this shirt in extra jumbo? They're going into overtime! Oh, the Nordstrom shoe department is so wonderful! And the Jets storm back to win the game on a field goal in OT!
I was momentarily crestfallen. Dagnab it, those Lions did it to me again! I emitted an audible groan and slumped against a rack of sale slacks.
In the blink of an eye, a dark-haired young saleswoman was at my side. (It was Nordstrom, after all.)
"Sir, are you all right?" she asked, breathless.
"No, I'm not," I replied.
"Should we get you somebody?"
"Yes. Maybe a better defensive backfield."
"What?"
"My team just lost in overtime."
A nervous laugh leaped from her lips, a combination of relief and confusion. Then her eyes narrowed, and a shot of anger flashed.
"You mean this is all because your football team lost a game?" she asked.
I straightened up and looked at her with calm resignation.
"Obviously, miss," I said, "you have never been a sports fan."
Go Lions.
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