The Eyes Have it

by David Goldman

I think it’s time to go back to the eye doctor. Every straight line I look at doesn’t look straight. It has a dent, like this:

Irritating to say the least.

I’ve mentioned my vision problems before. I used to have great vision. I suppose most people can make the same claim.

My ocular dysfunction started at the beginning of my senior year in college. I was still licking my wounds after being dumped like a bag of week-old garbage by my longtime girlfriend. It came as a shock to me. It especially shocked me when I found out I was being replaced by a grad student who studied fish. That’s right, an ichthyologist. You know the type. Apparently, based on what she told me in the 14-second phone call, I wasn’t fulfilling her intellectual needs and she needed someone with greater mental abilities.

So, to try and move on with my social life I took a job doing cooking and checking IDs at a new bar that had opened on campus. An odd pairing of job functions, but it worked. I got to eat for free the nights I worked and being the doorman gave me the opportunity to meet lots of new and interesting people (read: girls).

Things were going along smoothly, but one night I noticed I couldn’t see very well out of my left eye. I had “floaters” in my field of vision. I later found out these were little droplets of blood. I went to the eye doctor and he told me I had diabetic retinopathy – a problem diabetics sometimes develop in which new, brittle blood vessels start growing on the retina and then rupture, hemorrhaging blood when the body’s blood pressure rises through exertion or from other stimuli. Within a couple of weeks I had the problem in both eyes.

The doctor I was seeing in my college town seemed like he was up on all the latest procedures and scientific advances in the field. I think it’s a requirement for being a doctor in a college town. He told me I needed to have a new laser treatment done on my eyes. This was 1977 and still a time when I heard laser, I thought of James Bond strapped to a gold table with a laser slowly moving toward the Bond family jewels. This, as Aurich Goldfinger is telling Bond he doesn’t expect him to talk. He expects him to die. Lasers beaming into my eye still had that futuristic, experimental, and yet, obscenely painful connotation to me. Call me juvenile.

But I was assured it wasn’t too bad and the local college doc gave me a referral for a couple of doctors back in Chicago. Coincidentally, a friend of mine’s dad was a diabetic and he had just had the same problem and the same procedure with great results, so home I went.

The retina specialist examined me and concurred with the previous diagnosis and treatment. He told me I would need three or four of these laser treatments. He explained that what the laser does is burn away those newly forming blood vessels forcing the blood to flow through the older, stronger, rupture-resistant ones. Seemed to make sense to me. The doctor was a short lil’ fellow with a Napoleon complex, but he was supposed to be very good at this procedure.

The first session wasn’t too bad. The worst part of it was probably the clamp used to hold my eye open for what seemed like decades at a time. The laser treatment was relatively painless. I went home after the first session with a dull headache and a patch over my eye. I was told I could remove the patch after 24 hours.

The next afternoon I eyed the clock (so to speak) all day until the unveiling time arrived. I removed the patch, opened my eye and immediately shouted, “Shit!!” It was like looking through a cardboard paper towel roll. I had no peripheral vision on the left and limited peripheral vision on the right. I called the doctor’s office and because it was Saturday, had to wait for someone to call back. The doctor on call phoned me shortly and I told him what I was seeing. Or not seeing. I could hear him rustling papers, most likely my file. He finally said that considering where my problem was located, a significant portion of my retina had to be burned away to prevent bleeding, and that portion would affect both my left and right peripheral vision. I asked him if they, meaning the doctor who wielded the laser, knew this beforehand and he said, “Oh yes, didn’t he tell you?” A plethora of smart-ass replies jumped into my mind but I withheld them. I told him I didn’t have any idea this was going to happen. He said if this wasn’t done, I’d end up being completely blind.

I was actually able to accept that fact rather easily – the lesser of two evils and all that. But, as I’ve mentioned before, I just would have liked to have known this before I took the patch off and half my vision was gone. Now you can call me juvenile and difficult.

I had three more treatments on that eye with no more significant loss of vision.

That is, if I don’t count portions right in the middle of my sightline.

The right eye was a little more difficult. Because the problem on that retina was occurring near the optic nerve, they couldn’t do the laser treatment. Instead, they were going to do cryo-surgery. Something else that sounded like it came from a James Bond movie. This time they were going to slice my eye open, remove the contents and with frozen gas, burn the offending areas of the retina. Then they put the pieces back in with some new, manmade eye-jelly and things should be okey-dokey. It sounded almost pleasant if it wasn’t being done to ME! Oh yeah, I also had to be awake for this one.

A couple weeks later I find myself lying face up on an operating table. Head locked in place by some vice-like contraption, straps to hold my hands down, and another one of those damned clamps holding my eye open. Did you ever see the movie A Clockwork Orange? They use those same clamps to hold open the eyes of the main character while they try to rehabilitate him. They’re really quite unpleasant.

As the procedure begins I see a scalpel coming down toward my eye. I quickly realize the straps are on my hands to keep me from defending myself. It’s not easy watching a highly-sharpened blade come down, touch, and then cut your eye. To be honest, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just the thought of it. Apparently, I was thinking about it too much because a few minutes later I started feeling nauseous. I made the pronouncement that I thought I was going to vomit to a synchronized chorus of “NO!!!” It seems if I did puke, they would have to let me turn my head, and if I did turn my head and toss my cookies, the few contents of my right eye that were still in place would go sailing across the operating room. Instead, they gave me oxygen, which calmed my stomach and they completed the operation.

Unfortunately, the results weren’t too good. The surgery was done on the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend, 1979 and Dr. Hobbit, was taking a long weekend off. He told me to keep the patch on until I came into his office Tuesday.

Tuesday came and as he was about to remove the patch I asked, “Will I lose any peripheral vision this time?” He assured me I wouldn’t. The patch came off and I could see – nothing. Couldn’t see a damned thing. Blackness, and more blackness. Without examining my eye he told me to give it a couple of days. I suggested he look in my eye to see if something was wrong. He assured me he didn’t have to. Uh-huh. It was no better the next day or the day after that. By Friday I insisted that he take a look and he did. His examination found the retina had come completely detached and it was too late to do anything about it.

The fact was, I could accept all of this. A little vision was much better than no vision, which is where I would have been had this all happened to me 10 years earlier. It was just the attitude of the doctor that got to me. I could go on much longer about him but I won’t. Suffice it to say he’s still in practice in the Chicago area.

My ex-girlfriend actually showed up later that day. I was sitting on the front porch, admittedly feeling a bit sorry for myself when she pulled up. By now I was well over her but I was intrigued by why she was coming by. She told me she wanted me to come to her wedding. When I stopped laughing I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not wish to partake in the nuptials. She told me I was immature and stormed away.

Perhaps I was. But it was at that moment that I smiled because I knew how lucky I was just to be able to see her driving away.

Hurricane Irene Report

Thought I'd give you my first hand report of how things look during Hurricane Irene.

The Waiting IS the Hardest Part

by David Goldman

Back in December when I first found out my transplanted kidney had failed, one of the first things I did was let all of my friends and family know what was going on. I told them that I was starting dialysis and the only “cure” was another kidney transplant. The number of people who said they wanted to donate overwhelmed me. At times, I was left almost speechless. Organ donation is clearly one of the most selfless things a person can do, but it’s not like donating old clothes to charity. It’s real, knocked-out cold surgery that always carries risks. But about half a dozen people volunteered to donate and took the steps to follow through. Out of those people, my transplant center tested for the best available match through a process of blood and physical testing.

Once the best match was selected, she had to go through medical testing to make sure she was a good surgical candidate and of course, to make sure her kidneys were working properly. There was one little hitch in her workup that meant she had to wait three months and have the test redone. That was at the end of May, so she’ll be getting tested sometime at the end of August or beginning of September. If that test is normal, they’ll schedule the surgery.

I’ve been doing really fine on dialysis. It’s certainly a pain in the butt (figuratively, not literally), but I feel pretty good, which is a lot more than many dialysis patients can say. But I’ve got to admit, I’m really wishing we could get this thing done.

It’s not so much that things are bad the way they are now. Giving up a few hours, three days a week isn’t ideal but it isn’t horrible. I have to be on a diet that pretty much eliminates all foods that have flavor but come on, these days which of us isn’t on some form of that diet? The hardest thing about all of this is the waiting.

And waiting.

I’ve always been a bad at waiting. When I want something, I want it now and can’t and don’t want to wait to get it. When I was a kid I couldn’t wait for my birthday to get my present. I would scour all the hiding places in the house until I found it just for the satisfaction of knowing what it would be. I really haven’t changed in that regard. Now, waiting for my transplant is like waiting for that cool new toy. Plus, since I’ve known I was going to need a transplant it always seemed like it was just around the corner. First I had to schedule my testing at the transplant center. I was hoping that I’d go in, everything would be peachy, and they’d give me the go ahead. My transplant coordinator told me that almost never happens. Still, I hoped and thought that it was going to happen for me. After three days of being poked, prodded, and peered at, my coordinator said everything looked pretty good. The problem was, she doesn’t make the decision. The transplant docs do, and after going over my results they had just one little thing that needing checking. After that turned out to be nothing that would threaten the surgery, they wanted one more thing investigated, and so on and so forth. The whole time I was thinking they’re going to find this was really nothing and then they’ll schedule the transplant. Then, once I was cleared it was a similar situation for my donor.

Would I have been happier if they told me right off the bat the transplant wouldn’t take place for at least nine months? I really don’t know. The anticipation of having it done in the immediate future kept me going and kept my spirits up. Then again, having it constantly pushed back gets old really fast.

It’s been good that the weather has been nice for the last few months. Being cooped up in the house filled with anticipation makes it tougher still. Cabin fever is bad enough but it’s worse when you’ve got that carrot dangling in front of you because as many steps as you take forward, it keeps moving further away. And now that I think about it, when I found out at the end of May that it was going to be another three months until we knew anything, I did feel better in a way. At least I knew it wasn’t happening for a finite amount of time and it allowed me to enjoy my time a bit more. It’s actually been a really good summer!

So, while I’m waiting through what I hope is the home stretch, keep your fingers crossed for the hope that in a few weeks I’ll be able to write a post and say, “Finally! My transplant is scheduled for…”

Flying Lettuce and Other Mishaps

By Roberta Durra

My ex-husband and I weren’t officially divorced. That would happen a few years after paying each of our lawyers enough money to move up several tax brackets. Eventually, we’d fire them and file for divorce at the “Legal Grind”, a coffee shop that offered coffee, donuts and divorce. At this time we were separated with restraining orders. Ex, had a new girlfriend, Audrey, and I had a new boyfriend. We were all too old to be each other’s girlfriend or boyfriend, so I think we referred to our partners as, partners. At this point in the evolutionary scale of learning about myself, I didn’t completely understand that the root of my problems came from my inability to say NO. Never wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings, I rarely did what was best for me.

I’d never met Audrey so I found it peculiar when she called to invite me and my partner to her Hanukah party. In an overly friendly manner I quickly answered, “I’d love to come”, while thinking I’d rather suck eggs. Had I been honest I would have said, “Audrey, it’s been really nasty between me and Ex and I think we’d both rather swim in shark infested waters dressed as wounded dolphins than spend an evening together at a Hanukah party”. But I was a people pleaser by nature. I didn’t want to appear rude and most importantly, didn’t want to disappoint my seven year old son who had been disappointed enough.

In the back of my mind I was intrigued by the idea of blended families. Audrey, her ex-husband, and his new wife would be there. Maybe we’d all bond at this Hanukah celebration amidst dreidels and chocolate coins. I ignored the voice that told me angry ex-spouses and fried potato latkes don’t mix. But I couldn’t say no. In fact, I offered to bring some food.

I asked my boyfriend/partner if he’d come with us to Audrey’s party. He had no problem answering,

“NO”

He knew what he did and didn’t want to put himself through. I did not.

Before going to Audrey’s party I tried to stop thinking of her as “Audrey 2”, the man-eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I didn’t want to slip and call her that. Unless I had to.

I spent the next week thinking about what food to bring to the party to impress the girlfriend of the man I hated. I decided on a big salad with elaborate fixings. That, I thought, would show her and her extended-blended family what a good cook I was.

As the time neared for my son and I to leave for the party, I had not grocery shopped, showered or dressed. Instead, I sat on the couch thinking of excuses that would sound legitimate when I called Audrey 2, to cancel. Telling my son we weren’t going to the party, and watching the tears well up in his eyes prompted me to splash water on my face, get dressed and get us both out the door and headed to the party. I’m most comfortable wearing jeans and a t-shirt. That night I wore a black dress and high heels that pinched my feet the minute I put them on.

My son and I stopped at the market to pick up a salad from the salad bar. The salad bar was closed.

           

            “Can’t we bring popsicles?” my son suggested.

           

            “Not tonight honey. It’s Hanukah,” I said, hoping he’d stop talking.

I ran awkwardly down the grocery aisles, my feet throbbing and heels click-clacking on the market floor. I pulled bags of lettuce off the shelf as though they were giving it away for free. Next, I ran to get canned Parmesan cheese - the kind I never buy. I grabbed an expensive ceramic, ovenproof baking dish and high-tailed it, click, clack, to the checkout line with my son trailing behind.

While we drove to Audrey 2’s house, my son bit-open the bags of lettuce. As he spit out the plastic I said, “Let me see the dish”. It was covered with a layer of dust. Parked near Audrey 2’s house, fifty minutes late for the party, I cleaned the baking dish with crumbled newspaper from the floor of my car. With a look of disdain I thought not possible for a seven year old, my son asked, “Isn’t that dirty?”  Not answering I pierced open the Parmesan cheese with my car key and doused the lettuce in cheesy powder. “Let’s go”, I said, and we ran down the street to Audrey 2’s house.

While running, lettuce pieces flew out in all directions from the uncovered dish. My son picked up the lettuce and based on the five-second rule, put the lettuce pieces back in the casserole dish. Standing outside Audrey’s house, looking at the bowl of dirty lettuce, it suddenly hit me. I didn’t want to spend time with these people. I wasn’t ready to blend. I had no idea how I was going to fake goodwill toward Ex. I certainly knew I wasn’t doing my son any favors modeling a lunatic for him. Then clear as a bell, I knew that next time I’d just say NO! Easy as that. I guess some people have to run down the street in heels with dirty lettuce flying in all directions, to learn that lesson. I took a deep breath, put my free arm around my son and knocked on Audrey 2’s front door.

            “Happy Hanukah”, my son and I said in unison as she opened the door.

            “Welcome”, she said, as she took the salad. “What a nice salad. You shouldn’t have.”

The party turned out to be pleasant. I nodded a quick hello toward Ex while he sat playing piano. I think he nodded in return, but was probably nodding his head to the beat. Audrey 2 had nice friends and we talked standard party talk until Audrey offered to take me on a private tour of her home. When we reached the bedroom I meaningfully put my hand on her arm and shook my head from side to side. Suddenly channeling my grandmother, I said, referring to Ex…

           

            “Audrey, Audrey, Audrey. WHY a musician?”

            And she replied, “Because I’M a musician. My ex-husband is a musician. And all of my friends are musicians."   

Fair enough.

I wasn’t invited back to the next Hanukah party. In fact, I can’t remember if Ex and Audrey actually made it to the next Hanukah together. There have been lots more Audrey’s who have come and gone. One special woman became a friend, and my son and I recently attended her wedding. Ex and I are pleasant to each other and the best news yet is, I occasionally flat-out say, NO. Oh, and I’ve stopped bringing dirty lettuce to parties.

When I’m not running late.

Play Ball!

by David Goldman

As I’ve said before, I had a pretty normal childhood. My diabetes was never treated or perceived as an anchor by myself or my family. It seems like my summer days used to be spent outside playing ball and hanging out with friends. I know it wasn’t this way, but it sure seems like those days were always sunny, 80°, and light till 10:30 at night.

My friends and I used to have a great time. For a few years I went to day camp with a couple of them. Camp was fun, but we always were forced to do the prescribed activities such as arts and crafts, playing board games and watching movies on the rainy days. Don’t get me wrong. These things were all fine, but at that age all I wanted to do was play baseball or any other outdoor sport. Swimming was good, but somewhat tainted by the fact that we had to have lessons rather than just a free swim. Those free swim days were always a bonus. I’m sure the counselors thought the same. After all, that gave them time to sneak away and have a cigarette.

But it was after my summer camp days that formed my most everlasting memories of summer. In the spring of 1965 I was going to be entering fifth grade. Early that summer we discovered a little sand and gravel covered lot that was attached to a school in the neighborhood just west of ours. This little school was the Henry David Thoreau School. It was very small. We were never in it, but it appeared to have two, maybe three classrooms. The schoolyard, the sand and gravel filled lot, was also pretty small. It was a rectangle measuring maybe 100 feet wide by 200 feet long. One end had a strip of concrete on the ground and the rest of the lot was filled with the sandy, gravely mixture. There was nothing else in there. Just this open space. It was just perfect for a bunch of boys looking for a place to play ball.

It feels like we played baseball in that lot every single day. We didn’t have enough guys to play a regular baseball game. There were usually about 10 or 12 of us. So, we improvised. First, we’d choose teams. Two guys were arbitrarily named captain and they’d alternate choosing one player at a time for their team. The game was called Shortstop Out. We didn’t play with a regular baseball. We played with a spongy rubber ball the size of a baseball. They cost a dime and they’d last through a couple of games if no one hit it on a roof. There was no pitcher. You stood on the concrete strip and tossed the ball up in front of yourself and swung. If you missed, you were out. If you put it into play, you had to get to first before the ball got to the shortstop, wherever he happened to be standing.

It was a simple game and we played it for days and hours on end. We got to the point where we felt good enough to challenge the 6^th graders who had to be introduced to the game. Back then, a year’s difference in age could’ve been equal to ten years. It seemed as if all the kids knew their place. You didn’t hang out with anyone older or younger than you. That was just how it was. But the 6^th graders accepted our challenge, assuming they would crush us because after all, they were the 6^th graders.

It didn’t go according to their plan though. We knew that lot like the backs of our hands. We knew just where to hit the ball to make it take a crazy bounce and our fielding was really good by that time. I don’t remember the score, but we won. It was humiliating for the older kids so naturally, they challenged us to another game the next day. We accepted and beat them that game too.

We had a great time playing ball that summer. It got to the point where we didn’t even make any arrangements. We’d all just get up in the mornings, hop on our bikes and ride over. At lunchtime we’d take a break and ride our bikes back home. As soon as we had gobbled down our sandwiches we were headed back.

I’m writing this because today is one of those days. Everything about it reminds me of those times that have become such a part of me. I can walk outside and “feel” exactly what those days felt like. If I take a moment I can even smell the memories – the smell of the bat, the ball, and the air around us. I can even see everything as I did then, out of two eyes. I can hear the guys trying to intimidate the batter with the drone of the  street traffic in the background. It only lasts a few seconds but it’s all there, all around me. For a brief moment I’m back there again. It’s truly like stepping back in time. I suppose those days were so enjoyable that I retained not only the details of what went on, but the atmosphere that came along with them.

I can only hope our generation’s children have memories like these -- memories that can carry them through a lifetime.

A Slight Addiction

By Roberta Durra

Is anyone addicted to checking email? Come on. You can admit it. Will it help if I go first? O.K. I have a bit of a problem with the number of times I check my email. Oh, you want a more formal, heartfelt confession? All right, I am Roberta and I’m an email addict. Ouch, that hurt. But it’s true. I do it constantly, and I am not even looking for anything important. It’s not like I’ve got to run to the computer and get the email Barack just sent over regarding the debt ceiling. I am not expecting to read that HGTV has awarded me with my dream house, nor am I expecting an invitation to join the cast of Dancing With The Stars. I just like to read the occasional email sent by a friend. But my checking obsession has gotten so out of control that  I can barely finish…wait, a minute, I’ll be right back.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I can barely finish a thought without running to the computer. By the way, while writing this paragraph I’ve checked my email three times.

The thing is, email is about connection.  It brings friends, relatives, and spam together. Shooting off an email makes it easy to have connection while putting in little effort. I can whip off a quick hello, how are ya, and feel like I am back in touch with a long lost friend, or feel current with someone I speak with frequently. So I send out my little message and then tag, you’re it. Now all I have to do is check my email once every 15 seconds for your response.

I think electronic communication has gotten pretty much out of hand. I have friends who I’m sure are both checking and reading emails while we’re talking on the phone. I can tell by their distracted and disjointed answers to questions like….

Me: Did you like the movie you saw last night?

Friend: The….(long pause)….spaghetti…(pause)...I made was delicious.

I bet some people even answer emails mid-conversation. Even if the message clearly isn’t important and can wait until later.

Sorry, I just had to shoot off an email telling someone something. What were we discussing? Yeah, constantly using and checking one’s email is definitely disruptive. I bet Miss Manners would say it is impolite and ill-mannered to send out emails while doing other things, such as making love, attending a parent/teacher conference, or meditating at an ashram. Doing so makes you seem like you’re not really interested in the present moment. And here’s a news flash. You’re not fooling anyone. It is virtually impossible to hide the click-click sound of the keyboard. I, for one, am not tricked. I can tell when my friends are talking and typing on the phone. It’s not like the occasional pee you slip in when you’re talking and really have to go. This can be easily done with your phone friend being none the wiser.  You just do your business and then be certain not to flush. But typing while talking, that’s a hard one to conceal. Am I supposed to believe the clicking noise I hear is your denture?

On the pro side of obsessive email check, I guess it can qualify as an aerobic exercise if you’re constantly running to a computer in another room. Also, I read daily how important it is to keep the brain occupied as we age, so here obsessive checking is a win-win. And I offer this in all sincerity, if anyone actually wants a penis enlargement, checking their email frequently allows them to have this information at their fingertips.

It’s gotten to the point where I have to lie about my problem. Say, I’m in the middle of dinner and the urge hit’s to check my email. I suddenly feel as if I can’t finish my half-eaten burrito because I must know NOW if my friend has sent me the 5% off admission to the 2012 Boogaloo Revival Concert in Whitehall, New York. It would be both odd and rude to ditch my family at the dinner table and jog upstairs to the computer. Instead, I say something like, “I’ll be right back. I think I left the iron on.” This works like a charm. They don’t have an inkling that I haven’t plugged in an iron for some 20 odd years.

There is much more to say on the subject. It is definitely worth further exploration.  And I will do that in just a moment… First I have to check the iron.

This One's Gonna be Tough

by David Goldman

So, it has been two days since my minor surgery and I’m doing fine. My arm’s a little sore but not too bad. Yesterday at dialysis, all the dialysis nurses and techs were saying how beautiful my fistula was . To each, their own I guess. To me, it looks like a gigantic worm crawled just beneath the surface of my skin inside of my right elbow. On a disgusting scale of one to ten, I’d personally give it a six, maybe a seven. To be honest, if I was eating in a restaurant and someone came and sat across from me and had a scar that looked like this, I’d stop eating. Then again, I can’t even stomach it when I’m eating and someone is blowing their nose nearby.

Overall though, everything went very smoothly. There are always a few dos and don’ts and caveats they tell you about after the procedure because they don’t want to scare you too much beforehand. For example, when I had my pancreas transplant I found out two hours before the surgery that I was going to need a Foley catheter inserted up Lil’ Davey and kept there for three weeks after I got home. When I asked why nobody told me about this earlier, the nurse said, “Because you would have been dwelling on it for the entire time you were waiting, and when it came right down to it, you wouldn’t refuse the transplant because of it, right?” She was right. All I would have thought of was that damned hose sticking out of me, and while I dreaded the thought, it wouldn’t be enough for me to turn down the opportunity to no longer be a diabetic.

So I’ve learned that doctors and nurses strategically leave out certain key bits of information before surgery. I’m sure if you’d think to ask them a specific question they’d answer it honestly. On the other hand, they must not believe that lying by omission is actually lying. Ever since my pancreas transplant though, I have asked if a Foley catheter will be involved no matter what I’m going in for. You’d be surprised how often they enter the arena, so to speak.

This was a minor surgery though and I assumed any strategically omitted information would also be minor. And I was right. After surgery they told me a few things that I had to watch out for or could no longer do. I have to check my pulse in the fistula twice a day. Not really a big deal. I also can’t ever have blood drawn from the arm with the fistula. Again, I just have to remember it. It doesn’t seem like it will inconvenience me in any way. Another rule is that I can no longer sleep on my right side. It’s my right arm that has the fistula. This is a bit of a bummer because I do often sleep on that side. Oh well, I’ll manage to live without the comfort of that position.

Then, they hit me with a right hook that I never saw coming. “Oh, and you can no longer wear your watch on that arm.”

            “WHAT?! You’re kidding me right?” I asked in stunned disbelief.

            “No, you can’t take the chance that the watch will slide up your arm and constrict the blood flow,” I was told.

            “And how long does this last for?” I asked, although I was afraid I knew what was coming.

            “Well … forever,” was the brutally cold response.

This may not seem like a big deal to you upon first hearing it, but trust me. It’s a big deal! Forgive me if I offend you, but the closest analogy I can draw to this is being told that you have to wipe your butt with the opposite hand for the rest of your life. It’s completely unnatural! You’ve spent your entire life doing certain things, certain ways until they become little software programs that your mind runs automatically. They’re almost like breathing. You don’t even think about them. Wearing a watch on a particular hand is one of these behaviors. From the way you clasp or cinch it to your wrist, to the way it doesn’t even feel like you’re wearing it. There is the finely tuned synchronization of eyes and wrist melding into a mini-ballet of subtle, graceful movement when you look to check the time. It’s a dance I’ve done to a particular rhythm my entire life, and now I have to learn to do it all backwards?

I tried finding a  an error in their logic. Anything so I could continue wearing my watch the way I always have. But, it was to no avail. I told them I would trade them wearing a Foley catheter for a month if they would just let me wear my watch on my right arm. “No,” was all they said as they pried it from my wrist. I was defeated.

It’s been just over three full days now that I’ve been wearing my watch on the left arm. The whole situation is just wrong. Whereas I never felt the watch on my right arm, it now feels like a 20 lb. weight hanging from my wrist. Trying to read the time is something I now have to think out in advance – turn your head to the left, look down while bringing your left wrist up and slightly twist the wrist towards you. It never works. My eyes either get there too early or too late and when my arm comes up, the face of the watch has somehow twisted to the side of my wrist facing away from me. Putting it on and taking it off are like watching moments from the Theater of the Absurd. Everything about it is foreign and clumsy.

I’ve been told not to use a watch if I find it so awkward. “Young people don’t use them anymore.” I know. I’ve seen the trend over recent years that has those under 30 using their cell phones as timepieces. I thought about it, but I hate the thought of digging into my pocket, pulling out the phone, and pressing the button, just to see the time. Yes, I’m probably being overly dramatic, but it’s tough having to replace a small piece of my lifestyle that worked like, well… clockwork.

Maybe I can start the comeback of the pocket watch.

My Man Todd

by Roberta Durra

I have fallen in love with a new man. I met him in Seattle while touring colleges with my son and he has been travelling with us ever since. We both took an immediate liking to him, which is unusual, and agreed that having him around makes our life easier. Todd is a great traveler and he seems to know his way around everywhere. I can’t begin to tell you what a tremendous asset he has been on this trip. He is calm and steady by nature, very flexible, and almost impossible to rattle. I don't know much about Todd's background. He is very mysterious. What I DO know is that he has a soothing voice, like a Shakespearean actor or a radio announcer. We bought him in an Apple vending machine at a Macy’s in downtown Seattle.  Yes, Todd, the name we’ve assigned to the voice of our Garmin GPS unit has been a godsend.

The voice of Todd did not come on board immediately. In fact, our man voice was not our first voice choice. When we first set up the GPS we picked the voice of an American woman. We spent one day taking directions from this Bossy Betty and both agreed she had to go. After giving her the boot we programmed in the voice of Todd. He didn't come with the name. This evolved organically and like naming a dog or a child, we both knew it was the right name the moment my son said it.  We both like Todd's voice, but the one thing we would change if we could, would be to make Todd British. Who wouldn't want Jeeves directing them on vacation?

This may all seem mundane. However, I have not had a talking GPS before. Actually, I do have a GPS in my car at home, but I haven't figured out how to activate the voice. There aren't many times I really need a GPS in Los Angeles.But travelling by car in an unfamiliar city is a GPS of another color. My son asked me the other day, in all seriousness, how we ever navigated pre-GPS. I looked at my 21st century boy, who has never dialed a rotary phone, watched a black and white TV, nor used a phone booth, and said, "DUH, maps" I immediately flashed upon myself in the passenger seat wearing reading glasses, totally frustrated with a large, unfolded, crumpled map in my lap, trying to figure out if we should turn right or left, and suddenly found his question quite valid. How DID we navigate before we had the luxury of "Todd"?

Like any relationship, there is bound to come a time when the honeymoon ends. Today my honeymoon with Todd came to a crashing halt. My son and I were driving to an early morning college tour in Portland, when the combination of too little sleep, no coffee, and non-stop 24/7 togetherness for days on end made us both quite irritable. We started arguing about whether or not he was driving too close to the car ahead. I don't know about you, but whenever I find myself in the unfortunate position of being the third wheel around people who are not getting along, I keep my mouth shut. But not Todd. He seemed utterly oblivious of the tension in the car and kept interjecting his thoughts.

"In point seven miles, turn left at Center Avenue." Thanks, Todd.

My son and I continued heatedly voicing our differing opinions about driving, back seat drivers, and how he finds it jarring when I slam on an imaginary break while sitting in the passenger seat. With each sentence our voices and tempers raised considerably. I was in the middle of pointing out that I had been a perfectly calm passenger the entire trip and he should cut me some slack, when Todd rudely interrupted by chirping,

"In point two miles keep left and take exit 302 B. Then turn right".

ARE YOU KIDDING ME, TODD? Do you not have a clue?  My son, who at this point is white knuckling the steering wheel, completely ignores both Todd and me. This eggs me on further and Todd has the unmitigated gall to RECALCULATE.

"Recalculating, in point four miles, turn right on Holiday Avenue".

This guy is out of control. He's got the manners of a toddler who’s overdosed on Sugar Pops.  Was he born in a barn? We are having a family meltdown and all he cares about are directions. When at long last we finally arrive at the college, my son and I make peace, but Todd is fed-up. He also sounds exhausted. I think the pressure finally got to him. We didn't use him on the way back, and I'm not sure I want to use him again at all. In fact, call me crazy, but I'm considering buying a map.

One More Minor Surgery

by David Goldman

It’s time again. It seems like I can never go too long without some type of surgery penciled in on my calendar. I’ve honestly come to regard surgery as an irregular, but consistent part of my life. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had – eye surgeries, transplants, and surgery to remove a tool left in me during another surgery, to name just a few. I’ve gotten to the point where, when the doctor tells me they’re going to be giving me the anesthetic, I try my hardest to stay awake just to see how long I can. My record, based on me counting, is seven seconds. Tomorrow’s surgery is a little bit different though because it is not fixing anything that needs to be fixed and it is something I hope I’ll never have to use as intended. I’m having a fistula put into my arm.

A fistula is something that occurs naturally but it is also something that’s done intentionally to many dialysis patients. In this case, what’s done is a vein and an artery in the arm are both cut and then fused together forming a loop. It’s normally done through vessels that have a relatively high blood flow. As this junction heals, it grows very large and thick, allowing an exceedingly high blood flow. Because it’s close to the surface of the skin, it offers an ideal spot for blood to exit and re-enter the body for the dialyzing procedure.

Currently, the dialysis machine is connected to me via a chest port. This consists of two tubes that come out of my right chest and on the interior, lead straight into my heart. This system has been working fine. However, my best prospect as a kidney donor and subsequent transplant found out at the end of May that she’d have to wait three months to redo a test to see if she is an eligible donor. When my doctor found this out she decided it was time to switch me over to a fistula. Without going into too much detail, she said that the current system I have is never meant to be permanent or long term because it puts the patient at high risk for infection. Seeing as the tubes lead straight to the heart, she said that if an infection comes in, it will immediately go to the heart and if I survived, I’d never be eligible for a transplant. Enough said! She then gave me the option of doing it or not. I don’t know about you, but when a doctor you trust says, “If you survive” it’s an attention grabber.

Given the way the medical system normally works, it took a few weeks to get an appointment with the vascular surgeon who performs this procedure, and a few more weeks for it to be scheduled for surgery. The surgery itself is a pretty minor, outpatient affair. It’s done under what they now call, a twilight anesthetic. This concept fascinates me because you’re awake and able to communicate throughout the operation, but when the drug wears off you have no memory of what happened. Given that you’re conscious, I always wonder if it hurts while the cutting’s being done. I’ve had several surgeries done this way and everything’s been fine. One minute you’re in the operating room and the next, you’re in recovery with no recollection of the time between. I’ve got to remember to ask this time if my alter-ego, who’s awake and talking during the procedure, said it hurt.

I mentioned that I was hoping to never use this fistula. It’s because the healing process, which is which is also a “ripening” process, takes a good eight to twelve weeks to get to the point where it’s usable for dialysis. The fistula has to grow as it’s healing and has to get to a certain size before it can accommodate dialysis.

My hope is that I will have this done, and in the eight to twelve weeks I’m waiting for it to become useful, my potential donor will be cleared and I’ll have had the surgery I really want to have – my kidney transplant. Keep your fingers crossed!