Musician Alert

by Roberta Durra

Let me start by saying I believe most male musicians are attractive, rebellious, talented guys. But even if they aren’t all of the above, or they happen to be toads with warts the size of New Jersey, once they pick up a musical instrument they are instantly transformed into alluring, interesting, desirable song-gods. And those giant warts I mentioned, only add to the mystique.

These guitar pickers, piano players, bass pluckers and drum bangers make supermodels swoon, cause A-list actresses to drop their careers like hot potatoes, and make smart, everyday women fill the left side of their brains with romantic notions of midnight serenades and mega-hits written just for them. But these guys are a dangerous breed, some of whom have won over the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Aniston and Pamela Anderson. They are a charismatic bunch who can charm the dirt off a pig.

It’s best to stay away from these guys entirely. But first you’ve got to be able to recognize a musician. You’re safe if you are outdoors any time before 4 pm. Historically speaking; musicians have rarely seen the light of day. But after 4 pm, when they stumble out of bed and on to the streets, it’s every woman for herself. When they are not performing, musicians can easily be mistaken for homeless transients or Nick Nolte. When you’re walking down the street and you notice an awkward man with longish hair, a slouchy gate and a rebel’s look in his eye humming loudly to himself, RUN…OR THROW YOURSELF INTO THE NEAREST VESITBULE!! HE’S A MUSICIAN. Additionally, if you’re in your car at a stoplight and a guy pulls up next to you in a beater with music blasting, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel or wildly keeping the beat with imaginary drumsticks, scream, “DRUMMER!!!” and floor your car through the red light. No cop in his right mind will ticket you for this.

If for some reason you succumb to the spell of a melody man, there are universal truths you should know.

1. You will never again have a real date on New Year’s Eve. If kissing your honey Dec.31^st at midnight is a priority, you can kiss that notion goodbye the minute you start dating a musician. At midnight on New Years Eve, any musician worth his salt is either playing for a stadium filled with screaming fans, or dressed in a tuxedo playing Auld Lang Syne in a hotel bar. Either way they are watching other couples dance and kiss, while you are alone wishing you hadn’t dumped the accountant.

2. Once you marry a musician, you will spend more time with your girlfriends than you ever thought possible. You will be going with girlfriends to parties, family get-togethers, potluck dinners, birthday celebrations, museums, movies and plays because your honey has a gig. If you happen to purchase theater tickets a year in advance, giving your musical hubby plenty of lead-time, KNOW that as you leave for the theater your husband will get a last minute call to  “sub” that night for a musician gone AWOL. Musicians cannot say no to anything, particularly a paying job. This is exactly why we often see angry women in front of the theater selling single tickets.

 

3. You will forever be translating your musician’s language. Even if he is born and raised in Middle America, if he’s musical, he speaks a different language. Be prepared to constantly explain to family and friends what your fella means when he says, “gig, riff, lick, set, bread”. The list goes on.

4. You will share your main man with his adoring fans. Hopefully you are one of the few who really believes, “What’s mine is yours”. Because you will be sharing what’s yours with lots of young, single, women with ample cleavage poured into skimpy dresses. They will “LOVE” your guy unconditionally after hearing him play on stage for 45 minutes. It won’t matter that in reality your guy is a total slob who hasn’t washed a dish (or his jeans) in a decade.

5. If you have children with a musician, you will find yourself very confused. You may know for a fact that you have only given birth once, but it will seem that there are many more children in the house. This is because musicians really ARE children who haven’t grown up. They always have their friends come over to play music and they always make a mess. On the plus side, if you’re teetering on whether or not you’re the type to raise children, live with a musician first. You’ll get all the info you need.

So if you desire a mate with a steady paycheck, reasonable work hours, and the availability to accompany you to movie theaters on weekend nights, walk away from the concert after-party…walk directly AWAY. Find the inner beauty in computer geeks, bus drivers or exterminators.  Give serious consideration to salesmen, phone solicitors and/or desk clerks. But if you ever notice any of them tapping their fingers to an inner beat, singing just a little bit too enthusiastically along with the car radio, don’t stick around and second-guess yourself. Run like the wind!

Young Love

by David Goldman

My wife Debbie and I started dating in 1981. We had known each other for about eight years at that point but were just friends. Her high school friends were my college friends. I think she knew I was a diabetic. This was also the time when my eyes were getting pretty bad due to diabetic complications and nighttime driving was becoming very difficult. Me being a stupid, testosterone-laden male, made it difficult to admit I couldn’t drive anymore. But Debbie didn’t seem to mind handling the driving responsibilities so I almost never drove at night. Other than that, I’m not sure how much she knew about diabetes and specifically, insulin reactions. 

She found out quickly though.

The first time I stayed at her place (no, we weren’t married yet, so feel free to gasp with disapproval) I woke up in the middle of the night and was having an insulin reaction. She asked me what was wrong and I gave her the quick explanation and told her I needed to eat something sweet. We went to the refrigerator and other than ketchup, the only thing in there was a single yogurt cup. I asked if I could eat it and she said it was her roommate’s but I should go ahead and eat it, which I did and it worked. I felt better.

Unfortunately, her roommate wasn’t as generous with her lonely yogurt as Debbie was. She had a fit. It was full of yelling and swearing primarily at me but Debbie certainly caught some flak as well. I explained to her that it really was a medical emergency but I guess needing a yogurt to immediately relieve a dire medical condition just wasn’t on her radar. I promised her I’d replace the yogurt that morning – with a few to spare I might add! But she never forgave me for it. Some people are just a bit too tightly wound.

A short time later I invited Debbie over for dinner. I had it all planned. I was going to wine and dine her just like in the movies. I had the menu prepared, candles, the works. I figured this would be a good way for me to show her that I really cared for her. I would do all of the preparation, the cooking and cleanup while she would sit back and be astounded by my culinary talents. 

Unfortunately, this was also the beginning of the point in my life where I didn't recognize the symptoms that typically occurred when I was having an insulin reaction. It’s a pretty common occurrence for someone who's been a juvenile diabetic for twenty or more years and has had many insulin reactions. Your body doesn't sense the weakness, confusion, or other symptoms while they are taking place and the blood sugar level continues to drop since the hypoglycemic state isn't being treated. Left untreated, it eventually causes unconsciousness and potentially much worse damage.

So, here I was preparing this meal to impress my girlfriend and I thought I was doing pretty well. I wasn't. At some point while I was in the kitchen, she came in and said, “Are you having a problem?”

My response was, and it made perfect sense to me at the time, “Yeah, I can’t read this package.” I was staring at a package of rice and apparently had been doing so for quite some time trying to figure something out. Debbie told me that I looked tired and said I should go lie down and she would take over.

“No, I’m fine. Really!”

“What does the package say?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to read.”

She insisted I vacate the kitchen and rest. She thought that I couldn’t see the package because of my vision. My problem was that I really couldn’t read it. I stared at the box but the letters just wouldn’t translate to words. I lied down on the bed and that was it.

The next thing I knew a paramedic was loudly saying my name. Initially, he sounded like he was calling me from a dream somewhere in a deep crevasse of my brain. The voice got more and more insistent that I wake up. Grudgingly, I opened my eyes and there he was – a paramedic with a Glucagon injector in his hand. Glucagon is a highly concentrated glucose mixture in an injectable form. It’s something most diabetics and paramedics have around at all times. I had it available. I just wasn’t in any state to know, or be able to use it.

Within a few minutes, I was feeling pretty good. My blood sugar level was coming back up into the readable range. When the paramedic first arrived, Debbie told him that I was a diabetic so one of the first things he did was check my blood sugar. That first time it was too low to read and his meter was readable down to 20. Normal is between 70 and 100. Anything below 60 is dangerous territory. Needless to say, if I had been alone I probably wouldn’t have come out of it. One the other hand, a simple sugar boost, kind of like a glucose espresso, took care of my symptoms within a few short minutes.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the beginning of a truly problematic period in my life. I was losing the ability to feel these reactions coming on.  Unknowingly, I started  putting myself and others into  dangerous, even life-threatening situations. I couldn’t feel reactions coming on and at that point in time, home blood sugar monitoring meters were still a few years away. Consequently, I couldn’t check my blood sugar to see if I was okay to get behind the wheel of the car, I often didn’t realize how low my blood sugar was. I could be driving in a condition more dangerous than driving an automobile while over the legal alcohol limit. It wouldn’t even seem that unusual for me to get lost coming home from work and couldn’t even figure out where I was when I was in my own neighborhood. 

None of this fazed Debbie though. She learned all the ins and outs of diabetes, and all of its effects. Despite them all she stuck with me. Not an easy thing to do.

The day Debbie and I were applying for our marriage license we had to have blood tests done. Back then it was the law. My results showed I had kidney disease and would soon be in ESRD (end stage renal disease) or complete kidney failure. This was not a great thing to learn about your soon to be husband when you’re only 26 years old. 

But she stuck with me and committed to spending her life knowing she would have challenges because of my diabetes. She is a very special person. We have spent the last 30 years working together as a team. It’s been easy for us to stay together. Maybe the adversities made our bond stronger. I was very fortunate. I married a loving, caring, wonderful woman who understands facing challenges. And I know if she has to, she’ll share her yogurt.

At Long Last, ZUMBA!

By Roberta Durra 

For as long as I can remember, exercise and I have had a patchy relationship. Sometimes we are as close as giggly grade school girls who can’t live without each other. Other times life gets in the way. We have better things to do and we don’t get together for months. When I was younger, this on and off relationship worked well. Back in the day, I could completely ignore my dear friend for months on end and then easily jump back on the proverbial horse, no harm -- no foul. But now when exercise and I do not rendezvous regularly, we grow deeply distant and find reconnecting awkward, uncomfortable and dare I say…dangerous.

So it suddenly dawned on me, I have to make a change. I cannot treat exercise like a stranger and expect to keep up with the Kardashians. I have to make a commitment to make a commitment to exercise. Sadly, inertia does not age well.  I have to come to grips with the fact that when I sit on my butt for long periods of time and then suddenly decide to ride 25 miles on my bike, I pay a steep price in cold packs, Advil and arnica.

So I went hunting for the perfect exercise… for me. I don’t have a sport I love. I don’t have an exercise that I haven’t grown tired of. My elliptical machine is in my friend’s garage now. This is after its stint in my bedroom as a comforter frame, and in my backyard as a solid place to lean garden tools. I had a very thick hula-hoop that was fun for a while. It had deep indentations and was supposed to help trim your waistline. It made my waist black and blue. It too, is now in my friend’s garage. I have an endless collection of walking tapes that I’ve marched to, and tried to stick with. The problem is listening to the same direction, the same jokes, the same music, with the same cuteness. makes me want to attack my television with a walking stick. This would burn a lot of calories, but I’m sure I would regret it. So where do I go from here? What will keep my interest, be athletically challenging, make me sweat and teach me moves like Beyoncé? Why Zumba, of course!

 

Developed and marketed by 3 men named Alberto, Zumba is a dance experience that features “exotic rhythms set to high-energy Latin and international beats”. Zumba is a wild and crazy dancercise experience. While they make no claims of weight loss, it seems physically impossible to jump around like a banshee for an hour and not burn something. And all you have to do is follow the steps of your Zumba instructor, who in my case looks young enough to be my great granddaughter, and clearly has hip hopped since she was in vitro. This girl-child has moves that could make Jennifer Lopez weep.  And she’s teaching them to ME!

In Zumba class they incorporate salsa, cumbia and reggaeton. No matter if you don’t know reggaeton from a kidney stone. Just think dance moves that call upon, strong arms, bent knees, tiny steps, fast changes, quick turns, fancy footwork, and my nemesis...drumroll please…rhythm.

I’ve always thought I had rhythm. In fact I walked around living like I had the stuff until the day I glanced at myself in the mirror at Zumba class. I decided to cut myself some slack, as I was just beginning and kindly told myself not focus on my image in the mirror. There is a steep learning curve getting in the Zumba groove. I willed my feet to move with a little more bounce than the usual “running through quicksand” beat I have mastered. Unfortunately, every now and then I would see the image of an older white woman, dancing like an older white woman.  I felt really sorry for the poor gal until I realized it was ME. It was almost too hilarious to be true. Holy shit! I dance like Urkel. The only saving grace is I do not wear my Zumba pants hitched up just beneath my breasts.

 

I decided to try another Zumba studio. This time I went with my friend, the one who has adopted my elliptical machine and uses it to prop up an old mattress in her garage. She and I took to opposite ends of the room. Unknowingly, I picked the best spot, right next to the fan. Our instructor started the class by turning off the lights and turning on little green laser strobes that could definitely give me a migraine if I let them. These lights caught the reflection of the tiny coins skirts that some of the class members wrapped around their hips. Some of the women had “Zumba sticks” that are really just 2 lb. weights that sound like maracas when you shake them. To be critical, I could say that the whole scene seemed ridiculous. To be truthful, I could say that I really wanted one of those skirts and a maraca.

And then we danced. We danced with wild abandon and annoying green laser lights. There was quite the mixture of women in the class. Most of them could shake their booties with real authority. Again, I was faced with keeping the rhythm of the beat and not looking like a complete dork when I did the move that has your fingers splayed and bent in front of your chest, like a Zumba gangster. Thank you Lord, for putting enough women in front of me so I could not see my reflection as I danced to infectious African rhythms, stomping, clapping, and turning on one foot as I raised the other out of what felt like a tub of concrete. And the fan! I have never loved an electrical appliance as I did the sixteen-inch floor fan with the swing angle regulator that blew cool air on my overheated self. All in all it was a Zumba blast…fun, healthy, very sweaty and aerobic.

So Zumba and I are making a long-term promise to get together several times a week. I am pretty sure that I will never be able to shake certain parts of my body the way, say, Shakira can. But I am not going down without a fight. Exercise and I have once again reconnected.

In the words of Lady Gaga…

“Dance, dance, just, j-j-just”

OK, Lady. I shall dance, now and forever. I think I actually feel the rhythm now. It’s either that, or restless leg syndrome.

Stuff I Haven't Written

by David Goldman

Today is my turn to post something. Unfortunately, I cannot think of a thing to write. Zero. Zip. Nada. My last few posts have been pretty serious so I really want to do something light, something funny that people can smile or laugh at while reading. 

On Wednesday no ideas came to me, but I wasn’t too worried because I usually write my post the day before I put it online. I still had another day. Thursday morning I sat down at the computer. Forty five minutes later I got up from the computer with nothing written. I called Roberta to see if she had any ideas. She didn’t answer. I went back to the computer and stared at it some more. By early evening I emailed Roberta, begging for suggestions.  She wrote back with these ideas:

“Write about your dream of becoming a model coming to a crashing halt after you broke your nose in that fight you had in sixth grade.” WHAT?? I’ve never given that dream up and I still hope to hit the New York runway next season!

“Write about how you chose the name Frannie for your puppy.” Hmm, maybe. Let’s see, we adopted her from a rescue organization. They told us her name was Frannie. We thought about it and decided it fit and we liked it. End of story.

“Okay,” she said. “Write about when the cab driver in New York thought you were a boxer.” Here’s the story: I got in a cab in New York. I asked the driver to take me to Radio City Music Hall. He turned around, looked at me, and asked if I was boxing there. I guess the broken nose (see above) still had that affect fifteen years later. I said, “No, I’m not boxing” and he drove me over there anyway. Did you laugh at this story? I didn’t think so.

After a couple hours of not writing anything, taking the dogs out for their eighth walk of the day, and eating lunch, I got another email from Roberta. She told me to write about Anthony Weiner’s weiner. Uh-huh, great, cause no one’s doing that. Every time I hear Anthony Weiner’s name it reminds me of the former Cubs’ pitching coach, Dick Pole. I knew you wouldn’t believe that was his name so I linked it to Wikipedia. Yep, Dick Pole, now there’s a name. But back to Anthony Weiner. There’s really nothing I have to say, except that to kill time I researched why some people with that last name pronounce it WEE-ner and some pronounce it WHY-ner. I’d definitely go with the latter.

Now I’m desperate. Roberta keeps emailing me and asking me if I’ve put my head in the oven yet. I tell  her I would but I’ve got to walk the dogs for the twenty-second time that day. Okay, I’ve got to focus..what can I write about?? How about sophomore year in high school when I was supposed to write an essay for English class about someone I knew well and who was a mentor to me. I copied the biography of Henry David Thoreau from the encyclopedia, convinced my teacher I knew him, and got an A. No, nobody would believe it even though it’s true. By the way, THAT was honor’s English I’m proud to say.

I could write about the time my friend Brent and I were camping at the Grand Canyon. We boarded my dog Quala at the nearby kennel facility. Unfortunately for us, and for Quala, we got back after they closed so we only had one choice. We had to break in and spring my dog. And while we were at it, we switched all the other dogs around.  So, in the morning when Mr. Smith came to get Rover and the kennel worker saw on the paperwork that Rover was in run number three, he’d take the dog from three to Mr. Smith only to have Mr. Smith say that wasn’t his dog. Nah, I won’t write that. I’m not sure that the statute of limitations for breaking and entering has run out yet. 

How about New Year’s Eve 1981? A bunch of us were in San Francisco to see the Grateful Dead. We were all Deadheads and always wanted to see a New Year’s Eve show. So, we saw the concert, (which by the way, we loved) and got back to our hotel around 4 am. My wife, who was my girlfriend at that time, was just going to sleep and I went down the hall to get ice for the room. As I was filling the ice bucket I glanced into the open door by the ice machine and saw all the band members in there just hanging out. They saw me and invited me in. I ran and got Debbie who was already asleep in her pajamas and we spent the next few hours chatting with Jerry and the boys on New Year’s Eve. It’s a good story but if I wrote about it, I’d have to post a picture of myself in a tie-dyed shirt. 

I’ve got it! I’ll write about when I had my pancreas transplant and they left a piece of a staple gun in my bladder! A couple hospital visits, and a little emergency surgery later, I was fine and dandy! Maybe I’ll do this one at some point. And no, if you wondering. I didn’t sue.

Okay, it’s 9:30 Thursday night and I have no idea what to write about. I give up. I’m not writing ANYTHING.

Is Your Porsche a VW?

by Roberta Durra

I live in Los Angeles, a place where people are stereotyped as shallow and hedonistic. A place where people believe they are what they drive. In defense of my fellow Angelenos, I think it’s quite natural to become attached to your car, particularly when the better part of each day is spent driving a brisk 5 mph on the parking lot of a freeway.  To many, it’s very important to have a car that speaks volumes to their financial, professional, and social status. Just not to me. I don’t care about cars. There, I’ve said it. All of you who are offended can go back to your cars. Here’s something else for you -- I can’t even tell them apart.

I understand wanting a car to be comfortable, functional and even, good looking… the very qualities I value in long-term relationships and old bathrobes. But unfortunately, it goes much further than that. Here, people demand glamour, excitement and intrigue from their vehicles. And glamour comes with a hefty price tag. Some of the cars I see on the road cost more than the budget of a Spielberg movie. And people want their cars to reflect who they are, or who they want to be. If this is the case, most of the cars I’ve had over the years have reflected the day I got dressed in the dark and accidentally put my dress on backwards and wore it to work. Very embarrassing. Fortunately, I’ve only done that once. Okay, twice. 

Although I am a visual person who notices what people wear, the color and style of their hair, and room décor, I’m sorry, Japan, Germany and Dearborn Michigan, to me, most cars look like containers on wheels, and this is not going to change. I’ve tried sharpening my visual car sense by paying attention to the nuances of shape, hue and style. I even watch car commercials when I could easily DVR right through them! It’s all in vain. Inevitably, whenever I  participate in the car culture it ends up disastrous. Take for instance the second date with my husband when I tried to impress him with my car-savvy. I saw a guy getting out of a really fine looking VW and said as much. Future husband looked momentarily appalled and whispered, “That’s a Porsche".

To have a love of cars, it might help if you love driving. Surprise, surprise, I don’t. Never have. I waited an extra year to get my driver’s license because I didn’t care. When I did have my license it took me a long time to feel comfortable behind the wheel. I didn’t turn left the first year I drove. I just kept turning right until I got where I needed to be.

Although I am ambivalent and somewhat detached from cars, it hasn’t always been this way. My mother owned a 1972, 4-door Oldsmobile, Cutlass. I loved that car and wanted it to be mine. It was the car in which my father taught me to drive. It reflected who I was or who I wanted to be at the time… 
cool, but not too cool.  Bright blue, that baby was fun to drive. The steering had so much play I had to flip the wheel round twice just to change lanes. I begged my mother to give me the Cutlass, but she refused and held firm.Instead, my parents gifted me with the car every18 year-old girl dreams of…a big, honkin’, cranberry Monte Carlo courtesy of my cousin Barry who wanted to get rid of it. I looked like someone from “Jerseylicious” driving around in that thing. I took it to Arizona for college and drove that battleship through the desert. On winter break I left the car and keys with a friend and told him not to drive it.  Upon my return, Ol’ Monte was totaled, and I was thrilled.

Since then I have driven; a Mazda that blew it’s transmission the day the warranty ended, a blue Honda Civic with a red driver's door that I donated to charity, a Volvo wagon that morphed into a sticky kids’ playroom strewn with juice boxes and food wrappers I was too tired to dispose of, and a Ford Truck that I backed in to my neighbors garage every morning when I pulled out in the back alley.

Recently though, I’ve caught a bit of my fellow Angelenos car mojo. My husband and I bought a Volkswagon GTI.  It’s slick, quick, has great handling, gets good mileage and did I mention it’s quick???!!! (I’ve since learned it’s the most ticketed car in Los Angeles). The only drawback is that my husband wishes it was a stickshift instead of my preference - automatic. It also has a sunroof, a navigation system that I swear I’ll figure out one day, and by gosh, it’s quick. I think I mentioned that.

I was filling it up the other day and a trendy looking guy eyed my car.

He said , “VW’s are still my favorite cars. Do you like yours?”

 I glanced at his car. It was a white VW. He nodded knowingly. I was accepted! I was about to engage in car talk!

“Yea, it’s comfortable”, I said. He smiled.

“And, they look good”, I added, looking at his car. His eyebrows rose slightly.

Then I gave him the clincher, “And it’s FAST!”

“They are. Yours is a stick, huh?” he said.

Dammit! As soon as I tell him it’s an automatic I’m going to lose all street cred! “Uh… no, actually this is my husband’s car so it’s an automatic. He doesn’t want to “work” at driving. He’s not a car person.”

“Ha, yeah, I guess some people just aren’t car aficionados”

“Except us VW people!” I replied, earnestly.

Again, he smiled. Suddenly I belonged. I had just had a pleasant conversation with another VW enthusiast and he knew I was his match. I wanted to spit tobacco or elbow him in the ribs – just to solidify our new car camaraderie, but he was already in the front seat of his VW driving off.

As he sped away I saw the emblem on the back of his car, the one that kind of looks like a peace sign. The one that said his white VW was in fact, a Mercedes.

June 6th & 7th

by David Goldman

Tomorrow is a big day for me. June 7, 1997 was the date of my successful pancreas transplant.

June 6, 1997 was the last full day I spent as a diabetic.

June 6, 1997 was the day Krissy Frank didn’t see the truck coming.

Krissy was a 17 year old high school student from a Minneapolis suburb. She had everything in the world to look forward to and there was no reason to think she wouldn’t attain it all. Everyone I’ve met who knew her told me the same things: she was smart, she had a great personality, and she would light up the room as soon as she walked in. She was a member of the National Honor Society at her school. Classes had just ended for the year. Just one more year of high school and she was on to college. Maybe medical school would follow after that.

She played softball for the high school girls’ team. On the afternoon of Friday June 6^th, 1997 she was attending a school sponsored party for the team. Krissy had her driver’s license since the previous October and she was only a couple of miles from her house.

On Friday June 6^th, 1997 I had been a diabetic for 41 years. It was a long time to be taking shots, dealing with partial blindness, kidney disease, and more. During the last few years that I had diabetes I had reached a point where my blood sugars were on a daily roller coaster ride. They went literally from too low to read, to too high to read before diving back down low again. I had absolutely no control of my sugar levels anymore. To make matters worse, my body no longer recognized the telltale signs of an insulin reaction that occur when the blood sugar is too low. I had gone through kidney disease and a successful kidney transplant. But the diabetes was getting to me. I always thought I felt normal but that was changing too. I felt like I was wearing down much faster than I should have been for my age. The diabetes was taking a toll on me.

I had gone on the transplant waiting list for a pancreas the past November. They said it would probably be three to six months before a good donor match came up. The thing is, I never truly considered that my donor would be a living, breathing person who had a family and a place in the world. I know that sounds incredibly stupid and naïve, but I guess it’s just how I rationalized things. In order for me to receive my pancreas, somebody had to die. The furthest I let myself go was to think, no, to assume it would be someone without a family and without a life. Maybe someone drowning his or her sorrows in a bar who got into a car and accidentally ended a life that nobody had noticed in the first place. You could call it a warped version of wishful thinking.

Krissy got in the car and offered to take one of the other girls home. She was the sort of person who was always willing to help someone out, and offering a ride was in her nature. They got in, buckled their seatbelts, and were on their way home.

In order to get from the softball field to their homes they had to cross a highway. It was a north-south highway with two lanes in each direction separated by a median strip. Krissy stopped as she approached the highway and checked traffic coming from the north. When it was clear, she moved across two lanes and stopped in the median before crossing the northbound lanes. Witnesses said they saw her look and check the oncoming traffic as she crossed the last two lanes.

The small truck headed north at 55 m.p.h. was in her blind spot.

Our phone rang at 5:30 am Saturday morning. The caller ID said it was the Transplant Center at the University of Minnesota. It was “The Call”. For the past seven months every time the phone rang I thought it might be them. Anyone who’s ever been on the transplant list knows what it’s like. Anytime the phone rings it could be “The Call” that’s going to save your life. Some people wait for years. Far too many never get “The Call”.

The voice said they had a donor for me. “… a very good match. She was a 17 year old girl who was killed in a car crash”. Suddenly, everything changed. I didn’t want it to be a 17 year old girl. I didn’t want a 17 year old to die so that I could live. It wasn’t fair. “David? Can you make it up here?” It was supposed to be someone without a life, without a family or friends. Shouldn’t it be somebody who wouldn’t mind dying and wouldn’t be missed?

“Uh … yes, how soon do I have to get up there?”

“As soon as you can make it.”

“Okay.”

Friday night the Franks also received a phone call from a hospital. Their daughter had been in an accident. A bad accident. They needed to get to the hospital as soon as they could. The ambulance had taken Krissy to the nearest hospital. Her injuries were severe and she had to be transferred to a trauma center. Her passenger, the girl Krissy doing was a favor for, was pronounced dead at the scene of the accident.

When Krissy's parents arrived at the hospital they thought she looked like she was sleeping. However, the news wasn’t good. She had suffered significant brain damage. They were waiting for test results. Her mother sat and held Krissy’s hand for hours. She would squeeze Krissy’s hand and at times it seemed Krissy squeezed back. Her mother held out hope. Finally, the doctor came in with the news no parent should ever have to hear. “I’m so sorry. We’ve done everything that we can but your daughter has suffered irreversible brain damage. She is brain dead. There is nothing left that we can do.”

They heard the words but couldn’t comprehend them. Somebody made a mistake. Can time just be rewound so this doesn’t happen? This isn’t supposed to go like this. She has to finish high school and then she’s going to college. She’s going to wake up soon. You’ll see! She’ll be fine. Maybe a little bruised but that’s all …

My wife and I walked into the hospital Saturday morning and went to admissions. On our way to the room we stopped at the gift shop to pick up a newspaper. We were told it would probably be a few hours before my surgery. I went to my room and sat there as doctors and nurses came in taking blood, asking questions, prodding and poking. Then came more tests and more prodding. Finally, my wife and I were left alone in the room. The entire time I had been thinking that someone died and because of it I was going to live. I felt guilty. Logically, I knew I shouldn’t. Emotionally, it was a different story. My wife opened the paper she purchased in the gift shop and said, “Oh no …”. On the front page was the story of a car accident from the night before in which two high school girls were killed. I couldn’t look at it. I didn’t want to hear what it said. When I was released from the hospital a few days later, we brought the paper home with us.

A representative from Minnesota’s organ procurement agency came into the room where the Franks were trying to grasp what had happened. The woman came in to ask them if they would consider donating Krissy’s organs so that the loss of their daughter might save others’ lives. “Many people’s lives can be saved and others enhanced.” We all know that if and when we are asked, the correct response to the question is yes. Life must go on right? But it has to be one of the hardest decisions anyone can be asked to make. How can you even think straight at such a traumatic time? Too many people say no and as a result, more people die.

But the Franks knew what they had to do. They knew what Krissy would have wanted. They said yes.

I came out of surgery at 2 a.m. Sunday morning, June 7, 1997. After 41 years I was no longer a diabetic.

Monday morning Krissy Frank was buried. Prior to the funeral a representative asked me if there was anything I wanted to say to the family. All I could say was I’m sorry and thank you. Then I broke down and cried my eyes out.

A year after I got home I was finally able to read the newspaper article about the accident. I’ll always wish it was not those two young girls.

I’m told a lot of transplant recipients feel guilty over the new life they have received. I don’t know if it’s guilt I feel, but sometimes it is hard to accept the fact that I benefited from Krissy Frank’s death. I don’t think a day has passed since June 6, 1997 that I haven’t thought of Krissy. I imagine I will think of her for the rest of my life.

The Ride of My Life - part 3

by David Goldman

Chris and me posing

We ate a special congratulatory lunch that was prepared to welcome us after our successful ascent of the mountain. It was not lost on us that everyone else partaking in it had successfully sat in the seat of a motorized vehicle that hauled them to the top rather than pedaling their bikes up there. No matter though, we had made it on our own and we were quite proud. We ate and prepared for our descent. We could see a portion of the road going down the other side. There were several steep switchbacks but then the road headed out of our range of vision.

Fed and rested, we mounted our bikes and headed down. I started pedaling and soon had to shift to a higher gear as my feet couldn’t keep up with the tension in the crank. My gears steadily rose until I was in my highest gear. This was certainly a switch. After having spent hours in my lowest gear I was now in my highest gear and that wasn’t even high enough. I glanced at my speedometer: 25 mph, 32 mph, 39 mph, 40 mph. I was going much faster than I had ever gone on a bike before. The speed kept increasing and it was exhilarating. I knew that every bike has a point where the speed causes a vibration through the bike. It’s a scary moment but it passes and the bike stops shaking. I hit that point at 44 mph. By 45, it was rolling smoothly again. I got up to 48 miles per hour and it felt like I was going 148. I was flying. I was cutting through the wind like a knife blade. When I hit 48 mph I decided I’d better slow it up a bit. There was more traffic and I wasn’t experienced at handling a bike at this speed. There was still a lot of riding left this day, and this week and I didn’t want to take a chance on wiping out and ending my trip early. So I slowed down to a reasonable 35 mph and enjoyed the easy cruise down.

When we got to the bottom it sank in. We had only just completed the beginning of the day’s ride. We still had over 60 miles to ride through the White Mountains. By now our legs were spent. On the few flat areas we encountered we were okay. But as soon as the road began to tilt up our legs burned like they were on fire. We pushed on and barely spoke because it took too much effort and there was nothing left to say. Again, I tried to appreciate the beautiful countryside we were riding through but it was just impossible. All I could think of was turning the pedals over. One after the other after the other…

A couple of hours later we reached a designated rest area for our group. At this point we were going to be riding on a highway. The road looked like an interstate – two lanes in each direction divided by a narrow strip of uncultivated land. The speed limit for cars and truck was 65 mph and bikes were to ride on the shoulder. Okay, I thought, this sounds a little scary but if that’s how it’s done out here, that’s fine with me. Then came the warning: be very, very careful of logging trucks. They WILL try to run you off the road. I was used to rude drivers; drivers who would blast their horns at cyclists because in their minds the road is only for cars. But this was different. We were being warned that we were going to be riding on a very dangerous road and drivers with very large trucks carrying large loads were going to try and run us off the road. Great, this is my idea of a vacation. 

We were given one more warning. There was another very big climb coming.

Needless to say, we were not happy campers. We still had over half of our day’s ride in front of us, we had crazed truck drivers trying to kill us, and we had another big climb ahead.

So we headed out once again, this time riding the shoulder of a highway. Sure enough, within a few miles we heard a different vehicle sound coming from behind. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a logging truck with a full load of trees headed toward us. The trucks are so heavy that you can feel the road vibrating as they get closer. The driver laid on his air horn. The horn got louder and louder and the rumble became stronger and more jarring as he approached. I was riding a good six feet into the shoulder. The truck was halfway onto the shoulder and still moving over. The trucker pushed me to within inches of falling off the shoulder when he passed. I ducked because as I saw him coming from behind I could see large branches sticking out of the truck at all kinds of odd angles. One truck down, how many more to go?

It went on like that for a long time. Each logging truck would follow the same routine. Blow their air horns to get you scared and come up on you and try to squeeze you off the road. There were a couple of times when we came within inches of going off. Once you did go off you were going down hard into rocks, jagged cement, or dirt and chances were if you went down you wouldn’t be riding again for quite a while.

We were lucky though. We made it through the hazard zone and were climbing yet again. This climb was different. It was a lower gradient so we could continue for longer periods before we’d have to stop. But it went on and on and on. We were both in miserable moods. This was way past being annoying. It was sheer misery. Who planned this route? What were they thinking? There’s a difference between a hard ride and a torturous ride. It was late afternoon by now and there was no end in sight. I had already suffered a couple of insulin reactions that day. All the hard work burned up the sugar in my body quickly. I had taken almost no insulin that morning and had ingested LOTS of sugar and carbs but the sugar burned off so fast from the riding that my blood sugar kept going too low. When it did I’d have to pull over, eat a couple of candy bars, and check my sugar until it got high enough to continue.

The day felt like it would never end. We rode on and on and on and climbed up and up and up. My body was numb. We approached the final rest stop and I got off my bike and checked my sugar. Once again, it was too low to read. I ate even more candy and drank even more Gatorade. Once my thinking started to clear I could tell how spent my body was. It was time to throw in the towel for the day. I didn’t see how I’d make it to the end of that day’s ride. We knew a lot of others had already given up and taken the ride to that night’s destination. They were probably showered, relaxed, and enjoying a beer. Yeah, I’m done for today.

Then something happened that had never happened before or has happened since. I became enraged. I had anger in me like I never experienced before. I wasn’t mad at the route or the guy that planned it, not the logging truck drivers or the mountains. I was incensed about being a diabetic and being beaten. I had been living with diabetes for almost 40 years. It had taken the vision in one eye and left me with only partial vision in the other. My kidneys had quit working, my heart was showing some of the effects, and my hands and feet were beginning to suffer from diabetic neuropathy. My dad died from diabetes. When he died he was blind and had become an old man way before he should have. In the process it robbed him of his dignity. On his last birthday I mentioned something about the next one and he said he wouldn’t be here for that one.

I was livid. There was a fury and a rage in me that I had never felt. I was not going to be beaten.

I stood up and told Chris I had to go. He looked at me like I was nuts. Honestly, I didn’t feel like myself at that point. He asked what I meant but I couldn’t even answer. I didn’t know what to say. How could I explain that this day had become a personal challenge? Who was going to win this one, me or diabetes? I got on my bike, placed my hands in the drops and started riding.

My body was functioning at a level that was foreign to me. My legs felt like pistons that would never stop. My heart beat at a steady pace and my lungs took in air through my nose and let it out calmly through my mouth. I felt perfect. I heard Chris behind me yelling to wait up but I couldn’t. I was going to finish this ride and I was going to finish strong. 

Chris caught up to me at a red light. He said I looked funny and asked what was going on. I told him I couldn’t explain it. I said something had come over me and I just had to ride. 

Chris and me somewhere in New England

About an hour later we were done. I had completed the most grueling day of riding I ever had attempted. That day I beat The Kanc, I beat the loggers, and I honestly felt for that one day, I had beaten diabetes.

I rode a lot after that day but I was never able to summon the strength to ride the way I did at the end of that ride. It was an hour where emotion controlled my mind and my body. If I had to have ridden another 100 miles that day I have no doubt that I would have done it. Not because I was such a good rider, but because I was fighting my own personal war.

We had other challenges during that week. There was a hundred mile ride through rain that varied from a light drizzle to downpour, more climbs that seemed to just go straight up, and finally, a 90 mile ride for the last day in 104° heat. 576 miles in all, and we pedaled every single inch.

At one point while we were struggling up a steep mountain pass Chris said to me, “you know, they say the body forgets pain.” He was right. The next year we signed up and did the ride again.