The Dynamics of Dread, the Power of Pain, and the Conversation I Had With My Kidney

The Dynamics of Dread, the Power of Pain, and the Conversation I Had With My Kidney

Part One

(Out of the Blue, Vortexia) -- My New Year’s resolution for 2010 was that life would return to “normal” after a year of sickness and death in my husband’s family. But, on January 4 – having never experienced a serious illness in my life -- I discovered blood in my urine and knew with sobering certainty that my life would be anything but normal for awhile; maybe forever.

“Tests show no sign of infection,” my doctor announced. “Even though you’re not experiencing any pain, I’m ordering an ultrasound to check for kidney stones.”

Two days later, he called back. “Well, the good news is the ultrasound showed no stones in your kidneys. The bad news is, we need to take a different test to see the inside of your bladder. I’m referring you to an urologist.”

Having done my homework on the Internet, I knew that heavy bleeding without pain was symptomatic of bladder cancer, ergo, the thought of waiting two more weeks to have the next test was unbearable. A dear friend who “happened” to work for a premier urological medical group came to my rescue. He set up an appointment for me with a first-rate urologist immediately; not something that would have been possible under socialized healthcare. Miracle Number One.

I know, it’s futile to worry, but telling someone being tested for cancer not to worry is like telling a dog not to cower from fireworks on the 4^th of July. I succumbed to an endless mental litany of “what-if’s” and “if-only’s”: What if I do have cancer? Maybe that’s why God arranged for me to get seen so quickly. What if it’s advanced? Untreatable? If only I had gone to the doctor sooner. If only I had watched my diet more. If only I hadn’t snapped at my husband the other day…

Later, listening to my urologist tell me the test on my bladder was negative for cancer, I scolded myself. Silly girl.

“See?” my husband beamed. “You’re going to be just fine.”

The urologist, however, wasn’t so convinced. “Something is causing the bleeding,” he said, noting that during the test he had located the source. It was my left kidney. “I want you back in two days for a CAT-scan,” he ordered. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”

I should interject here that I am notoriously leery of being over-exposed to x-rays. When I told my eldest daughter, a medical professional, of my intent to cancel the CAT-scan appointment because I was sure everything was ok and the urologist was just over-reacting, she had a fit. “Don’t you dare cancel that appointment,” she shrilled. “That’s your old hippy-head talking mom!”

I indulged her, grudgingly, but not without telling the technician who did the scan that I was in mourning because my “virginal kidneys were about to be violated.” A joke, of course.

The joke, as it turned out, was on me. A half-hour later, as my unsuspecting husband and I sat with the urologist in front of the computer displaying the first of my CAT-scan x-rays, we heard the dreaded words: “See this shadow here in your ureter….and this spot on your left kidney? I’m concerned. I’ll be honest with you, I’m afraid you could have a rare form of kidney and/or ureter cancer. There’s no way to know for sure unless we do a ureteroscopy. If it does turn out to be cancer, I think we may have caught it early enough to simply remove the kidney and avoid any chemo or radiation, but we need to schedule the procedure as soon as possible.”

On the way home I broke down and told my husband that my two greatest regrets in life – if I were to have cancer – were that I might not live to see my grandchildren and that I’d have to bless him to marry someone else. “You’re too young to be widowed for 30 years,” I choked, failing miserably at feigning both humor and courage.

He wouldn’t hear of it. I was being “premature” he cautioned. I was going to be “fine,” he said. Nevertheless, this pragmatic, type-A personality, former Girl Scout, was determined to be prepared for the worst. At the same time, I was equally determined to keep everything in perspective so as to prevent despair from swallowing me alive.

Rolling out the carpet of the mind; a typical reaction to fear, isn’t it? The length and breadth of life unfurls, expanding into eternity, revealing the stark sum of our past and the imminent sentence of our future existence. It’s an inescapable reality check; a virtual checklist of personal foibles and misappropriated affections. Why had I wasted so much of my life burdened with trivialities and spent so little time really living? Suddenly, I see my husband as unsurpassingly beautiful, perfect. My children are precious beyond belief. Nothing else matters.

The following day a 7.0 earthquake devastated Haiti. There’s perspective for you. Lying on the operating table, ready to go under general anesthesia, I told the surgeon and the anesthesiologist, “I can’t stop thinking of the poor Haitians trapped in buildings, suffering such unspeakable pain with no food, no water, no doctors, no medicine. I almost feel guilty being here.”

The next thing I knew, my husband was holding my hand telling me that my kidneys were perfectly healthy, that I was cancer free – Miracle Number Two --and that the doctor had found a small kidney stone in my left kidney and removed it.

The procedure effectively ended my fears of cancer, but gave birth to a week of excruciating pain unlike anything I had ever experienced. Of course, I couldn’t have known that then, sedated as I was, intoxicated with thankfulness for my clean bill of health.

If ignorance is bliss, I was blind, deliriously so, to what the future had in store for me.

Unsung Hero of the Month - DECEMBER 2009

Unsung Hero of the Month - December

This month’s “Unsung Hero” title goes to a couple recommended to me by Emily Tedrow: Meet Scot and RyAnne Noss.

Scot is a “local boy,” born and raised in Oregon’s mid-Willamette Valley. I recall hearing of his integrity and solid character when he was still in his teens. As the saying goes, his reputation “went before him.” After graduating from high school, Scot volunteered with Youth With a Mission (YWAM) for one year before joining the U.S. Army. That alone speaks volumes for the kind of man Scot Noss is.

I could tell his story here, but words literally fail me and it wouldn’t do it, or him, justice. A recent PBS special on Scot and RyAnne says it all. Prepare to be undone by the sacrifices they have made for you and I, and for each other.

Scot and RyAnne, I salute you both. Directly, and indirectly, your lives inspire and greatly affect us. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

(Geezer Hood, Vortexia) – After a miraculous medical recovery, Grandma Babe is again enjoying the climes of independent living at her senior apartment complex. On her first day back to the group dining room her fellow residents actually applauded her return. Two of them in particular -- Hulda and Elisabetta – are women I secretly wish were my BFF’s.

Hulda, as her name implies, is a sturdy woman of Nordic or Germanic descent with a heart of gold. She limps along behind her walker with a smile soaked in sunshine, encouraging everyone she sees. She is the type of person you want to tuck in your purse and take home, like a puppy, for keeps.

“Oh, Babe!” she exclaimed, welcoming Grandma back into the fold. She leaned over her walker, and held Babe’s hand in hers. “We sure missed you around here. It’s so good to have you back again!”

Elisabetta, a gregarious Italian-American, exudes old-world charm and new-world vitality. Fairly tall for being in her 90’s, with perfect posture, olive skin, white hair, and a remarkable flair for fashion, she is at once both elegant and down-to-earth.

Whenever she greets Grandma, she cups her face in her hands and croons, “Ciao, Bella!”

True to her heritage, Elisabetta uses her hands to accentuate every sentence. One day, I noticed she stroked Grandma’s face about ten or fifteen times in the course of a five-minute conversation. Melting as I watched her, all I could think was, “Please, Elisabetta, speak Italian to me and stroke my face.” Oh, to be mothered again!

Of course, the male residents, not as verbose as the women, welcomed Babe back with a wink, a light slap on the back, or a clever pun meant to make her laugh. Since Grandma is still a tomboy at heart, they probably consider her “one of the guys” – something her female counterparts may, or may not, envy. I envy the camaraderie Babe has at her fingertips each day. She simply opens her door when she wants some social interaction and voila, there it is. It’s reassuring for her, and for us, to know she’s never alone.

Don’t get me wrong; senior living facilities aren’t perfect, though they would definitely make for an Emmy-winning sit-com. The same petty dramas exist there as in any living arrangement involving more than one person. There are the token grumps, hermits, and bellyachers. Gossips abound, and every once in awhile tempers flare. (Yes, elderly men are still capable of fist fights; apparently even miniscule levels of testosterone are deadly). One thing is certain, however; there’s always something happening at Babe’s place. Indeed, take age out of the equation and visiting a senior home feels just like walking into a high school. You can feel the buzz.

Despite the standard flaws in human nature present in senior communal living, it’s encouraging to see that the drive to love, comfort, protect, and share someone else’s burden, is equally tenacious. And realizing that sisterhood among women continues into old age is, well, one of the few comforting revelations I cling to as I’m dragged, kicking and screaming, down my own path of decrepitude.

Unsung Hero of the Month - November

Unsung Hero of the Month

November’s unsung hero is Kathy Huston of Lebanon, Oregon. This humble, indefatigable woman is part of the reason Grandma Babe (my 92-year-old mother-in-law) is still alive.

Several weeks ago, Grandma was completely incapacitated with a mysterious intestinal bug. After a week of taking care of her, followed by a few days in the hospital and a few days in rehab, she was finally able to return to her apartment at a nearby senior-living facility. But almost immediately, she came down with a bladder infection. By then, she was so weak and mentally undone, she wouldn’t/couldn’t take her meds and wouldn’t/couldn’t get out of bed. She needed help with absolutely everything.

Exhausted, and at our wits’ end, my husband and I wondered what we could do to avoid having to transfer our normally vibrant grandmother into assisted living. Several different temporary nursing/caretaking services were cost prohibitive, and therefore, out of the question.

Then, I remembered Kathy telling me she loved visiting old people. When I asked her if she could check in on Grandma twice a day, early morning and late evening, for a week, she said “yes” without skipping a beat. Not only did Kathy faithfully do this for us, but she went above and beyond our needs by befriending Grandma, spending extra time with her. What an incredible difference it made for us, to be able to help Grandma during the day knowing Kathy was there every morning and night. And what a difference it made to Grandma, knowing there was an angel coming to see her every day and lift her spirits.

Through it all, I discovered that, in her private life, Kathy not only visits the elderly on a regular basis, but she volunteers in a score of other areas of the public sector also. I’ve known Kathy for years, and didn’t know this. Why? Because Kathy Huston is the real deal when it comes to having a servant’s heart; she loves in secret.

As if Kathy’s giving character were not enough to commend, she is by nature one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, and I use the adjective “sweet” in the most complimentary, exemplary way possible.

So, here’s to you Kathy. May you be blessed ten-fold for the blessing you’ve been to me!

The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

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The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

(Les Crunches, Vortexia) -- Kim, the vivacious Group Power instructor at the gym I belong to, is a saucy little spitfire whose irrepressible personality makes working out not only bearable, but actually fun. That this 30-something, single mother of four is astonishingly fit was incentive enough for me to take her class. Who in their right mind wouldn’t drag themselves out of bed every morning in the hope of attaining a body like hers? (Madness, I know, but who says women are sane when it comes to their body image?)

Of course, it would be easy to envy this effusive dynamo, this impulsive, beautiful woman with her dazzling smile and infectious laugh, this human pretzel who can contort her body into any shape, lift as much weight as a man, do hand stands with one arm and dance like a female Michael Jackson. Next to her I feel like a centenarian on Prozac. But Kim is also as playful, transparent and vulnerable as a ten-year old; so not loving her is simply not an option.

Another element at play in this scenario is small-town life. Here, if everyone doesn’t know everyone, we at least know of someone who does. In other words, when it comes to relationships, we hit the ground running, and by necessity, we are our own entertainment. Add to this picture the group of diverse women taking Kim’s class – savvy young girls, gossip-hungry moms, mid-life fugitives, renegade retirees – and you see why my group power classes are never, ever, ever, dull.

During our workout the other day, for example, Kim announced that her current boyfriend, and several of his friends, had dressed as Ghostbusters for Halloween, posting their pictures on Facebook.

“So, you know I don’t tell nasty jokes, right?” she asked, the droll tone of her voice a sure sign we were in for another one of her legendary stories.

Straining to lift our weights in time to the music, we all nodded in agreement. It was true; we had never heard her tell an off-color joke. Almost never. Not really off-color.

“Well, I made a comment on his Facebook page,” she continued, “telling him I’d seen an apparition in my bedroom and I that I was going to call and have them come over to take care of it. It was a joke.”

She paused for effect, and then indignantly blurted, “He deleted my comment because he said it was too racy! Can you believe that?”

“I must be dense,” I muttered, laboring through my lunges. “I don’t get how he thought that was ‘racy.’”

“Yeah,” a chorus of female voices agreed. “He’s the one with a dirty mind. Ach, men! They…”

Phillip, the lone male in our class, blushed. We bantered back-and-forth for a minute, wickedly relishing poor Phillip’s discomfort.

Kim picked up two fifteen-pound weights, flexing her perfectly toned biceps. “Well, thank you!” she chirped. “It was a totally innocent comment. You know, his response is just another sign that we aren’t very compatible. I broke up with him once before and he talked me into getting back with him. Now I’ll have to break up with him all over again.”

Was she kidding?

After we finished our reps, Terry, a straight-talking former social worker, set her weights down with a sigh. “If you’re going to break up with your boyfriend, Kim,” she said, her expression completely deadpan, “just text him back and tell him it wasn’t an apparition after all, so you won’t need his help.”

Group buffoonery; the best sport of all…and, oh, so therapeutic. Just don’t be looking for me to bare my soul at the gym anytime soon.

UNSUNG HERO OF THE MONTH

Sandra Byrd

My October Unsung Hero is dear friend and best-selling author Sandra Byrd of Seattle, Washington. Three dozen of her books have been published, including the Secret Sisters and Friends for a Season series; an amazing accomplishment.

Her adult fiction novel, Let Them Eat Cake, was a Christy Award finalist. The third book in that series, following Bon Appétit, is the newly released Pièce de Résistance.

Sandra rates as a hero because of her integrity, determination and perseverance in the publishing industry, her devotion to God and her family, and her grace, compassion and generosity as a human being. When I first met Sandra at a writer’s conference in Colorado, she befriended me – a virtual nobody – and voluntarily took me under her writer’s wing. It was her selfless encouragement and inspiration that provided me with the confidence necessary to pursue my own dream of being a published author. I highly recommend you visit Sandra at www.sandrabyrd.com and check out her books while you’re at it. Sandra, this one’s for you!

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

(Poetic Justice, Vortexia) – Remember my husband’s run-in with the long arm of the law? (See August 6). Well, this month he had another run-in; this time with our future son-in-law. It was a scene right out of “Meet the Parents.”

Dave, as you’ll recall, is an intrepid driver, the guy you want behind the wheel in an emergency. He is also extremely proud of his driving record, having never been in an accident. That is, he’s never been in an accident in public. Here at home it’s another story.

Case in point: Years ago, I was in the house cooking when suddenly I was startled by a loud crash coming from our covered wood shed. I ran to the window to see the front end of our ’68 Chevy pickup sticking out the other end of the building and Dave standing nearby half-dazed. He told me he had started the truck and then been surprised by a yellow jacket in the cab (he’s allergic to their sting). As he bailed out of the rig, he somehow pressed on the accelerator. Defending his male ego, he blustered that anyone would have done the same thing. I mean, who in their right mind would turn off the ignition before jumping from a moving truck when a killer bee is poised to strike?

My own vehicular stupidities are not so easily rationalized away. Like the time I rushed out at night to go to a meeting and didn’t think to look in my rear-view mirror before backing up. Our pastor, who had come to visit us, had parked his brand new Honda right behind our car. I put the car in reverse, gunned the engine and T-boned our pastor’s car, doing hundreds of dollars of damage to it. It took me a good ten minutes to work up the courage to go back into the house and break the news to him. That was a difficult one to live down.

But I digress. Back to Dave.

It is vital to this story to inform you, at this juncture, that Big Time Dave is a perfectionist; someone who has all their ducks in a row. He takes his sweet time with everything and is circumspect in all he does. He is an engineer after all; his genes scream order, regimentation, functionality. For example, he’s the self-appointed family valet parking attendant. As such, he is very particular about where all the cars in our circular driveway are parked (for reasons only he understands; we simply indulge his professorial whimsies). And having never forgotten my run-in with our pastor’s Honda, he has long made it his duty to remind us all of the dangers of parking our cars in spots where someone might forget to look when backing up. Sensible enough, eh?

Well, the other night – while our future son-in-law Alex was here visiting our daughter -- my husband and I hopped into our car to go to town. Dave put the car in reverse, pressed hard on the accelerator, and backed up without looking. Bam! From the sound of the impact, you would have thought we’d totaled both our car and Alex’s. When Alex came out of the house, Dave – still in shock – sputtered some inanities about how he had warned everyone about the dangers of parking in certain areas of the driveway, how he knew this would happen some day, etc., etc.

Vindictive creature that I am, I took great delight in rubbing it in. “There’s no one to blame but yourself, Dave,” I snarked. “You should have looked in the rear-view mirror before backing up.”

Nearly a dozen passionate protestations later, he finally, albeit grudgingly and with caveats, admitted he alone was responsible for the collision. Miraculously, neither car suffered damage. Alex had forgotten to put his car in park, so when we backed into it, it actually rolled out of the driveway, over a railroad tie, and hit a post holding up our grape arbor. Fortunately, the post was rotten and when his car hit it, it gave way, absorbing the impact.

Poor Alex. Had this been the first visit to our home, he may – like Ben Stiller – have been tempted to run from the Neumann family as fast, and as far away, as he could. I wouldn’t have blamed him. After all, having your future father-in-law rant at you about where you parked your car in the driveway and worse, transferring blame for the accident to you, would terrify the most gallant suitor. But Alex is made of stronger stuff than that, and Dave – despite his eccentricities – is impossible not to like. His redeeming quality, he readily admits, is a great sense of humor. He’s a good man, a great father, and a hoot to boot. As he is wont to remind us when episodes like this arise, rather than judge him on his one – or two – minor character flaws, we should judge the “whole package.”

So hang in there Alex. You’re not only gaining a wife, but a whole package father-in-law as well. Isn’t that great? Oh, and don’t forget where to park your car next time you come over.