About Me

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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Sunday, May 20, 2012

hen doesn't live here anymore

i could drive to cedars blindfolded.

which is pretty much what i did last sunday.

migraine blind, i blinked through terrorizing tears dripping twofold; effectively deflecting the searing california rays, merciful cooling pools.

[day 29]

scheduled for a brain mri with and without contrast (gadolinium) seemed like a piece of cake for this 30+ year vet of the real life "operation game". ("the knee bone's connected to the..."). ah, but, there's always a kink in the ureter for a transplant patient. before "contrast" can be "safely" (cough) administered, a creatinine has to be drawn to see if you are at a normal level. then the tech told me,"dialysis patients are immediately disqualified, but you should be fine, because..."

it was sunday. it was dead quiet. and suddenly, something felt very, very wrong.

my creatinine came back as 1.3.

up from 1.2.

up from 1.0. up from 0.9.

in two short months.

my heart fell into my back as the tech lay me down on the gurney and began to roll me backwards into the mri machine. claustrophobia broke me, like the final choke at a throttled neck; the final gasps, loud, panicked; desperate for relief.

but it was the certain knowledge that my "kid" was kicking and screaming that trumped the most unbearable migraine.

["don't touch my child!"]

despite her well-fed, yankee sensibilities, her lingering canadianism ferociously apologized to the technician and ditched the bare-backed, fashion-senseless gown, and returned her to headache hell. cranium chaos. ice. bath. bed is the new lather and rinse, repeat.

marital migraines are killing me softly. softly like a brick.

monday morning.

[don't call us. we'll call you.]

"we have the results of the Donor Specific Antibody Test. HLA. last year, last june '11, it was negative. you had no antibodies. this year, in april, '12, it is positive. this means you have developed an antibody against your kidney. it is an independent antibody. and it means your immune system has become a little more reactive. this is serious. this does happen in second and third transplants. so we are going to have to increase your immunosuppressives again. and they are going to have to stay there."

[i feel like i'm dying.]

i'm not sure how to live through this.

and neither does he.

[ah, beware ye of little dysfunction.]

the addict and the codependent.

the prince, a not-so-charming-control-freak and the princess-has-pea-ed-the-bed.

you sit there smugly behind the computer screen, anonymous, arms folded in self-righteous, knotted victory; your taut finger poised above the delete button. ready to snap shut, shudder away my pain. ah. but, we were the chosen ones. newsprinted for all of toronto's morning glory; morning java. we were the mostlikelytorocket stars. and tonight i sleep in a stranger's bed. alone. trust me. it can happen to you.

the prodigal son's family feathers around him. and the hen feathers alone.


fuck the antibody.

fuck the migraines.

fuck the marriage.

fuck the career.

fuck the addiction.

i am sure how to live through this.

i'm not alone.



Thursday, May 3, 2012

know when to fold 'em

it doesn't take much to make me want to fold.

two little numbers.

[creatinine 1.2]

phone-fed, over easy like the sunday morning after; weak arms deflect, bleary eyes tear away the news.


now trending:#Henny'sHighCreatinine.

poised to bury her flat lined, fan favorites into the dust as her creatinine trajectory releases more gracefully than katniss's bow into a powerpoint presentation on recent blood results.

[day 14]

a measure of relief arrives.

migraines self-diagnosed as marital migraines.

"the addict and the codependent."

["but wait, isn't it all HER fault?"...]

4 and a half months ago, i walked out of rehab.

i walked up to my husband who i had known for over 20 years.

we hugged. we said "hi". and we looked at each other for the first time. ever.

and 20 years vanished in 20 seconds.

and that's why i stood in my driveway for 20 minutes before i could walk into my house.

because i was a newborn.

[and then he was born.]

and tonight you're fondling the thin edge of a threadbare, 10 of clobbered. flick, flick, flicking the victim card between yer two front teeth; exactly where it fits just so.

play or fold...play or fold...play or fold...play or fold...

[fuck, it. i'm in.]

one in. all in...right, daddy?


the whole house smells like piss.

you get walloped for the same accident over and over and over, and it used to be ok, because you love your master so much. wag, wag, wag. yes, yes, i caused a lot of accidents. except now you realize the carpets have been torn up, new flooring has been put down and still you're still being punished.

problem is, the house still smells like piss.

[and it's everyone's fault.]

so no-one lives here anymore.

[the house doesn't always win.]

separation anxiety seeps in; sludge, in every pore, every breath; its stank, settles foul distress. simple, separate sadness.

[i am a visitor to the love of my life...]

dogs manifest separation anxiety by ripping the stuffing from thousand dollar sofas while irresponsible owners leave them alone, sedated, for 14 hour work days.

hens manifest separation anxiety by tearing out pillows from 10 year-old "as-is" ikea couches, and zealously squirreling through its nether region, for a single, precious narcotic score on which to throw away her 6 month sobriety.

separation anxiety fogs, drizzles, my thoughts; cold clogs my heart.

i am exhausted. terrified. and on my way out...

so, i'm holding onto this hand.

but i'm looking to fold...