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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.



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