to pee or not to pee

To pee or not to pee

Disclaimer: should talking about pee make you uncomfortable, I'd advise you not to read any further. 

To make sure my kidneys are functioning well, I have to collect all my pee for 24 straight hours so it can be tested. 

This process would be remarkably easier if I was a man. Instead of having direct access into my giant pee receptacle I have to pee into a 4 ounce cup. Never giving much thought to how much I actually pee at one time, I learned, mid-pee, that it's usually far more than 4 ounces at once. I also learned that all those kegels (women who gave birth know what those are) make a difference. I realized that as my pee cup literally runneth over and I had to scream for Jon to bring me the giant pee jug that makes its home in the fridge. 

My family is uneasy about pee residing there but they're dealing. 

I pee an insane amount in the morning. 

The color of my pee changes over the course of the day. 

By pee number 6 or so I mastered how and where to hold the little cup. 

I often preemptively pee, before a yoga class or a movie, making sure everything's as empty as it can be so I don't have any unexpected urges. I debated taking a class today, not sure I could handle the pee thing at my yoga studio. In the end, I peed 2 ounces before class, hid the specimen bottle in a stuff it bag and managed to lose my favorite hat while managing my pee. 

I got pee on my hands, my pj pants, my underwear, and the bathroom floor. 

I drink a lot of water. 

I pee a lot of pee. 

I'm hoping that all this, plus the blood tests in the morning, show that my kidneys are healthy and doing just what they're supposed to do. 

And then, we move onto the next test.

being fine about being fine

I grew up with a very superstitious Jewish mother and not only learned, but internalized at the deepest of levels, not to ever jinx anything. Not to invite bad luck by proclaiming all was good. Not to bring attention to myself so as to avoid the wrath of the powers that be, whoever they were.

The word I grew up with is kenahura - a Yiddish term that I knew to mean curse, jinx, the evil eye. I knew never to talk positive so as not to draw attention to myself and the catastrophic things that most likely would ensue.

But now I have to let go of that. I can't donate my kidney unless I'm fine. No, unless I'm FINE. I have to be completely healthy, robust, stable. My systems nee to be in pristine working order. There can't be a shadow of a doubt about any test, any result, any anything. A team of people will be discussing my body at round table meetings and if anyone thinks I can't handle the surgery for any reason, I'm off the transplant train.

And so, I want to be, I NEED to be ok. More than ok. I need a clean bill of health, a gold star on all my tests.

I need to be fine and to own it in a powerful, constructive, don't even think of messing with my fine-ness way.

I'm saying it out loud. I am fine.

I want to be.

I need to be.

I am.

the power of positive thinking

Listen up universe - this is my plan. Izzy, my middle-schooler's school play opens on 5/19. I want to have successfully given my brother his new kidney by then, us both to be fully recovered and in the audience together that night.

We have 4 months to make this all happen. I know there are countless potential roadblocks. I know at any point things could fall apart.

But on a deeper level I know they won't.

I have faith that this is what's meant to happen and that all will be fine in the end.

This stance is more remarkable than one can imagine as I'm not big on faith. I'm skeptical. Cynical. A full-fledged doubter.

But not about this.

My brother's on the other side of the coin, which is where I'm generally most comfortable. Not getting hopes up so if this doesn't work out it won't be soul crushing. I have that too, fraying at my edges, waking me up in the middle of the night, it's the epicenter of my anxiety at the moment. Having said that, I'm not letting negative win. Or even tempered realism.

This transplant will work. This story will have a satisfying ending.

My kidney will be happy in its new home.

This is what's meant to be. And I will use every ounce of positive thought, prayer, hope, wish to make this come true.

That's it universe. The force is with us on this one.

letting go of what you know

Yesterday I arrived at my yoga class 45 minutes early. Lunchtime classes during the week are at 12:30 but start at 1 on weekends—that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. With all that extra time I curled up on a bean bag chair in the corner of the studio and wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

It was a blog post full of angst, insight, lightbulbs, commitment to moving forward.

But, apparently, I didn't save it. When the teacher (a woman I totally and completely adore) sat down next to me and we got lost in conversation it seems I must have hit delete instead of save.

I can't begin to recreate what was. To be honest, I don't remember what it was I so profoundly wrote about.

But, after during and after class I had new realizations that sort of blew me away.

In class, these words flowed through my head:

letting go of what you know

It became my mantra for the second half of class. I kept repeating the phrase to make sure I wouldn't forget that powerful thought.

I was practicing next to another teacher, who seems, in some way to be in a similar place to me. Stuck. Not sure how to change things up. We'd talked for a long time about this last week - the desire for new, for different, but not knowing how to get there.

I told her about what the donation social worker had told me that resonated so strongly - that we learn how to be in the world before we're seven and keep being that for the rest of our lives. It's not necessarily who we are, but it's how we've learned to be.

I don't want to be that anymore.

I don't want to be afraid.

I don't want to be anxious.

I don't want to live in fear of falling apart, of anxiety attacks, of panic.

And then, while watching (of all things) The Princess Diaries last night, I heard this:

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all. From now on you'll be traveling the road between who you think you are and who you can be. The key is to allow yourself to make the journey.

Hard as it is, impossible as it feels, insurmountable as I believe it to be, I have to let go of who I've been and discover who I am. 

And this kidney adventure is challenging me to do just that. 

It's part of my journey to who I am, who I can be. And helping me let go of who I've been.

I've got nothing to say but it's ok

Good Morning.

One of my absolute favorite Beatle songs.

And the line: I've got nothing to say but it's ok?

That rings true to the depths of my soul. It's not who I am yet but it's who I want to be.

This kidney journey is forcing me, yet again, to face things I haven't faced before, to stare down the unknown in a High Noon stand off, to accept what is. Because, really, what else is there once you get past the past, the future, the drama, the stories, the what ifs, the spin.

And every step of this is about being ok with where I am. That's all I can do, all I can be.

Having said that, I'm not there yet. But I have glimmers.

The transplant social worker blew my mind three times yesterday and gave me important tools for this journey.

1. As I was descending into panic she told me to look at my history. That I'd always been ok in the end and I should know I would be this time too. Brilliant.

2. The way we function in our lives, the way we cope, deal, process, avoid, we learned by the time we are 7 years old. Anxiety and compartmentalizing? My life began with those and I've internalized them to be my own. The good news: it doesn't have to stay that way.

3. All my experiences are a fabric that is me. Everything contributes, molds, shapes. It all plays a part somewhere.

It had been a long time since I'd had one of those types of conversations. I've chosen to stay away from therapy because I don't want to delve into the pain and the past again.

I realized, though, how far I've come. And how this kidney journey is a part of my story.

Donating is not a choice. It is what is.

And it's ok.

a fruit basket makes a lovely gift

I'm giving the gift of life. 

People kept saying that to me today. I'm giving the greatest gift there is. 

Thinking back, I think that's what panicked me. As I sat with a social worker after hours of talking with a nephrologist, the transplant coordinator, and the donor advocate I was on edge. Barely holding it together. I could feel the edges of panic creeping into my consciousness. 

It won. 

I had to ask the woman to please stop talking so I could fight back the rush of heat, the stomach clenching, the unbearable fear that I'd have a total breakdown in her office. 

The gift of life? That's too huge to wrap my head around. But so were too many of the other topics that were covered. Blood clots. Kidney rejection. Life insurance policies being canceled. Health proxies. Pre-admission cat scans. IV's. Catheters. Post op tremors. Family medical history. My battles with anorexia and anxiety. Probabilities of dialysis for donors. 

And, of course, death. 

I explained to the social worker that my best coping strategy in life is compartmentalizing. That and not digging too deeply below the surface of things. 

Today, they all dug for me. 

I don't want to think about what ifs in the same way that I don't really listen to the stewardess's emergency options presentation. I know these things exist but minutely scrutinizing is too terrifying. For me. For right now. 

By the time I got down to the lab for 9 vials of blood to be drawn it was a true pleasure to talk to the technician about how her 19 year old daughter doesn't appreciate her. To talk about something that wasn't me. 

I'm used to taking care of everyone else. Having all these people concerned only with my well being was unnerving. Disconcerting. 

Uncomfortable. 

I prefer not thinking about this in such enormous ways. Perhaps I should refer to my kidney as a fruit basket for the time being. 

first kidney freak out

Last night I lost it. Lost it in a deep, dark, crying so hard I couldn't imagine stopping sort of way. I was feeling so down about myself - negative, hopeless, lost.

I used to be like that most of the time and now that I'm not, just grappling with the edges of my dark side totally unnerves me.

Deep down, below the anorexic stuff bubbling up, the frustration at my lack of initiative at the moment, the dread of skiing next month, the exhaustion of bickering children needing my attention, down so low I can barely sense it, is fear.

Pure fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what ifs. Fear of jumping into something I've never done before knowing there's no turning back.

Last night my brother came over and we talked a bit about kidney stuff, as in what's my schedule like for surgery. Does February look good, is there anything on my agenda I need to take into consideration. It was like a conversation about meeting for dinner.

I'm open, I said.

So am I, answered my brother.

And then we moved on.

It helps me to be casual and light about it all. Because whenever it becomes more than that, I panic. I'm not a risk taker. Sky diving is not in my future. I trend conservative when it comes to anything physical. I'm terrified of illness, of my body revolting, of not being in control, or at least maintaining the illusion of control. I think, if I were to think about it, my father being an oncologist and having spent years hearing about illness and death has something to do with it. Both my brother and my sister bein so ill when they were so young. And then living, frozen, for years in a body I misguidedly thought I could master.

Shit.

I go for my first physical this week. Should there be something, anything wrong with me, I'll know. And will have to deal. Should all be ok, more tests.

This feels remarkably like the creeping slowly uphill part of a rollercoaster. The anticipation of what I know will happen is terrifying. But I can't get off. I'm on the ride until it's over and I don't know if I'll be ok with it all or will insanely panic.

Not knowing is just about my hardest lesson to learn in this life. That, and letting go of
thinking I can control what I can't. And here I am, once again,  staring down the precipice of both.