WHEW

I was talking to my brother a few minutes ago—these days we're in touch more often than we used to be. We chatted about a variety of relatively innocuous things when he said he had heard something that would blow my mind. Now that's an expression I often use and I found it funny coming from him, who's far less prone to exaggeration.

He'd gotten a call from his transplant coordinator, who isn't the same as mine, to see where he stood with testing. He's got one more big one this Friday and then he's done. She asked about me—I'm just waiting for the rest of my results to come in. And then, she said if all came through we could be on the schedule by the end of the month.

And in that moment, I got really happy.

Psyched. Excited.

Kind of thrilled.

Am I crazy? Sort of. But I am so relieved that I might be able to help, that I can make a difference, that I can share something healing and life-changing.

Oh. My. God.

I suggested that we get matching pajamas for the hospital.

And I have to say, my brother's been very good natured about all my ridiculous suggestions.

living in fearless

This morning I went uptown for my very last test—the three-peat urine sample.

I took the subway up to 116th and back. Now I realize that sounds like not a big deal for someone who's lived in NYC for just about half of my 46 years. But for me it was huge.

HUGE.

I generally don't take the subway. For many years, well over a decade, I never walked down those dirty grey stairs, stood on those poorly lit platforms, waited for the rumble that shook the concrete under my feet. The bus is my transportation of choice. A cab. I can walk for miles. We have a car that I occasionally do more with than parallel on the opposite side of the street. Three or so years ago I took a deep breath and hopped on a train if there were no other options available. I had to be with other people. I had to be distracted. If the train slowed down, I'd get off at the next stop. This happened so rarely I could probably count the times on two hands.

But today, today I traveled alone. And was fine.

I figured if I can stare down my first operation, my first time being wheeled into surgery, my first anesthesia, giving up an organ that's been a part of me for longer than I've been on this planet and that I use on a regular basis, if I can handle strangers slicing me open, knowing I'll be in serious pain afterwards and will have a significant recovery, if I can accept that possibilities of all that can go wrong, then fuck it—the subway shouldn't be a big deal.

I'm learning to live in fearless.

Fearless to me isn't the absence of fear. I know myself too well—I'll never live without fear completely. But it's facing fear head on and not letting it win. Not making those excuses I so usually make. Not keeping myself out of situations so I don't have to grapple with the what ifs that I excel at making.

People who don't suffer from anxiety have no idea how hard it can be to be brave. To fight with yourself. To survive those internal battles. To breathe instead of panic. To function instead of freeze.

I've come so far. And this kidney journey is challenging me to challenge myself in ways I'd accepted were just the way I was.

But maybe, just maybe, that's not how I have to be.

Now I have to conquer doing a headstand in the middle of a room.

exceedingly grateful

I just came from a mammogram, the last test needed to determine whether I can move forward as a donor. Well, almost. We're waiting for results from that, from a pap smear and there's still tomorrow's pee in a cup repeat for a third time, after having taken a round of antibiotics to knock out a possible UTI.

Then, we wait. We wait to see if the transplant and donor teams give us a thumb's up to go ahead.

This is all completely out of my control. And I'm not very good at that (although this process is teaching me to be).

But, as I walked home, slipping on icy sidewalks, as the sun went down over chilly NYC streets, I was grateful.

Truly grateful.

I am grateful to be healthy. I am grateful for every test result that comes back uneventfully.

I am grateful for my children who keep interrupting me even thought I've said over and over that I need 15 minutes of silence so I can write. Yes, I am grateful for these amazing beings who make me crazy and thrill me every day.

I am grateful to be married to someone who offered to be tested if I wasn't a match. Who's supporting me through all this. Who occasionally reads my blog and is touched by what I write. Who is smart and enthusiastic and curious. We've known each other for 27 years, which is INSANE, and there's still so much to do and say.

I am grateful for the many people in my life who are in my life. Who listen, understand, help, offer. Who love me. Or even just like me.

I am grateful at how often I laugh every day. I am beyond grateful for The Office on Netflix.

I am grateful for my parents, even though one doesn't talk to me anymore. I'm grateful that they're both here and relatively ok. And there's a step out there who loves me whole-heartedly and makes my life that much better because he's in it.

I am grateful for where I live. Not just that I live in the west village in NYC. But that I have a roof over my head, clean water to drink, steamy showers in the morning. Not to mention stunning sunsets out my bedroom window.

I am grateful for yoga. For the path I've now been on for more than 6 years that's made such a profound difference in my life without my meaning it to. I'm grateful for the studio I practice at, the amazing teachers I've met, the colors, the music, the movement. The flow.

I am grateful that I have health insurance. A lovely dentist. A gynecologist I adore.

I am grateful my creativity is creeping back. Slowly, so slowly, but I'm feeling glimmers after what I'd worried was an endless drought.

I am grateful for my puppy. To sit with her on my lap, scratching her belly as she rests her head on my neck is bliss. To be met with true love every time she sees me is precious beyond words.

I am grateful that I can write. That I've found my voice. That I've explored and delved into and tried on my beliefs. That I make a stand. That people listen.

I am grateful for my life.

And I am grateful that I can hopefully make someone else's better.

I am grateful that I've come so far on this kidney journey. And I am hoping to be grateful that my kidney will find a happy and healthy home with my brother.

advice from unlikely places

Yesterday, as Iz and I were having a late lunch at Bruce's (the new diner that opened on 6th Avenue that has amazing potato pancakes and sweet potato fries and a greek salad that's insane), we talked about me and the slump I'm in.

I guess one could call this a slump.

I suppose I'm officially calling it a slump.

The Elissa Stein Slump of 2011 (although it went on for much of 2010 as well).

We talked about why I'm not creative anymore. Actually, I talked about that and she insisted that of course I am—it's all still there, it's just overwhelmed by everything else that's going on.

We talked about perhaps being on medication was what's taking away that drive, that insane drive that so often consumed me to make things happen.

She looked straight at me, hard, stopped eating the chocolate cake that they bring to the table before you even order, and told me I can't stop taking them now, not with this major operation in my near future. Very calmly, very wisely, she told me there was too much stress in my life at the moment, that when facing such a major event I shouldn't even think about stopping meds, but that after I'm healed and in a mellower place I could think about it and slowly see what it was like to stop knowing that if I could always go back on them if I didn't feel right.

Words of pure wisdom from my not-yet 13 year old.

Words of truth.

I'm finding, as I contemplate this surgery, that I'm shutting down in many ways. It's hard to get things done. Contemplating laundry, scheduling appointments, cleaning my desk (which always borders on disaster), can be too much. I want to escape into sleep but then wake up often during the night. Things that should be automatic and easy, like planning my dog's birthday party that's taking place later today, are almost impossible.

I'm slacking. The fridge is almost empty. I'm not on top of homework the way I should be. I haven't even started thinking about camp. I need a haircut. I can't get control back of my apartment. I still can't do a headstand in the middle of yoga class even though of course I can. I'm not eating well and can't seem to get back to a healthier place.

I think I'm scared, underneath it all. Scared of the surgery. Scared of being put under. Scared of being unconscious on that table for hours while strangers are slicing into me.

Scared of the pain. Scared I won't be able to handle it. Scared of the recovery.

Scared of waking up and finding out they couldn't do the transplant.

I have one test left—a mammogram tomorrow. That and a re-do of the urine test I keep failing. If these results, plus those from my gynecologist are good, my testing is done. Then it's waiting for the donation/transplant teams to sit around a table discussing whether to go forward or to say I'm not qualified as a candidate.

Fuck.

But, I suppose, in the scheme of things, this lethargy and turning inward isn't bad when I look at the bigger picture of all I'm facing at the moment.

My apartment's not that messy. The dogs don't have huge expectations of what a party is. We're all wearing clean clothes.

I'm learning to be kind to myself through all this - the opposite of the beating up anorexic mindset I had for so many years.

Damn. I'm taking care of myself, even healing, in the middle of this craziness.

That realization just left me speechless.

results are in

I got a call Wednesday morning from the donation nephrologist that, for the most part, all my test results were fine.

For the most part.

After taking antibiotics for 3 days I have to retake a urine test - for the third time. It looks as if I might have an asymptomatic UTI. Apparently this should be an easy thing to treat and won't throw the donation off in the long run. Not a big deal.

What unnerved me were my cholesterol numbers.

They're fine. Totally fine. Well within the range of healthy and normal. My good cholesterol is fabulous (my word, not the doctor's). But the doctor expressed surprise that my bad cholesterol was higher than he would've thought. I suppose, in a way, that's a nod to how fine everything is.

Me, being me, took that news and started to spin.

To be more specific for a moment:

under 100 is fantastic (again, my word)

100-130 is fine

130-160 is borderline high

and so on.

Mine is 116. Again, fine.

Not to me though. This crazy, competitive force took over. It wasn't that I was pissed at my body, or even disappointed. I just wanted to do better. Less than 100 became my personal holy grail.

I wracked my brains trying to figure out what could have driven the numbers up so sky high (yes, that's how I interpreted smack in the middle of fine). I have half and half in my decaf iced coffee every day after not drinking anything but skim for most of my adult life. I've been eating butter again, after many years without—cinnamon raisin buttered bagels have become a daily staple. Hot chocolate with whipped cream? These could very well be the culprits.

I don't know, thought, that I'm willing to give them up. Not in the anorexic, cut things out of my diet way I lived years of my adult life. I used to say things like: NO MORE ICE CREAM. Or potato chips. Or french fries. Or chocolate. And then I wouldn't eat them again. Ever.

I had extraordinary will power. I always thought that should I have been able to harness it in a positive way, I'd be able to do anything. And having said that, you know, I sometimes do. I can accomplish insane things at times - it's that drive, that focus, that energy I used to direct at starving and extreme exercise.

I'm choosing not to challenge it at my cholesterol. Instead, I'm meeting with my doctor to see what my levels were in the past. Maybe this is genetic. Maybe it's the way I am. I'm thinking of perhaps not eating quite so many bagels and cutting down on the butter a bit - although it is delicious.

Moderation is a good thing.

And so is an LDL of 116.

when the past meets the present

Yesterday I spent time talking to the 3 psychiatrists at the nephrologist's office about my eating disorder. I'd say we spent 8-10 minutes out of 45 on the topic. I gave them a brief timeline, an overview, insights on why I thought I developed anorexia, treatment I received, and  how I recovered to this point.

Cramming more than a decade of pain, self-flagellation, disgust and frustration into mini-monologues was close to impossible.

The hardest part though, and the summary I didn't pull off so well was how I got better.

I am better. So much better. Better to the point that when the head inquisitor observed that I'm no longer thin and how did I handle that, I handled it.

I had a fat moment or two this morning but was able to let it quickly go and enjoy my decaf mocha with whipped cream.

I now know my body is my home. It's my responsibility to take care of it, respect it, cherish it, not punish it. I accept who and where I am (for the most part). It is what is.

But how did I get here? To this reasonably healthy, sane place?

If I had hours to talk I don't know that's a question I have an answer to.

Being a mother made me let go of so much. The illusion of control. The concept that my issues were all important and should take precedent over everything else. Anorexia is quite the selfish, egotistical disease.

Going to art school and finding my voice after too many years of not having one.

There's yoga. Finding space in my mind and learning I don't always have to spin out of control. Not to mention being stronger than I've ever been. Who would ever have thought that neurotic me would ever be able to float into a headstand in the middle of a room.

Getting older. I'm finding age brings wisdom and acceptance. There are downsides but with this too, I'm learning to accept what is.

But I think the biggest thing is that I'm grateful. Grateful I'm here. Grateful for my family, for where we live, for the life we've created. For the opportunities I've had and the ones I made happen. For the many amazing people in my life. For my puppy.

Grateful that I have a sense of humor that keeps me sane in the insanity.

Grateful that I can give.

Giving my kidney is a way to pay forward all I've been blessed with in my life. A thank you to the universe. A tip of the hat to the forces that be.

a day in the donating life

My day started at 2:30am, when I had to remember to pee in a cup for my 24 hour urine study. I had to remember again at 4am and then again at 6:40 - my official first pee of the day and the last of the study. I was then on the road uptown with my very heavy bottle, without having eaten as a glucose tolerance test was next on my agenda. I made it to the lab at 8:20, peed in yet another cup, and then was handed a bottle of an orange soda-esque drink to chug before giving blood. At 9:15 Mohammed drew the first vial and then again 3 more times on the quarter hour.

I crocheted a scarf. I read one of Jack's books. I talked to the revolving people who happened to sit next to me. I met a woman who'd had a transplant 6 years before and told me to not worry, be strong and all would be fine. Another shared the frustration of looking for sugar free food in Harlem. I heard about business calls and missed meetings and how much more efficiently the old lab worked.

At some point during the morning the social worker I'd met during my previous visit stopped by, asking if I had time to come up later and meet with their psychiatrist. I was sure the anxiety attack I'd had in her office was the red flag. That, anorexia, my family dramas . . . I'm thinking there were a variety of red flags to choose from.

I braved the 6 degree weather to find some post testing lunch, my hands shaking from hunger, not the cold as I waited for tea and a salad.

And then, I wait until 2 to be questioned. Turns out it was a team of 3 people waiting to speak to me although 2 didn't actually say anything. They nodded occasionally or shook their heads.

In the next 45 minutes we touched on much of my emotional and family history and I realized, as I answered queries and shared my past, that it often sounded insane. Truly insane. Even the head guy at one point pointed out the extreme drama and pain I've lived through.

Yes. I have.

Cancer. Divorce. Stroke. Anorexia. Emergency rooms and seizures. Psychiatric wards. Strained to the point of broken relationships. Anxiety. Kidney donations. Note: all of the above didn't happen to me but I lived through them in close circumstances.

I also overcame an eating disorder. Had 2 amazing children. Have been married for 22 years to an amazing person. I graduated from art school with honors after doing so miserably at ciollege the first time around.

I survived. I've gotten stronger.

And wiser.

And healthier.

I cried in the cab on the way home, hot tears slipping down my face thinking that a team of people would be judging me on the snippets they'd heard instead of me, the whole picture.

But then I realized that this is who I am. A sum of my parts. My emotional life is as much a part of me as my physical being. Could be my blood sugar is too high. Could be they deem me too neurotic to proceed.

It is what it is.

But I still know it will all work out in the end.