Yesterday morning a friend asked (through a words with friends message), if we wanted to have dinner last night. I had another dinner plan pending and, as it was such a stunning day, asked both families if they wanted to have dinner upstairs instead of going out - our building has a spacious roof deck on the 17th floor with panoramic views of NYC, everything from the Empire State Building to the Hudson River to the new Freedom Tower that's now taller than everything else in its vicinity. Sunsets are stunning.
Coffee plans with someone else fell through and when I mentioned perhaps roof dinner, she excitedly said yes and asked if she could bring a friend. That brought the total to 12. And later, when talking to my brother, or perhaps we were texting, I discovered he was still in the city - would he like to join us? That yes brought the total to 14.
14 people for an impromptu dinner party.
That used to be matter-of-fact. Most summers we had people over on a regular basis, always super casual, generally last minute, but the gift that is dinner in the open air at sunset is one that needs to be shared. This year though, I haven't been up to it. Up to the planning, the organizing, the preparing, the chatting, the entertaining, and the massive clean up. Even the inviting has escaped me for the past couple of months. I've been wary of making plans, worried the exhaustion would hit and I wouldn't be able to handle or cope with pieces I'd put in place.
Yesterday though, something was different. There was no second-guessing or doubts flirting at the edges. I emailed Jon to let him know what was happening and he asked who'd be doing all the work (he's the big set-up person). I realized I couldn't leave it all to him, so we kicked it up into high gear.
The kids and I cleaned the apartment. Washed both dogs (this wasn't necessary for dinner, but it needed to be done). I went to a kick ass yoga class, headed up to Trader Joe's on the way home, and trudged back 10 blocks, a heavy bag slung over my already sore shoulder. Then a trip to the supermarket to pick up enough watermelon for slushies.
I roasted potatoes in olive oil and sea salt. Put together a mozzarella and grape tomato salad. Sliced watermelon, cantalope, blueberries, strawberries and raspberries. Pureed more watermelon than you could imagine. Found plates, utensils, glasses, serving bowls, trays.
Someone brought delicious cold sesame noodles. Another backed an incredible summer fruit pie.
As the sky moved through pink, orange, and purple into cobalt blue, a luminous moon rising over the east side, we ate. And talked. Caught up. Hung out. We lit candles and sang happy birthday to the many people at the table who'd celebrated a birthday in the past few months. The kids went in search of helium balloons and entertained us with squeaky voices in the dark.
Then we wandered downstairs, piles (and piles and piles) of dirty dishes in hand. The puppies were delighted to have so much attention. And so people stayed. The last guests left after 11.
I made it through the entire day and night as myself. No walls of exhaustion. No necessary naps. No anxiety rushing in to take over.
It was a good, good night.
I am so grateful for the friends I have. For my amazing my family, who can pull remarkable things together.
And for watermelon, without whom the night wouldn't have been what it was.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
how much is that kidney in the window?
I wrote a piece at Huffington Post about paid kidney donations:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elissa-stein/how-much-is-that-kidney-i_b_919989.html
it brings up a lot of questions . . .
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elissa-stein/how-much-is-that-kidney-i_b_919989.html
it brings up a lot of questions . . .
before and after
This small world story will make sense so stick with me for a bit:
A few weeks before the transplant, as I sat waiting for a yoga class to begin, I recognized a woman in the back of the class. We'd belonged to the same gym, years ago, and I spotted her in the neighborhood every once in awhile, although we never said hi. With time to kill I started chatting, as I do, and discovered she was now a regular at my studio too, although we hadn't crossed paths. Eventually the impending surgery came up, as it so often did, and she mentioned her neighbor was waiting for a new kidney. Small world - how often do you meet someone who knows someone in such a similar situation. I wondered I she could have been talking about my brother, but she lived in a different neighborhood.
The she mentioned he was vegan, that they shared a love of vegan cupcakes.
I asked if his name was xxx.
Yup.
Was his last name xxx?
Yup again.
My brother's office is in her building. She's known him for years. In fact, the week before, I'd helped pickout cupcakes for her at a vegan bakery in NJ we'd road tripped too.
Now it was a serious small world story.
So here's the relevant part: I saw her in class the other day. After telling me how great she thought I seemed (thanks D!, she mentioned how amazing my brother looked. That the grey pallor and dark smudges under his eyes that had been there for so long were gone. That his energy level,compared to what it had been, was remarkable.
It was hard not to cry.
I've notice these things but to hear it from someone else, someone not intimately involved in the whole thing, who had such a clear view of the before and after, was amazing. Gratifying. Thrilling. So much time has passes that my kidney adventure is fadin into the background. The rest of life is coming backup the forefront. It was a gift to be reminded of what a positive difference that kidney is making.
A few weeks before the transplant, as I sat waiting for a yoga class to begin, I recognized a woman in the back of the class. We'd belonged to the same gym, years ago, and I spotted her in the neighborhood every once in awhile, although we never said hi. With time to kill I started chatting, as I do, and discovered she was now a regular at my studio too, although we hadn't crossed paths. Eventually the impending surgery came up, as it so often did, and she mentioned her neighbor was waiting for a new kidney. Small world - how often do you meet someone who knows someone in such a similar situation. I wondered I she could have been talking about my brother, but she lived in a different neighborhood.
The she mentioned he was vegan, that they shared a love of vegan cupcakes.
I asked if his name was xxx.
Yup.
Was his last name xxx?
Yup again.
My brother's office is in her building. She's known him for years. In fact, the week before, I'd helped pickout cupcakes for her at a vegan bakery in NJ we'd road tripped too.
Now it was a serious small world story.
So here's the relevant part: I saw her in class the other day. After telling me how great she thought I seemed (thanks D!, she mentioned how amazing my brother looked. That the grey pallor and dark smudges under his eyes that had been there for so long were gone. That his energy level,compared to what it had been, was remarkable.
It was hard not to cry.
I've notice these things but to hear it from someone else, someone not intimately involved in the whole thing, who had such a clear view of the before and after, was amazing. Gratifying. Thrilling. So much time has passes that my kidney adventure is fadin into the background. The rest of life is coming backup the forefront. It was a gift to be reminded of what a positive difference that kidney is making.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
words with friends
At dinner last week with a bunch of friends - my super cool book club to be more specific - I mentioned that I'm rather addicted at the moment to Words with Friends.
Silence spilled across the table. I sensed distain, pity, discomfort. It seemed they felt sorry for me and my time-wasting ways.
Before I could leap to my own defense, conversation moved on.
And then yesterday, I read a blog post of someone I admire, justifying her own WWF habit. After I caught up on my 10 current games (including one with the writer of that post), I thought I'd explain my own habit.
I play with my brother. Before surgery he gave me a WWF hard sell but I was too busy contemplating the transplant to contemplate anything else. Afterwards though, as we hung out in the hospital for hours and hours, wincing and waiting for the next dose of pain meds (actually last part was just me), we started playing. Me on my iPhone, my brother on his iPad. He trounced me just about every game. When I'd lose by less than 100 points, I'd feel smarter than usual. We played around the clock as neither of us were sleeping through the night.
It was good to know he was there. Reassuring. After all we'd just gone through I appreciated this means of being connected.
It became one of the many ways we stayed in touch. At that point we were texting, emailing, talking on the phone, commenting on facebook posts and sending messages during word game. Keeping track of how the other was doing as we adjusted to post-transplant reality. We were so often in contact before surgery and I had wondered if that would stop as we went our separate ways.
And so WWF is more than a time drain for me. It's one way of staying close to my brother as real life seeps back in.
Silence spilled across the table. I sensed distain, pity, discomfort. It seemed they felt sorry for me and my time-wasting ways.
Before I could leap to my own defense, conversation moved on.
And then yesterday, I read a blog post of someone I admire, justifying her own WWF habit. After I caught up on my 10 current games (including one with the writer of that post), I thought I'd explain my own habit.
I play with my brother. Before surgery he gave me a WWF hard sell but I was too busy contemplating the transplant to contemplate anything else. Afterwards though, as we hung out in the hospital for hours and hours, wincing and waiting for the next dose of pain meds (actually last part was just me), we started playing. Me on my iPhone, my brother on his iPad. He trounced me just about every game. When I'd lose by less than 100 points, I'd feel smarter than usual. We played around the clock as neither of us were sleeping through the night.
It was good to know he was there. Reassuring. After all we'd just gone through I appreciated this means of being connected.
It became one of the many ways we stayed in touch. At that point we were texting, emailing, talking on the phone, commenting on facebook posts and sending messages during word game. Keeping track of how the other was doing as we adjusted to post-transplant reality. We were so often in contact before surgery and I had wondered if that would stop as we went our separate ways.
And so WWF is more than a time drain for me. It's one way of staying close to my brother as real life seeps back in.
Monday, August 1, 2011
me and my kidney
Last night, as I was getting out of bed to pee yet again, Jon asked if I noticed any difference with just one kidney.
Nope.
Not that I expected to feel an empty spot by my back left ribs, but I wondered if Ida (Sidney's remaining partner), would be up to the task of dealing with the huge amounts of liquid I consume.
Now that it's summer, homemade slushies are just about an every day drink. If you haven't pureed watermelon and then added ice to the mix, you're missing out on something extraordinary. I also go through tons of milk, organic chocolate powder and ice—your basic frozen chocolate milk. Cold soups (the fresh pea and mint at Pret) are seasonal faves. And then, there's water. I drink a lot of water. Seriously, a lot of water. Not iced. I'm a fan of room temperature.
One thing I learned during my transplant odyssey is that my remaining kidney, much like the Grinch's heart, would grow. 50 percent larger in fact. Perhaps that's part of post donation fatigue—the fact that one of my organs is actually increasing in size. And Ida is working around the clock. Literally. I generally get up more than once during the night to pee.
8 weeks post surgery and I'm peeing up a storm. I'm amazed at what my body can do. I am grateful that my brother got one kick ass kidney. And I'm delighted with the one that's left.
Nope.
Not that I expected to feel an empty spot by my back left ribs, but I wondered if Ida (Sidney's remaining partner), would be up to the task of dealing with the huge amounts of liquid I consume.
Now that it's summer, homemade slushies are just about an every day drink. If you haven't pureed watermelon and then added ice to the mix, you're missing out on something extraordinary. I also go through tons of milk, organic chocolate powder and ice—your basic frozen chocolate milk. Cold soups (the fresh pea and mint at Pret) are seasonal faves. And then, there's water. I drink a lot of water. Seriously, a lot of water. Not iced. I'm a fan of room temperature.
One thing I learned during my transplant odyssey is that my remaining kidney, much like the Grinch's heart, would grow. 50 percent larger in fact. Perhaps that's part of post donation fatigue—the fact that one of my organs is actually increasing in size. And Ida is working around the clock. Literally. I generally get up more than once during the night to pee.
8 weeks post surgery and I'm peeing up a storm. I'm amazed at what my body can do. I am grateful that my brother got one kick ass kidney. And I'm delighted with the one that's left.
Friday, July 29, 2011
transplant karma
I wrote the other day about how I lost the elephant bracelet I'd been wearing since the day I found out I was a match. I thought about ordering a new one, but it wouldn't be the same. I started wearing the bracelet Jon had been wearing, one of the 18 I'd made for friends and family, but that's not the same either.
I missed mine. It symbolized a link, a hope, a period of time that was intense and profound and life-changing.
And then yesterday, as I hung my ganesh necklace around the buddha statue it stays on at night, there it was. The elephant. My elephant. Lying there as if it was a gift on an altar.
I have no idea how it got there. No one here is owning up to finding it and leaving it for me.
But somehow, that little symbol found its way back.
I'm attributing it to transplant karma.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
to be a donor
Yesterday, on twitter, a potential kidney donor wondered if it would be ok to ask me some questions. I sent her my email and last night heard more of her story. At the moment she's at one of the unexpected roadblocks that, in retrospect, are inevitable in such a complicated process. But, what she was really concerned with was facing surgery and the fears that go along with it.
The day before my surgery, while dropping my brother off at the hospital - they wanted to fit in one last dialysis session - I told him how the thought of the many thousands of people how were operated on and were fine was helping me deal. He answered: yes, but how many people choose to go through surgery solely to help someone else?
Donors do.
And so, for us, there are things on the table most people never have to face.
Like going into an operating room as an exceedingly healthy person, knowing you'll feel like hell on the other side. Accepting that you'll be giving up an integral organ, permanently. Knowing that your actions will change, if not save, someone else's life.
There are, at least there were for me, profound emotions and experiences that went along with donating. I have two still pretty young kids and a husband whose feelings and fears went into the mix. Friends and family, people close and almost strangers who called me everything from a hero, a saint, a life-saver, an inspiration, to whiny, selfish and overly-dramatic. One woman asked how I could possibly do this as one of my children might need a kidney in the future. Someone else wondered if I ever considered all that could go wrong, like not waking up after surgery. More than one donor told me to suck it up and shut up as my words might discourage potential candidates from being tested. And then others would look at me with tears in their eyes, astounded at what I was taking on.
Every experience is different, every donor's reactions unique. You can't imagine how you'll handle it until you're in it. But it changes you. Forever. Just the generosity of being tested, of contemplating this gift, is huge. Strangers I found on facebook and twitter, who've been down this road, made a profound difference to me.
And if I can pass on that donor karma, I'm grateful.
The day before my surgery, while dropping my brother off at the hospital - they wanted to fit in one last dialysis session - I told him how the thought of the many thousands of people how were operated on and were fine was helping me deal. He answered: yes, but how many people choose to go through surgery solely to help someone else?
Donors do.
And so, for us, there are things on the table most people never have to face.
Like going into an operating room as an exceedingly healthy person, knowing you'll feel like hell on the other side. Accepting that you'll be giving up an integral organ, permanently. Knowing that your actions will change, if not save, someone else's life.
There are, at least there were for me, profound emotions and experiences that went along with donating. I have two still pretty young kids and a husband whose feelings and fears went into the mix. Friends and family, people close and almost strangers who called me everything from a hero, a saint, a life-saver, an inspiration, to whiny, selfish and overly-dramatic. One woman asked how I could possibly do this as one of my children might need a kidney in the future. Someone else wondered if I ever considered all that could go wrong, like not waking up after surgery. More than one donor told me to suck it up and shut up as my words might discourage potential candidates from being tested. And then others would look at me with tears in their eyes, astounded at what I was taking on.
Every experience is different, every donor's reactions unique. You can't imagine how you'll handle it until you're in it. But it changes you. Forever. Just the generosity of being tested, of contemplating this gift, is huge. Strangers I found on facebook and twitter, who've been down this road, made a profound difference to me.
And if I can pass on that donor karma, I'm grateful.
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