When I was a senior in college I trekked to Urbana, Illinois, for New Years to go to a ginormous missions conference with Intervarsity Christian Fellowship. It was three days packed into the Illini Dome... something like 20,000 college juniors and seniors.
At one point during one of the worship services, I looked around and thought "if this many people are here and they all believe this, then there must be something true."
As I have grown up I have become less certain about the truth that comes from religion. (And somewhat less certain about the truths of faith.) But then I realized that there is a Truth that comes from commonality, from community, from shared burdens and shared goals... aw geez, how about this:
"These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.
This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This the common air that bathes the globe. "
-- Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
Showing posts with label Thoughts and Other Important Stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thoughts and Other Important Stuff. Show all posts
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
To Be/Is/Am/Was/Are
I guess there are lessons I am destined to learn over and over, regardless of how many times life slaps me upside the head. Cilantro is not going to taste good this time, either. Do change the oil in the car. The third cycle on the toaster is never a good idea. Lift up your feet when you are walking.
The one that's been at the forefront lately is that I am really not anyone special... now, this is not a crisis of self-esteem, but factual statement that, beyond my own little sphere of awareness and purported influence... I am not that amazing. I am not a rocket scientist, I am not a parent, I haven't as yet made any lasting contribution to beauty in this world. I will never be a movie star or an Olympic athlete.
And, while I've had this amazing gift given to me, and this inexplicable opportunity to go on with my life ... I am not all that unique.
I guess this lesson started for real (again) when I was in Clinic about a month ago. I had a few hours to waste between appointments... and was ruminating on the fact that soon I will be "graduated" from the tx clinic and returned to my regular dr.
The UW has been adding "bling" to the wing which houses the tx clinics -- you know, the fancy signs and photos which contain quotes and vignettes about tx recipients. There are also posters. After I get past my cynical reaction ("wow, they are really preparing to compete with Swedish when they start doing liver transplants") I start to think "wow, these people are really something." One of the women is a mom, and a terrific softball player (the softball makes me jealous) ... one of the men is a heart/kidney recipient. One of the poster people had acute liver failure and was tx'd within a couple of months. They are attractive, and healthy, and smiling. And they are normal.
Like me.
I get to Clinic and there are more of me. When I started writing this post (June 11, 2009) there were 179 people on the waiting list for a liver in Washington. Since 1990, there have been more than 1,400 liver transplants at the UWMC, and I am one of the 21 in the first quarter of this year. I am one of 12 Type O recipients. I am one of 4 women who has received a liver this year, and one of 3 recipients in the 35-49 age range (I am the only woman in my age cohort).
And I am the only me. Of a thousand other "me's".
When you consider that each organ donor has the potential to give organs to 8 others, plus countless recipients of tissue, there are thousands and thousands of “me’s,” who have experienced more or less what I have. It strikes me that I may be standing next to another organ recipient in the grocery store line.
On the other hand, I could be standing next to a living donor, or a family member of a deceased donor. Maybe mine.
I’m not entirely sure of the point of this rambling, which is why I think I have taken time to come back to finish. Perhaps, it’s because when I really think about it, there’s this new (and please don’t say duuuuhhh out loud right here; remember, I am a little slow) perception of the interconnectedness of the human community.
Let me try it from this angle: I did not do anything to deserve liver disease and a life of chronic illness. But conversely, I did not do anything to deserve a liver transplant in a world of limited resources. Like all the other “me’s” that there are, I just am.
One of the coinkydinky things that has happened since I’ve let this bumble around in my brain is that it’s become public that Steve Jobs (Apple CEO) had a liver transplant shortly after I had mine. Public debate has ensued about whether or not he used his immense resources to “work” the system and get a liver sooner than other people. (This is aside from the very legitimate conversation about whether the corporation’s Board should have disclosed his health issues.) It’s possible that his access to immediate transportation to any transplant center in the country enabled him to be more strategic in choosing where to go. I don’t doubt that his position and wealth increased his health care options.
I will admit to an ethical twinge. Then I realized that the line between Mr. Jobs’ privilege and mine isn’t really all that wide, and it is certainly grey. I have the immense privilege of a family which supported a good education, which led to a good job with great medical insurance. I have the good fortune to live in an area with one of the nation’s best transplant centers. I am privileged with a good brain that enables me to navigate a frustrating medical bureaucracy, and to find advocates to help me along the way. In short, I have benefited from an unfair health care system based on an accident of birth and geography, despite efforts (or lack thereof) to manipulate the system – and in that, I am no different from anyone else.
What frustrates me is that my last statement is a lie. I am different because I have benefited and because the system is unfair. The field is not equal. As much as the process is supposed to be blind and based purely on biological factors as a measure of illness and probability of imminent death (see MELD score) – which, on an individual level, I believe is true – in the aggregate there are divisions based on class, race, and geography about the access to any health care, let alone the specialized care which I have received. And I struggle with that.
At first, I railed against the idea of a transplant feeling guilty about my privilege and feeling certain that there was someone more deserving, more important, than I. Someone who was the sole source of support for their kids. Someone who was out there climbing mountains and exploring forests. Someone who was making music … or someone who was leading innovation in technology, employing thousands, and influencing the lifestyles of countless others.
At some point I came back around to (and am still learning this lesson, over, and over, and over, and over….) this: I have the same value as Steve Jobs, and so does that much older gentleman with hepatitis C who sits across the room from me and waits with his social worker to find out if he’ll get listed. Simply because we are.
The one that's been at the forefront lately is that I am really not anyone special... now, this is not a crisis of self-esteem, but factual statement that, beyond my own little sphere of awareness and purported influence... I am not that amazing. I am not a rocket scientist, I am not a parent, I haven't as yet made any lasting contribution to beauty in this world. I will never be a movie star or an Olympic athlete.
And, while I've had this amazing gift given to me, and this inexplicable opportunity to go on with my life ... I am not all that unique.
I guess this lesson started for real (again) when I was in Clinic about a month ago. I had a few hours to waste between appointments... and was ruminating on the fact that soon I will be "graduated" from the tx clinic and returned to my regular dr.
The UW has been adding "bling" to the wing which houses the tx clinics -- you know, the fancy signs and photos which contain quotes and vignettes about tx recipients. There are also posters. After I get past my cynical reaction ("wow, they are really preparing to compete with Swedish when they start doing liver transplants") I start to think "wow, these people are really something." One of the women is a mom, and a terrific softball player (the softball makes me jealous) ... one of the men is a heart/kidney recipient. One of the poster people had acute liver failure and was tx'd within a couple of months. They are attractive, and healthy, and smiling. And they are normal.
Like me.
I get to Clinic and there are more of me. When I started writing this post (June 11, 2009) there were 179 people on the waiting list for a liver in Washington. Since 1990, there have been more than 1,400 liver transplants at the UWMC, and I am one of the 21 in the first quarter of this year. I am one of 12 Type O recipients. I am one of 4 women who has received a liver this year, and one of 3 recipients in the 35-49 age range (I am the only woman in my age cohort).
And I am the only me. Of a thousand other "me's".
When you consider that each organ donor has the potential to give organs to 8 others, plus countless recipients of tissue, there are thousands and thousands of “me’s,” who have experienced more or less what I have. It strikes me that I may be standing next to another organ recipient in the grocery store line.
On the other hand, I could be standing next to a living donor, or a family member of a deceased donor. Maybe mine.
I’m not entirely sure of the point of this rambling, which is why I think I have taken time to come back to finish. Perhaps, it’s because when I really think about it, there’s this new (and please don’t say duuuuhhh out loud right here; remember, I am a little slow) perception of the interconnectedness of the human community.
Let me try it from this angle: I did not do anything to deserve liver disease and a life of chronic illness. But conversely, I did not do anything to deserve a liver transplant in a world of limited resources. Like all the other “me’s” that there are, I just am.
One of the coinkydinky things that has happened since I’ve let this bumble around in my brain is that it’s become public that Steve Jobs (Apple CEO) had a liver transplant shortly after I had mine. Public debate has ensued about whether or not he used his immense resources to “work” the system and get a liver sooner than other people. (This is aside from the very legitimate conversation about whether the corporation’s Board should have disclosed his health issues.) It’s possible that his access to immediate transportation to any transplant center in the country enabled him to be more strategic in choosing where to go. I don’t doubt that his position and wealth increased his health care options.
I will admit to an ethical twinge. Then I realized that the line between Mr. Jobs’ privilege and mine isn’t really all that wide, and it is certainly grey. I have the immense privilege of a family which supported a good education, which led to a good job with great medical insurance. I have the good fortune to live in an area with one of the nation’s best transplant centers. I am privileged with a good brain that enables me to navigate a frustrating medical bureaucracy, and to find advocates to help me along the way. In short, I have benefited from an unfair health care system based on an accident of birth and geography, despite efforts (or lack thereof) to manipulate the system – and in that, I am no different from anyone else.
What frustrates me is that my last statement is a lie. I am different because I have benefited and because the system is unfair. The field is not equal. As much as the process is supposed to be blind and based purely on biological factors as a measure of illness and probability of imminent death (see MELD score) – which, on an individual level, I believe is true – in the aggregate there are divisions based on class, race, and geography about the access to any health care, let alone the specialized care which I have received. And I struggle with that.
At first, I railed against the idea of a transplant feeling guilty about my privilege and feeling certain that there was someone more deserving, more important, than I. Someone who was the sole source of support for their kids. Someone who was out there climbing mountains and exploring forests. Someone who was making music … or someone who was leading innovation in technology, employing thousands, and influencing the lifestyles of countless others.
At some point I came back around to (and am still learning this lesson, over, and over, and over, and over….) this: I have the same value as Steve Jobs, and so does that much older gentleman with hepatitis C who sits across the room from me and waits with his social worker to find out if he’ll get listed. Simply because we are.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Will the real Heather please stand up?
I am all about the presents. And the cards. And the pretty pretty magazines that are heavy on pictures and fluff pieces about celebrities. I have a lovely morphine-laced concept of the Michelle Obama interview in "O" and am fully aware of the importance of saturated pastels in this spring's chic wardrobe. (And am very frightened of the resurgence of jumpsuits.)
The first package came while I was still in ICU - Jen brought me a bag of amusements. Thanks Jen!!! And the instinct that flowers are not allowed in ICU is correct... that's a no, no matter what.
By the time I made it to the post-operative ward (my favorite "4 SE" where I have been before) my family had fetched the things I wanted from home: an afghan my mom had crocheted when I was 13 and going through the endless tests and hospital visits, and a wire figurine / dancer / star thingy I had bought at the West Seattle Arts market the summer I was first listed for a tx. I knew she would be with me when I got a new liver... don't know why I didn't taker her with me to check-in. Hm!
I know I got several stuffed animals and some balloons which really brightened my room. In addition, there were tons of magazines, puzzle books (which are now proving very useful) and 4 flower arrangements... which, I didn't know... I couldn't have in my room. My family took them home, but the dweebs did not take photos... so I only know that "they were pretty."
But here's the worst part: I have no idea what came from whom, and therefore have to send out a blanket thank you. Ugh.
Now, in this case, I know which Heather (C.) sent the flowers - thanks, Heather! But this is by process of elimination, since the other Heather I know brought me a pretty scarf yesterday with the "I waited till you were home" preface. The last time I was in for surgery, though, I knew five different Lindas (or Lyndas -- the flower shop people spell phoenetically), all of whom were likely to send me a flower arrangement. Luckily I asked all of them while I was still high as a kite, so there was no social awkwardness... but.
When I worked in a flower shop, I don't think I ever put last names on delivery cards. I wish I had, now... for unless a person is blessed only with friends named Penelope or Beauregard, there are likely duplicate names... and cards get separated... and....
So, ANYHOW, thank you to everyone for the cards, flowers, balloons, and soft squishies. The people at work, I know who they are... and yours is coming. But then, in addition to the material stuff (for which I have some sort of evidence) comes all the good thoughts, prayers, kind words, and the work people are doing in my stead. Thanks!
The first package came while I was still in ICU - Jen brought me a bag of amusements. Thanks Jen!!! And the instinct that flowers are not allowed in ICU is correct... that's a no, no matter what.
By the time I made it to the post-operative ward (my favorite "4 SE" where I have been before) my family had fetched the things I wanted from home: an afghan my mom had crocheted when I was 13 and going through the endless tests and hospital visits, and a wire figurine / dancer / star thingy I had bought at the West Seattle Arts market the summer I was first listed for a tx. I knew she would be with me when I got a new liver... don't know why I didn't taker her with me to check-in. Hm!
I know I got several stuffed animals and some balloons which really brightened my room. In addition, there were tons of magazines, puzzle books (which are now proving very useful) and 4 flower arrangements... which, I didn't know... I couldn't have in my room. My family took them home, but the dweebs did not take photos... so I only know that "they were pretty."
But here's the worst part: I have no idea what came from whom, and therefore have to send out a blanket thank you. Ugh.
Now, in this case, I know which Heather (C.) sent the flowers - thanks, Heather! But this is by process of elimination, since the other Heather I know brought me a pretty scarf yesterday with the "I waited till you were home" preface. The last time I was in for surgery, though, I knew five different Lindas (or Lyndas -- the flower shop people spell phoenetically), all of whom were likely to send me a flower arrangement. Luckily I asked all of them while I was still high as a kite, so there was no social awkwardness... but.
When I worked in a flower shop, I don't think I ever put last names on delivery cards. I wish I had, now... for unless a person is blessed only with friends named Penelope or Beauregard, there are likely duplicate names... and cards get separated... and....
So, ANYHOW, thank you to everyone for the cards, flowers, balloons, and soft squishies. The people at work, I know who they are... and yours is coming. But then, in addition to the material stuff (for which I have some sort of evidence) comes all the good thoughts, prayers, kind words, and the work people are doing in my stead. Thanks!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Weather
in the northwest is schizophrenic. it was warm and sunny all weekend long hallelujah, and blasted in cold last night with all the fresh-air windows open. the most amazing thing happened: i got thoroughly chilled and then was able to get warm again. think it's been about two years since my body would do that for me.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
This comes first
My intent with this 'blog is to tell a story, to write some of the things that are in my head, and get them out to the world in some way. It's a promise I made to myself a long long time ago.
Every story has a beginning and an ending, which is cliche, but true. This story, my story, consists of many beginnings and many endings, intertwining and hinging and meeting and departing, in the complicated ways that lives and people and ideas and events do. But now seems a particularly good beginning, which, of course, begins with an ending.
Sometime in the afternoon or evening of Monday, March 23, 2009, Someone died. They were young, and they were healthy, and they were an organ donor. When they were pronounced dead, their family made the decision to follow through with donation. That is all I know about this person, and it may be all I will ever know. It is all I will tell.
They may know something more or less about me. They may know that on Wednesday, March 25, 2009 I received my "second birthday" in the form of a new liver. They may know that I have needed that liver (or was going to) for at least the last 25 years, that I am 38, and otherwise healthy. If they ever want to know more, I will tell them.
In the hinge that connects my beginning with the others' ending are countless other people and loves, and the wonder that accompanies it all. And even in the short space of 10 days I know that this will primarily be a story about gratitude. The thanks I owe my family, the professionals who do their jobs so well, the community that surrounds me, but also to that family and that Someone.
And in so doing, what was an anonymous donation can - much to my frustration - only be answered by an anonymous thank you. Thank you for giving me a gift and being generous not because you know me and love me, not only because it will help you through what must be the most tremendous time of grief for you, but because.
Thank you for the beginning.
Every story has a beginning and an ending, which is cliche, but true. This story, my story, consists of many beginnings and many endings, intertwining and hinging and meeting and departing, in the complicated ways that lives and people and ideas and events do. But now seems a particularly good beginning, which, of course, begins with an ending.
Sometime in the afternoon or evening of Monday, March 23, 2009, Someone died. They were young, and they were healthy, and they were an organ donor. When they were pronounced dead, their family made the decision to follow through with donation. That is all I know about this person, and it may be all I will ever know. It is all I will tell.
They may know something more or less about me. They may know that on Wednesday, March 25, 2009 I received my "second birthday" in the form of a new liver. They may know that I have needed that liver (or was going to) for at least the last 25 years, that I am 38, and otherwise healthy. If they ever want to know more, I will tell them.
In the hinge that connects my beginning with the others' ending are countless other people and loves, and the wonder that accompanies it all. And even in the short space of 10 days I know that this will primarily be a story about gratitude. The thanks I owe my family, the professionals who do their jobs so well, the community that surrounds me, but also to that family and that Someone.
And in so doing, what was an anonymous donation can - much to my frustration - only be answered by an anonymous thank you. Thank you for giving me a gift and being generous not because you know me and love me, not only because it will help you through what must be the most tremendous time of grief for you, but because.
Thank you for the beginning.
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