Point to point, point observation

She said a good day ain't got no rain.
She said a bad day's when I lie in bed and think of things that might have been.

I don't think of such things, there's bad karma waiting in "it might have been." As I don't have naturally good karma, I think it's better for me not to tempt fate.

On the other hand, today could have gone differently.

I woke early, didn't feel too well. Today, early means 6 a.m.; there used to be days when early meant noon, but those are no more; consider me reformed. I knew I'd had my usual ration of liquids before bed, and that I hadn't been up as many times. I went downstairs and weighed myself, because that's one of the indicators I use to determine how my kidney is dealing with fluids. Three pounds seemed to have crept up on me. It's not that I'm obsessed with my weight--I know exactly what my body composition is, and it doesn't bother me--those pounds were the water I drank before bed.

Three pounds. Three is the the "call us" number.

So I drank some more water, about a liter; then I waited. I washed dishes, then I went back to bed for an hour before meds. Still nothing.

I started to worry a little. My blood sugar was nothing if not normal, it was even a little low at 68. My systolic pressure was normal, but at 95 my diastolic was just below the "call us" level, generally mine runs about 60. I made a decision that I'd cut the dosage of one of my steroids, per Dr. Shaver's advice yesterday.

I thought about the date and considered that my troubles with fluid retention were probably due to my old friend PMS.

This was slightly comforting until the new kidney started to hurt.

That was three indicators that I ought to call, so I called. I spoke to the hospital operator, said the magic words "page the kidney transplant coordinator on call" and gave her my number. Then the phone beeped; it was Ed, whom I had e-mailed earlier asking if he wanted to go to breakfast, because I know he can't resist the opportunity for the Bad Cholesterol Special at Whitey's.

I told him that I might be having a bit of a rejection episode, but that I wasn't going to lose the kidney over breakfast, at which point the phone beeped again. This time it was Dr. Shaver, who wanted me to come in to repeat yesterday's blood work, even though yesterday's blood work had wonderful results. I asked if I could have breakfast first, and the doc said no problem, so Ed came over and we went to Whitey's.

Ed had a Western Omelet plus biscuits and gravy; I had the Country Fried Steak with Sausage Gravy, scrambled eggs, toast and home fries. Man, those home fries rocked my world. I really missed potatoes. I tried to tell myself that I didn't, but that was always a lie.

I have to say that Ed makes better, more entertaining company than my mom in a hospital waiting room. I flipped through an issue of Gourmet from December of 1981 and we laughed at the ads, often saying "Hey man, remember the 80s?" It wasn't a good time for advertising. After about 45 minutes, some of which was spent listening to a tiny baby wailing in the background as they tried to draw his blood, they called my name. The lab guy had a hard time finding a vein on me. He didn't want to go into my left arm since it had been drawn on so many times, and my right arm is hard to stick.

It's no fun having a person go at you with a big needle. I saw him eyeing the big vein in my left hand and I was happy when he believed me that it wasn't anywhere near as good as it looks. That's the one that hurts and swells up when they can't get it.

Finally, I was done and we left. That poor little guy was still wailing, it just broke my heart: at least I know what's happening to me and why.

We got back into the District, and Ed found a place to park on my block, so I put on a jacket and some socks, and we walked down to Eastern Market. In the time it took to walk three blocks, the day went from sufficiently pleasant to damned cold. I talked to a couple of friends at the Market, then we went inside to have pecan bars. That's when Marion, the transplant-coordinator-on-call, called with my lab results. "Your results were fine," she said, rattling off a bunch of numbers. "Dr. Jonsson wants to see you first thing Monday morning, but we think you'll be OK for now. Call us if anything changes."

So, you see, today could have gone differently; I could have had to go back into the hospital, checked into yet another room on the seventh floor because technically I'm still "post surgical." Instead I'm here in my fleece jammies with Lola and Hecate; I had a pecan bar and a chicken fried steak; I gave Ed my copy of the super cool Keith Haring Coloring Book, because he's going to visit his sister and her family next week and he wants to give it to three-year-old Darcy to go with the IKEA crayons that rock.

I cancelled dinner with Dad because he sounded a little drunk by the time he called; besides I'm not hungry, and since Mom has gone to Fred's for the night, I'd just as soon enjoy a quiet evening at home. Those are in short supply these days, and I miss them. I'll probably make some soup later, maybe some cheese toast, plus lots of liquids.

I--we--don't know why my kidney hurts, but apparently it continues to work very well. I want to think that I handled this first rejection scare: I didn't freak out, and I think my hesitation in calling was justified. As soon as the kidney began to hurt, I made the call.

The difference in me now and me before the transplant is that the feeling of peace that I spoke of a couple of days ago stayed with me to a certain extent. I know that not everything is going to go as well as it has so far, that there are going to be setbacks along with the successes, and that I am going to be able to cope with them all.

I am better now and I am going to continue to get better. Every day.

before - after