I'm on the Active List - Showdown at AMH

Apparently I'm psychologically fit for a kidney transplant since Paige Lockwood, my t'plant coordinator called me this morning and said she put me on the 'active list.'

Dr Ajita Mathur, who specializes in interviewing transplant patients, wore a white lab coat w/her name stitched on it. She is a lovely young physician, very kind, and asked me lots of questions in our 45-minute interview which began on time.

Like most psychiatrists, she was skeptical my manic-depression had gone away for good, so I gave her my friend Pam's cellphone number to confirm. Pam told Dr Mathur she had never seen me psychotic.

After Paige called me I gave her my cellphone number and told her I didn't know how to answer it. She then called me on my cellphone which was now ringing magically in my hand.

I pressed the SEND button - and lo! - there was Paige on the other end.

The friggin SEND button.

I told her I'm going to Cleveland for 5 days next week, so they can give the kidney to someone else. I've gotta see my old haunts and my old aunt.

Since I have Hep C, I'm at an advantage cuz I can qualify for kidneys from a deceased donor who had Hep C. The transplant team recently evaluated me and said I don't need a dual transplant - both liver and kidney - ugh ugh - that my C hasn't done irreparable damage. Burp!

Average wait for a kidney for someone with B blood type is 5.5 years. For me, with the advantages of having Hep C, it could be "any day now."

It was a miserably rainy day when I drove down to Einstein, clutching the directions in my hand...



I liked this wedge-shaped building which was not designed by Frank Gehry...



This, ladies and gentleman, is the inside of an elevator in the Dixon Building at Abington Memorial Hospital. I was supposed to take the elevator to the basement for a meeting with Rick Fullan, administrative director of mental health, and Mary Ann Delaney, chair of the department of psychiatry. I have named this: The Crazy Elevator and use it as a metaphor to explain the labyrinthine mental health system in the entire United States, and more specifically, here in Montgomery County, PA...



We met from 11 to 12 in comfy chairs in Rick's office. Nice man. Dr Delaney is a nice woman. Here's an email I sent to them as a result of our meeting.

If you have any idea what this email means, please write back.

Hi Rick and Mary Ann --

Thanks for meeting with me this morning.

I appreciate your being open to the idea of making a commitment to Urgent Care from Creekwood or other arm
of Abington Hospital. This would avoid hospitalization and allow a patient who needs a med adjustment to be
seen and evaluated without delay.

I think it would also be helpful for your ER staff to have 'sensitivity training' in dealing with patients with
mental health problems. Montgomery County Emergency Services in Norristown does this with all local
police departments. In fact, if you go to any police dept, you'll see the MCES brochures in the waiting room.

The one 'horror story' I have about ER staff took place about 15 years ago when I drove a manic-psychotic
man to the ER. I told the staff I couldn't stay with him b/c I had to get home to my little children. I advised them
to see him ASAP and keep an eye on him at all times b/c he wanted to leave. Unfortunately, John 'escaped' -
it was the evening - and he walked 6 hours home to his parents' house in Warminster where he slit his throat.
Fortunately, he lived, and is now doing okay.

Per your request, Rick, we will forward any complaints about ER treatment directly to you.

I like the idea of knowing about Advance Directives, available at http://papsych.org/ Would love to have Mary Ann write a brief article about this for our Compass magazine, which I'm
editing right now.

Feel free to consult me on any issues where you need a fair and humane opinion.

With high hopes,

Ruth Z Deming, MGPGP (Master, Group Process & Group Psychotherapy)
Director
New Directions Support Group, Inc.
held at Abington Presbyterian Church (evening) and the Willow Grove Giant Supermarket Coffeeshop (daytime)
www.newdirectionssupport.org
215 659 2142

Sunflowers for our Guest Observers - a Forum for us - Licorice gum for me

Helen Mirren as detective Jane Tennison in Prime Suspect. The show ran for 15 seasons in the UK and was the prototype of the graphic crime shows we see on TV today. Tennison was the first female head of a large police department and altho she was tough, smart, and incorruptible she struggled mightily w/loneliness and lack of intimacy in her private life. This complex character was breathed into life by Helen Mirren, who was born in 1945.

What a strange feeling watching all 22 hours of Prime Suspect within a week, feeling totally inundated by the personality of Jane Tennison and then, between discs, trying to go about real life. Surely there's a metaphor in there about modern life - being raised by a strong parent, being addicted to dopamine-increasing drugs, immersion into a fantasy life like the 60s rock n roll scene. But I'll let people smarter than me figger that one out.

Mid-episode, I shut it off and went home to prepare dinner: again, that delicious fresh shrimp dish - Scott and I smacked our lips - and then I got ready for our support group meeting. A big one. Nancy and Eric were coming out from the County to listen to our concerns about mental health facilities.

We went around the room. Nearly every single person in the room spoke. Some people had nothing but good things to say about their mental health care. Maybe 5 percent of the people there. And the other 95 percent told horror stories, stories which we, as consumers of mental health care, are so used to hearing it barely shocks us anymore.

Ever see the movie Judgment at Nuremberg?

With the County as witnesses, our struggles took on importance. Just the act of being heard, listened to, trusted. Taken seriously. Not dismissed. And not told, it's your imagination, dear, there there it's not so bad. (For you see, Dear Reader, tis very very bad indeed.)

The two of them were compassionate and offered to do what they could to help move things forward.

They know. They know. We hid nothing. And they listened.

Afterward we broke into our small group discussions. I always meet with newcomers. I send out an email the next day asking people to keep in touch w/one another. We had a big group, made larger by 3 student nurses from Jefferson U. We asked for their comments and they pledged to be sensitive to our needs after they graduated.

Now, when we were going around the circle, a funny thing happened to me. Towards the end of the evening - by now it was nearing on 10 pm - I unconsciously began thinking of going home and watching the final episode of Prime Suspect.

Suddenly as I was talking to a newcomer, I turned into Jane Tennison. (If my daughter would read this she would go absolutely berserk w/laffter.) Anyway, I was wearing this fancy jacket cuz I figgered the room would be freezing, and it made me feel like, hmmm, not exactly a fake, but like somebody official - Ruthie in a Suit, Ruthie in Armor - tho of course no one knew this but me.

And as I questioned this young bipolar b'ful newcomer I flashed back to Jane Tennison.

Quite a feeling. But that's what life's all about, isn't it? Feelings...and what we do with them.

After the meeting, Mike, who was sitting next to me, gave me 2 sticks of wrapped gum he found on the carpet.

I popped one of em in my mouth, telling him I'd started chewing gum again. He'd never heard of Blackjack, which Helen had offered me a couple weeks ago, commencing a temporary return to my teenage gum-chewing years.

Rainy Monday - Crusade continues apace - Poem: Swim

For dinner, in less than half an hour, I whipped up this lovely shrimp dish. Into the olive oil, I stirred green pepper, mushrooms, and shrimp, and seasoned it only with 2 bay leaves and a scoop of coconut oil. Who knew it would be so delicious?

Meantime I was talking on the phone and sharing our therapy list with a man who wants help for his daughter.

At Mike's Hike yesterday, Becky passed out some green grapes at our table at Churchville Inn. I bought mine this morning and am eating them for dessert.



When I dropped Scott off at the train this evening, I told him I really need a break, I've been working so hard. He reminded me that I spent two long periods at his house today watching movies, with more movie-watching tonite.

What are you gonna do, he asked me, when I watch the 7th and final episode of Prime Suspect starring Helen Mirren? Are you gonna call them up and tell her to come out of retirement?

I was beginning to worry that my crusade for OpenAccess at Creekwood Mental Health Center was going nowhere and began jotting down names of smart people I might call for help. I only thought of one smart person, but didn't need his assistance b/c a meeting has been arranged for us this Friday at Abington Hospital.

Tomro I go for 'psychiatric clearance' to see if I can handle a kidney transplant. My family doctor asked me what I thought about seeing a psychiatrist after all these years. "I think it'll be fun," I said.

Dyou spose I should tell her about my addictions? Here, lemme name a few of them, and you can lemme know what you think?

- Reading the online NY Times
- Checking out free library videos from the nearest library
- Reading good books such as Wolf Hall about King Henry 8
- Blogging
- Checking my emails
- Running out of the car to retrieve my camera to take with me

Watched an excellent movie from the sixth wave of Chinese filmmakers. Still Life concerns the resettlement of ONE MILLION PEOPLE from their 2,000-year-old ancestral homeland due to the building of the Three Gorges Dam over the Yangtze River in central China. Once again, we see the greedy need for power to destroy two millennium's worth of peerless civilization. The filmmaker lovingly shows us every single person, in closeup, his camera can reach to show us the simply beauty of the people affected by this drastic brutal change.

And now it's onward with the Compass. The hardest part is writing the Editor's Corner, which is sort of a summation of the current issue. I always dread it. However, I was editing Laura's fine story, and I began to get mad about the treatment she got when she was in dire need of kindness.

She was in fullblown psychosis and was made to wait in the waiting room of a local unnamed psych hospital for 8 to 10 hours while she was being "processed" like a fucking piece of cattle.

I just excused myself from the editing process and went ahead and wrote my column.

And don't worry, dear reader, I never curse in public.

Hey, let's finish up with a bracing poem.

A COLD BRACING SWIM OVER DEATH

always I remembered the pool
cold winds blew on the deck
I drew my shawl close
glanced at the pool
not long
shy as a lover
I’d swim her by the end of the week
but not today
too cold
my flesh quailed

an aging fading beauty
my life mostly spent
must do one last swim
okay to die while breasting the waves

Beatles music blared from hidden speakers
the passengers must not be allowed to think
must be entertained and numbed for seven straight days
it took for god to create the earth or
was it the ship’s deck

I found freedom on the deck
begone all servants and waiters hovering
let me feel frigid and alone
let me feel helpless and afraid
let me lay my own nightgown upon the coverlet

the water was salty they said
like the quiet mediterranean that flowed below
and kept us afloat
while we did the modern things
people on cruises do
I wrote in my diary some
thanked Medron, our bowlegged attendant
kissed my grown daughter goodnight
all the while thinking of the pool
and my deathdefying swim

dropped my robe on deck
stood alone beneath the flags
no one was there
a cold blue sky shone with classic indifference
as we swayed tethered upon italy’s shore
and if there was a moon
I never saw it

as I lowered myself down the ladder
trembling with cold and fear and need
my legs remembered what to do
as I kicked off from the pool
ears submerged as
the cold wrapped me like the moon goddess’s embrace
all white and shiny
in a firm white Grace Kelly glove
sailing across the pool
finally finally coming alive
and feeling the pain and the needles of being alive
in the salty salt water of life.

Mike's Hike - Churchville Nature Center / Poem: Lakota

We met at Mandy's house. This is my birdbath w/its assortment of autumn leaves.

We took two cars to Churchville Nature Center 20 minutes from Willow Grove. We piled into Mandy's huge white SUV and all chatted on the way down. Mike had carefully mapped out the beautiful journey. We all marveled at the lovely Churchville Reservoir and Mike said, "We'll pass it on our hike."

For me, it was the highlight of our hour-long walk. Mandy's daughter Becky, a former member of the Army, brought her 2-year-old daughter Brianna in a 'jogging stroller' and managed to push and pull it on the path which was often tangled by tree roots. Mark would exclaim frequently about the narrow roots which can't be held in the clay-ey soil and thus they expanded outward on the floor of the forest.

It's always exciting to see a body of water in the distance, and there it was - the reservoir! Click on photo to enlarge.

Mike's Hikers gathered around Churchville Reservoir.

Afterwards we ate at the nearby Churchville Inn. The noise factor was incredibly high due to a Steelers game in the bar, but the eleven of us had our very own room in the back.

PS - Since writing this post, an article just appeared in the Times about a trend to allow GUNS in bars. Well, nothing like mixing alcohol and firearms. I am incensed!

I thoroughly enjoyed my onion soup and caesar salad w/grilled chicken. The salad dressing was so scrumptious I didn't even mind that all the lettuce was (moan) iceberg. C'mon, guys, ain't you ever heard of Romaine or Boston or Bibb or Red-tip?

When I got home and talked to next-door neighbor boyfriend Scott, he said, Tiptoe over here to my bedroom and you can watch the Fox forage on the compost heap.

Me, I grabbed my camera, and wearing my sox, tiptoed outside but let my screendoor SLAM, and Scott actually watched, from his upstairs bedroom window, as Mr Fox looked towards me and scampered away thru the woods.

Then Scott came out. "He's very skittish," he said. "But he usually forages around this time - 4:30 pm - so we'll look out again and see him." Scott has had several sightings.

As we stood there, on the grass with the wind blowing our clothing, a dazzling sight suddenly took place: a hawk swooped right past us, chasing some birds and heading straight for Scott's new birdfeeder.

So, you see, we missed Mr Fox, but we did see the Hawk.

At the Churchville Reservoir, some of us saw a great big bald eagle soaring by. In their office, I took two photos of stuffed animals.

This stuffed eagle is actually HUGE.

Someday I will see a fox in our backyard. I did see one thother day but I thought it was a giant cat. This stuffed fox showed me that the long-tailed cat streaking by was actually The Fox!

When Sarah comes to visit, she always prays she'll see the fox. Once she did.

The words "noise level" reminded me of a favorite poem I wrote. And, Judy Diaz and I are still friends!

LAKOTA

I was in the company this evening
of people who take death seriously.
Until then, I hadn’t realized
I was not the only one.

We sat at a table in Houlihans,
the noise level was excruciatingly high,
but you got used to it.
There was Judy and her grown son, Michael,
a mountain climber visiting from
Boulder where he lived with his wife Tory and
their faux son, Lakota, a large and
handsome dog who looked like a domesticated wolf.
The three of them lived in a trailer
while they saved up money
to buy a house.
Each had a job. Tory was a food broker,
Michael a cabinet maker who carried
a business card
with a picture of a silver hammer.

“How's Tory doing without you?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s missing me,” he said with that
glittering smile that must have disarmed her
right from the start.

His bright eyes didn’t for a moment
flag from the knowledge that the
presence of death bound us all together,
making everything important.

I was spooning into my mouth
the special baked potato soup they had
with the fresh-cut chives,
while his mother was sipping from an odorless
martini with four olives skewed onto a toothpick
set across the top of the glass.

She was getting on in age,
not terribly old,
newly collecting retirement funds,
but getting forgetful.
She wouldn’t lie and told us she left the
burner on once and had gone upstairs.
“It’s when you do it five or six times!” she shouted
pounding her fist on the table,
“that they throw you in the old age home!”

We were not as yet picked off, none of us,
none of the three, four, if you count Tory,
struck down
the way you might imagine a lone bowling pin
waiting in its station while a well aimed black
ball – or maybe it was blue with white streaks -
came hurtling down the shiny runway
with velocity unrivaled.

It was dark on the way home and
I stopped at the Wawa,
the one I used to go to when I worked in Bensalem.
They’d changed the place around.
The new arrangement had a large
open feel to it,
fluorescent lights spilling down almost like
the sun.
The same woman was behind the deli counter,
making someone a sandwich. A lovely woman,
who I noticed quickly looked older than when I
used to come in. Older people, I thought to myself,
look older quicker.
“Hello, Louise,” I said,
and watched to see if her face lit up
and she remembered me.

Lee Ann: My new friend

When I commented on a wonderful Bill Hess post, I told him I was gonna blog about a spectacular human being I met this morning.

She and her partner had a garage sale on the next street and we fell into conversation beginning with her statement that "moving is traumatic" and that she's a psychotherapist and it's still traumatic.

That did it. We talked and talked, walking out into the bright blue morning, with lawn mowers buzzing, and a skateboarder sailing down the flat street, and the two of us speaking and laffing about the transgender experience. "So you no longer have a penis?" I said to her, and she said no, the penis and prostate were transformed into a very sensitive vagina w/labia and clitoris. I asked which way was it more fun to have sex and she told me.

Naturally I mentioned I'm working on the Compass mag and she gave me carte blanche to use one of her many pieces on her blog, but I said, Gee, I'd like to quote what we're talking about right now...your continuing instincts to view the world as a man, even though you're now a woman.

From her blog:

For many years I sought freedom on a motorcycle. I grew a beard and looked tough and fearless, but no matter how I appeared or how I acted, no matter where I went or how fast I got there, I could not outrun or outmaneuver my imprisonment [a woman in a man's body]. I was personable and had a few good friends, though they did not really have me, the real me. I even married twice, but both times the marriage did not erase my prisoner status. The first marriage resulted in three children, and then I felt guilty for remaining a prisoner, for I was fooling my wife and children about who I really was. The second marriage did not yield any children, but my guilt was even stronger, for I was more aware than ever of an inner struggle which I was beginning to identify, and yet I continued to pretend I was not a prisoner.



I emerged very late from Scott's house this morning after watching a marathon of Prime Suspect videos starring the great Helen Mirren. Oh, I wish I had someone to talk to about them. Scott sleeps thru em all.

While talking on the phone and checking w/support group members, I did lots of food preparation which includes my Potato Salad sans potatoes. It's in the bowl on the right and features fresh green beans, julienned organic carrots (ah, sweetness!), chopped onion and celery, and the famous sauce of mayo, mustard, smashed garlic, and fresh lemon juice.

I sprinkled sunflower seeds on my portions for complete protein and ate a couple crackers w/it for a complete meal. Mmmmm!

Nature loves to attract us with her beauty, such as this "dumpling squash" from Michigan. I'm steaming it in my electric steamer for dinner. I set the timer for an hour - the skin is thick as a punkin - and it's soft. I'll eat it w/butter and cinnamon.



No, no, it's not Van Gogh, it's me...Little Ruthie painting a sunflower. There's a website w/poems about famous pieces of artwork - I posted it on my blogroll yesterday - and I might try to write a poem about Van Gogh's sunflowers. I think that's a good assignment, don't you? I can bring it in to read to my Art Class. An award-losing poet like me will do anything to find a wider audience.

Hello, Sarah, will you be my kidney? / Poem: Lines

Sarah came to town to be tested as my own sweet kidney donor. She underwent about 3 hours of testing and talking. She was interviewed by a social worker and a donor advocate who told her that when a person dies of kidney failure their kidney secretes a painkiller so they basically feel no pain. But, hey, I'd like to experience euphoria as I ascend to be with the angels.



Read Sarah's hilarious blog post about her adventures in Kidneyland.

Scott and I picked her up at the Klein Building at Einstein Hospital. On the way home we stopped for a luscious lunch at Timber, the new restaurant across from Abington Hospital, run by former chef of White Dog Cafe (where Ada held a brunch for her new grandson Alec Reid) and also Misholu at Penns Landing, where Ada took me after one of my Comcast interviews. (When I looked in the meer recently and saw my great haircut, I said to myself, Hey, let's do another one. I'm waiting for a date to be set before my untimely death.)

When Sarah was a little girl her dad came to town and presented her with Pierre Ze Duck. We don't know if he came w/that name or if Sarah, francophile that she is, gave him his name.

I asked Sarah if I might put Pierre to rest after his 30-some years of life among the humans. His green eyes still burn brightly but the poor fellow's beak is torn and his brilliant yellow is dingy, alas. Oh, what to do, these things are so difficult.

After a whirlwind tour seeing my sister Donna and then over to Baby Grace, I dropped Sarah off at the train station for her trip back to NY. I always miss her so, but then -ping! - I've always got something else to do, like attend my first Acrylic Art Class of the season.

I must tell you about it. Here's my teacher, Chris Hall, a young man who loves to teach. He's originally from Cincinnati and then Georgia.

Chris Hall, artist/teacher, Tyler School of Art grad

So I race into Abington Adult Evening School at 6:59 pm for the 7 o'clock class. I'd been trying to remember the names of the other folks from the last class but could only remember tall n handsome Bill Babb, whom I sat next to.

And then, as I pushed thru the double doors, I saw him in the middle of the hall: "Chris!" I said, waving. "It's Ruth!"

My first concern was that the class may've been canceled like my poetry class. But, no, there he was. "I've gotta pay," says I. He directed me to the table where a former neighbor Lynn Alexander took my check for $50. Not bad!

I painted the worst picture I've ever done. It's really bad. Oh, well, there'll be other chances.

This morning I had to adjust my pills and thought I'd show you what I take. A whole shitload, mostly prescribed by my nephrologist. "SB" stands for both Simon Baniewicz, my former boyfriend, eternally memorialized in my unpublished novel...



and Sodium Bicarbonate, which is to make my blood a certain alkalinity or acidity. Arcane shit!

pills

pills

LINES

Mirrors at this age
avoided
though the legs
still look fine
the face
sad to say
has more to say
than ever before

long life
survival
dad’s death
mom’s 88 years
my hair
ghostly white
covered with
red fake

can’t fake your face
don’t want to
scared to look
a nun in a convent
goes in pink-cheeked
high breasted
can’t see what other
people do
not young anymore

by chance I saw myself
in the sideview mirror
of the car I drive
a field of lines across
my cheeks
my hand went up
to embrace them
so this is you,
I whispered,
this is you,
still alive
at sixty four
still alive

I liked what I saw
the field of wrinkles
and want to see more
they crisscrossed each other
like pick-up sticks
like waves in the ocean
like branches on a
fallen tree

In love with my
wrinkles:
beautiful as the
moon's afterglow.

Museum-ing

This week is Scott's last vacation of the year. We took the train downtown and walked along Liberty Row (I might've made up the name) and saw where our nation's history began. One of the best museums I've ever been to is the US Constitution Center. The original Constitution is housed in an archival museum in DC.

First, tho, we took a tour of the b'ful Independence Hall. Security checks. Open your backpack, miss. Mine's got 3 pouches. No contraband inside.

(I'm listening to some absolutely great music now from The Bad Plus. Read the latest review in the Times.

This is where the Declaration of Independence was signed.

Now we walk a few blocks down the street to the 5-year-old Constitution Center.


This museum is so creative it has lifesize statues of our nation's founders such as 81-year-old Ben Franklin, who was so frail he needed to be carried into Independence Hall, which at that time was called the Pennsylvania State Senate Bldg, or something like that. Known as a sharp dresser, he's the most famous Philadelphian ever othan Sylvester Stallone.

Believe me it wasn't easy getting this shot. I wore my best pair of walking shoes for a day of total walking. When I lay me down to sleep my legs and feet were on fire with pain but I never let that stop me. When I awoke, the pain was gone.

The Constitution Center had a special exhibit of the artwork of American soldiers in wars since Vietnam. All media are employed such as oils, watercolor, charcoal.

In one of the paintings below you'll see soldiers in gas masks. That's WWI, trench warfare, a terrible way to die. Poets like Wilfred Owen, who died a week before armistice was declared, captured its horrors in his poems. Guillaume Apollinaire died after shrapnel wounds weakened his body.

The bombed-out building is from the Allies landing at Normandy. A convoy of planes punctuate the air in this very realistic and horrifying painting.

You'll also see the trio of men planning in Afghanistan. The Afghani helper is wearing a Yankees baseball cap but has disguised himself against the Taliban by wearing sunglasses and a partial face covering, Allah preserve him.

I liked the WWII painting of the rolling waves which was titled Death by Water. It shows a crashed plane on the top left in the sea. At first I thought it were a whale.

I also like the WW2 painting of the soldiers who are dying right before our eyes. The white stones are like a trail of skulls.













We walked on Independence Mall to the Liberty Bell, which was mobbed. Everyone hovered around the cracked side of the bell, while I moved to the Bell's back and snapped the shot from there.



Afterward, we strolled thru Reading Market, a tour that is never complete w/o a Basset's dish of butterscotch ice cream.



That ice cream was so filling I didn't feel like cooking the fresh tilapia we bought at John Yi's Fish Market inside Reading Terminal. Fat will fill you up.