The Power of Baby Sisters

My baby sister's name is Amy, named ceremoniously after our grandmother on my mother's side Amelia.

The one that had thirteen children, my mother being the final number in that Jon & Kate Plus Eight brood.

I call my sister Amos, just because.

Over the years, our relationship as siblings has been uneven. Somewhere after I began college and Amy graduating from high school, we really lost touch.

I'm as much to blame as she is. But that's not really important.

What's important is the here and now, and that is what I speak of today.


Over the past weekend, with no personal persuasion involved, my sister visited Sonoma County for the weekend.

The English language is not descriptive enough to behold the anticipation I had for my sister's arrival. It was as though Christmas and my birthday had mated and given birth to a new level of anticipation.

Many years ago I adopted Santa Rosa and the backwoods of Sonoma County as my new hometown. This leads to the ultimate joy of being able to share one's love for the county over and over and over again.

I'm ashamed to admit I'd never been to the Charles M. Schulz museum. We went.

Had to show off my favorite hour hiking trail at Howarth Park. Done.

We explored downtown Santa Rosa and Healdsburg. Went antique store shopping. Wolfed down meals at Omelette Express, Flavor and Gary Chu's.

But best of all was just sitting in the presence of my sister and having great conversations. About nothing in particular.

And I loved it.

For three days all the frustration, sadness and depression that migrates through my head daily, evaporated completely.

A fact I didn't realize until after she had departed.

Her plane sped away on Monday evening. I was still feeling pretty good until Wednesday evening.

Then Melancholy stepped in. And He won't get out from under my bed.

If you perchance had met my sister, you'd immediately like her. Everyone does.

She's naturally sweet. Given to flights of silliness and whimsy. Able to speak about anything. Very intelligent.

Quite generous. She tried to pay for everything.

Generosity knows her quite well. In 1995 when my first kidney transplant was failing and I was headed toward the dreaded transplant list, she offered up hers without hesitation.

I like to believe that while it is housed within my frame, my system was able to filter my life through her kidney and somehow grab the best her soul had to offer.

At least, that's my hope.

I miss you Amy.

An Open Letter to My Fellow Dialysis Patients Regarding the State of the Bathroom

People often ask why I rail against the patients of my clinic so harshly.

To put if succinctly: they're neandarthal pigs.

The following is a list of random occurences that have randomly occured at random times, occuring on the occurence when I begin my treatment:

--- Pool o' Urine

Gentlemen (and quite possibly ladies...and I use both terms extremely loosely) how difficult is it to aim liquid at a cylindrical bowl? Did you never water a garden properly? Play the water shooter into the clowns mouth at the carnival. Sheesh.

I dearly love my Converse. All four pair. I wear them every single stinkin' day to Dialysis because they're comfortable, they're rocking the cool and they make me happy.

Sticky pools of urinary wastes delving into the pores of my favorite feet accessories make me incredibly angry.

And vomit a little in my mouth.

--- Lack of Lever Use

This happens nearly every day. Some nickel and dime IQ dweller doesn't have the common sense or class to dispose of their biggest accomplishment of the day.

So there it sits, clogging up the bowl, teetering on extinction.

And now it becomes my job to send it on its way.

Unfair. Unwise. And totally unnatural.

--- Feces Control

If you're eating something presently, I would avoid the next few sentences.

Feces on the floor. Hanging off the side of the bowl. On the wall. In the sink.

And my personal all-time, five years on Dialysis favorite?

Stuck to the wall next to the lou with toilet paper.

That one was just a few weeks ago.

I thought it was just monkeys that played with their excrement.

No, Dialysis patients do too.

Until I have the Catheter Succubus removed, I need to use that little room to change into my "Dialysis Shirt." (i.e. the flannel shirt I bought in 1988 from Millers Outpost so I don't care what substances are left remaining on its fading cotton)

I beg of you fellow Dialysis zombies: use our treatment bathroom as though she is a fine, delicate woman. Handle her with care. Gently. Don't abuse her. Or throw her around like a rag doll. And don't leave her with the check.

Just one final word to my fellow patients:

Feces is not a toy.

The Totally Original and Blissfully Exciting Stacy Alphabet Game

I'm most likely not the first to invent the above mentioned game, but since my name is in it, one of my bretheren may have.

Its rather simple really. Feel free to play along in the Comment section of the Adventures of Stacy Without An E blogfest below.

I'm saying my name so many times, I feel like I have something to plug on a talk show. Or develop into a cool online app that people are excited about for a month but then quickly grow tire of (I'm talking to you Twitter.)

The Rules of the Stacy Alphabet Game:

Simple really.

You create an entire sentence using the first letter of the alphabet only.

Thus, twenty-six total words.

I'm done it before, which you can examine HERE.

So ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, kids of all shapes and sizes, prepare to be mystified by the verbal linguistics from the vocabularic mind of Stacy Without An E.

Altruistic benevolent custodians dutifully eradicate feces grotesquely habitating insidiously jaunty kabuki's. Laborious mandates negate official pandering quietly, restricting serendipitous training undermining vociferous wisenheimer xenophobes yawning zealously.

Its amazing! Its fantastic! Its nearly comprehensible!

I dare you in the comments below to attempt the same.

My Uncle Tommy 1936-2009

There is a man I want to take a few moments to introduce you to, because he meant more to me than I'm willing to admit.

And yet, I failed him.

My Uncle Tommy was the one we visited most as a family when I was a child. Youth sometimes dictates that you don't wish to interact with individuals deemed "family."

They won't speak to you like they do the adults. They smell of moth balls and cough syrup. They pontificate when they should be silent.

I'm sure you've a few of your own you don't wish to speak of.

Uncle Tommy was the antithesis of everything I just mentioned.

I was incredibly shy as a child and Tommy would do everything in his power to get me to interact with the family. He never said out loud that you were a guest in his home, because he was welcoming from the start.

He was a father, grandfather, husband, uncle, brother, cousin, Marine and policeman.

He was quick to laugh, prone to wit and towered over me but never talked down to me.

And I'll go ahead and say it, and I don't care who's listening: he was my favorite Uncle.

But again, I failed him.

Tommy grew up with my Mom in Jamestown, North Dakota. The epitome of unbridaled Americana. He was their eleventh child, my mother, the thirteenth. Six years separated them both, but their bond as brother and sister lasted a lifetime.

On June 11, 2009 at exactly 11am, I attended his funeral.

My Mom shed tears before the service began. I placed my hand on her shoulder while my Dad put his arms around her. Supporting her grief as ably as we could.

I honestly didn't know what else to do. But I knew this was one of the worst days of her life. And I was glad I was by her side.

I didn't count, but I would imagine over a hundred people were in attendance. Many, many more wanted to join this somber day, but circumstances beyond their control kept them from honoring my Uncle.

Since I discovered the news over a week ago, I have been flooded with memories of my Uncle. And I'm happy to report, every time I think of him, he's at his best.

Lanky and strong. Tan and fit. Vibrant and happy.

When I was roughly eight or nine, before my illness made its presence known, everyone took a huge family trip to Yosemite.

The lands beneath us were so astonished by the presence of Uncle Tommy, we had earthquakes for most of our visit.

On one of our many hikes, me and my Uncle were standing side by side as we traveled down the trail to catch up with the others. To our right was a giant granite rock with little flecks of limestone coloring its skin.

Another giant rock must have fallen upon it at some point, because it had given birth to a number of smaller rocks, all with the same outer shell.

Tommy bent down, without slowing his stride, and grabbed one.

"Here's a nice one. This one's for you."

He placed it in my hand and I sort of just looked at it without responding.

I glanced up at him with a shy, meager look.

"So you won't forget this trip."

And off we went.

For the last thirty years, wherever I have moved. Or worked. Or travelled to, that rock has followed alongside.

And its never lost its luster. Until now.

It has transformed from a happy childhood memory to a weight upon my soul.

For I failed him.

I was unaware of this, but as the years slipped away, so did Tommy's back.

Two years ago, he was in the hospital and was prescribed a medication that eventually caused his kidneys to fail.

He spent two years on Dialysis until he suffered a heart attack on June 4th, 2009. He had just returned from treatment and was resting in his favorite easy chair. His wife, my Aunt, heard him make a sound similar to a snore.

He never recovered. And never returned.

And why I'll never have a chance to say I'm sorry.

When I first discovered Tommy was on Dialysis, I always meant to contact him to answer any questions he might have or help him ease his life into the treatment chair.

That contact never came.

I'm so wrapped up in my own illness that I rarely poke my head out to see if anyone else needs help.

I failed my Uncle Tommy miserably.

This was a man who was loved, adored and cherished by his family and was taken too soon at the age of 72. His death will reverberate for those who knew him for years to come.

I have so many regrets related to his passing.

Why am I so wrapped up in my illness that I didn't take the time to ask about his?

Why didn't I take the time to drive the two hours to visit more often?

Why does a tainted soul like myself continue to live while someone so loved and cared for was taken too early?

The answers will shadow me for the remainder of my existence.

Thank you for everything Tommy. Laugh, and smile and rest in peace.

Fistulaleakage

Its amazing how many how many words you can create using a device that simply doesn't want to inhabit my body.

Ok, that's not completely true.

All last week was half and half: one 17 gauge needle for the Fistula, one for the Catheter Succubus.

Everything went fine all five days last week (yeah, I skipped a day yo)

This week, starting with the ever popular Monday, we've arrived at two seventeen gauge needles.

Monday's have become the complete bane of my existence. Because of a flavorful combination of tangy sleep apnea and bittersweet Dialysis, I find myself in bed for fourteen to fifteen hours most weekends.

Then when Monday rolls back into my life, I must arise five hours earlier to perform a radio show no one listens to on a radio station that is at the beginning of the end.

Every Monday transforms my bathroom into a Vomitorium. I don't care if I wake my roommate up because he's a Know-It-All Goon. I take a shower, cleanse myself of the previous twenty minutes and celebrate this accomplishment by vomiting again.

Every Monday. Its always the same. No deviation (except for how many times my skinny little toothpick arm reaches for the Snooze button)

So lets return to the present, shall we?

I don't know which it is, but something likes to fuck with me.

Fate. God. The cast of that awful show "According to Jim." You name it.

I was eight days into my new Foolish Fistula. Up to two seventeen gauge needles now. Very little pain. My body was not so agitated upon arrival. I was pretty calm during needle insertion.

But you see, this cannot last. It never does.

Dialysis sits in a corner, waiting to pounce.

And tonight was his night.

I hadn't seen Him in a while. Maybe he's a fan of "American Idol." Who knows?

He's roughly three foot two, barely ninety pounds and his spine has curved so much he resembles a demented letter "C" from Sesame Street. Streaky green hair. Yellowish skin. A bad case of sores and lesions spread across his body like a blanket. His teeth are all sharp and seemingly filed that way every day of His miserable existence.

He used to toy with me using Cramps. As any Dialysis patient will admit to, Cramps can sometimes push your body so far that you cry out like a torture victim.

It happened the other night to Lovely Petite Patient. As her screams and exclamations of pain increased in volume, so did the uncomfortable pit in my stomach.

I felt for her, because I've been in her very same condition.

One item of note that Dialysis gives you a break on is learning how to avoid Cramps. It all comes down to math and gut instinct about your eating and drinking habits for the preceding week.

Dialysis was squealing with glee, bounding from one counter top to the other, speaking without any spaces.

"LookwhatIdidtoherI'mamazingwithmassivepoweroverallofyouandthere'snothingyoucandoyou're
stuckhereforyearsandyearsandyears."

I crank up "Lost" to sixteen in order to ignore his proclamations. His words all slurred like verbal snakes. His grin never leaves His revolting face.

Tonight was my turn.

As I entered the clinic floor and my nose hair curled at the ever present stench of untreated gout and unwashed ass, I caught a glimpse of Him hiding with the fifteen gauge needles. One of his teeth protruded out a little too far past one of the packaged pain sticks and I knew there could be trouble.

Best when you first learn of his presence just to ignore Him. My God and all that is Holy in Heaven, he despises that. Sometimes you can hear a hissing sound, but often that turns out to be him urinating wherever he pleases.

And mocking me for that lack of ability.

I had Jolly Happy Tech tonight and Chatty Cathy Nurse. My goodness that woman is going to talk for three more years after she passes.

I'm still getting used to the return of Burning Lidocaine. We hadn't spent time together for quite some time.

My first mistake was flinching at the second Lidocaine insertion. I could hear him rummaging his way toward me, stalking me in the closest available cabinet.

That awful staccato laugh echoed in my ears as both needles were inserted peacefully and without incident.

For the next two hours, everything was copacetic. I concentrated on the neck bleeding TV's on the ceiling wondering how anyone can watch "The Insider" on a regular basis. Are people so empty in this country they need to know minute-by-minute bowel functions of Gweneth Paltrow? Thank goodness "Family Guy" was elsewhere on the polluted TV landscape.

In case you're wondering aloud why I wasn't watching a DVD. Its because Fate felt that "Paul Blart: Mall Cop" shouldn't be ingested by my entertainment deprived cells.

I love dopey comedies, so sue me.

For the past two months I have been forbidden to lift weight due to the presence of Foolish Fistula, so both arms resemble classic wooden bats.

This becomes an important fact when it came time for needle removal. Dialysis leaped behind the chair next to me and sounded like he was fondling himself He was so excited.

Needle One. Needle Two. Both exited and performed their duties admirably.

That's when Dialysis attacked.

As I was holding the two slices of gauze in place to clot the bleeding, He bit down with voluminous fury on the upper part of Foolish Fistula.

The pain was revolting. My entire body started to mimic a seizure in order to free his powerful grasp.

The only remaining limbs were flailing, so I darted my right leg up quickly and shot him directly over the chair into Section C. I could hear Him stuggling behind me, trying to laugh it off, but it was no use.

As the pain increased exponentially in my arm, Dialysis was struggling to flip back over to my side of the divider. I could hear Him attempting to grasp onto the side of a prepped Dialysis machine, knocking all the clamps and needles to the floor.

One final smack to the clinic floor and Dialysis was done for the night.

And so was I.

I couldn't raise my arm above my waist as I stood. It felt as though Dialysis had left an invisible yet highly powerful iron clamp on my arm and I couldn't shake it loose.

I decided there was no sense wasting time in the chair, so I completed my usual Dialysis return.

My weight had shrunk to 57.3kg which surprised no one in particular. I decided to take a little stroll to where I last heard Dialysis, intending to kick him again in the groinal area just for fun.

The items were all back in their proper place on the machine and nothing was askew.

That bastard Dialysis had won again.

5 Year Anniversary of Hell

On May 16, 2009 I marked five years of achingly annoying and highly horrific Dialysis treatments.

I was diagnosed once again with my long lost companion, End Stage Renal Disease (all Dialysis patients say "ESRD" because it sounds like a cool show on the Travel Channel) in March and my nephrologist stated it was going to be a quick slide to eventual Dialysis.

Year One was pure torturous. Every treatment flames of burning ignited by Dialysis himself. 1000mg. of Vicodin doubled. And then tripled.

And still I suffered.

Year Two began the habit of lying on my office floor for 30-45 minutes before and after a show just to keep my job. Everyone believes radio broadcasting is easy, but it takes a tremendous amount of energy.

Energy that my body no longer befriends.

Year Three the staff thought I would never last transferring into a research program and changing my treatments to six days a week, two hour time limit.

Again, I sacrificed my sanity to feel 20% better so, once again, I could keep my job.

Year Four I tried dating again with little success.

"I won't date you unless you always cover up your gross arm."

I never even said goodbye.

Flirting with a cute redhead at the bagel shop ended abruptly when my graft gauze began to express itself in bloody terms.

Everyone just stared. No one even bothered to help.

Damn Yuppies-Who-Used-to-Be-Anti-Establishment-Hippies-Who-Sold-Out-and-Are-Now-Fat-and-Worried-About-Their-Cholesterol.

Year Five has been a rollercoaster teetering on the top of a wooden hill that should have been condemned five years ago.

I had a chance to guest star on Dr. Anonymous' internet show and share my experiences about Dialysis. I even managed to convince the manager at my Dialysis clinic to shut off all the TV speakers so I wouldn't die because none of the tech's could hear me. I even pushed myself to get out of my bed and hang out with friends.

That last one's a major accomplishment.

Better things are on the horizon. My sister is visiting in a month. I'll see my parents later this summer. My best friend and his family are going to spend a weekend here in Sonoma County.

These are all good, positive events that will make Year Six somewhat more bearable.

But I have a little secret I've told no one about and it could ruin all succeeding years.

I'm getting worse.

My muscles screams echo through my entire system, begging, pleading for me to lie back down.

Fatigue is my constant companion. If I do the math (and I rarely do because it makes me sad) some workdays I'm in bed twelve to fourteen hours because I'm just too weak.

And don't ask about weekends.

But its really not the pain that bothers so much. Its a constant companion that whispers its power over me at its own discretion, for sure.

Its my lack of productivity. My lack of sparking purpose.

And what scares me even more? The fact that some days I just don't give a fuck.

I once believed that God was punishing me for past indiscretions. But I feel my sins are minimal at best.

Those thoughts morphed into God possibly trying to teach me some grand lesson that I was too dense to comprehend.

Yet what have I become?

A crazy loner curmudgeon who finds most of the human race lacking in intelligence and grace.

I can't do another five years. I just can't.

I'm unwilling. I'm unable. And I'm just not worth all the medical expense required to keep me alive.

The divisions between Potential Stacy and Present Stacy is so wide, the two shall never meet in my lifetime.

And that saddens me to no end.

"30 Rock" Kidney Now!

Thanks to Kelly Talbert (a fellow Dialysis/kidney patient) for posting this video on her Facebook page. I can't think of a better video to post on my Fifth Anniversary of suffering through endless Dialysis.




If I ever meet Tina Fey in person, I'm giving her a big smoochy kiss like Adrien Broday gave to Halle Berry at the Oscars.

I'm probably get popped by her bodyguard and dragged away, but it will be worth it.

"What's Die-ale-uh-sist?"

People can't pronounce it, and kidney donation doesn't get the press like the high profile diseases do.

That's right. That's Kidney Discrimination.

So thanks Ms. Fey for the props.

Now how about producing my Broadway show "Glomerulonephritis?"

"Glomerulonephritis, its so wonderful to say. Glomerulonephritis, is will break your day!"

I'll work on it and get back to you.