Imei

Well, some of you know that I've been playing with a little blog site for my art life:

http://spaces.msn.com/members/HeyImei/PersonalSpace.aspx?_c02_owner=1&_c=


Copy and paste, if you are interested in dance, writing, and music.

Stay here if you want other updates on the life according to Imei.


I'm out of the country December 21 - January 4th, to visit my grandmother and extended family members before I get officially married. Honestly, I need a real vacation. In Venice, I was so sick and in pain because of my kidney, I really didn't get a chance to have a rest. Taiwan should be different; I really just want to flop on some sand with a good book, do some mopeding and maybe jet skiing, run, dance, and sleep. Pretty simple.

Until then, I have a week of work. The Frog is in Finland, and everything for the holidays is basically moved up a week -- ack! You should have seen me Christmas shopping -- it was like a military woman with a mission! My index fingers hurt from using online shopping services and shipping and Internet surfing and sending stuff to various addresses. Double ack! But hey, it's so much easier now than it used to be... no real complaints here.

Hey, don't turn up your nose just because James Frey's book, "A Million Little Pieces", became Oprah's latest book club pick. She has focused on Faulkner's works as well. The woman has taste.

I was having difficulty explaining to my merry band of collegues at the counseling office as to why this book sucks the reader in. They think because it's about recovery and addiction, people are simply curious. No. If you were curious, you would read about addiction: sexual, alcohol, drug, games, Internet, relationships, shopping, working, etc. There are so many addicts out there. There are so many films where there are alcoholics.

My ability to explain and describe may be getting in the way, because this book is not a masterpiece. It is not a classic, nor will it ever be. It takes a radical departure from accepted forms of structure, grammar, and appropriate language. Some hip hop is cleaner than this work. I believe it is complelling the way some virtual television shows like The Apprentice and Fear Factor and The Biggest Loser are compelling. We are let into the psychology of the person, before we know (and before the author reveals) the outcome of those thoughts. We hear Amarosa saying she's the best for the job, talking crap about someone else, and later, much later, we see her backside in front of her wheeled luggage, going out the door. We see those over-weight men and women fight their fat, exercise until they want to drop, and we have to see what it feels like to come so far, only to be let go by one their new friends.

One of my professors at Western Seminary, Dr. Dan Allender, says that he hates being able to guess what the end of story is. He'll walk out on a film in the first 20 minutes if he believes there will be no surprise. This is what A Million Little Pieces is about -- not knowing the end of the story (except that the main character lives, because this is a memoir). Other than that, anything goes -- a bullet through the cheek, more drugs and alcohol than anyone can handle, death, depression, unfathomable pain, and a man's obsession to see what is behind his own eyes, to see what is inside (a search for evidence of his own humanity, and thus a reason to be spared?). We must read, watch, wait, because we were made for awe and glory.

Friends, read this book. Not just because it will make this author rich (it already has), but because it reminds us of what we are about, and the power of being human when other elements of life are becoming more and more inhumane every day. You'll read it and remember the power of a smile, the richness of eating a meal, of being alive, of showing kindness by giving a coat, a helping hand, a laugh.

I chatted with my brother online today. He's the nephrology researcher in Boston. After taking a look at the medical records forwarded to him by the UW Hospital, he thinks I have the classic CT scan of someone with medulary sponge kidney.

It's rather a benign diagnosis, except if and when I have kidney stones and if any of them try to pass, become obstructed, or I have a kidney infection. The diagnosis is genetic -- meaning, I didn't do anything to really deserve it or provoke it.

A load off my back.

So, it's going to be drinking water like a camel, and maintaining a primarily vegetarian diet, for the rest of my life. It could be worse. But I'm actually doing ok, and with the exception of an infrequent shooting pain in my right kidney, I hardly notice it anymore.

Sunday, I spent the day in the E.R., after having writhed in bed for hours the night before. I missed Mom's barbeque, and I missed the beautiful weather outside.

Instead, I got to experience an iodine rush while in the CT machine. I felt like I was either a giant sea creature, being stuffed backwards into a white Hostess ho-ho. When they injected the iodine, I felt immediately warm right between my legs. The only other time I felt quite that way was when I took a pee in my neighbor's pool when I was about five. The VCT technician, a male, excused himself while I slithered out of my bra (it had underwire), and he said some comment about how we all lose our sense of modesty in the hospital. That may be true, but since I was being wheeled through the public corridors of the hospital in a thin gown, I might not be modest, but at least I should have some dignity!

Essentially, I walked out of the hospital with the same pain and no more questions answered than when I walked into the hospital seven hours earlier. Even if the whole visit costs $75, that was one expensive 800 mg of Motrin.

Every day, I go to sleep in pain, and every day, I awaken to it again, like an unwelcome guest. Last night, I had a little window of time where I was relatively pain free, and when I looked at the clock, it was 10:17. I made some kind of rough overture towards the Frog, and intimated that this pain-free window (no pun intended) might close at anytime. He was all smiles.

*smootch, kiss*

And so, I am writing and trying to stay fairly comfortable at home today. I managed to dance a little bit each day this week except Tuesday. And I intend to go to Melissa Ruby's zil and Pilates workshop, pain or no pain.

Here's some of the buzz I heard at the Paramount last night for the Dead Can Dance Show:


"Thank you!" (after they announced that it had been 9 YEARS since they have performed together)

"She looks like a priest with that robe on."

"So creative".

"While playing the zils, she keeps her body completely still, as if the zils are playing themselves."

"Can we just stand up for the whole thing?


We ordered a copy of the audio CD, to be sent in early November, so if you saw one of the two Seattle shows but didn't get a chance to order it, we'll probably have a listening party sometime this year. You know what I'm going to do with it -- probably choreograph something to it!

So.... finally, I had a visit with a nephrologist (and his fellow), at the University of Washington Hospital. My brother connected me up with a doctor who replaced his friend as the chief of nephrology there.

So after a lengthy interview (it was thorough!), I sat in the hospital room, waiting. Because of the line of questioning, it was easy to figure out just a few things:

1) We cannot conclude that these are kidney stones, though everything seems to point that way.

2) Nothing is for sure

3) Whatever is there could come out at any time. I am a sitting duck.

4) We cannot know more unless they come out (which would be painful).

5) I am scared that they will come out, because it is the most painful thing (perhaps next to being burned alive).

6) My diet is pretty much what it needs to be to prevent more stones from forming, with the exception that I could further reduce the amount of meat I eat. Already, I've lost five pounds just by going vegetarian during the weekdays, and eating small amounts of fish and chicken once a week and on the weekends.

On top of it all, I've been instructed to drink 4 litres of water a day -- do you all know how much water that is? Or how difficult that is to do if you can only use the restroom once an hour? I feel very bloated at about 3 Litres a day, so I just roll my eyes thinking about it.

Oxalate levels are at the high level of normal. Uric acid looks fine.

Probably need to do another 24 hour urine collection (a pain), if I want to get a better baseline of normal when I'm not hot, dehydrated, or having an infection (which was the case at the last one I did).

So, that's where I am. I'm not in as much pain as last week, but every once and awhile, whatever it is in my kidney lets me know it's still there (ouch). I've returned to fairly normal activity, and I'm taking less pain medicine, but my energy levels are so low because of eating less protein and animal fat that I sleep earlier and longer to feel rested, and I get tired easily. My stomach doesn't seem to like eating much at a time, so I can't eat the volume of vegetables and carbs I need to make up the caloric difference without meat protein.


I should return to bellydancing regularly next week, and I'll see how that goes.

I haven't logged in for awhile, because I got a rock (or three). Yep, it's called nephrolithiasis, or kidney stones. And I've been in a lot pain lately, which has made life come to screeching halt in some hours (literally, screeching in the night in pain) and other times just clipping along because I figure that I don't know when these little pellets will be on the move.

Funny, I managed to attend a rather rigorous dance workshop, undulations and turns and shimmies and all. Somewhere in there, I think I passed a least part of one (or that was some damn painful gravel that was coming out in the toilet). It's no picnic having to stop and collect your urine in a plain brown jug and walk it into a hospital -- everyone seems to know what that is in the garbage bag you are carrying (no one eyes you suspiciously, as if you are a terrorist). It's just urine, you know.

I've never been happier than when I was a kid. What goes in, must come out. And when it doesn't for a long time (oh pain!), when it finally does come out, I smile like a relieved cheshire cat.

Next: a visit to a nephrologist (next week's entry) -- oh my! What fun!

In the meantime, I'll tell you about my idea for Mood T-shirts, in my next entry.

I haven't written a journal entry in some time. My apologies. Life has been happening in abundance, and sometimes I just succomb to it all, putting aside the urge to take the time to write a tidbit of description. It's kind of like coming home to your loved one, only to find that 15 minutes of each person telling the other about the day just isn't enough, so instead, you just want to hold each other and say very little.

Recently, I've talked to two different people caught in relationship with someone with whom they feel loving and caring feelings for, but the relationships are flooded with serious problems, with mental illness, with addictions, and grand doses of unhappiness. Certainly there are details of the beautiful qualities of the persons, yet those qualities are severely influenced by the severity of problems.

I always want to know why we stay in those "bad" relationships, the ones that people can't figure out why so and so, who has so much going for him or her, chooses someone with a lot of problems. And it seems like the answer has something to do with:

1. A caregiver, but "too" caring
2. A belief that the care could "cure" the person
3. The dysfunctional person has a particular "pull" on people
4. The caregiver has a need to be "needed"
5. Both caregiver and dysfunction person believes that the dysfunctional person is "amazing" when s/he isn't: drinking, acting out, arguiing, being insecure or jealous, raging, or sabotaging.

It seems like REALITY along with COMPASSION are these two components of coming out of some kind of fantasy dreamstate for those of us who have once been locked into a bad relationship. Without compassion, you beat yourself up for leaving someone. Without reality, you feel badly for the other person, and you give them exactly what they want instead of what is good for them (i.e. consequences, feedback, boundaries, your integrity, honesty).

I'm not surprised that though I only had two significant conversations about this topic in the past three weeks, I've had run ins with two others with whom I've noted the same patterns. Incidentally, all of them were men choosing highly dysfunctional women, and in two of the cases, the men showed profound denial of their own dysfunctional thinking.

Yikes.

One thing I'll say for these "bad" relationships: for the person trying to handle the chaos of the other, it makes of an exciting life. Unpredictable, easily enflamed, crazy sex, excitability. If you don't understand why, see the movie, "Love Me If You Dare", a french film on the subject.

I feel like my life got put on a time accelerator! Woooooooooooohooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Since I got engaged (!), there's all these little decisions that have to be made. It is all the things we've been putting off because you can't make certain decisions without making the BIG decision. So by saying yes, all of a sudden the floodgates are open, and the questions are pouring in.

I want to hang up a big sign over my head that reads:

I'LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I KNOW

Just about everything can be answered by that statement.

When and where are you getting married?
When are you moving?
What are you going to do about your parents?
Is your whole family going to attend?
Is he going to let you get a cat? (just kidding, no one asked)
Who is going to pay for your wedding?


The only question I can answer right now is:

I will continue to bellydance before, during, and after the process of getting married.
So there. Nyah!

I swear it was straight out of a comedy routine I saw last year. At my birthday party, I was so aware that just outside the perimeter of friends, there was a male jungle out there. Women in push-up bras tiptoed on heels as groups of guys strategized on how to break into those little circles of girls without scaring them all away. The guys would be practically marking their territory, preventing other men from talking to the girls they wanted to get the phone numbers of, all the while forgetting about the most important person they should be handing drinks to...


The "we-gotta-go" girl.

The we-gotta-go girl comes up to the party of girls, points to her watch, and like clockwork, the girls all start giving apologies to the guys, trotting off in a herd towards the door. After they men try so hard to get them to change their minds, they finally leave, and then guys are sitting by themselves again, wondering if they should stay. That is, until another group of heeled girls come in, and there they are again, stategizes.

I know, I'm so unsympathetic. Maybe because I don't think the best places to meet women for the first time is in a bar. It's loud, there's competition, and the drinks are very expensive for what they are. Plus, no body remembers the we-gotta-go girl.

Otherwise, my birthday was great. I don't feel that old, actually, and it was a nice evening to let my hair down and be a bit silly. The Frog gave me an Egyptian head covering (beaded hat, basically), so I wore that for kicks, and some matching beaded sleeves (why not?). And for an moment, I felt 18 again, without all the pain or the pimples.

We finished off the evening quietly snacking (*gasp*) at 2 AM on dry salami and wine, and I drifted off into a delicious sleep. Friends, food, drink, kiss, sleep. That makes for the perfect birthday weekend for me.