EIGHT FOR EIGHT

What a wonderful article in the New York Times, this past Tuesday, May 17.  The Science Times section brought a story about Julio and Mirtala Garcia. The couple, naturalized Americans originally from Guatemala, saved the lives of seven people and restored the vision of an eighth. Theoretically speaking, instead of 110,000 people waiting for organs in the United States, there are now 103,000.

Mr. Garcia was at his plumbing job one day, when he felt ill. He was suffering from one of his much too frequent migraine headaches. This one was different than the others, because besides being in terrible pain, he also felt numb all over. He called his wife and asked her to come pick him up. Mrs. Garcia wanted to call an ambulance. Her husband, Julio, thought it unnecessary. They drove to the hospital where doctors diagnosed Julio with massive brain hemorrhaging. They were able to stabilize him; then they had him transported to another hospital better equipped to deal with his problem. By the time the ambulance dropped him off at the new facility, he was in a coma. A few hours later, and several attempts to drain the blood from his brain, he was declared brain dead. After the obligatory verification from two independent doctors, Mirtala was given the news. In this profound moment of grief, a hospital official asked her if she would donate his organs.

At first Mirtala hoped Julio would awake. But the doctor explained that this wasn’t possible because, essentially, he had already passed away. Machines were keeping his organs oxygenated. The next day, once again, she was asked if she would donate his organs. Julio had been a deeply religious man. He was the pastor at his church. Mirtala thought of her two friends from church suffering from kidney failure, and whose time was running out.

And she thought about the comments her husband had made after watching the movie Seven Pounds, starring Will Smith and Rosario Dawson. In the movie, Will Smith plays a man (Ben Thomas) filled with remorse for what he had done. He drove and was on his cell phone when he caused an accident that killed six people in a van and his passenger. Ben decides to ‘give back’ by donating his organs and thus saving seven people, the same number of lives he had taken. Personally, I don’t go for movies full of transplant flaws. You can’t transplant eyes (only cornea), and you can’t take organs from a dead man, even if he’s lying in a tub of ice water, waiting for his pet jellyfish to sting him (Helloooo!!). I don’t know how many times Hollywood has gotten this wrong, and will continue to do so as long as it makes for good drama, and, more importantly, good box office (the movie made 168 million worldwide. It cost 55 million to make. In Hollywood terms, including P&A coast, I’d say it barely broke even.) But I digress.

After seeing this movie, Julio had told his wife that he’d be happy to give life after his death. He said that if anyone got his heart, she should meet the recipient. Recalling that conversation, Mirtala knew she had to donate Julio’s organs. The article went on to say that she met five of the seven recipients: the heart, lung, two kidney and adult partial liver recipients. One, the pancreas recipient, chose to remain anonymous, the other, a one-year-old baby who received a portion of Julio’s liver, well, it’s pretty obvious. The cornea recipient was never at death’s doorstep and doesn’t count among the 103,000 remaining on the organ transplant waiting list.

The five recipients and Mirtala met at the New York headquarters of the liver distribution center. Such a gathering had never happened before. Perhaps one donor a year gets to meet his/her recipient. For five of them to come together with their single donor is highly unusual, as is one donor giving seven of his organs.  

I found this story quite touching for several reasons. A Guatemalan man who could barely speak English (Mirtala spoke through a translator) donated his organs to save American lives. This alone is praiseworthy. As much as we would like to think of ourselves as ‘color blind,’ there’s still plenty of racism in the United States. Does race affect organ donation? This is a question I can’t answer, but it is something to think about.

If all donors gave up to seven organs, perhaps the list would shrink a little. Why the average organ donation is only three I don’t know, but it’s something to think about.

I commend Mirtala Garcia for quickly deciding to donate. Her husband passed on Thursday, by Friday she had made up her mind. When you’ve just lost your loved one, it can’t be easy to think rationally. Time is of the essence when it comes to donors and recipients.

Let me end this story the way I began it. For a moment, there were 103,000 people on the waiting list thanks to Julio and Mirtala Garcia. By the time I finish this post, or probably even before, the number will have jumped right back where it was to 110,000. I wish no one the tragedy Mirtala and thousands of others experience when a loved one passes of brain death. Optimist that I am, the upside of such a death is giving life to others. We recipients welcome many, many more Mirtala Garcias. 

TRANSPLANTS

We all know what the word ‘transplant’ means, but what exactly does it entail? I’ll try to explain the process without putting you to sleep.

Dr. Christiaan Barnard performed a successful transplant on a black woman in South Africa in 1969. She lived twelve years and six months with her new heart. In 1967, Dr. Barnard had first tried several heart transplants but the patients died. For many years the effectiveness of transplants was debated. Then, in 1981, Dr. Starzl (my hero who transplanted me in 1984) championed the anti-rejection drug Cyclosporine. Prior to then, rejection occurred almost 100% of the time. The way to stop rejection was high levels of steroids, which ended up killing the patient. Once Dr. Starzl found the solution to keeping patients alive (Whew! Am I glad…), other transplant centers came into being, and with it a need for regulation (1984).

All transplant candidates have been evaluated and suffer from confirmed end-stage organ failure. At that point they are placed on ‘the list.’

The list, that mysterious word every transplant patient pronounces with pathos, becomes the first step on the long road to an operating room. The list is kept in Richmond, VA at a place called the United Network of Organ Sharing (UNOS), a complex national bank of organ data, which it collects and manages. UNOS operates twenty-four/seven, continually updating and changing the list as information becomes available.

Being on the list is not a linear thing. One doesn’t get a number and wait in line. The list is actually a pool functioning according to patient data. This patient data is regularly modified to ascertain placing on the list. A score called Model for End-stage Liver Disease or MELD score is one of the many criteria used. It’s based on certain levels in a candidate’s blood test: the worse the levels, the higher the score. This information and other such as organ, blood type, tissue, size and match will determine the candidate’s position.

But wait…there’s more. UNOS, the headquarters of the list located in Richmond has tentacles. They’re called OPOs or Organ Procurement Organizations, to be precise eleven of them scattered throughout the United States. These organizations see to it that donated organs from their specific region get used at their transplant centers first. If an organ cannot be used in their region, then it goes to the next closest OPO region. Should it not be needed, the organ will be free for distribution to any other transplant centers in the country. The reality though, is that the majority of organs are used in their OPO region. Because the list is a pool, patients’ waiting time varies. All things being equal, it’s the patient with the greatest need that will be transplanted first.

Are you still with me?

The average waiting time for a heart is from three to eight months, a liver eight to fifteen months, a lung fifteen months to two years, a kidney three to five years. Currently there are between 80,000 and 100,000 people waiting for an organ. On average, eighteen people die every day waiting. 15,000 people are added to the list yearly.

There are plenty of horror stories out there with respect to organ retrieval. I should know. My husband was offered a script about steeling kidneys in India. I’m glad he didn’t make that movie. To be fair, the script was exciting: the topic lends itself to an action flick. But when I read it, the flaws were too obvious, which, for someone like me, is unacceptable.

Transplant myth A: “If you die, your organs will be taken without your consent.” You cannot take an organ from a dead person. If the heart has stopped beating and oxygenation of the body has ceased, so has oxygenation of the organs. Organs can only be retrieved from the certified brain-dead. That person has zero or very little brain activity, and therefore, is a corpse with blood flow and oxygenation of the organs. There is no recovery from brain death. Period.

More recently ‘non heart-beating organ donation,’ is experiencing resurgence. If you’re in the hospital and have a directive to become an organ donor, after your heart stops and you are proven dead (checks and balances) your organs are retrieved before they deteriorate. This practice has helped narrow the gap between donors and recipient.

Transplant myth B: “There’s a black market out there for organs.” The United States does not have an organ black market. There are no hidden, fully equipped, sterile, state-of-the-art operating rooms floating about where people are kidnapped and anesthetized to harvest their insides. Everything regarding transplants of any kind, be it living donor, tissue or organ is regulated and verifiable.

Transplant myth C: “If I say I’m a donor and I’m in the hospital they might let me die.” The person who came up with this conspiracy theory has obviously never been in a hospital. Need I elaborate more than to say that doctors, nurses, orderlies, more nurses and more doctors pass through your room at all times? The likelihood of something getting past them is as unrealistic as a mother committing suicide to give her remaining kidney to her daughter. The script definitely needs a rewrite.

But, forget the myths and the regulations. None of it would mean a damn thing if not for the most important component to organ transplants, which is…(drum roll…) organ donation. And here the scariest statistic of all: practically every American adult (98%) has heard of organ donation, however, only 30% take the trouble of becoming donors. All you healthy people out there, this is your chance for greatness. The gift of an organ is a purely altruistic and trusting act. It comes from a place of generosity and caring for your fellow human. Whether you are a living donor, or a deceased one, the decision to donate organs is by far the kindest and humblest accomplishment in your life. 

THE RIDE

Just about a year ago, around this time, I decided to participate in something I had always wanted to do, but had never been healthy enough to undertake. It was the AIDSLifeCycle ride departing from San Francisco and arriving in Los Angeles six nights and seven days later. Normally, this journey on a bike isn't something you jump into a couple of months before it takes place.

But, leave it to me to decide spontaneously. Fortunately, I’m not the only spontaneous person in my family. When I asked both my sons if they would join me, my oldest didn’t hesitate. “Sure, I’ll do it,” he casually responded. Neither he nor I knew what we were getting ourselves into. And, it was probably better that way.

So here we were, mid-March, joining another 1800 HIV/AIDS advocates. The AIDSLifeCycle ride raises money to provide critical services for the afflicted. The fact that it’s a fundraiser and a ride makes it appealing. On one hand, you’re supporting a worthy cause: in order to participate in the ride, you must raise at least $3,000. On the other hand, you’re in for the experience of a lifetime, which, for my son and me began with a practice ride of 75 miles from Santa Monica to Palos Verdes and back.

Prior to tackling the Palos Verdes ride, we were advised to try out our new equipment. New bikes, shoes with cleats, helmets, biking shorts, gloves, and jackets. My son and I had never ridden a road bike with cleats, but we certainly looked the part. (Move over Lance Armstrong, my outfit is cooler than yours.) In fact, I had not ridden a road bike since I was twelve! First, I started out mastering cleats on flat surfaces. Then it was time to try something more challenging.

A very patient and generous friend took my son and me to Malibu for our first hill along Pacific Coast Highway. Ten feet up the hill I fell on my side. Ten feet further, I fell again. Ten more feet…fall. Always on the same right side, always because I couldn’t get out of my cleats fast enough. After about eight falls (I love my helmet!), I “quickly” realized that if your road bike isn't moving, you'll fall. I knew this, but my muscles didn’t. They weren’t cooperating. In fact, every ten feet, my muscles went on strike.

 

Black and blue lesson #1: build muscle before you plan on climbing a hill.

The day of the Palos Verdes ride, AIDSLifeCycle management, highly organized and made up of the nicest, most helpful people I’ve ever met, gathered the riders around for a pep talk. They said, ”Whatever you do, respect the rules of the road. The police will stop you if they catch you running a stop sign.”

From the moment riders hit the road, they jockeyed for position. They zoomed by my son and me, an endless stream of, “On your left!” shouts as they passed. We ended up somewhere in the middle, among the ‘laid back’ group of riders. When I reached Manhattan Beach, I saw a stop sign before me and stopped. Suddenly, flashing lights in the sun, a black and white car. I released my cleat in time, just before falling over from exhaustion.

“Do you know you ran a stop sign?” the officer asks. I stared at him. Answering ‘yes’ wouldn’t have been honest. I had been much too focused on making it to the next lamppost to notice a stop sign. Answering ‘no’ wouldn’t have been honest either, because I had seen the stop sign right before considering a mirage of the road buckling before my eyes.

The very helpful “Roadies” rushed to my defense. Instead of answering the officer, I stared at him and…burst into tears. He stepped back, “That’s never happened before, that someone cry when I give them a warning,” the officer said, which only made me sob more. What had I gotten myself into? How the hell was I going to ride 575 miles if I flaked after 45? How was I going to get to Palos Verdes?

I stood next to my bike in tears holding the warning from the officer who had quickly left. The roadies kept asking, “should we drive you to the next pit stop? Do you need someone to ride with you? Is there anything else you need besides tissues?” I blew my nose, shook my head and thanked them.

I knew what I had to do. Two words, three max. Keep going or…you’ve got this or…just do it or…you and me or…try harder (take your pick). I got back on the bike, clipped into the pedals and moved forward. Just to that next garbage can…just to that next tree…just passed that little hill up ahead…Five miles later, I saw my son sitting on the pavement next to his bike sipping water, waiting. We continued on our way together, my son slowing down every time I fell too far behind (damn you twenty-year-olds!) The roadies drove by in intervals and shouted from the car, “Are you all right?!” I gave them thumbs up and continued riding.

Harsh lesson #2: if you think you’re in shape, think again.

The Palos Verdes ride was an eye opener for things to come. Thankfully, we did get in several more rides before the big event. Still, it’s only on the last day of our major journey from San Fran to LA that I got it. After a week of putting my fake hips and knees through long hills and deep valleys, smooth surfaces and bumpy ones, I finally felt confident on my bike. I had built up my muscles, including the one in my head. Tenacity.

Joyous lesson #3: never underestimate your abilities. You’ll be surprised how much you really can do.

The time has come for another AIDSLifeCycle ride. If you know anyone who is participating, open your wallets so that some unsuspecting person like I was has a chance to develop his/her Tenacity. 

DEATH

Ever since a very close, very dear friend of ours suddenly passed away, I find myself wondering about my own death and what follows. “Death” is the only word in any language and any society for which there are numerous, almost endless theories. Every religion, every philosopher and in fact, every individual has his/her own version of death and its consequences.

So here is my interpretation of death.

We’re made up of body and soul. Soul is the essence of who we are: our emotions, behavior, thoughts and actions are ultimately defined by our soul. Unlike our bodies, soul is pure energy and energy never dies. Those who have seen a loved one lying in an open casket usually say, “It didn’t even look like her/him at all.”

Well no, it probably didn’t. That’s because the soul of the deceased, which is everything that made him/her the person you cherished, is gone. What’s left is an empty box or shell. I like to think that the soul, once released from its body, seeks out a newborn in which to thrive. This is my interpretation.

In Buddhism, my interpretation is the worst-case scenario. My soul settling in a newborn is viewed as an unwanted state, because the significance of such a move is that I haven’t reached Nirvana, the highest position in the afterlife. Nirvana literally means extinction, and refers to liberation from any cravings, wants or desires. It means achieving total nothingness, nothing to reincarnate. At that point, I’d be emotionless, careless, hurtles, painless and fearless. (Strange…I’ve met living people who have obtained a sort of Nirvana). The result of Nirvana is my soul disintegrating. For some reason, my mortal sensibility is not able to consider this a desirable outcome. And neither does Judaism.

In Judaism, there is no reincarnation, but there is an afterlife. It’s called HaOlam Aba (or HaOlam HaEmet) and it’s no piece of cake. My soul has to watch its earthly life from beginning to end including the skeletons in my closet (no shortage there) with all the other souls present. Then, we all get to see what my life would have been like if I had done things according to Jewish law; a sort of It’s A Wonderful Life moment.

That’s the Jewish version of real punishment, and hell. The good news is, I can still learn and grow from my mistakes. I’ve always liked that about Judaism; no law is absolute. There are degrees of awareness, the highest being the one closest to God. My soul would surely end up in the nosebleed section. I’ve sat in the nosebleed section at basketball games, and I remember wishing I were in the first, second or third row. No different in the afterlife. I’m guessing, souls from other faiths are sitting in the nosebleed section times ten. At least there is room for betterment in Judaism. Which is not the case in Christianity.

I just have to turn on the television to know that if I don’t accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior I’m going to hell and will be tortured for all eternity. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Oddly enough, whether I go to heaven or hell isn’t based on my earthly conduct, but rather on how ardently I embraced Jesus and his teachings. If I were a murderer, but became a born-again Christian, I’d be guaranteed a place in heaven. However, there are so many different variations of Christianity that this conditional generosity might not be universal. Should my commitment to Jesus Christ still be debated, I’ll land in purgatory or judgment. Purgatory, I guess, has to be annoying. Who likes waiting around for millennia on end? However, I do like the Catholic faith practice, which allows me to confess while I’m still breathing. If I die right after confessing, my slate will be wiped clean and off to heaven I’ll go.

None of that in the Quran. No wiping the slate clean. In fact, the only way to attain Allah's mercy is if I suffer for him in this life. Anything and everything I do must be with and for Allah. My day-to-day behavior above ground is final and binding once judgment day arrives (I guess that train has left the station…). If I lead a secular, worldly, open-minded and freethinking lifestyle, and “abuse” Allah’s riches (you know, the one I’ve accumulated) chances are I’ll stray from Allah, and probably end up in hell. For this reason, the Quran says it’s better to be poor; if I’m poor, I won’t get distracted from my adulation for Allah. The threat in the Quran is clear. This is a bit scary to me, and far too rigid for my taste.

After thinking things over, I’m now convinced that I won’t involve religion in my death. And I‘m revising my initial interpretation of it. The Greek philosopher, Epicurus, said it best. He wrote, “…death, therefore, the most awful of evils, is nothing to us, seeing that, when we are, death is not come, and, when death is come, we are not.”

He’s right. I’m going to stop wondering about my death. By the time I’ll experience it, I’ll be…dead. So far, no one has risen and said, “such and such is going to happen after you die.” Therefore, anything beyond the knowledge of it being “the end of life, as we know it” is purely speculative.

I’m going to think of life, which is the best gift that I know of, and one to honor and savor like a good wine. My religious doctrine is to treat my fellow man/woman as I wish to be treated, to be ready to help others and to recycle. Death will take care of itself.

CHRISTINA GREEN

What can you say about a little girl born on the most tragic day this country has ever known and killed on an equally tragic day? Christina Green, who left the security of her mother’s womb on September 11^th, 2001, the day the twin towers of Manhattan collapsed, has done plenty in her short life.

I know practically nothing about this little girl. I don’t know if she took ballet lessons or who her best friend was, or what her favorite color was. Did she like to sing? Did she play with dolls or was she a tomboy?

What I do know is that she was interested in her civil duty, and the meaning of democracy. She had just been elected into her student council at her school. This new awareness prompted her to delve deeper into the political process and take the opportunity to visit with a politician. These actions tell me how bright she was. Yes, she was a bright little girl; she was giving and loving as well. Christina’s family has donated her organs to several people, because “it would have been what she wanted,” her father said. Among the recipients is a little girl from Boston.

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And now the point of my blog. Just like little Christina, none of us are masters of our fate. We come into this world confident of leading a long and fruitful life. No matter how young or old we are when the time comes to meet our maker, we can give back that which was given to us: LIFE.

Following talk-show host David Letterman’s example here are the ten top reasons why you should become an organ donor.

#10 – For those of you who think “six feet under” is all fine and well but prefer to be transferred into another body, this is your chance.

#9 – A legacy that will always be held in the highest of regards is that of an organ donor.    

#8 – If ever you need an organ you’ll be thankful that someone thought of you, just as you have thought of others.

#7 – Donating your organs is like AIG (yes, the corporation that is too big to fail). You only have to keep that promise at a point in time when you won’t remember you have even made it.

#6 – You can always tell an organ donor: it’s the person who avoids taking risks.

#5 – Few of us will do great things in our lives, at least that others will know of. Donating an organ will make you very popular among all those whom you have helped.

#4 – Donating an organ means you are healthy. Hospitals will not take organs from sick people.

#3 – You will never feel guilty again for passing a person pan-handling and not giving him or her money. By becoming an organ donor you can always tell yourself you’re doing something much greater.    

#2 – If ever you donate your organs, it will be when you won’t need them anymore.

#1 – There is no higher form of generosity and giving than being an organ donor. By placing that little sticker on your driver’s license, you join the group of people spreading a message of love, hope and continuity.

Dear Christina, it broke my heart and the heart of the nation, that this senseless tragedy befell you and the other victims. But out of this dark and painful experience, you shine brighter than ever. Currently more than 100,000 people are waiting for organs. 8000 donors saved a little under 22,000 lives last year. 18 people die daily in the United States because they cannot get an organ on time. 

You, Christina, are my hero for keeping one little girl in Boston off the deceased list. Even though I have never met you, you and I are connected. You passed away before you had a chance to live your life, and I was just a few years older than you when I began my descent into illness. In saving the little girl in Boston, you have saved me, because people as generous as you have given me their organs. You are bigger than life Christina, bigger than my life will ever be from where I stand, on the receiving end. I am truly humbled. 

THE HOSPITAL ZAGAT

“Where should we go for dinner?” I asked my husband a few days ago. He casually picked up the Zagat, which seems to always be close by. He began flipping through the pages. This small book full of culinary treasures is our guideline to pleasing our palette. This time however, his mind and mine drifted away from our taste buds. Suddenly, we had a “Siamese” moment as I call it. I knew what he was thinking because I was thinking the same thing. Lately, I had been complaining of “bloggers block.” I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to write about. In that meeting of minds it became clear to my husband and me. “Honey,” he said, “you’ve spent more time in hospitals than restaurants.” That’s all he needed to say. What if there was a hospital Zagat? And an idea was born.

UCLA Medical Center a “delight” for the patient and their spouse who want to spend "quality time" together in the emergency room. Bring a game of Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit, or a book like War and Peace as you “savor” the five-hour wait to be seen. Allow yourself to get into a “contemplative” mood while staring at the “mesmerizing” off-white walls, and listening to the “soft” moans of those around you. Sadly, UCLA Medical Center lost a few points  when the drunken homeless guy sat down next to me. Instead of 29 I give it 25 for emergency room services and 28 for patient care (once we got to that point).

SUPERIOR MEMORY

The other day on Sixty Minutes, Leslie Stall interviewed quite an extraordinary, and rare group of people. When I heard that the segment was on memory I got excited. Memory, or lack thereof, has been a big question mark with me.

The five people examined, two women and three men, have a variance or perhaps a gift called Superior Autobiographical Memory. Like the terminology indicates, they’re capable of recalling pretty much every single day of their life. They can remember the banal, uneventful events of any particular moment in time from their distant or near past.

I sat there, absolutely fascinated as Leslie interviewed them and asked them question from days gone by. “Oh yes!” the man replied, “that was March 3^rd, 1994 when I stubbed my toe…” He was a Pittsburgh Steelers aficionado, a die-hard fan who remembered each play of every game against…I can’t remember whom or when. But you can be sure, he did. He knew exactly what the strange look on the quarterback’s…or was it the running back’s face meant that day. One of the female Superior Autobiographical Memory wunderkinder was Marie Lou Henner, the actress from the show Taxi. Among other things, she connected dates to the pair of shoes she wore. Now that really impressed me.

Each of the five responded with such vivid detail, including their emotional state during the specific past occurrence. They all agreed that they could categorize events in their head and organize them according to whatever criteria they chose, (Yeah! You go Marie Lou, classify those shoes!). They were able to practice mental gymnastics with their phenomenal memory.

While I was watching and listening to them, suddenly it dawned on me. I’m the exact opposite. I have even less memory than the “normal” people to which I like to think I belong. I blame multiple surgeries. My theory is, that with each longer stretch under anesthesia, I’ve lost some of my history. I have crater-size gaps in my past, but I don’t know what they are because…well…I don’t remember. However, I do remember a great deal about my illness (hence the autobiography). And, since my illness took up most of my life, ergo I remember most of my life. (Whew! An elegant save…).

After putting the five through several tests, including an MRI, scientists discovered that there’s a reason for their über memory. Their cortical nucleus is a lot larger than ours. This particular area of the brain creates adrenaline, the substance that increases whenever we have an emotional reaction. In other words, if we feel embarrassed, sad, excited, hurt, angry or any spike of emotion, our adrenaline levels rise. When that happens, we tend to remember those particular events. Basically more adrenaline means more memory.

Now imagine always having higher levels of adrenaline. That is the case in our five candidates. So while we “normal” people have selective memory, they have constant memory. And I, low man on the “normal” memory totem pole, have my husband. Without him I don’t think I’d ever remember where my glasses were.

Hmmm, I thought, I’m not so sure I would want to remember that much of my past. Like I need to bring up anxiety, fear and pain again? I don’ think so. I’m thrilled that pain is the first thing you forget. Serioulsy.”

And by the way, doesn’t having this awesome memory kind of take the fun out of…remembering? Isn’t it great when someone reminds you about something in your past and you can exclaim, “Yeah! Wow! Now I remember!!” I actually say that a lot.

Our five candidates also displayed characteristic mostly associated with autism. Scientists discovered OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive-Disorder) behavior in them. Marie Lou has a closet full of shoes neatly placed on shelves, one facing front, and the other facing back, so that she may see the heal and toe. A must for her. The Pittsburgh Steelers aficionado washes his hands much more often than any of us would. Oddly enough, the three men were all left handed, while the two women were right handed. Even stranger is the fact that out of the five, only Marie Lou was married. Currently she’s on husband number four. I’m guessing it’s hard to stay married when you can’t loose an argument. The rest were single.

Despite these somewhat strange patterns, they were quite pleased with their ability. Well, of course they’re pleased, I thought, because duh, it is what it is. They don’t know what it means NOT to remember, just as we, normal folks, don’t know what it means to remember every day of our life.

When the show ended I wasn’t sure what to make of it. So they have boundless memory, and I have boundless forgetfulness. Who’s better off? They think they are, and I’m pretty convinced that I am. In the end, it’s best to be happy with what you have. While I’m engrossed in learning language number eight, I'm sure I'll forget where I’ve placed my glasses, and my husband will have to remind me where they are. That's what you call real selective memory. 

THE MOTIVATOR

Yesterday I watched one of my favorite shows, called Real Sports With Bryan Gumbel. One of the segments was about a father and son team. The son was born with his mother’s umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. He had been deprived of oxygen long enough to cause severe motor and mental damage. He was unable to move any part of his body or speak. At the time of his birth, his parents decided to care for him at home rather than put him into a facility. This meant dealing with every aspect of his life, for the rest of his life. Washing him, carrying him, grooming him, feeding him and all else associated with a person who can’t do anything for himself. They did realize however, that he was alert and far from mentally challenged.

As the boy grew into a young man, they found a way to communicate with him. With the help of a machine conceived for him, the young man goes through each letter of the alphabet until he finds the one he needs to formulate a word. The process is painstaking and time consuming, but allowed the young man one day to express, quite eloquently, a very specific thought. He wanted to take part in a triathlon.

His father, a retired Lieutenant Colonel, was out of shape and frankly, not at all prepared for such a request. However, now that he was divorced, he could dedicate himself entirely to his son and try to fulfill his wish. He and his son moved to the country and together, they undertook the grueling task of getting into shape.

The father hadn’t ridden a bike since he was a boy, but now he was riding twenty-four miles with his son strapped in a special seat attached to his handlebars. The father was never able to swim more than a few feet. But now, not only was he swimming, but also he was pulling his son behind him in a dingy for two miles. The father hadn’t jogged much in his life. But now he was jogging six miles while pushing a carriage in front of him with his son in it. All of this for their first triathlon as a team.

The two of them began their journey of training and competing almost thirty years ago and have never stopped since. They continue to do so, always placing among the first. People have taken notice, and over the years, father and son have gained a certain celebrity status. Thanks to their example, currently there exist groups of volunteers that run or jog pushing mentally and physically impaired children in carriages. Parents, who have met or heard of the team, have been motivated to become more active with their disabled child.

In the interview, the father said he was convinced that his son had made him an athlete. He said, that if he had tried to do the triathlon on his own, without his son, he wouldn’t have succeeded. When the interviewer asked him what the secret was, the father simply answered “devotion.”

I am in awe of this father and son team. They took a devastating situation and turned it into a mutually beneficial, and healthy collaboration. They made lemon parfait out of sour lemons. I’m fascinated how the father found his motivation through his son’s impairment. The father isn’t racing the triathlons on his own energy. There is a flow from son to father and vice versa. They have a symbiotic connection, whereby the son gives his dad the strength and energy, which is trapped in his body and that he himself will never be able to release. The father, through his athletic prowess, makes it possible for his son to thrive beyond the confines of his disability. And in the process, they inspire hundreds of others to see their own disabled child in a different, much more positive light.

I often wonder if we are all gifted with the capacity to go beyond ourselves and ardently dedicate time and energy to another, knowing that nothing will ever be given in return? In the depth of my soul, I tend to believe that devotion is the core of who we are. It’s all that is good in us, all that makes a life worthy. I’m mistaken to assume that nothing is gotten in return because in fact, devotion to another human being brings rewards beyond our imagination. Much more important than the father/son celebrity status, is the joy they feel achieving their goals, the peace of mind for having done their best, and the bond they have forged along the way. 

NEW YORK STATE OF MINE

          Recently I spent a few days in New York. I never understood the fascination with a city that is unbearably hot in the summer and bitingly cold in the winter. A city where more than 71,000 people live on one square mile. My husband says with a sparkle in his eye, “New York is the most energetic city in the world and the most vibrant. It never sleeps and there’s something for every culture.” Like most Europeans, he’s enamored with the Big Apple. Years ago, he spent many months there while shooting a movie called, Last Exit To Brooklyn. After a day’s shoot, he thoroughly explored the nightlife, including local hangouts. Thank goodness we weren’t married back then.

There’s a problem with his argument though. First of all, I get my energy from the sun. There’s nothing like running errands in beautiful weather. Second of all, we have a variety of cultures here in L.A. If you sit at Sunset Plaza long enough you’ll hear all kinds of languages. We have Little Tokyo, Little Armenia, Thai Town and Beverly Hills with a large Persian contingency. Chinatown N.Y is the size of a pinhead next to the number of Chinese, populating the San Gabriel valley, the largest community outside of China. Our Hispanic population is also diverse. We have people from pretty much all South American countries.

And then, I don’t like to walk. My replaced hips and knees aren’t made for walking. Well, actually they are, but I prefer to wear them out on a bike, and not waste their limited shelf life on walking.

I don’t like garbage bags lining streets, hallways, which double as apartments, basement bistros, roads in need of tarring, buildings screaming maintenance. I don’t care for droves of adults filling the sidewalks, heading to and fro like living dead on speed. And to top things off, I cringe at the thought of a N.Y. spin class.

I enjoy the comfort of my car to get around, rather than the comfort of my aerosol shoes. I love my sprawling house compared to the cubicles New Yorkers call home. Our West Coast gyms are state of the art and full of energy. Hail our spin classes! As far as culture is concerned, I admit, we’re a little mundane. We’re the capitol of the movie industry.

A friend once told me “All of Los Angeles is Disneyland.” By that I think he meant that living in L.A. is like a fantasy. We almost always have perfect weather. We dress casually. We “do” lunches. We eat healthy foods. We go to bed before midnight and get up early to go to the gym. Movies, and our basketball team are an essential part of our life, as is looking good and having white teeth. We’re laid back as opposed to New Yorkers. We say, “How’s it going,” to perfect strangers, and poo poo cigarettes as if they were…a drug.

“What about the arts?” My husband continued enthusiastically, “There’s nothing like Broadway, Moma, the Metropolitan, the Guggenheim; such rich and abundant cultural activities. Nowhere in the world can you find the best of the arts concentrated in one place like New York.” I had to agree with him on that point. One of the most romantic times we spent together was a Manhattan evening at Lincoln Center. During the intermission of Carmen, he and I walked to the upper level where the restaurant was. We sat at a table for two, next to an oversized window. Outside, blurry night-lights shimmered through the heavy, hushed rain that slid down the windowpane. My husband and I drank champagne and Perrier (yes, that would be me) and ate smoked salmon, while staring at the two magnificent, gigantic Chagall paintings at each end of the hall, towering over us in all their surrealistic, colorful and intricate splendor. That night, Manhattan was supreme.

It doesn’t rain much in L.A. I suppose it’s conceivable of having a drizzly evening at the Music Center, but somehow I don’t quite see the romance in that. How lovely it was to try Manhattan’s fine restaurants, right after seeing a Broadway show. As we strolled down the streets (at an L.A. pace), I expected Dustin Hoffman to cry out, “I’m walkin’ ere, I’m walkin’ ere!” (Midnight Cowboy).

Since my last visit a few days ago, I’ve revised my opinion of the city. On second thought, there are no words to describe Manhattan. It’s the city of all cities. Not only was the evening at Lincoln Center magical; all of Manhattan tingles romance. Slowly but surely, I’m falling in love with the island. I’m beginning to understand living in a closet, walking among zombies, having your clothes stick to you as soon as you step outdoors, all for the sake of romance. In fact, New York left as good a taste on my lips as the food in that corner basement bistro. 

THE TURKEY BASTER

                   Thanksgiving is the beginning of the holiday season. From the moment the turkey comes out of the  oven, you find yourself thinking about things that hadn’t crossed your mind all year long. Suddenly, you’re wracking your brain trying to remember what your sister Chloe, or your aunt Rebecca pointed out to you that day at the mall. That thing you made a mental note of, and were going to buy and hold on to until the holidays came around. One whiff of pumpkin pie, cinnamon and nutmeg and you’re reminded that you were supposed to be ten pounds lighter by now!

             Thanksgiving is a joyous day, and also a “good” guilt day. Good guilt is the kind you keep to yourself, the kind that doesn’t hurt or affect anyone around you. The kind you can shed whenever you’re ready.

While most people on Thanksgiving remember aunt Rebecca and are still ten pounds heavier than they hoped to be, my mind goes to another dimension. It happens every year. I’m standing in front of big bird, eyeing the instrument in my hand, having nothing but one thought. Liver biopsy.

I’m quite familiar with the instrument; I mean the biopsy needle much more than the turkey basting syringe. I can’t count the times a doctor, with a quick slight of his hand, plunged the long, thick needle into my skin under which my liver lies. Before I knew it, the procedure was over, and the doctor had extracted a sliver of my liver.

Big bird was dinner, but I had been there too.  

On the day of the Oscars two years ago, I was all smiles. Sure, my body was swollen with fluid since my organs were only four months old. This reaction was similar to when you bang your head. The bump that forms is liquid protecting the traumatized area. I was full of fluid, protecting me from the transplants. This healthy, bodily function made me smile, but it was my husband’s nomination for an Academy Award, which was the real reason for my smiles.

A few hours before attending the event, a doctor at UCLA Medical Center stood over me, holding the “turkey baster” while I lay in the pan, I mean on the cot. As soon as the needle pierced my belly, the bottle began to fill fast. 18 liters later, I went from being a plumper to shrinking to a Foster Farm size turkey filet (I love that commercial). Lying on the cot, I turned to the three full bottles and thought, Oh Lord, that’s all I need, is to look like a dried up prune on the red carpet.

Thankfully, I looked like my usual, belly-less self. I drove home light on my feet and relieved, ready to slip into my skin-tight Oscar gown. I had left the house in the morning with a beer belly, and had returned with washboard abs. Well, not quite. Anyway, I was going to the Oscars with my youngest son and my husband, the nominee for best Foreign Film. We had a blast on the red carpet and laughed at Hugh Jackman's jokes. We didn’t win, but all three of us looked and felt like winners.

                     I’ve been telling myself not to think about liver biopsies and needles this Thanksgiving, but somehow, I have the feeling it will happen again. It has become my “good” guilt. I’ve got this, I said to myself smiling devilishly, standing in the kitchen, turkey baster in hand last year, you’re going to be the most delicious, juicy bird ever. I strategically plunged the juice-filled, five-inch long syringe into the bird, with all the precision of a surgical instrument. While I gave my turkey its biopsy, I couldn’t help but stare at the liver resting in the juices at the bottom of the pan. 

ANNIVERSARY IN NAIVETE

Today I’m two years old. I’m far from being a baby though; much to the contrary, I’m on my fourth round of “two years” anniversaries.

My first round of two years was when I was a baby. The one labeled “terrible twos,” but which I would prefer to describe as the carefree, full of wonderment, naïve years. I don’t think any of us remember much from back then.

My second “two years” was twenty-four years ago, on December 16^th, 1986. On that very day, a sniper entered a mall in Tulsa and shot Frosty the Snowman. Thankfully, Frosty only had to be bandaged before getting inflated again and resuming his post in front of the store. By then, I no longer believed in Frosty the Snowman like I did when I was two, but I was naïve enough to have two children after having a liver transplant; naïve enough to think I could live very well with a sick, second liver. I must say, that liver was good to me for fourteen years.

My third “two years” was ten years ago, on October 28^th, 2000. On that day, Lance Armstrong received the Prince of Asturias Award from the Spanish Government. I admire Lance. I feel we have a kindred spirit. We’ve both been through the ringer and have come out the other end better and stronger. I became a spin instructor at my gym. Like the previous liver, I believed my health was great. And it was for ten years. I was naïve enough to think I would never need another organ.

Today, October 29^th, 2010, I’m on my fourth “two years.” Finally, a liver and a kidney that are healthy and work well. On this day, a short but poignant segment of the news caught my attention. They grew a liver in a petri dish. It wasn’t a human liver, but nevertheless a liver. You would think that the word naïve would have disappeared from my vocabulary by now. I’m happy to report it hasn’t. I’m naïve enough to believe that one day, we won’t need any donors for organs. Patients will buy them from the organ bank where they’ll be grown.

I now realize that naïveté has nothing to do with getting older. It’s simply a wonderful opportunity to shove all else in your life aside so you can engage in something exciting and unusual.

On this, my fourth two-year anniversary, I’d like to raise my glass and salute all the naïve people of this world. May you never loose that “certain je ne sais quoi,” we call naïveté. We need it in our lives and our thoughts. For those of you who haven’t tried it yet, go ahead, jump in with both feet and let yourselves be happily surprised. 

DYING HOLIDAY

               In July of 2008 three months prior to my third liver/kidney transplant, my husband, our two boys and I spent three weeks in my hometown, Munich, Germany. Why am I telling you this? Because I’d like to describe to you the amazing holiday of a dying person.

            Before we left our apartment for the vast park called English Gardens around noon, I stuck my head into the toilet bowl and vomited. Ugh! Great breakfast that was, I said to myself. A quick clean up, and then I joined my two boys and my husband waiting at the elevator.

We parked our rented Audi next to the art museum. Spectators stood at the bridge to the right, at the entrance of the park. We joined them, and watched as very determined surfers rode the itsy bitsy, single, natural wave below the bridge where we stood. I was amazed at the way each person patiently waited his or her turn in an orderly fashion, just to enjoy less than a minute of gliding on the water. Anything that distracted me from pain and extreme weakness was just fine.

Soon I couldn’t stand anymore. We slowly, very slowly made our way to the center of the park. Lately, I operated in slow motion. My body functioned on a back up generator powered by my family’s sense of humor. I had forgotten how funny my three men were. My belly ached either from sharp pain shooting through my body or from laughter. Either way, the walk to the riverbank at the center of the park was one big laugh fest.

We found a spot between the sunbathers. My husband laid out a blanket. I sat down literally between a rock and a hard place: in this case, the rock was the grass and the hard place my buttock. Neither had any cushioning. I weighed 100lbs or less. With the help of the extra sweater I carried with me on this scorching day, I somehow managed to get comfortable. 

It was hot, just what I needed for my freezing limbs. I sat on my sweater, my heart filled with joy as I watched my giggling sons tease each other. Who was going to grab the swinging rope first, and land in the chilly waters of the river with the rest of the daredevils? I couldn’t help but smile at my husband standing at a distance in his swim trunks, filming our boys.

Everybody had worked up an appetite after an hour of fun, except for me. Food had lost much of its appeal. We walked over to the Chinese Tower where the beer garden is. I never understood why there’s a Chinese tower at this Bavarian beer garden and had never bothered to ask.

We sat at a long table with strangers. I devoured an entire smoked fish. If the day so far had been magical, the fish made it perfect. Fish had become the last savory food left in my diet. The sicker I became, the grosser food was. Meat and vegetables in particular tasted like tasteless, sweet cotton. If there’s one thing I know about illness though, it’s the importance of keeping up your strength. I mostly force-fed myself, which is why my head had ended up in the toilet bowl in the morning. So what; as long as I keep eating something, I thought. Eventually, beer would be the only “food” I would be able to keep down. For now though, the fish tasted delicious.

“Schatz, can you walk back to the car?” My concerned husband asked. “I think so,” I said, in the squeakiest voice ever. I didn’t recognize my own speech. My normal tone had risen an octave and had gotten stuck there. “Because I can put you on my shoulders and carry you to the car if you want,” he continued. This was the only hint to the fact that I was unwell.

How lucky am I to have such a great husband! I thought, close to tears. Lately, everything made me cry. If I dropped a spoon on the floor I could break out in tears. This wasn’t my normal state. It was end-stage liver rejection taking over.

I made it back to the car with my very patient family. Two kilometers had taken almost an hour. But who was counting? The weather was beautiful, the trees glistened in the sun; nature was at its best and my boys and husband were hilarious.

Back at the apartment, I plopped onto the couch and felt my mind drift. The boys had their video games and my husband his books. A peaceful atmosphere hung in the air. On this day, and every day of our holiday, my dying liver never came up. Like Waldo, it was there somewhere, hidden among our family outings, showing glimpses of himself but never intruding.

This holiday, my dying holiday, turned out to be the most enchanting of family vacations. I look back and smile at the thrilling time we spent together, despite my green skin, yellow eyes, emaciated body, and pain. I had decided long ago, no matter how bad I felt, sickness would never own me. 

LETTER TO MICHAEL DOUGLAS

Dear Michael,

I’ve heard in the news that you’ve been diagnosed with throat cancer. I’m very sorry to hear this and wish you all the best. Michael, I’m rooting for you but more importantly you go ahead and root for yourself.

The doctor in the news said something of the nature, “Your perspectives look good because you’ve got the right frame of mind.”

Way to go Michael, that’s a great start to beat this thing. After all, it has become a commonly accepted notion that all illnesses require constructive emotional self-persuasion if you want a shot at health.

We all carry on a conversation in our minds. We are our best friend and our worst enemy. When you’re sick, though, it’s time to give the demons we so willingly fight in our thoughts a rest. Michael, you’re presently in a situation, which demands reeling in your thoughts, and focusing them on your physical wellbeing.

Let me give you another tip Michael. The right frame of mind is all fine and well. But you’ve got to take it a step further.

It’s called one hundred percent certainty that you’ll make it through this affliction. You must believe with all your heart, soul and mind that you’ll beat it. Get proactive within yourself. Let this one hundred percent certainty spew into every particle, which makes up your DNA. Don’t just say you’re going to beat it. As every motivational speaker will tell you, know it, feel it, embrace it, own it. Feed this one hundred percent certainty to your fiber, your muscles, your pores, your bones and your throat.

That bares the question how do you do this? How do you know you’ve absorbed this one hundred percent certainty? Well, Michael, you’re probably ahead of the game. You already know that life is beautiful and that you’re beautiful. If you live by these inalienable truths, you’ve just increased your chances of success. Then there’s also the business of letting go.

Let me tell you a little story Michael.

My girlfriend recently spoke of her uncle. His doctors had told him to go home and put his affairs in order, because he had terminal cancer and had a month to live. So he put his affairs in order, and then did something he had always wanted to do. He flew to Argentina and learned to dance Tango for the last month of his life…last two months of his life…last three months of his life? No…wait…last years of his life and still counting.

This story has such an effortless ring to it. Deadly diagnosis; write a will; pack up for the time of your life and, in the process, cure cancer. I’m almost inclined to think cancer can be cured through any satisfying activity. In fact, if that were the case, Michael, you would already be healthy. You can afford your favorite activity because, well, you can afford just about anything. 


Perhaps there’s a lesson for all of us to learn, and that is, money is not the answer to everything. It certainly isn’t a cancer cure. 
Still, Michael, I like the idea of letting go. Your demons might not involve stress about paying your mortgage, but there is surely some kind of stress you need to shed. All in all Michael, I agree with the doctor in the news who commented on your chances.

Take it from an old pro, if you have that one hundred percent conviction, if you focus on your body in the most positive way possible, if you let go of your stresses, Michael, I predict a success much bigger than an Oscar.

ADDICTION

The word ADDICTION started out as purely “a state of physiological or psychological dependency on a psychoactive substance, which crosses the blood-brain barrier and thus temporarily alters the chemical milieu of the brain.” (Whew! Thanks Wikipedia).

Recently, though, the meaning of the word has been broadened, and so has its connotation. Doctors have discovered that you could be addicted to sex, gambling, video games, and in fact just about anything. In other words, no longer is something you put in your body triggering the craving, but rather your doing it yourself.

For far too long addiction has gotten a bad rap. When you hear the word, alarm bells go off. Nothing good ever precedes it: cocaine addiction, heroin addiction, meth addiction, etc.

Therefore, right here and now, I’m going to rehabilitate ADDICTION.

THE NOSEBLEED SECTION

When I was in my twenties, I often traveled to Israel to visit with friends. It was a four-hour flight from Munich, where I lived. You had to be at the airport at least three hours in advance, because EL AL and any other airline to Israel left from a special terminal with special requirements. In those days it was only the flights to Israel; today we all know what those special requirements are because we go through them every time we fly pretty much anywhere.

I got on the El Al flight, found my seat somewhere in the middle of the plane by a window, and began to read. We were mid-air when a drop of blood fell on the page.

Normally, my nosebleeds were not just a few drops and that’s it. My nosebleeds consisted of flowing blood, and blood clots the size of golf balls clogging my throat and making me gag, forcing me to hold my head over the sink and just let the blood flow. This would be a problem on the plane.

Hopefully, this one won’t be that bad, I thought, discretely asking the stewardess for more tissues after exhausting my supply.

“Here,” the stewardess said, handing me two or three napkins. Noticing what I needed them for she said, “Your nose is bleeding. I’ll get you some ice.”

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.