“A Mother Tonight Is Rocking a Cradle in Bethlehem”

Yesterday I read a mom’s “worst day ever post” on Facebook.  She received news that her 5 year old boy’s leukemia relapsed and he needed a bone marrow transplant as soon as possible. My heart broke for her.  I empathized with her facing a Christmas, like the very first one, where nothing else mattered except a baby’s life.  

In 1999, right before my son’s 2nd birthday, I had my “worst day ever.”  Matthew was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia.  Around Christmas, he was in the toughest part of the  chemotherapy treatment.  If we were going to celebrate the holidays, it’d have to be in the slimmest and simplest way because our son had little to no immune system.  We were extremely cautious about germs and wore medical masks years before everyone else. Regardless, pandemic or not, a bald toddler with a medical mask screams cancer which is very hard for people to “see.”  It’s hard to watch commercials for St. Jude.  If we drew any attention it oftentimes included sorrow and pity, which was comforting at times and sometimes strengthening.  The kindness of strangers is awe inspiring.  

It was the worst AND best Christmas.  

We were present every moment and grateful for the few privileged and healthy family members who visited.  I barely shopped, decorated, baked, cleaned or cooked.  And honestly, I didn’t miss it.

Over the last several years a lot of families, especially ones that have members with deficient immune systems, have had to slim down and simplify their holidays.  They stayed home with just a few guests to keep the risk of Covid down.  

We were quite lucky that we were home and able to wake up to Santa’s treats and our cats and not in the hospital that year. However, we weren’t so lucky on Y2K when we wondered if the world would end at midnight. He was in for an infection, a high fever sent us straight to Children’s Hospital emergency room.  The emergency room at CHLA was in an old part of the hospital on a busy city corner.   As I sat in a dark, dingy room staring out the window, I secretly wished a car would smash into the window and take us all out together, quickly and painlessly of course.  That didn’t happen and the world was fine. Down the hall from Matthew’ s hospital room, we toasted with Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider and noisemakers as we watched fireworks over Los Angeles from the window.  After he got better, fighting off possible cardiac arrest, we got to meet our new niece born January 4th.  The doctor advised the two could meet since their immune systems were similar.  Watching my son snuggle with a newborn baby was a highlight of that holiday season. 

Three long years later on January 13th, 2003, we celebrated his last day of chemotherapy (no bell). With every check up, we thank God for good results.  I assured my son that every poke from then on out was an affirmation of his health and praised him for always being so brave.

I hope, pray and wish that the mother I heard about and hope to meet someday, will be able to look back 20 years to her worst AND best Christmas.

(written in 2021, on December 19, 2022, I finally met the inspiration to this story)

“I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again”

Robert Ortiz and Joe Piscitello

About 25 years ago, I joined a boxing gym with a goal of getting fit and strong.  Soon I realized how therapeutic hitting the heavy bag was and how fun shadow boxing could be.  But I never imagined I would learn to fight.  Most of my experience with fighting involved my brother putting me into a headlock or doing Suplexes on me.  I relished the times I could sneak attack him and get a few punches in.  However, I didn’t realize how challenging it’d be to spar with my co-worker.  I should’ve more felt confident.  After all, I was bigger and stronger than her.  But after hearing her voice her opinion at the office, I knew she was definitely tougher than me. By nature, I was a people pleaser.  My trainer would say things when I was sparring like, “You’re not a punching bag!” and “It’s ok to be friends outside the ring, but for now she’s your opponent.”  Coach Gerald had to remind me often to defend myself.  He told me I couldn’t win just deflecting punches.  I had to learn to counterattack without apologizing every time I landed a good punch.  He encouraged me to “fight back.” 

When I got pregnant, I was forced to hang up my gloves.  When I tried to return to the ring and those “life lessons,” I faced a bigger battle, helping my son with his long and brutal fight with leukemia.  I went into survival mode where throwing in the towel was not an option.  Getting through that 3 1/2 years took a toll on my relationship and my eating habits.  So I wasn’t too surprised that when chemotherapy was over, so was my marriage.  I was a divorced “light heavy weight.”  I hadn’t been that heavy since I gave birth.  I gained about sixty pounds twice over a 5 year span.  When treatment was over, I didn’t return to the gym because I blamed boxing for my back problems instead of my weak core. To help with depression, I began training for marathons with Team in Training (Leukemia and Lymphoma Society), where I made new friends, who listened to my heartaches for miles and miles.  Completing marathons wasn’t necessarily a goal I set for myself, I just needed to get out of a dark place.  In the end, I realized the medals were just symbols for the real rewards of accountability, encouragement and support I got from my team.  

And now many years later, after a year and a half of isolation, caring for my mom and work challenges, I need another light to guide me out of the darkness.  I need something not just to prevent the “Quarantine 15” from turning into another sixty pound weight gain but for my well being.  Rediscovering my love for boxing after so long was divine intervention. 

Divine intervention can happen anywhere, even at the Simi Valley Town Center watching a free concert.  I brought my mom, who sat outside the boxing gym, Kid Gloves Boxing, owned by Robert Ortiz, one of five generations of boxers and a pillar in the community.  My mom met Robert while I danced with strangers.  After being deprived of live music for so long,  I couldn’t help myself. These strangers and I ended up having a lot in common.  They loved classic rock, followed the band and graduated from Grant High School.  One woman shared she was caring for her mother with Alzheimer’s. My mom’s recent diagnosis came about a month before and even though I suspected it for awhile, it still felt like a gut punch when I got the news.  After the show, I met the middle Ortiz, who told me about an introductory class for “seniors”.  It was an easy sell due to my long hiatus from the gym and my love for Rocky Balboa.  Growing up outside of Philadelphia, during the Bicentennial when “Rocky” was released, “Forget about it!”  I was excited to get back to boxing for fitness, punching the heavy bag and the sound of the speed bag. 

Beyond the cool gym and equipment, I was excited about meeting new people.  I missed people in general especially good, warm people with positive energy.  Working from home, sometimes never leaving the property, I realized how much I was yearning for social interaction.  The first time I heard, “Good job,” I knew this work out wasn’t just for my physical health but for my mental health as well.  I was under a lot of stress returning to the office after being a caregiver for my mom.  I was worried about her being lonely, depressed and isolated.  Punching the bags was the release I needed.  After a few weeks of boxing, I shared with the class that I might have to quit because of my new work schedule and my classmate reminded me that the hour class was the only time I had to myself and since I’d been dedicating so much of my time to my mom, I needed to consider it a lesson in balance, a fundamental in boxing.

Another boxing fundamental, learning how to “fight back,” is something I put off 25 years ago and even today that expression makes me a little uncomfortable.  And while my old opponent “Wham Bam, Thank You Pam,” who never apologized for anything, isn’t around anymore, I have some other bullies in my life that I need to “knock out.” Fighting for a voice can be challenging especially for a people pleasing, punching bag.  So if learning to fight means ridding myself of toxicity and having peace of mind, then bring it on! By starting to strengthen my body, my mind has begun to follow.  With strength of mind, some new found confidence and encouragement from my corner, it’s easier to defend myself. I certainly don’t need to apologize for being soft and generous and if I give people the benefit of doubt, I shouldn’t be taken advantage of.  I allowed that to happen for far too long.  Speaking up, setting boundaries and taking care of myself might just be the counterattack I need to win.

Meow Woof

On the eve of our 900 mile road trip, Angela, my forever friend called to tell me she was taking one of her dogs to the vet.  From the way Tiki looked the last time I saw him, I knew we might have one less passenger on our journey from Scottsdale to Denver.  Tiki, a 12 year old, male Pomeranian tolerated me and for that I felt lucky. He might have even liked me a little bit, afterall I drove him and his little sister Maggie May from California to Arizona just a few months before.  They were so well behaved, I didn’t even realize they were in the backseat until our first pit stop.  Unfortunately, Tiki suffered from severe hip problems, possible dementia and just recently and the reason for his death, kidney failure.  We came to the conclusion that he had no interest in living in the the Rocky Mountains and his hips (that didn’t lie) probably preferred a warmer climate.  He had been with Angela through marriage, divorce and several moves but he wasn’t going to make it to the her “relocation discovery part 2.”

I was sympathetic toward Angela but knew she was focused on moving to a new city and maybe a bit relieved about the transition without her poor, old dog on the drive and in the place she’d be calling home for a few months.  The distraction took some of the sting off the loss, even though I knew it was still so hard for her to lose her lil friend, Tiki.  I was in a similar situation when we lost our sweet, cat Lila.  She got feline leukemia at the same time our child was going through treatment for the childhood kind.  It was close to Easter 2003, when our son got an infection and had to be hospitalized.  Meanwhile, Lila was getting worse but our focus was obviously and primarily on our son.  My ex husband, Tom, recently reminded me that the difficulty of administering medicine to a toddler and a cat was quite similar. I remember Tom wanted to leave Children’s Hospital to put the cat down before she died naturally, but in a mini melt down I recall saying something to the effect of “fuck the cat, our child is dying,” which was unnecessary and totally regrettable.  I hate that memory.  One day, while we were still at the hospital, Lila passed away under our bed possibly with her brother, Sampson, by her side. So poor Tom had to deal with the gruesome act of burying our beautiful, lilac Siamese “Wittle Miss Wiwia,” long for Lila, in the backyard. Months later while hosting a party, Tom blurted out, “I don’t think I buried Lila deep enough,” to which multiple people almost spit out their drinks laughing at what seemed like an out of left field comment.  But it was obvious he felt haunted by finding her and I felt bad that I thwarted his desire to put her down humanely.  Focused on caring for our son during our hospital stay, I was spared a bit of the initial shock and grief of seeing just one cat walking down the hallway or feeling the weight of just one cat on the bed.  I guess Angela felt the same way not having a familiar space where both dogs would be seen together.  And when we stopped in Santa Fe for the night, I was in the bed with her and Maggie instead of Tiki.

Angela and Tiki’s relationship reminded me of mine with Sampson, who went on to live 7 years longer than his sister.  Tiki and Sampson were there to comfort us when we ended our marriages.  They became our hus-cat and hus-dog, who protected and loved us the best a cat and Pomeranian could.  When I regained some strength and saw my life take a good turn out of depression was when Sampson started to show his age.  He was tired and his time of caring for me was coming to an end.  We had a good sit down talk and I told him I was ok with him  checking out and assured him I’d be alright.  I also let him know that I’d feel a bit relieved that the next part of my journey would not include cat food or litter and I’d be free to travel without worrying about a sitter.  My hus-cat had to leave me a widow so I could find strength on my own. And we said goodbye. I have a feeling the same thing may happen for Angela as she heads into a new territory literally and figuratively, where her puppy, Maggie May will be there to support her with girl power.

The Rock ‘n Roll Patient

Today is Dave Matthews’ birthday.  I used to actually mark my calendar with this important information back when I was head over heels obsessed with the man and his music.  I used to be bonkers for everything DMB.  I listened to their music incessantly, followed them around the country going to their concerts, talked about them, collected memorabilia and influenced my son to like Dave Matthews Band too.  Matthew (my son) attended several concerts in the womb and was serenaded in the labor room and later in his baby swing and car seat.  By the time he was almost 2 years old, my son grew to love watching Carter Beauford blow bubbles with his chewing gum, while playing the drums in concert videos.  For the most part, the music was uplifting and catchy and even though there were some “Mean Dave” songs, I never worried about references to drugs or violence in the lyrics.  My grandmother even encouraged him to keep singing, “sitting, smoking, feeling high” into his pretend microphone and not to chew on it.  When he received a toy drum as a gift he quickly imitated Carter playing “Ants Marching,” and Aunt Melanie commented on his “syncopated rhythm.” Harmonica, guitar and of course keyboard were added to his pile of toys as it appeared he had an interest in music which years later turned out to be true.

When he was diagnosed with leukemia in 1999, he was well versed not only in Dave Matthews’ music but Santana’s “Supernatural” album too.  They say music heals and no doubt Carlos Santana preaches this notion too, so it was such a blessing that the hospital rooms at Children’s Hospital LA had VCR’s connected to the TV’s so we could bring some of the comforts of home.  Some of the video tapes in heavy rotation were Barney the Dinosaur, Rolie Polie Olie, Santana in concert and at the time the newly released “Listener Supported” concert video.  Matthew asked to watch the music videos “Again! Again!” and it seemed every time his oncologist came in to visit he was beating on his drum or playing harmonica to music on the TV.  She would ask, “How’s my rock ‘n roll patient?”

In the “Listener Supported” concert video, it was the first time to my knowledge that Dave Matthews used back up singers.  From a song lyric, “Lovely, lovely lady, how ‘bout you come dance with me,” he named the three beautifully dressed, black women the Lovely Ladies.  They wore colorful headdresses and long braids.  They sang, danced and added an element of fun, so whenever the camera panned to them, we’d cheer “The Lovely Ladies!!”  In our first hospital stay, we ended up spending about a week on the Hematology/Oncology floor.  We would routinely take Matthew for strolls down the halls.  His father and I would push his IV pole alongside the Rock ‘N Roll patient as he sat comfortably in a little red wagon.  On one stroll, two black nurses were approaching us and Matthew yelled out, “Hi lovely ladies.”  They stopped to say hello and were quite tickled by our little flirt.  They accepted the complement and kept going.  In his 22 short months of life, he had never encountered black women in small groups, dressed similarly to the bold, beautiful ones that Dave Matthews referred to as the “Lovely Ladies.”  So I think Matthew really thought he had just met Dave Matthews’ back up singers!

Disclaimer: we did not name my son Matthew because of Dave Matthews, we picked that name long before I was pregnant and it’s also just a coincidence that his pediatrician is named Dr. Matthew too.

“Dancing in the Dark”

 

Unfortunately sometimes it takes a tragedy to hit for us to realize how much we take for granted.  It’s scary how during a tragic event like a car accident, an earthquake or a bad doctor’s visit, time seems to slow down and each moment becomes more intense.  Ordinary, routine days slide away rather quickly but ask a mother how long an hour is when she’s waiting to hear if her child is alive in a mass shooting.  Ask someone sleeping in an evacuation shelter how long a day is when they’re waiting to find out if their house burned down.  Ask a someone how long 31/2 years feels like when he’s waiting to see if the cancer will go away.  The disasters of this past week caused time to slow down for me.  Being out of routine was uncomfortable but made me realize most of the things on my “to do” list are as unimportant as the tangible and replaceable things I possess.  The slowed down, magnified time forced me to focus on gratitude.  Thanksgiving couldn’t have come at a better time.  When hours and days are dark and bleak, the darkness makes us appreciate the light. 

Without knowing God’s will, we must appreciate every little ray of this light.  In the middle of chaos, we grasp for things to anchor us such as a conversation with a loved one or a smile from a stranger.  When Matthew was sick in the hospital, I remember thanking God for the smallest things.  I appreciated each time he kept down a dose of medicine.  Sneaking in  a shower or a few winks of sleep was like winning the lottery.  I was grateful for each day good or bad.  Not knowing if our time would be cut short, I then treasured each week, month and year.  I knew it was just the luck of the draw.  Death walked up and down the hallways of Children’s’ Hospital, knocking at the doors, with either a, “you can stay,” or “nope, it’s your time.”  

This darkness follows us around all the time.  Each time we get in our car, we can be told “it’s time to go,” so we should appreciate every time we step out of it.  The gift of life should not be wasted. I know my son feels he was spared to fulfill a purpose, sharing his soul and spirit through his music with the world.  I understand now that he and I were spared along with family and friends, as it could have easily been October 19th (the last time we were at Borderline) instead of November 8th that evil took away 12 innocent lives.  I’m so blessed and proud to have my son, who doesn’t take his life for granted.  I’m so fortunate to be celebrating his 21st birthday! 

Last Wishes

When I hear my son compose, I think of the words of wisdom my father told him when he was all over the place with music, instruments and his interests.  My Dad would say, “Matthew, pick one thing and do it good.  What do you like best?  You like piano, like I liked the bike?  I used to dream about the bike.”  He was telling him to perfect the instrument he liked the best.  Matthew is most skilled in piano, but practicing or trying to book gigs aren’t tasks he dreams about.  About two years ago, he figured it out.  He became as passionate about writing and composing as my Dad did when he bought his first racing bike with money he earned in France as a stone mason apprentice.  He said he was about 14 years old.  He raced all over the mountains of Italy and France.  He said he never wanted to be away from his bike and that’s why he parked it next to his bed at night.

Those words of wisdom are amongst other tidbits of “Life According to Alfredo.”  For example, my Dad advised me on health and fitness repeatedly.  Every time I’d tell my Dad about my latest fitness craze ie. boxing, boot camp, yoga, Pilates or Jenny Craig, he’d throw out his famous formula, which is essentially good, sound advise that I really try to follow; protein, lots of water and movement.  It’s what I like about Weight Watchers.  He’d say to whoever was listening, “If you wanna lose weight, ya know look good? (he’d usually motion to his flat stomach) eat boiled chicken legs, drink water and go on the bike everyday.”  My Dad must have been crazy working all day at a physically strenuous job to come home and train on his resistance exercise bike in our basement in Lansdowne, PA.  I’d watch him from the stairs.  He’d go really fast until he was dripping sweat.  That competitive nature in my Dad was passed along to us kids.  We were all good athletes, but when I became burdened down with weight and injuries,  I lost that competitive nature that my brothers still have.  In his last days, he insisted I write down, “buy a bike.”  I’m not quite sure if that was the exact command but it’s what I needed to complete his wishes.  A week before that, however, his wishes included me not interrupting people and shutting the fuck up.  

So just as my son heeded my Dad’s words, I did the same and bought a pretty, red, Schwinn, classic cruiser, stationary bike to help me take care of my health and my other beautiful kidney. In my living room where I parked my bike, not in my bedroom, across the room there is a portrait of our family with my father standing very proudly over all of us.  I understand now that he wanted to pass along information to us.  Over the last few years he shared stories about his family’s history.  At the dinner table, he would say, “Ask me a question.”  I think he needed to tell us things and when the angels began to call him home and the messages started coming in way too quickly, he couldn’t wait for our questions anymore.  He began to draw a lot, write in English, his second language, and create an abundance of art using concrete.  When Mike and Maureen came out to visit us last September, he was quite thrilled when his nephew asked him for the “recipe” for his concrete creations.  I’m ever so grateful their trip happened when it did and that he was able to see who is sharing his daughter’s kidney.  I think he was proud of his not so flat stomached, loud-mouthed daughter bike or no bike. 

“I’m Talking Crazy”

Blake Shelton’s song, “I Lived It,” makes me wonder if people would think “I’m talking crazy” if I were to mention my childhood memories.  Like the one time I saw a pig hanging in our garage only later to find his feet in a jar.  Or when my family used to go to New Jersey to pick tomatoes and work in an assembly line with my NonNon, aunts and cousins to make “gravy,” that we stored in Mason jars in the basement, a basement filled with more good memories and even some scary ones too.  I remember summer barbecues and swimming in doughboy pools. My cousins that lived in Sharon Hill had one, before anyone else in the world!  It was huge, in my mind and it was where I learned to do a mean doggy paddle and eventually was brave enough to learn how to swim underwater.  Our house wasn’t too shabby either.  We enjoyed fireworks from our roof and copied our cousins when we installed a doughboy pool of our own along with a shuffle board court.  Although however great our yard was with its big hill that was perfect for rolling down or sledding in the winter, it paled in comparison to the Sharon Hill backyard and finished basement, where I first saw a Beatles record.  My aunt and uncle had a multi level yard with tomato plants, fig trees, grapes and rabbits.  And no matter whose house we were at we’d catch lightning bugs and rub their bodies on the sidewalk.  All the major holidays and almost every Sunday involved my dad’s sibling’s families and extended families. On Sundays, we rotated houses for macaroni, gravy, meatballs and sometimes homemade sausage from aforementioned pig. My widowed grandmother and uncle, who was very close in age to my oldest cousin, were always welcomed to every gathering along with neighbors, who were more like family than people we lived near. Whether it was macaroni on Sunday, a holiday or one of many birthdays the party always started around 3 in the afternoon.

My dad’s sister had 5 kids and one of them was probably my first crush.  Michael and I were only months apart just like our older brothers were.  One of his sisters lost her life to a rare brain disease, so my experience with Children’s Hospital goes way back.  I remember when my mom told me Donna died.   It feels like she told me in the middle of the night, but that can’t be an accurate memory, I think was it just “dark” when she told me.  She was the first person I really knew who died.  If my very old, blind great grandfather died before her, I don’t really think I understood what death meant until it affected a person who I actually played and swam with.  Only later after my son’s battle with cancer did it really hit me that losing a child must be completely unbearable.  A few years ago my mom and I visited Donna’s grave and I sobbed for my aunt and uncle and what a strain that must have been on the family.  Growing up however, I felt shielded from those bad things.  There were also periods of time when my dad and his siblings had their share of family feuds, which we were shielded from as well.  We just didn’t understand why we didn’t see each other anymore.

My cousin Michael remembers Christmases at our house and the time he broke my toy toaster.  I was mad about that for a while and we had our own little feud.  I see the apple doesn’t fall from the tree.  Michael later told his wife, Maureen, about his cousins that he used to see all the time and how one day after not seeing them for a while, they just moved away to a land of palm trees and sunshine.  Needless to say, we weren’t close anymore like we were as kids.  We were strangers who only saw each other a few times as adults.  I was lucky enough to meet Maureen in the late 80’s and I instantly felt a kinship.  When the Facebook post went out about her need for a kidney, I didn’t really think about the distance, time or my toaster.  I also didn’t think that my cousin’s wife and I would feel so close post donation.  Sharing an organ and new memories has filled in many gaps in our lives and has bonded us.  I’m grateful for the memories new and old.  I feel some memories slipping away but know that they’ll always be preserved when the people that you share them with can help fill in the blanks.  Sometimes they simply remind us that, “Yes, you were there!”  “A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.”  I often wonder if Michael and Maureen’s memory for detail in stories is because they have been together and married for so long and those blanks are more filled in.  Their long marriage and the amount of fun they have is admirable.  They’re goofy and crazy good people and I’m honored to call them my friends.  They’re my “cousins by chance, friends by choice.” 

Come Fly With Me

After spending two weeks in the hospital, we sprung my dad out of his cage.  That morning my mom shared a story of two birds she saw on the gate.  The gate in my parents yard is shaped like a heart and it hides an ugly AC unit.  The birds were facing away from my mother looking down toward the ugliness when the bird on the left side flew away.  My mom felt she would soon be the little bird left behind.  At first we thought the bird on the left was the groom at an alter but after a quick Google search, we realized we were wrong.  But she was adamant that the left bird took off to the skies.  She showed me the gate and how it’s right next to the scene my dad created  out of cement and paint on the side of their guest house.  He put four sitting blue birds on the left and three black crows on the right.  He tried to explain that the ones on the left somehow represented my brother and his wife and their kids but it didn’t add up to all my brother’s children.  Plus there were only three birds on the right to represent the rest of us.  So we just left the puzzle alone…until the last few days of my dad’s life. 

As he was resting comfortably, I quietly washed dishes.  From the sink, I looked out my parent’s kitchen window and was inspired to step outside, breathe in the garden and take video of the concrete art my dad made. I saw symbols of love and peace everywhere.  There were hearts, peace signs, flowers, butterflies, words, numbers and birds.  The birds were loudly singing and chattering as I took the video.  There were crows exchanging lines with pretty song birds.  There were coos and whistles.  The birds were all over my mom and dad’s house calling for my dad to come fly with them and the angels. 

Then the puzzle came together.  The three black crows on the right are me and my brothers.  We’re the talkative and friendly ones that acquired those characteristics from our mother, who also sat on the right side of the gate.  And the four blue birds are his grandchildren.  Singing, talking quietly and thoughtfully.  Then I concluded that the bird, who flew away, was similar to the bluebirds, who represented my dad’s quiet ways.  And the bird on the right side was clearly my mother, the outgoing, talkative one. Now if you knew my dad you might think that’s a wrong assessment of him, after all he was well known for cursing, criticizing and yelling.  Yet, I believe now that his hollering wasn’t meant to be taken personally and everyone has long forgiven him for those offenses.  To partially quote my dad and Linkin Park, “In the end it doesn’t even matter.”  What mattered the most were the quiet “I love you’s” and “thank you’s,” us birds that were left behind heard my dad say in his last days. My mom once said, “your father is a man of few words.” When he was creating the scenes in the front and backyards, I wonder if he realized he’d be leaving my mom all the words and messages he barely said in his daily life. And as my dad repeatedly said about his concrete art, “it will last forever.”  So now until forever, my mom can look outside and read the love letters he left her, while being sung to and cackled at by her grandchildren and children.

Kidney Kousin Konnection (KKK)

I woke up this morning to a sunny day and a blank mind.  I wanted to add something to my blog but was feeling uninspired.  I guess my creativity was still on vacation. I thought about asking Maureen for an idea but thought her experience and mine were so different, that might be difficult.  So instead I texted her after 9am, “I am lagging on my blogging.  Send me some creativity…can’t stop thinking about the island life. Lol.”  She responded pretty quickly, “Lol (with some beach emojis) In church.  Call soon.” 

When she called, she said that I was on her mind when she woke up to a rainy day.  My cousin Mike and her were talking about the California weather and throwing around the idea of moving to a warmer climate.  I’m sure that subject comes up a lot on the east coast in the middle of February.  Maureen asked my cousin if he wanted to go to church.  She had some challenges with forgiveness, she wanted to work through and felt pulled to go with or without him.  It seems her health challenges cause people to treat her differently.  So she went and as she was driving in the pouring rain, she was thanking God for her kidney and thinking of me.  And even though she does this everyday, today it felt really magnified.  When she got to mass, the subject was healing the sick and those who take care of the sick.  The priest talked about the kindness, compassion and generosity of those that care for the sick.  He talked about obeying God’s wishes and that it takes special people to administer to the sick, who often feel ostracized, lonely and burdensome.  She related.  Just recently when out with friends, she felt different because she’s the only one who doesn’t have a job. The priest went on to say those who care for the sick have the most pure hearts.  She was thinking of me and feeling so grateful for her new kidney and my heart.  It was then when she went to fetch some tissue, glasses and cell phone because she wanted to take notes.  She was tearing up and as she wiped away tears, she saw my text and felt “that connection.”  It’s the thing we joke about, “KKK,” (the Kidney Kousin Konnection).  Funny, because as she was sharing her story, I was also taking notes, I knew God answered the text!

She said she was very grateful for going to church today because it confirmed our connection, helped her with forgiveness and inspired an idea for my latest post.

Thank you, God!