To Uncle

Dear Uncle,

I am calling you this because honestly, until today, I never knew your name was Steve. This is always what Liz has called you - just Uncle. I only met you a couple of times so I never got to taste the fabulous ribs that your niece talked about this morning or hear your jazz collection. However, even though I didn't really know you, I certainly know the kind of man you were. And how your simple actions made such an impact in my life - a life that remained mostly unknown to you.

You did an amazing thing in the fall of 2006 by saying yes to a sick young woman - the daughter of your late brother. Liz's heart was failing and her life was falling apart. She needed a new heart and a home. You offered your home and a chance for that new heart.

When I met Liz on that mid-October night, about 10:00 pm, it was by chance. I was headed to the ice machine and happened to see that the patient in the room across the hall also had my cardiologist and my same ridiculous liquid restriction. There were plenty of liquid restrictions on the floor but currently there weren't any heart patients and certainly no young'uns.

Sitting on the bed was a woman, maybe my age? maybe a bit younger?, with long blond hair pulled up in a ponytail. She was bent over her meal tray coloring with crayons in a kids coloring book. There was a little dish of hard candy next to her crayons. Her room was empty, unlike my room crowded with hand-drawn banners and pictures. A Halloween movie was on the television.

I think I may have startled her when I poked my head in and asked, "hey, you get ever tired of hearing that you are too young for this?" She looked up, her blue eyes were guarded.

"Yeah," she was suspicious. Later I learned that she was thinking, who the hell is this all in my business? I don't blame her. I was, after all, very much in her business. I was a little nervous, a little scared and a little hopeful.

Until Liz, I'd spent all 18 years of my heart condition without ever meeting any other woman or person my age with cardiomyopathy. I had a cadre of old-man friends - Jim and Ray and the other cardiac rehab guys that were my comrades in low-sodium diets, lasix and beta blockers. But they all developed their conditions late in life. None of them had been told they couldn't have kids because of their heart. None of them worried about making lifetime commitments for fear that a future wouldn't be theirs.

Unbelievably (or maybe not, on second thought), there she was. In end-stage heart failure like me, bloated like me, out-of-breath like me, unsure like me, a little angry like me, and also, unfortunately, tiny like me. I couldn't believe it. Here, after being absent my whole life, I'd finally met a friend - a fellow patient - in for the same reason, the same thing. It was an instant and painful connection.

The next morning the doctors asked me if I had met the new patient yet. A young woman named Liz. I had - and despite the initial excitement of meeting someone else, there was another more pressing question in both our minds. Were we competing for a heart?

The doctors said no. But Liz and I knew better. We were both very very small - and as we quickly found out - we had the same blood type too. This relationship - on such fragile ground could go either way. I did the only thing I could do. I gave it up to God.

A wise friend of mine recently told me that God always puts what we need, not necessarily what we think we want, in front of us. God put Liz there, front and center. It was up to me to decide.

So we became friends. We liked to hang out together at night and walk with our IVs to the IMCU waiting room to sneak Doritos and Funyans from the vending machine. I learned of her hard life in California, her fresh start here and her struggle to find a family. We talked about our fears and the long roads already behind us. We talked about girl stuff. We played games in my room and we cried. A lot.

Eventually Liz left to go home. We were never again able hang out together on the floor. From then on, we were on our own but always so close. The doctors wouldn't tell us anything about each other, but the nurses kept us updated. There were times when we were rooms apart but couldn't walk to see each other and were too tired to call. Chris and my parents would shuttle info back and forth as they could.

And God's plan was His plan all along. The heart that was maybe, possibly supposed to be mine - but really never was - went to Liz on November 11th. When the news was broken to me, gently for fear I would respond in anger or jealousy, I cried with joy. I called her and in my voice, raspy from the ventilator, told her that she would blaze the trail for us both. She needed to tell me everything - she would forever be my sister-in-transplant.

Ironically enough, this northern California girl who came to Colorado for a heart, had her heart custom delivered from the Bay area. She may be the only person whose heart actually did leave San Francisco.

Uncle, you have no idea what bringing Liz out here has done for me. You've given me an awesome gift. A friend to walk with me on this hardest of paths. A sister to understand the frustrations, the struggles, the pain - someone with whom I can cry, laugh and above all, shout "I HATE BIOPSIES" and will totally understand. Someone who is ALWAYS on my side, no matter what.

For all of this, I say thank you. Thank you for opening your heart and your home to Liz. Thank you for giving me this wonderful friend whom I dearly love.

Rest in peace, Steve.

Bush's Reign is Over

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemies eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing:
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
Once you know there was never, never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People could not believe what I'd become
Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
And that was when I ruled the world

Viva La Vida - by Guy Rupert Berryman, Jonathan Buckland, Will Champion and Chris Martin

An Open Letter to Sarah Palin

Dear Gov. Palin,

Up until now, I've been following your campaign with the interest of someone waiting to hear what you will say next. I learned quickly, early in your campaign, to always keep in mind that we share the freedom of belief and speech. Thus, I've been okay with your simple demographic of hockey moms and "Joe Six-Packs" as I know those are the only folk that you know. Those freedoms were on my mind as I alternated between amused and horrified at the footage of your rallies - your apparent ease with which you incite hateful epitaphs followed by an "oh geez, did I do that with my facts?" charm.

I've even put aside the fact that we disagree on nearly every issue facing us today. Gun control, keeping prayer out of schools, protecting the environment, encouraging alternative fuel research, not drilling, baby, drilling, and gay marriage (to name a few). I'm for everything that you are against. But still, this is a free country and you can believe what you want. You can campaign on the platform against mine. I can register my disagreement with a single powerful vote.

However, this weekend, Gov. Palin, you crossed the line. No, it wasn't the hilarious rap on SNL. It was when you said this:

"We believe that the best of America is in the small towns that we get to visit and these wonderful little pockets of what I call real America - being here with all you hard-working, very patriotic, very pro-America areas of this great nation."

Oh but wait, there's more:

"This [small towns] is where we find the kindness and the goodness and the courage of everyday Americans, those who are running our factories and teaching our kids and fighting our wars for us, those are who are protecting us in uniform and those who are protecting the virtues of freedom."

Excuse me? I don't know you personally, Gov. Palin, but I think you just called me anti-American. And that is the last straw in your silly, small folksy campaign. Our differences are one thing but as soon as you go throwing down about my patriotism - simply because I am like four of five of my fellow Americans that lives in a city - that pisses me off.

I'm not going to defend my patriotism to anyone, but I am angry about the clear disdain you hold for the 80% of the country you are vowing to lead and protect. How can I even believe for a minute that you will stick up for ME - a latte-swilling, arugula-eating, tree-hugging, gay rights-supporting, peace-loving, Christian techno-nerd who resides in a (horrors!) city?

I am deeply offended by the implication that small-town living is the only progenitor of what is good, kind and courageous in this country. That those of us who live by our Starbucks and Whole Foods don't have sons, friends, brothers and sisters who are fighting for our country. That those who teach our children in the inner-cities don't qualify as courageous. That goodness doesn't extend to those nurses and doctors working in hospitals large enough to qualify as small towns. That somehow, speaking out against failed policies qualifies you as someone who doesn't like this country. The ability to speak out against what has gone wrong (and not get jailed) is the very essence of being American.

I'm proud that I am able to associate on a daily basis with an office in a small town in one of our reddest states. I love that my colleagues are patriotic, well-educated, well-spoken and some damn fine programmers. I love that we trust and work with each other despite the red state/blue state differences that the media would have us believe are dividing us. We have truly bridged this artificially forged "small town/big city" bigotry that you have shoved down our throats. Take your class warfare someplace else.

Gov. Palin, I believe that the best part of America is the people in the small towns AND big cities with whom I live, work and love everyday - the wonderful great swath that is America. This is where I find kindness and goodness and amazing courage of the Americans who are leading churches, feeding the hungry, taking care of the homeless, bringing beauty and art to this world, healing us when we are sick, pushing advances in science and technology, raising great adults, and educating themselves and others. I know deep down that is how we protect our virtues of freedom.

You scare me, Sarah Palin, and not just because of your conservative platform. But because your Wasilla is showing. You aren't ready to lead a country of 300 million when you are only speaking to 20% of us. With these statements, you've shown us that you can't think outside of what you know. This is a big nation - and a big world. Try a different tactic in the next two weeks - try acting like a leader. Try talking to those of us who don't work in factories, teach children or wear a uniform. Try talking like you want to lead the rest of us.

Heinz 57

It's always been an endless source of speculation in our family - what breeds of dog make up our beloved mutts. We are pretty sure that Claude is a solid mix of German Shepard and black Lab.

 

See? Look at that sweet face and tell me there's no Shepard there.

My dog Bug is not quite so simple. With his copper fur and black spots on his tongue, the first guess has always been chow chow. But really? He isn't a one-person dog - he has several families which he loves. But he is somewhat independent and there is that curly tail.

We've gone through dozens of breed guesses - maybe he is a Spitz? What about some German Shepard? Perhaps some elkhound? I know! Maybe Australian Shepard. The vet guessed cattle dog.

What do you think?



So, in what was probably the most first-world purchase we've done in a long time, Chris and I sprung for a DNA test for our dog. Bug dutifully gave a sample of blood and off it went to the lab. The results came in yesterday.

It appears, like most mutts, Bug is a mix of many many different breeds. He is unique - unlike any other dog in the world. His most dominant breed is a....



A Chow Chow! With a trace of Golden Retriever. He's our little Chowtriever.

So there you go, that's our Buggy. I've always thought that Bug has the best traits of any of his breeds. He's happy, friendly, mellow and above all, a loving little companion.



Best. Dog. Ever.

Happy Birthday, Dad

My dad, my sister and I have a long-standing joke between us when we are together. Someone will say, for example, "gosh, I'm hungry!" Inevitably, one of us will respond, "not near as hungry as me!" Which then leads to "I could possibly be one thousand times hungrier than you are!" and it continues, escalating and certainly ad nauseum, until we laugh to much to go on.

And yes, we are all adults. Grown up adults, as you can see.

I am so blessed to have such an amazing father. So much of who I am today was shaped by this man. I inherited this strange, mostly inappropriate sense of humor - finding jokes less funny and preferring quick one-offs and biting commentary. This sense of humor that gets us in trouble. Like the time in the hospital when the doctor told me that my liver function had improved and I responded that it was a good thing I'd stopped drinking. Needless to say, only Dad found that funny. Which was really how it was intended all along.

I also learned about eating from my father. A fearless eater back in the day, he'd eat street food in Mexico without a care. "You don't have to like it, but you have to try it" was the rule at our table. That rule lead me to my love of all ethnic foods - Thai, Vietnamese, Ethiopian...there isn't a food I won't try. And the response when I report that I had Puerto Rican stewed pig ears and belly? "Good for you!"

Now only did I learn what to eat, but I learned how to eat from Dad. One time at a church potluck, while grace was being said, I caught Dad moving out of the corner of my eye. I quickly followed and we positioned ourselves near the buffet in order to be first, trying not to laugh. By the time grace was over, we were positioned and ready. Always be first - so that you can be coming in for seconds while the line ends. Yes, we are an embarrassment to our kind.

I'm so proud to be Dad's daughter for the things that he has accomplished. At the tender age of 60, Dad decided to learn a new trade. And he uncovered a hidden talent to become a primo videographer, editor and flash designer. I call him for questions in Illustrator and he always has time to be technical or design support for me. I nurture my artistic side foregoing a more lucrative and more ambitious career in paralegal work because I want to know what I want do when I grow up NOW rather than later.

And of course, the passion I have for politics. It's no surprise that we were both political science majors. And even though neither of us do anything in the political science field, as you can see from this blog and his blog, it is a lifetime love.

So, today is the old man's birthday and I want to wish him the best. I love you a million billion times more than anything, Dad. And you can't top that.

My Fault

"Can I ask you something personal?" That's how many of the conversations about my heart transplant start. Of course, is my reply. Believe me, it's hard to surprise me with a new question.

Every once in a while, though, someone will surprise me. I've actually had several conversations with people in the "personal responsibility" school. Someone who will say to me, "but don't you think maybe you are responsible for this happening?" That throughout my life, I've made a series of choices which have lead up to this critical event. Seriously? Yes, that makes perfect sense. Juvenile fibromatosis is every three-year old's dream.

I firmly believe that we need to take responsibility for what is ours. We can control certain factors that can worsen or even cause our own health conditions. I put this into practice myself. Both pre- and post-transplant, I've made sure to eat right, exercise and follow my doctor's orders and recommendations. I have always been proactive about researching every drug, every medical procedure and even track my lab results. I am a patient who, as one of my doctors says, requires more information before making a decision than any patient he has ever had. I am my own best science experiment.

But even under all this surveillance and care, I still had to have a heart transplant. Not the cheapest of procedures to have. Not the cheapest of conditions to maintain. Not the cheapest of health insurance policies to need.

That stupid argument that all our health issues are a direct result of our own choices is bull. I have had that discussion with several friends but I could've had it with John McCain. Here is what he has to say about health and mental health care:

I have stressed the central role of personal responsibility in leading to lower health care costs. Personal fitness and better lifestyles, especially reduction in addictions of all types – food, narcotics, or cigarettes – can yield dramatic improvements in the cost of chronic illness and high‐cost medical care. We can do a better job of treating addictions, but we also have an obligation to do a better job of teaching our children the benefits of good lifestyles and the perils of addictive activities.

Compare the candidates views on health care and the priority of mental health care in their campaigns. The choice is clear.

Obama/Biden 2008. Vote.

Best Political Ad I've Seen

Somehow, I like being treated like a thinking adult.