My L.A. Odyssey Part 4: Life Lessons of the LaBrea Tar Pits

When I am discharged Monday evening Karry picks me up at the hospital and we take my prescription to a CVS Pharmacy.  While it’s being filled we kill time by driving around L.A. and I get to see the downtown skyline lit up at night.  It’s easier for me to see the builidngs that way, without the glare of the sun.

I’m feeling pretty drained and disconnected to reality.  Here I am, just out of the hospital over a thousand miles from home, in a big city where I’ve never been before.  I’ve lost weight from the nausea and little to eat after that.  I feel like a refugee.

Karry, who started out as a friend of a friend, turns out to be one in a million.  His dry sense of humor and Texas accent put me at ease.

My arms have four or five pieces of gauze taped to them where IVs were removed and blood draws (or failed attempts) took place.  After chemo last year, my veins are shriveled.  It often takes several tries to start an IV or draw blood.  There are a few purple spots not covered by bandages. 

“I must have scared some of those people in CVS,” I say.

Without missing a beat, Karry says, “I just mouthed the word ‘cutter’ when anyone stared at you.”  It’s the first good laugh I have in days.

“This is the Museum District,” he tells me.  “Over there are the LaBrea Tar Pits.”

“What exactly is that?” I ask.  I first heard of the tar pits when I was a little kid and pictured a big hole full of tar.  I always wondered why people would want to look at that.

He explains the tar pits have been there a very long time.  It's loaded with fossils and people still dig dinosaur bones out of the ground.  “They got mired in the tar and died.”

That must have been a horrible way to die, getting stuck in tar and not being able to move, gradually starving to death.

When we pick up the insulin at CVS they’ve given me vials and syringes.  “It’s supposed to be in the pen,” I tell the pharmacist.  It doesn’t take him long to correct the error.  If I’m going to be diabetic again, I’m going to do it the modern way.  This time it will be different—as different as I can possibly make it be.

That night, on a folded-out day bed in the spare bedroom/office, I don’t sleep well.  It’s a residential area, but definitely more urban than the funky maze of narrow one-way streets of my secluded little oasis in Fayetteville.  There’s more traffic and I hear people talking on the sidewalk until very late.  My mind is too cluttered for sleep, anyway.

“They got mired down in it and died.”

I realize that’s the lesson I needed at that moment.  Maybe it was worth missing my flight home the day before so I could hear that phrase and take something from it.  If I let myself get mired down by this latest development, I won’t survive.  That’s true of anything.  To survive, we have to be able to keep going, to move beyond the things in life that would mire us down.

My L.A. Odyssey Part 3: Seismic Jolt in California

Make sure your hands and feet are secure as well as any personal items.  This rollercoaster ride is intense.  After being inspired by Steadman Graham to play up my own quirky individuality in one of the most powerful speeches I’ve ever heard, I can no longer contain the bubbling, straining sickness in my gut.  Something I ate for lunch is unhappy being cooped up in there.

While everyone else stands to clap, I hurry for the door, but James says they will interview Mr. Graham.  Damn! I hate to miss that.

I only make it as far as a trash can where I throw up.  Classy.  At least almost everyone else is still inside.  Back at my room, I get sick a few more times.  Knowing how fast and serious it is for a kidney transplant recipient to become dehydrated in this situation, I have the hotel call paramedics.  This will take IVs to fix, no matter what it is.

Minutes later, I’m seeing the bright lights of L.A. on a Friday night from the back of an ambulance on my way to Marina Del Rey Hospital, the nearest one.  The next few hours are a blur of throwing up, listening to other patients on the other side of the curtains, pricked fingers, high blood sugar(!) and insulin injections.  It doesn’t take me long to realize something’s wrong with my pancreas.

They admit me to the hospital, perform several tests: CAT can, X-rays, an untrasound on the pancreas.  Between all that are more finger sticks followed by insulin shots.  I’m told I have several gall stones.  There’s a slim chance this is causing the elevated blood sugar.

I’m missing the last half of the conference.  That feeling of being on top of my game, of it all coming together like magic has been replaced by dread.  I’m in a daze at how fast it happened.  To go from such a pinnacle to a failed transplanted organ is a huge drop even by my standards.  Mostly I just sit in the hospital bed without the TV on.  I’m trying to listen to my body.  I’m trying to listen to God.  All I can ask is, “Why now?”  Not even “Why?” but “Why NOW?  When I’m on the verge of telling my story to millions of people and helping millions of people.  If it’s what God wants me to do, then wny one more obstacle?  Why one more delay?”

My consolation in all this is the excellent care I get at the hospital.  The absolute nicest doctor to ever treat me is there.  They call him Dr. H because his name is hard to pronounce.  The caring attitude of the nurses and everyone I encounter puts me at ease.  Yes, it sucks being in a hospital a thousand miles from home, but they are making it much easier.

On Sunday, I miss my scheduled fight home.  I was looking forward to sitting with my friend, Kim, on the plane and talking about the conference.  All those ideas I had, knocking down the door, will have to wait until my latest health crisis is behind me.  It’s frustrating.

On Monday, a woman with a thick “Fargo” accent tries to explain the talking glucometer.  I can understand her accent, but she has a strange way of phrasing her words and it sounds like gibberish.  Finally, I think I get it. 

I’m back in the world of the diabetic.  For fourteen years I was a fugitive, though I thought I was a legal parolee.  This time, I’ll be a diabetic with worse vision than before and with a transplanted kidney to take care of as well.  This realization weighs on me.  It starts to draw me under.

I came to L.A. thinking I would be different when I returned home.  I was right, but this part was totally unexpected.

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My L.A. Odyssey Part II: Exactly Where God Wanted Me to Be

Thursday morning, the conference starts.  There are a whole lot of people.  I sit next to a spirited, outgoing woman in her 50s who is a bit of a mother hen to me.  In light of the huge crowd, extra drinking water at a distance, and speech at which the information comes at us, I accept her doting gladly. 

James is a dynamic speaker and right away, my brain is cooking, coming up with ways to implement his advice to my own situation.  I’m having ideas like never before.  Just as I suspected, a clearer picture of my future starts to gel.  Not only are all the parts taking shape, but I’m getting the sequence it should come together.  By the end of the first day, I feel like I’ve learned a week’s worth.

During the breaks, people spot my cane and offer to help me get around.  They’re interested in my life story and my plans for sharing it.  For the first time, I realize my visual limitations make me more interesting, not less so, like I believed for years.  Here and there, I get bits of advice, which breed even new ideas.  I’m totally in my element.  This was one of the most sublime times of my life.  Why?

Because I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing exactly what I was put here to do.

Telling my story, telling the stories of others, giving hope, and really making a difference in the lives of thousands--it’s was God has chosen for me to do and when I’m doing it on a larger scale, the feeling is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.

Finally, I was getting usable advice about how to market myself, how to think on a much larger scale than I have before.  It was an up-close look at a future that is both easier and more successful.

On the second day, Cuba Gooding Jr. speaks about having a mission.  It was a good talk but I’ve already had mine in mind for a while.  I donate 10 percent of the What Makes Us Stronger line to charities and organizations helping people recovery from a life crisis.

Later, Steadman Graham speaks on the importance of defining our unique self.  This resonates with me.  I’ve only recently come to terms with my extremely unique life and how I don’t fit into any category.  Not long before flying out to L.A. I realized there’s more freedom than isolation in that because I get to define what a middle-aged legally blind ex-diabetic writer with a kidney/pancreas transplant looks like.  Me.  I own it.  I define it.

At the conference, I have a light-hearted self-acceptance I haven’t felt since college.  The notion finally hits home that, even legally blind, middle-aged, with two transplanted organs to take care of, I can still have off-the-wall kind of fun I hadn't had since I was younger and I had better eyesight.  It turns out a long-lost side of myself was hiding at the LAX Westin.

Streadman Graham gives me plenty of things to write down.  This would be the high point of the Boot Camp.  How ironic that my sitiation would take a huge plunge.

Next: Seismic Jolt 

My L.A. Odyssey: Part One

It was a strange couple of week even by my standards.  I’m certainly not the first one to be transformed by a couple of weeks in California, but this was all more than I bargained for.  Hold on tight, this is probably the wildest ride I’ve taken you on yet.  I’ve broken it down into a few easily digestible parts.  You’ll be glad I did once you’ve finished reading all of it.

I went to L.A. for James Malinchak’s Big Money Speaker BootCamp.  To save money on air and hotel, I booked it all through Allegient Air.  They only fly between LAX and XNA (NW AR Regional Airport) twice a week, so it gave me a couple of free days before the conference.

My friend, Johnnie, put me in touch with his firend Kerry in L.A.  He had heard about all the plot twists and turns of my life through Johnnie and had wanted to meet me for a long time.  We hung out one evening and went to Venice.  We found a plce to eat, walked on the pier and I got to feel/smell the ocean breeze.  He said there were surfers in wet suits not far from us, but they were beyond where I could see.  It was nice just to be there and I was determined to enjoy it my way—by taking in a much as possible with my hearing, sense of smell, and touch.  It all confirmed I was in California and not the Ozarks.  I’d forgotten what no humidity felt like.

It was nice hanging out with a laid-back Texas native who lived in Dallas at the same time I did, though we didn’t know each other then.  He’s been in L.A. since the 90s but that accent is still intact.  Maybe I would do the same thing if I were him.  It turns out a lot of people out there think it’s charming.

On the way back to the car, we stopped and patted a blue parrot sitting on a rail between the sidewalk and an outdoor dining section of one of the many restaurants.  He was very tame and I figured he’d probably been photographed more often than some Hollywood celebrities.

It was a Wednesday night, so the usual myriad of oddballs parading around Venice Beach weren’t there.  I was looking forward to seeing as much of that as I possibly could.  We drove under the Santa Monica Pier.  By this time it was getting too dark to walk out on it.  I was glad to get a little taste of L.A. before getting to work.

It was time for me to get back to the hotel and preregister for the conference.  I didn’t want to deal with a mob the next morning at 8:00 am.  It was time to get in gear for the conference, which I was sure would be intense, informative, and tiring.  But I knew I was taking a giant step toward the future I want.

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The Ghost of Vision Past: The Pain of Remembering

Over the weekend I attended a conference in Memphis.  It was the first time I’d been there since 2001, when I lived in Little Rock.  Some friends invited me along for an overnighter including a show at the beautifully restored Orpheum Theater, followed by some nightlife fun.  If you like architecture and you get a chance to see a show there, do it!  Even if you’re not interested in the show, it’s worth it.  I don’t get over there often.  It’s at least a five-hour drive from this part of the Ozarks.

It was one of those conferences with “breakout” sessions going on in different meeting rooms.  You look at a schedule and decide which one looks like your best bet or take a break if none appeals to you.  You can mingle in a common area and nibble the finger food set out on a long table.  Sounds simple enough, right?

It was simple for me back when my vision was better.  Now I have to use a high-tech magnifier (it cost $600) to read the schedule and get help finding the room I needed.  Finding a seat wasn’t hard, but seeing Powerpoint presentations was impossible.  Sometimes I could tell what the speaker was was talking about on the screen, other times I couldn’t.  I needed help identifying food set out on the snack table and again during the buffet-style meals.  People were happy to help, but it made me self-conscious to slow down a line of hungry people behind me.  I made it a point to get in line early, not only because view a buffet line as prey, but also so I could find an unoccupied seat without having to roam around a crowded dining room with a plateful of food.

While making polite conversations with others at my table, I also had to identify food, spear it with my fork, and mind my table manners.  At one meal, the salad was overloaded with olives, which I hate.  I had to eat several because they were In my mouth before I knew what they were.  By the end, my food was jumbled up together on the plate and I thought back on the brief phase I went through when I was a kid, when I didn’t want any of the food to touch each other.

But, the biggest and most isolating change that happened when my vision wosened in 2003 was losing the ability to recognize faces and expressions more than a couple of feet away.  Because of that, I can be very alone in a crowd—even when people are extremely warm and friendly, like they were last weekend.

I have an excellent sense of direction, an internal compass that almost never fails.  But, in order for it to work, I need to get a good look at my surroundings.  To get to my room from the elevator, I had to make a couple of sharp turns and it left me disoriented, then frustrated, then angry because I can remember when things were easier.  Sunday morning, I wanted breakfast and remembered the nearest restaurant was across a four-lane street and was buffet-style.  Not worth the risk.  I found a small room on my floor with vending machines.  The one with food was framed in bright lights so I had to lean in and squint even more than I usually do.  This particular machine had a flashing keypad, though.  The bulb didn’t have a short.  It was designed to light up a row at a time in quick succession, giving it the look of a slot machine that paid winners in sweet and salty snacks.  Do they really need to lure people—particularly Americans—to a vending machine with flashing lights? 

I gave up and went back to my room, glad I had snagged a cookie from a table the day before and saved it.

I wanted to look around at the urban landscape of a bigger city, even if we didn’t drive through any particualry interesting parts of it.  I wanted to be able to navigate the common areas without it feeling like an expedition.  I wanted to find the Men’s Room all by myself like a big boy.

Yes, people find me inspiring, and I hope that continues.  I’m comfortable around the house and around the town where I live.  Being in unfamiliar places is more work for me now.  I work harder to see things.  I have to commit things to memory faster.  I come back from a two-day conference exhausted, physically and emotionally—because I can remember when life was much easier.  I was legally blind before, but barely.  I got around with little trouble.  Even my friends occasionally forgot I had vision problems.

Today, I’m starting to feel like myself again.  I’m at the brink of an exciting future that includes speaking engagements, a published memoir, an inspirational web site, a YouTube channel, and probably more income to go with it all.  I’m focusing on that as best I can, letting The Ghost of Accomplishments Future save me from The Ghost of Vision Past.

Savant? Or Just Blind Memory?

Sometimes I forget how hard it is for people with normal vision to remember things.  I don’t see well enough to use a smart phone and the address book in my 2007 model flip phone is as empty as Kim Kardashian’s head.  Sure, it would be nice to be able to store and then find phone numbers in there, but the font size isn’t large enough for me. 

From what I’ve observed, everyone stores everything on their phone now.  Nobody has to actually remember a number.  Nobody, that is, except people like me.  I was reminded of this last Sunday night.  A friend of mine I talk to every two or three weeks was surprised I remembered his number.  We were at my house and I told him I remember numbers I called frequently from several years ago.

“I still remember the number for J C Penny and I worked there back in the 80s,” I bragged.  “Well, and again briefly in the 90s when they built the new one.”  To prove it, I grabbed my cordless land-line phone (yes, I still have one of those) and called the number.  The recorded message was loud enough for both of us to hear with me holding the phone up.

Maybe I’m a savant.  I don’t know.  It’s always been easy for me to remember numbers, even before the vision loss.

These days, it’s easier for me to memorize a number than look  it up.  Most people could do the same thing if they tried.  They just don’t have to.

I’m leery of paying bills online.  But I’ve never heard of anyone hacking into a phone system, so I pay credit card bills that way.  I have quite a few toll-free numbers stored in my head.  I can enter the credit card number without looking, along with the PIN.  If they wouldjn’t change that stupid 3-digit code on the back each time they send a new card, I would make the effort to remember that too.

I remember the numbers to several friends, the renal specialist, ophthalmologist, chiropractor, oncologist, cable company, taxi, my parents (home and cell), the transit office, my landlord, bank (the main branch and the toll-free number to check my balance), my checking account number, and the number for the time and temperature. 

That last one I've had memorized since I was a kid.  On snow days, we called it over and over to make sure the temperature hadn't risen above freezing.

What?  You can’t do that?  Now it’s my turn to feel sorry for you.

There are several other numbers I remember most of, which gets me some interesting wrong places the first time or two I guess.

I’ve heard people say, “I lost my phone and it had all my numbers stored in it.”  You’ll never hear me say, “I lost my head and I had all my numbers stored in it.”  I do, but if I lose it, I won’t be able to talk.

Yesterday I activated a new card from a big box store.  There was a glitch and I had to enter it a second time.  After that, I had it memorized.  If I call it a few more times over the new couple of years, it’ll be stuck in there with the number for J C Penney.

Maybe all the memorization will keep my mind sharp well into old age.  Follow my blog for another 25 years and we’ll find out together!

A Week of Coincidences. Or Are They?

This month is National Donate Life Month.  I promise, I didn’t schedule it for April, but the timing is perfect.  Just yesterday, I gave a speech for a Toastmasters International speech competition about waiting for and recieving a transplant.  I promise, I didn’t schedule the date for that round of the competition, either.

This coming Friday, April 6^th, will be the 14^th anniversary of my kidney/pancreas transplant.  I promise, I didn’t schedule that, either, though it would have been nice if I could have.  That was one of the points I mentioned in my speech—that you never know when “the call” will come when you’re waiting for a transplant.

I talked about my donor, a young man who died in an auto accident.  He’s my hero and I’ll never get to meet him.  But, I made an unwritten agreement with him to take care of his kidney and pancreas, to keep them alive.  In return, he keeps me alive.

As hard as I tried, the kidney only lasted five years.  The speech had to be 5-7 minutes in length, so I didn’t go into that.  Nor did I have time to mention the amazing woman who gave me one of hers that same year.  

I wanted to get them to sign the back of their license to be an organ donor, but I didn’t want to push my luck.

She’s a devout Catholic.  God told her to give me a kidney.  Of this, I am certain.  For the first few years, I had no idea why.  We had never met when she was instructed to do this for me.  How’s that for a miracle?

Once I started writing my memoir, a realization came to me.  Back when I was going through all those harrowing health issues, I asked over and over, “Why me?”  I was never a bully or especially arrogant.  Most people would have told you I was too nice to deserve that.  About halfway through the first draft of the book, I realized this story had to be told in first person by someone with the ability and desire to tell it.

But, I didn’t think actually talking about it to a room full of people would be part of God’s plan.  Wasn’t it enough to write the book, step back, and let people read it?  Apparently, it wasn’t.

Now I’m doing exactly what I was meant to do—writing and speaking.  Believe me, I’m just as (maybe even more) surprised as anyone.  Those who knew me in high school and college can tell you that, aside from being a bit of a smartass, I wasn’t one to draw attention to myself.  Everything I’ve been through has toughened me up, even enough to get over stage fright. 

Fourteen years after getting a second chance at life, I’m feeling more alive than ever.

Three separate events with a common theme converge in one week—National Donate Life Month, my 14^th “re-birthday,” and inspiring a room full of strangers with my story.  It’s not coincidence.  Of that, I’m certain.