Sunday, November 13, 2011

*transcripts from a voicemail*

This is why, and this is how, I will conquer what lies ahead of me. I listened to a voicemail from a friend and wrote down the words, because they represent the love and support that have filled my life in the past week. This entry will be my goto when I'm experiencing doubt, because the words below challenged every ounce of fear and despair I was feeling. Yes, my survival rests in discovering a donor match. It also, and perhaps more importantly, rests in realizing the depth of love and support that exists in those who have graced my life.

"Hey Mo. It's me again. It's 8 oclock. And umm, it's your friendly neighborhood stalker (chuckle.) And I'm not calling to be a stalker, I'm calling-sorry there's a guy dragging a muffler in front of me. I'm calling because I'm on my way to pick up ____, for ____ , and I just wanted to leave you another message. Because I think I understand maybe what your message said because your facebook status said that you're officially on the kidney registry. And it just, um, ahh, you know...I think people were trying to be lighthearted on your page, but like I didn't take it lighthearted. You know what I mean? Like it makes me want to hug you. Um, and I know that it probably feels, it's got to, um, feel kind of real to you. And I know that you spend a lot of time, um, you know what I mean, I don't want to say pretending you're not sick, because that's not what I mean. But like you're a busy girl, and you're well loved, and you have a lot of people in your life....and so when all that's going on, it's a distraction I think...and I mean that with the most love. But anyways, maybe hearing that made it a lot more real than it's ever felt.

And so my heart goes out to you. As soon as I read that post it did. I like tried to post something, but like, there weren't the right words. Cause the words were just that I want to hug you. And I love you. And we're all going to get through this together. Um, and I hope you know that.

And I know that you know that I care about you and have your back and you know that I love you. But I think the reason I've been pretty vocal about it, since the last time I saw you,
is because it's a big difference, right? It's a big difference to know that sometimes, somebody is thinking about you and just wants to give you a big hug, and then telling them that. Or I mean you obviously know that I love you, but for me to tell you that is very different. And I think this is a time in which you need support and you need to know all the people who have your back.

And so I just wanted to make sure it's loud and clear that I have your back. Okay? I'm in it to win it. We're gonna get through this."

Sunday, November 6, 2011


i only wash my hair twice a week
because fistfulls of curl are twisted reminders that clog the drain,
and clog my faith.

last week, i may have lost my membership to this pale Irish skin
when i couldn't pay the co-pay.

"it's just twenty dollars," said the lady in the pretty white sweater.
but angel, when you've been to the doctor three times a week
and you miss work to see the doctor,
that means you're out sixty dollars,
plus every hour of sick time that you don't actually have because you're in the hole because they don't have enough sick time for a girl whose kidney is failing.

plus it costs four dollars for the first hour to park.
but this really isn't about money.

it's about my body.

i want to shout on the footsteps of every insurance company,
every drug company,
every emergency room trying to cash in on me.
"these freckles are mine,
this port-whine birthmark is mine,
these blue eyes are mine,
these skin cancers are mine,
this failing kidney is mine.
how dare you profit off what is not yours.
and since i have the floor,
how is it that we are in the 21st century and treating pain with poison?
percocet, percodan, darvocet, vicodin, codeine
i've got an addict's gold mine in my medicine cabinet,
stockpiled and pretty,
because my pain is mine."

i do not want to donate to this disaster,
and yet i need it to survive.

damn my mother for being a nurse who practiced medicine like it was an art.
she held the hands of her patients.
"goodwill," she said.

mama, i wish i could stop at the goodwill,
and donate all these bags of clothes that don't fit anymore
for one kidney.
just one.

it's time to clean the drain.