TRANSPLANT GAMES OF AMERICA TAKE MICHIGAN BY STORM!
Previewed earlier in your Trib were the 2012 TGA in lovely (and it is ) Grand Rapids, MI. We arrived last Friday by way of Chicago, a city never visited but on our list. And it was as described...fantastic. Our room at the Swissotel on the 36th floor overlooked an unfinished high-rise enabling us to enjoy some fine in-room coffee while watching some brave dudes (and a lady) working away opposite us. Harnesses were the order of the day, so no worries.
We did a Lake Michigan twilight cruise and followed up the next day with a "hop-on, hop-off" double-decker. We were unceremoniously ejected at a coupla tourist-trap eateries ( The Rainforest? Screw that noise. Ditto Hard Rock) but finally managed to locate a less raucous location, free of rugrats. Most unfortunately, and along the same lines, we found the vaunted Navy Pier to be nothing more than Pier 39 on steroids. Basically a series of shopping malls and kid adventures on a wharf, we coulda don without it. The breathtaking architecture, lighting, and landscaping all over the downtown area more than made up, however. We definitely wanna go back.
NORTH TO "THE RAPIDS"
This fine city, a most worthy host to such a premier event as TGA, is named by its rapids on the Grand River. Duh. Please, not hint of this to Young Dr. Duncan Henry, MD, who would immediately attempt to drown me again as he did (to me AND his mother) several years ago on some wild-ass river up in the hills somewhere. I digress. The downtown section of the city has many nicely-restored old buildings, their bricks and woods preserved whilst new businesses have taken the spaces therein. Being a college town (Grand Valley State University) many establishments exist to satisfy the moderately-hedonistic needs of these young scholars. There is no shortage of food choices, beverage options, and intermingling opportunities. It was nice to wander the brick-lined streets on a warm Upper-Midwestern evening soaking up the beautifully-lit ambiance. We enjoyed a bit of food and a brew or two, and found it a very appealing area.
Upon arrival, the city was wildly welcoming to TGA. There were signs and banners everywhere, even in the dive-type bars with their festive Budweiser "Welcome Transplant Game Athletes" messages. Check-in was exciting, since everyone you saw was there for the same incredible purpose, and everyone represented a unique and fascinating story. We were recipients, living donors, donor families, healthcare professionals and local volunteers. Teams from all over the nation were all over town in their identifying shirts and hats, and they were all happy and interested in a chat, a wave, a "hello", or just a pleasant smile. Very, very outstanding atmosphere all over town.
Before that nasty blog control guy butts in again, I will temporarily and voluntarily discontinue the TGA story before it gets too long.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Caution....Turnpike Ends 1/4 Mile
WE COME TO THE END OF THE LINE
I will now say farewell to those of you who have read this blathering account for the last, oh, six or seven years or so. It's time to turn off that "Sorry, We're Open" sign for the last time. Thanks, and best to each and everyone of you.
I will now say farewell to those of you who have read this blathering account for the last, oh, six or seven years or so. It's time to turn off that "Sorry, We're Open" sign for the last time. Thanks, and best to each and everyone of you.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
A Slow Train to Portland and Other Tales
TWO MONTHS SINCE MY LAST COMMUNIQUE
First, may I whine just a wee bit? Cheryl tells me people read this silly bloggie-ness and I usually (and humbly) refute that notion. So if you would, please post a very short comment on this blog or email me at rjm6311@sbcglobal.net. No need for a literary critique, just tell me if you actually read this crap. I need to know for budgetary purposes since I do get some Federal Redevelopment Agency money originally meant for that football stadium on the parking lot at Great America. Sorry for the inconvenience.
CRUISIN' ON THE COAST STARLIGHT
We had originally planned to drive to Portland earlier this month, score a rent-a-wreck and head for (Rockin') Rockaway Beach, OR. There, we would join our dear Arizona Moss Cuzzins, Mel and Jacquey, at a timeshare they secured on the Oregon Coast. But on the drive up the SuperSlab (Interstate 5) from our annual Aunt Bessie birthday visit in Long Beach, the extended boredom got us thinking......we hate airports, so what about the train?!?
Immediately, Cherie stepped into a nearby phone booth and emerged as Sooper Travel Consultant ready to kick some Amtrak ass and take names. Of course, everything was sold out except Coach which is potentially scary particularly for 17 hours. After a few days of trying, sleeper compartments became available. Pricing is in the "don't ask" bracket, but does include meals and some wine tasting.
Train stations do attract some unusual inhabitants, and I am not talking only about the passengers. Martinez was no exception with a gentleman walking in and out of the building while intermittently spewing out some unintelligible shouting, something about Berkeley or Emeryville or something like that. I guess he was unhappy with the arrival time of the train but according to the station agent he never goes anywhere. The Coast Starlight chugged into Martinez two hours late, which is considered "on time" in the railroad world. We were shown to our compartment which happened to be a handicap unit double the size of the regular "room". It had its own potty right there sticking out into the center of the room and the expected hanging bunk bed arrangement. No ladder, I just had to find a way up there.
The ascent was OK, but the descent for the first of several pee breaks was disastrous. I missed the bottom step and stretched the hell outta my left leg. But the room was pretty great when the beds became chairs in the morning. We watched the countryside go by while reading, munching and enjoying a Coke Zero or two. We brought our own Zero since Amtrak was the first in an endless succession of "is Pepsi OK?" responses to my drink order. No it's not, actually.
Dining on a train is delightful despite the surly dining car staff. A piece of paper with a buncha boxes to check was plunked down on the table with no explanation on how to select breakfast. So we faked checking a few boxes. When "Kyle" returned he looked at the cards and just tore them up and tossed them down on the table. "No boxes!" he sniffed, then demanding our orders. Seems the card was for him and we tragically ignored the rules and insulted the living shit outta him in the process. We did finally get a very good brekkie, though, and enjoyed the company of a 12 year-old boy escorting his 97 year-old grandfather home from Los Angeles. Talking with other passengers is a high point of train travel. Blame it on Prednisone but Cheryl had to continually drag me kicking and screaming away from fascinating conversations with fellow travelers.
PORTLAND AND BEYOND
We enjoyed a short but entertaining break in Downtown Portland before pointing our Chevy Cruze (pretty good ride, I'll admit) to Tigard for breakfast with Aunt Mary in her retirement home's dining room. Excellent, I'll add. Only Pepsi, however. Then it was off to the coast on a beautiful Friday during the long, long July Fourth Week. Oregonians don't get a lot of nice weather so we shared Hwy. 26 with every resident of Greater Portland. The two-lane route was choked with beach enthusiasts causing many dead-stop situations, some up to 20 minutes long. We were both squeezing our legs together in agony, and the roadside bushes started looking very good to me. Every time I started to exit the vehicle, the traffic miraculously started to move. Go figger.
We reached the coast at Cannon Beach, facing a line waiting for a parking spot then a line out the door at Mo's Restaurant. While waiting in that line, one is absolutely surrounded by what we know as moych-'n'-dizing in the truest, Disney-inspired sense. There were shirts, hats, hoodies, scarves, umbrellas, cups, mugs, underwear......jeez, you name it. You even had to navigate sunglass racks and a Mo's sandal display to get in for a much-needed whiz.
At any rate, we did arrive at the (1-bedroom) condo for a beautiful twilight after another start-stop journey south on 101. Unfortunately, sometime during the night, my insulin pump took a proverbial dump. Nothing the Animas tech could suggest outside of total, irreversible failure. Like a dummy, I have become complacent and do not carry a conventional syringe-administered backup. Mel, Jacquey, and Cheryl leapt into action while I sat, paralyzed with fear, in front of my frozen mass-produced bagel. The excellent endochronologist on duty at Muir Medical group, Dr. Bressler, called in an Rx to Safeway in beautiful (not) Tillamook, and the problem was solved. Thanks everyone.
THIS IS THE CALIFORNIA BLOG CONTROL ADMINISTRATION (CBCA) INFORMING ALL YOU UNFORTUNATE READERS THAT THIS BLOG HAS EXCEEDED THE WORD COUNT AND BOREDOM LEVEL ALLOWABLE IN THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA AND WILL BE TERMINATED. YES, WE KNOW THIS IT DESCRIBES EVENTS HAPPENING IN THE CRUNCHY-GRANOLA STATE IMMEDIATELY TO OUR NORTH, BUT SINCE THE ACCOUNTS HEREIN DESCRIBED REFER TO INTERSTATE TRAVEL VIA AMTRAK WE HAVE CONVENIENTLY ALTERED THE RULES TO BENEFIT OUR OWN DASTARDLY NEEDS. AND THAT DOES MEAN WE ARE DASTARDS, AND DAMNED GOOD ONES AT THAT.
SLOWLY EXIT THIS BLOG WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND NOBODY WILL GET HURT. WE KNOW YOU CAN'T NAVIGATE TO FACEBOOK OR WHATEVER PATHETIC WEBSITE SUITS YOUR DISGUSTING FANTASIES WITHOUT USING YOUR HANDS, BUT THAT ISN'T OUR PROBLEM, IS IT NOW? SO DEAL WITH IT....HEY, YOU IN THE BACK, GET THOSE HANDS UP BEFORE WE GET REALLY MAD AND COME BACK THERE AND SLAP YOU UPSIDE THE HEAD! YEAH, YOU WITH THE FUNNY GLASSES AND FAKE GOUCHO MARX MOUSTACHE!
YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED, POORLY WRITTEN AND COMPLETELY INANE REGULAR BLOG MAY RETURN TOMORROW, BUT ONLY IF YOU'RE GOOD, AND CLEAN UP YOUR ROOM, AND STOP HITTING YOUR LITTLE BROTHER, AND, AND, AND.....
First, may I whine just a wee bit? Cheryl tells me people read this silly bloggie-ness and I usually (and humbly) refute that notion. So if you would, please post a very short comment on this blog or email me at rjm6311@sbcglobal.net. No need for a literary critique, just tell me if you actually read this crap. I need to know for budgetary purposes since I do get some Federal Redevelopment Agency money originally meant for that football stadium on the parking lot at Great America. Sorry for the inconvenience.
CRUISIN' ON THE COAST STARLIGHT
We had originally planned to drive to Portland earlier this month, score a rent-a-wreck and head for (Rockin') Rockaway Beach, OR. There, we would join our dear Arizona Moss Cuzzins, Mel and Jacquey, at a timeshare they secured on the Oregon Coast. But on the drive up the SuperSlab (Interstate 5) from our annual Aunt Bessie birthday visit in Long Beach, the extended boredom got us thinking......we hate airports, so what about the train?!?
Immediately, Cherie stepped into a nearby phone booth and emerged as Sooper Travel Consultant ready to kick some Amtrak ass and take names. Of course, everything was sold out except Coach which is potentially scary particularly for 17 hours. After a few days of trying, sleeper compartments became available. Pricing is in the "don't ask" bracket, but does include meals and some wine tasting.
Train stations do attract some unusual inhabitants, and I am not talking only about the passengers. Martinez was no exception with a gentleman walking in and out of the building while intermittently spewing out some unintelligible shouting, something about Berkeley or Emeryville or something like that. I guess he was unhappy with the arrival time of the train but according to the station agent he never goes anywhere. The Coast Starlight chugged into Martinez two hours late, which is considered "on time" in the railroad world. We were shown to our compartment which happened to be a handicap unit double the size of the regular "room". It had its own potty right there sticking out into the center of the room and the expected hanging bunk bed arrangement. No ladder, I just had to find a way up there.
The ascent was OK, but the descent for the first of several pee breaks was disastrous. I missed the bottom step and stretched the hell outta my left leg. But the room was pretty great when the beds became chairs in the morning. We watched the countryside go by while reading, munching and enjoying a Coke Zero or two. We brought our own Zero since Amtrak was the first in an endless succession of "is Pepsi OK?" responses to my drink order. No it's not, actually.
Dining on a train is delightful despite the surly dining car staff. A piece of paper with a buncha boxes to check was plunked down on the table with no explanation on how to select breakfast. So we faked checking a few boxes. When "Kyle" returned he looked at the cards and just tore them up and tossed them down on the table. "No boxes!" he sniffed, then demanding our orders. Seems the card was for him and we tragically ignored the rules and insulted the living shit outta him in the process. We did finally get a very good brekkie, though, and enjoyed the company of a 12 year-old boy escorting his 97 year-old grandfather home from Los Angeles. Talking with other passengers is a high point of train travel. Blame it on Prednisone but Cheryl had to continually drag me kicking and screaming away from fascinating conversations with fellow travelers.
PORTLAND AND BEYOND
We enjoyed a short but entertaining break in Downtown Portland before pointing our Chevy Cruze (pretty good ride, I'll admit) to Tigard for breakfast with Aunt Mary in her retirement home's dining room. Excellent, I'll add. Only Pepsi, however. Then it was off to the coast on a beautiful Friday during the long, long July Fourth Week. Oregonians don't get a lot of nice weather so we shared Hwy. 26 with every resident of Greater Portland. The two-lane route was choked with beach enthusiasts causing many dead-stop situations, some up to 20 minutes long. We were both squeezing our legs together in agony, and the roadside bushes started looking very good to me. Every time I started to exit the vehicle, the traffic miraculously started to move. Go figger.
We reached the coast at Cannon Beach, facing a line waiting for a parking spot then a line out the door at Mo's Restaurant. While waiting in that line, one is absolutely surrounded by what we know as moych-'n'-dizing in the truest, Disney-inspired sense. There were shirts, hats, hoodies, scarves, umbrellas, cups, mugs, underwear......jeez, you name it. You even had to navigate sunglass racks and a Mo's sandal display to get in for a much-needed whiz.
At any rate, we did arrive at the (1-bedroom) condo for a beautiful twilight after another start-stop journey south on 101. Unfortunately, sometime during the night, my insulin pump took a proverbial dump. Nothing the Animas tech could suggest outside of total, irreversible failure. Like a dummy, I have become complacent and do not carry a conventional syringe-administered backup. Mel, Jacquey, and Cheryl leapt into action while I sat, paralyzed with fear, in front of my frozen mass-produced bagel. The excellent endochronologist on duty at Muir Medical group, Dr. Bressler, called in an Rx to Safeway in beautiful (not) Tillamook, and the problem was solved. Thanks everyone.
THIS IS THE CALIFORNIA BLOG CONTROL ADMINISTRATION (CBCA) INFORMING ALL YOU UNFORTUNATE READERS THAT THIS BLOG HAS EXCEEDED THE WORD COUNT AND BOREDOM LEVEL ALLOWABLE IN THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA AND WILL BE TERMINATED. YES, WE KNOW THIS IT DESCRIBES EVENTS HAPPENING IN THE CRUNCHY-GRANOLA STATE IMMEDIATELY TO OUR NORTH, BUT SINCE THE ACCOUNTS HEREIN DESCRIBED REFER TO INTERSTATE TRAVEL VIA AMTRAK WE HAVE CONVENIENTLY ALTERED THE RULES TO BENEFIT OUR OWN DASTARDLY NEEDS. AND THAT DOES MEAN WE ARE DASTARDS, AND DAMNED GOOD ONES AT THAT.
SLOWLY EXIT THIS BLOG WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND NOBODY WILL GET HURT. WE KNOW YOU CAN'T NAVIGATE TO FACEBOOK OR WHATEVER PATHETIC WEBSITE SUITS YOUR DISGUSTING FANTASIES WITHOUT USING YOUR HANDS, BUT THAT ISN'T OUR PROBLEM, IS IT NOW? SO DEAL WITH IT....HEY, YOU IN THE BACK, GET THOSE HANDS UP BEFORE WE GET REALLY MAD AND COME BACK THERE AND SLAP YOU UPSIDE THE HEAD! YEAH, YOU WITH THE FUNNY GLASSES AND FAKE GOUCHO MARX MOUSTACHE!
YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED, POORLY WRITTEN AND COMPLETELY INANE REGULAR BLOG MAY RETURN TOMORROW, BUT ONLY IF YOU'RE GOOD, AND CLEAN UP YOUR ROOM, AND STOP HITTING YOUR LITTLE BROTHER, AND, AND, AND.....
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
I Recall February As If It Were Yesterday
IT'S BEEN LONG ENOUGH, RIGHT?
Please don't ask me what in the hell I have been doing that has prevented me from performing my blogger duties. Hey, I said DON'T ask me, you there in the back! The answer, put simply, is not a damned thing. Not that I have not been deliriously occupied, but I will say that since I am handing out my (treasured) business cards with Robert J.'s Transplant Tribune boldly emblazoned on the top, I should get my s**t together and write something. Anything. Except about what I had for lunch today. Hell, I don't even care what I had for lunch today!
Just to bring you up to date, I have gotten deeply involved in several altruistically-inspired projects. Despite my profound technical inabilities I did assume the duties of Membership Chair for our Bay Area chapter of Transplant Recipients International Organization (TRIO). Although just yesterday I discovered I was appointed not elected, this small disappointment has not decreased my enthusiasm for the position in any way. In fact it inspires me to get elected to something, no matter what it may be. So do feel free to nominate me for an elected position of any sort. Thank you.
Due to my unqualified admiration for Ana Stenzel and Isa Stenzel-Byrnes, I am honored to report I was allowed to join the efforts to bring The Power of Two here to Livermore. Wine for a Cure is an annual happening here in our fine city that will this year combine wine, food and film to raise support for Cystic Fibrosis Research, Inc. (CFRI). If you know Ana's and Isa's story you are aware that it describes their determined battle to survive this horrible disease.
Diana Heppe and Robin Modlin, two CF moms, are, amongst others, the focused individuals spearheading the effort. The documentary will be shown at 5:00 pm on Sunday, May 20 at Livermore Cinemas. May I strongly ask you to consider attending? Tickets can be obtained at www.cfri.org/wineforacure.shtml. If you are not touched by this story, you must be an emotionless creep, and I will refund your cost of admission (minus a small processing fee) and, further, never speak to you again. So there.
Moving on, Cheryl and I have joined forces with Team NorCal to compete in the 2012 Transplant Games of America, to be held at the end of July in Grand Rapids, MI. "Compete" is a relative term in my case, since my last successful athletic endeavor was when I won the 1/4 Mi. run for the Slow Group in my Boy's PE class. This woulda been my junior year at Dear Old Hamilton High, which is where they used to film Mr. Novak (starring James Franciscus) back in the day. Anyway, that satisfying victory is memorable in that just after the checkered flag flew, I lost my Pop Tarts from breakfast (Mom always got up early to prepare us a nutritious brekkie) right there on the track.
Uh, sorry for that Moment in Time remembrance.......but we will be gong to Grand Rapids and from what we have seen and heard, it is a seriously moving experience. Many donor families attend, and recipients will use the opportunity to offer thanks for our donors' decision. Once more I ask for your support, which you can give at www.teamnorcal.org. Funds will be used to financially assist donor families who wish to attend, as well as for team apparel, equipment, and meetings. Thank you
for your interest.
Finally we come to my own favorite cause, the 2012 Donate Life Walk. We are re-forming Team Ruben and are hopeful we will have all of last year's veterans along with many new recruits. Once again, Team Ruben-identifying apparel will be provided to all registered participants. The Walk happens on Saturday, September 8 at Lake Elizabeth in Fremont. Please see http://www.ctdn.org/donatelifewalk.html to register and/or donate.
Are you sick to death of getting constantly assaulted with causes for which I ask your help? Yeah, I agree, but they are all of the very highest quality. And what is more important than saving or improving a life?
SOME FUN PERSONAL STUFF
Beginning with this very minute and working backwards, I was accompanied by two fine Mamas last Sunday in observance of the incredibly wonderful occasion of Mother's Day. In addition to my amazing wife, Cheryl, I was gratified to be honored by the attendance of our machatuna, Sandy Chaw. You will need to check my archives for a definition. We had a very gracious brunch in Pleasanton at Nonni's which I heartily recommend. Their specialty is smoked salmon, and yes, it is smoked right there on the premises. Since I don't smoke that stuff anymore, I ordered a different item which was, I am sure, equally good.
Racing was on the agenda the prior day, and no, it definitely was NOT in order to offset Mother's Day, all you wise guys out there. Along with Two Jeffs and John P., we set a course to Laguna Seca for a six-hour sports car race. Since we engaged in all sorts of good-natured male debauchery (some including actual lying, exaggerating, and distribution of spent gasses) we were unable to reach the conclusion of the event. No matter, we were a bunch of happy kids having spent a great day in a favorite location, on a marvelous Monterey day, enjoying the sights and sounds we most adore. Uh, second only to the sight of our wives and the sound of them saying "get off that damn computer, already".
Exceeding all possible expectations was Cheryl's and my 39th Anniversary Road Trip to Cambria, Solvang and Los Olivos. We reached these fine destinations via our beloved Honda S2000, largely with the top retracted. After a magical evening in Cambria enjoying cocktails at Moonstone Grill, we observed with wonderment the Year's Biggest Moon from our room at the Blue Dolphin. Luckily for everyone, the guy who was mooning us hoisted his trousers and went back to his room, allowing us to clearly see that big round hunk of green cheese in the sky. Except for some shabby check-in treatment at the Corque Inn in Solvang, it was again a great day of wine-tasting followed by dinner at A Brother's Sides Hardware and Shoes. I am not making that up, that is the name of the restaurant that previously operated in the famous Mattei's Tavern. I do recommend it, as well as the other places I have named unless specifically indicated as unsatisfactory (see Corque Inn).
There have been several other adventures since we last spoke, but I will spare you most to relate one more. We beetled up to Reno to see and (mostly) hear a favored electric blues/rock virtuoso, Joe Bonamassa. If you've not heard of him and like that style of music, do give him a listen. The concert was nothing short of excellent and yes, loud. But this guy can play and sing like you would not believe. We did dinner, upon Dan's and Carol's direction, at The Hash House a' Go Go. Describing itself as "Twisted Farm Cuisine, it grossly violates a long-standing Moss/Cook teaching, i.e. "Never eat anything bigger than your head". So we obeyed, and took the rest of the cranium-sized dishes back to the hotel where it still is, perhaps. And I know you think I made up the name of this restaurant, but you are wrong.
ON A SAD NOTE
Recently we lost two important people, one of whom I have known for over 40 years, and one I have merely "known" for 50 years. Our very dear friends Dan and Carol lost Carol's mom, Gladys, last month. I first met Gladdy amd Jim back in about '67 when we kids were all at UCSB. I visited them at several of their SoCal homes and, more recently, in Clayton. Over all these years they have been the same lovely, gracious and generous people to Cherie and I that have endeared them to all of their many friends and relatives. We miss Gladdy, and hope the very best for Jim as he struggles to adjust.
I never met Carroll Shelby, but I have felt as if I did, or certainly should have. As a 12 year-old I devoured magazine articles about the new Cobra, devised by Shelby to join Ford's V-8 engines to a chassis from AC Cars in England. This started a brilliant career consisting of manufacturing, preparing and racing successful cars for Ford, modifying a long line of performance Mustangs, and establishing Cobra as a supreme world-class sports car. He cooperated with Chrysler and GM on other concepts including the Viper, not to mention distributorship of Goodyear racing tires, production and sales of many Shelby accessories, and the famous Carroll Shelby's Texas Chili Mix! What is less well-known is that, like Yours Truly, Carroll was a heart and kidney transplant recipient.
After experiencing chest pain in his own race driving days, he had to stop and turn to the projects described above. He got his heart in 1990 from a deceased donor, and a kidney from his son Mike in 1996. As you may know, it is a gift of life that inspires you to do as much as possible to educate and help others who may be in need of an organ or tissue transplant. In Carroll Shelby's case he created a foundation to use his own considerable fortune and to raise additional funds for many health-oriented causes. His primary focus was on children, particularly those who, with their families, were enduring that awful waiting time that is a common condition of transplantation. Now known as the Carroll Shelby Foundation, it is still helping kids and also has extended support for automotive job training to underprivileged adolescents.
We lost Ol' Shel' last week at age 89. He was one of the longest-surviving heart transplant recipients in the nation. He was truly a self-made man, legendary in the world of fast and exciting cars, racing, and philanthropy. I was lucky myself to have owned a '66 Shelby Mustang and have been a lifelong fan.
I will miss both of these fine people.
Please don't ask me what in the hell I have been doing that has prevented me from performing my blogger duties. Hey, I said DON'T ask me, you there in the back! The answer, put simply, is not a damned thing. Not that I have not been deliriously occupied, but I will say that since I am handing out my (treasured) business cards with Robert J.'s Transplant Tribune boldly emblazoned on the top, I should get my s**t together and write something. Anything. Except about what I had for lunch today. Hell, I don't even care what I had for lunch today!
Just to bring you up to date, I have gotten deeply involved in several altruistically-inspired projects. Despite my profound technical inabilities I did assume the duties of Membership Chair for our Bay Area chapter of Transplant Recipients International Organization (TRIO). Although just yesterday I discovered I was appointed not elected, this small disappointment has not decreased my enthusiasm for the position in any way. In fact it inspires me to get elected to something, no matter what it may be. So do feel free to nominate me for an elected position of any sort. Thank you.
Due to my unqualified admiration for Ana Stenzel and Isa Stenzel-Byrnes, I am honored to report I was allowed to join the efforts to bring The Power of Two here to Livermore. Wine for a Cure is an annual happening here in our fine city that will this year combine wine, food and film to raise support for Cystic Fibrosis Research, Inc. (CFRI). If you know Ana's and Isa's story you are aware that it describes their determined battle to survive this horrible disease.
Diana Heppe and Robin Modlin, two CF moms, are, amongst others, the focused individuals spearheading the effort. The documentary will be shown at 5:00 pm on Sunday, May 20 at Livermore Cinemas. May I strongly ask you to consider attending? Tickets can be obtained at www.cfri.org/wineforacure.shtml. If you are not touched by this story, you must be an emotionless creep, and I will refund your cost of admission (minus a small processing fee) and, further, never speak to you again. So there.
Moving on, Cheryl and I have joined forces with Team NorCal to compete in the 2012 Transplant Games of America, to be held at the end of July in Grand Rapids, MI. "Compete" is a relative term in my case, since my last successful athletic endeavor was when I won the 1/4 Mi. run for the Slow Group in my Boy's PE class. This woulda been my junior year at Dear Old Hamilton High, which is where they used to film Mr. Novak (starring James Franciscus) back in the day. Anyway, that satisfying victory is memorable in that just after the checkered flag flew, I lost my Pop Tarts from breakfast (Mom always got up early to prepare us a nutritious brekkie) right there on the track.
Uh, sorry for that Moment in Time remembrance.......but we will be gong to Grand Rapids and from what we have seen and heard, it is a seriously moving experience. Many donor families attend, and recipients will use the opportunity to offer thanks for our donors' decision. Once more I ask for your support, which you can give at www.teamnorcal.org. Funds will be used to financially assist donor families who wish to attend, as well as for team apparel, equipment, and meetings. Thank you
for your interest.
Finally we come to my own favorite cause, the 2012 Donate Life Walk. We are re-forming Team Ruben and are hopeful we will have all of last year's veterans along with many new recruits. Once again, Team Ruben-identifying apparel will be provided to all registered participants. The Walk happens on Saturday, September 8 at Lake Elizabeth in Fremont. Please see http://www.ctdn.org/donatelifewalk.html to register and/or donate.
Are you sick to death of getting constantly assaulted with causes for which I ask your help? Yeah, I agree, but they are all of the very highest quality. And what is more important than saving or improving a life?
SOME FUN PERSONAL STUFF
Beginning with this very minute and working backwards, I was accompanied by two fine Mamas last Sunday in observance of the incredibly wonderful occasion of Mother's Day. In addition to my amazing wife, Cheryl, I was gratified to be honored by the attendance of our machatuna, Sandy Chaw. You will need to check my archives for a definition. We had a very gracious brunch in Pleasanton at Nonni's which I heartily recommend. Their specialty is smoked salmon, and yes, it is smoked right there on the premises. Since I don't smoke that stuff anymore, I ordered a different item which was, I am sure, equally good.
Racing was on the agenda the prior day, and no, it definitely was NOT in order to offset Mother's Day, all you wise guys out there. Along with Two Jeffs and John P., we set a course to Laguna Seca for a six-hour sports car race. Since we engaged in all sorts of good-natured male debauchery (some including actual lying, exaggerating, and distribution of spent gasses) we were unable to reach the conclusion of the event. No matter, we were a bunch of happy kids having spent a great day in a favorite location, on a marvelous Monterey day, enjoying the sights and sounds we most adore. Uh, second only to the sight of our wives and the sound of them saying "get off that damn computer, already".
Exceeding all possible expectations was Cheryl's and my 39th Anniversary Road Trip to Cambria, Solvang and Los Olivos. We reached these fine destinations via our beloved Honda S2000, largely with the top retracted. After a magical evening in Cambria enjoying cocktails at Moonstone Grill, we observed with wonderment the Year's Biggest Moon from our room at the Blue Dolphin. Luckily for everyone, the guy who was mooning us hoisted his trousers and went back to his room, allowing us to clearly see that big round hunk of green cheese in the sky. Except for some shabby check-in treatment at the Corque Inn in Solvang, it was again a great day of wine-tasting followed by dinner at A Brother's Sides Hardware and Shoes. I am not making that up, that is the name of the restaurant that previously operated in the famous Mattei's Tavern. I do recommend it, as well as the other places I have named unless specifically indicated as unsatisfactory (see Corque Inn).
There have been several other adventures since we last spoke, but I will spare you most to relate one more. We beetled up to Reno to see and (mostly) hear a favored electric blues/rock virtuoso, Joe Bonamassa. If you've not heard of him and like that style of music, do give him a listen. The concert was nothing short of excellent and yes, loud. But this guy can play and sing like you would not believe. We did dinner, upon Dan's and Carol's direction, at The Hash House a' Go Go. Describing itself as "Twisted Farm Cuisine, it grossly violates a long-standing Moss/Cook teaching, i.e. "Never eat anything bigger than your head". So we obeyed, and took the rest of the cranium-sized dishes back to the hotel where it still is, perhaps. And I know you think I made up the name of this restaurant, but you are wrong.
ON A SAD NOTE
I never met Carroll Shelby, but I have felt as if I did, or certainly should have. As a 12 year-old I devoured magazine articles about the new Cobra, devised by Shelby to join Ford's V-8 engines to a chassis from AC Cars in England. This started a brilliant career consisting of manufacturing, preparing and racing successful cars for Ford, modifying a long line of performance Mustangs, and establishing Cobra as a supreme world-class sports car. He cooperated with Chrysler and GM on other concepts including the Viper, not to mention distributorship of Goodyear racing tires, production and sales of many Shelby accessories, and the famous Carroll Shelby's Texas Chili Mix! What is less well-known is that, like Yours Truly, Carroll was a heart and kidney transplant recipient.
Cobra at Monterey, Shelby autograph on hood
We lost Ol' Shel' last week at age 89. He was one of the longest-surviving heart transplant recipients in the nation. He was truly a self-made man, legendary in the world of fast and exciting cars, racing, and philanthropy. I was lucky myself to have owned a '66 Shelby Mustang and have been a lifelong fan.
I will miss both of these fine people.
Monday, February 6, 2012
To Ruben: Two Years On
Huero, it was two years ago today that you were taken suddenly and uselessly from your family and legion of friends. You left behind some great gifts, such as the memory of a funny and unpunctual guy who could be unconditionally counted upon in any situation. The gift you promised to someone by registering as an organ donor, should the worst happen, was bestowed on me. For this there is no adequate expression of thanks that can be expressed via written or spoken word.
When I first met your family, I promised to honor you and your gift by trying in all possible ways to be the best transplant recipient I could be. I hope my actions this past year have so far accomplished fulfillment of that promise. I carry your picture and story with me to every organ donation advocacy event I attend. Many people who are instantly adverse to speaking about registration see your photo, hear yours and my stories, and at least go away with a marginally-better point of view. I share your decision to donate in my talks to high school classes, benefit fairs, college classes, churches and hospital employee education groups. I hope I have in some minuscule way influenced a donation decision or helped a transplant candidate know that, yes, it can and does really happen.
Yesterday Cherie and I visited your gravesite. We laid flowers on the stone, and stood silently thinking of your contribution in getting me to this point in my life. Then, your brother Anthony and a group of your friends arrived. We met and spoke, and I received many handshakes, good wishes and even a hug from them. I couldn't help but notice the incredible T-shirts several of the guys wore, with colorful images of you on the front. One read on the reverse side "I've got your back". I think from what I have been told, this phrase characterized you as a son, brother, uncle, nephew and valuable friend that could be counted upon always. When the cervezas were broken out, we unfortunatly had to leave. I would have loved to crack one open in your honor.
I have considered myself to be relatively humorous, a good husband, dad, son, grandson, nephew, cousin and a stalwart friend. I hope there are more similarities than differences in our accomplishments in these areas, Ruben.
As we observe the two-year anniversary of my transplant this Thursday, we will all be happy that I am still around enjoying all the people and things around me. But our happiness is due to your gift, and everyone who knows me, knows that, too.
Descansa en paz, Huero.
Bob/Irv
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Life is Like a Soap Opera Sometimes
SO, CHECK IT OUT
Awright, there's this movie called Soapdish where Sally Field is an aging soap opera star who, for attention, goes to the mall. There, her agent (Whoopie Goldberg) starts screaming "Its her, it's (insert the name here), it's really YOU, isn't it?". Sally whips off her shades and about 25 women run up for autographs and adoration. It's a great movie, with Kevin Kline and Robert Downey, Jr. in addition to the ladies mentioned above.
OK, so what? Well, that is what happens here on 10 Long, UCSF Medical Center whenever "Mr. Moss" strides, er I mean is wheeled, out of the freight elevator and gently dumped in a room. I would be more gratified if I simply visited garbed as a regular guy, but alas, I am an irregular kinda guy who only drops in when medically instructed. And so it was this past Tuesday.
Waking up with cold-like symptoms and a 100+ fever, it was a no-brainer after placing the call to Transplant Services. Unable to stay awake, Dear Cheryl did most of the packing for what would just have to be a longer-than-hoped-for stay. We arrived at the ED with me having no personal memory of the trip, as I slept 97.3% of the way. On went the IV antibiotic and on came the questions from each and every visitor. "Diarrhea? No. Cough? No. Vomiting? Uh, no. Shortness of pants? No. Inability to stay awake in the middle of a sentence? Yes." This last one became the focus as the ED docs brought in a physician from ICU to judge whether my decreased mental capacity warranted admission to that intriguing unit. I guess I woke up enough to wave that fate off, but again 10 Long loomed in our immediate future.
Since that admission I have returned to (relative) normalcy insofar as I am functioning quite well. Besides writing this blog post, listening to kick-ass music, and recognizing the kind greetings of many of the folks who work here, I am remarkably stable and well. It is strangely comfortable, oddly enough, primarily because I am such a bitchin' dude and they ADORE me. Yeah, right, it is the people here who create it, and everyone involved seems intent on keeping a fat old transplant recipient motoring on down that ol' Transplant Turnpike. Lucky for me.
So, the search continues for the elusive cause(s) of all this. Could be a virus of unknown name, a bacteria, fluid, or simple but violent flatulence. See, the average person, including the Queen her own self, farts 14 times a day, so naturally after the fartoscopy results came in, that is suspected. Additional face masks have been issued to all staff here on 10 Long in case that is the main villain. The possible treatment in that case is too gruesome for even these liberalized pages.
SOME OTHER STUFF
Along the same route (see above) I was pleased to be selected to address a group of second-year med students recently, right here at Palacio Parnassio. Cheryl accompanied me where we met up with Laura, a CTDN clinical coordinator, and Ashley, a donor wife. Laura spoke first to this elective class on transplants about the process. Then Ashley shared that she had lost her husband, age 31, in a snowboarding accident. Ashley, then seven months pregnant with their first child, experienced a tragic loss but, knowing his wishes, was able to avoid handling anymore unexpected developments at that difficult time. She is still feeling the loss every day, but does take comfort in that her husband saved several lives. Pretty incredible stuff.
Then it was time for Your Correspondent to lecture, just as the assorted to-go lunches were opened. The aromas of Panda Express blended with Palio, Subway (wait, you can't smell a Subway sammich!), and Moffitt Cafe as the speaker (me) emitted a noticeable stomach growl. During my impassioned address I did see one young man in the back of the room with his head on his iPod, a bit of drool pooling on the darkened screen. Did anyone hear "Bueller..... Bueller..... Bueller"? Maybe not, but it woulda been hella cool.
OH, YEAH, ONE MORE THING
Several other notable occurrences took place this month, including a swell Dinner with the Gang, a successful 49'ers Playoff Party courtesy Sandy C., and The Sleep Study from Hell. This last one is best left to your vivd imaginations, and it is probably on YouTube somewhere. If so, knock yourselves out but make sure no one under 17 is admitted.
Oh, the One More Thing thing. Faithful readers (and if not, why not?) will recall my account of an experience I had on March 21, 2010 in the wake of my transplant. I was sent nighty-night to sleep on a bed alarm to assure my safety, and remember, it played Take Me Out to the Ballgame< on the occasion of a wee-hour ("wee" hour...get it?) comfort break.
I was doing a lap of the floor this visit when I heard the unmistakable sound of Mary Had a Little Lamb, one of my childhood faves. It instantly jumped into my (what's left of a) brain.....S**T! Izzat a BED ALARM? My innate curiosity was instantly aroused (aroused...get it?) and I rushed breathlessly back to my quarters. No, I had plenty of breath, Dr. Lung Guy (one of the fine, young Asian docs here who look like a younger version of Dr. Duncan H. except for the Asian thing and all) and when I arrived, there were my very own set of quarters laid out on the bed. After reassembling all four, I was able to call for my nurse, the very excellent Meg.
Meg and her student Emily arrived (breathlessly) and I asked "Did I hear a bed alarm playing Mary Had a Little Lamb? The one whose fleece was white as snow?" "Why, yes you did" she said. My mind raced, asking what other models of bed alarms were available, and could I get one on Amazon to use at home when I, you know, have to, uh, Go? To my amazement she told me there is a SELECTION of melodies! A vast array of my favorite artists leapt to mind; Joe Bonamassa (on my headphones right this minute), Eagles, Stones, Elton, Liberace....the possibilities seemed endless.
But, no, hold on there, pardner. There is only one version, and it plays the two selectons mentioned above OR a simple and irritating regular old "beep beep beep . But, Meg kindly told me, Ballpark is great, on account o' the Giants and all. With due respect to SF fans everywhere, my preference would be Back Home Again in Indiana which truly brings tears to my eyes every time Jim Nabors belts it out at the Indy 500. "Gentlemen and Danica, Start Your Engines" indeed.
And there is the story on bed alarms and other matters of the moment, here on this fine Groundhog Day, 2012.
Bob/Irv
Awright, there's this movie called Soapdish where Sally Field is an aging soap opera star who, for attention, goes to the mall. There, her agent (Whoopie Goldberg) starts screaming "Its her, it's (insert the name here), it's really YOU, isn't it?". Sally whips off her shades and about 25 women run up for autographs and adoration. It's a great movie, with Kevin Kline and Robert Downey, Jr. in addition to the ladies mentioned above.
OK, so what? Well, that is what happens here on 10 Long, UCSF Medical Center whenever "Mr. Moss" strides, er I mean is wheeled, out of the freight elevator and gently dumped in a room. I would be more gratified if I simply visited garbed as a regular guy, but alas, I am an irregular kinda guy who only drops in when medically instructed. And so it was this past Tuesday.
Waking up with cold-like symptoms and a 100+ fever, it was a no-brainer after placing the call to Transplant Services. Unable to stay awake, Dear Cheryl did most of the packing for what would just have to be a longer-than-hoped-for stay. We arrived at the ED with me having no personal memory of the trip, as I slept 97.3% of the way. On went the IV antibiotic and on came the questions from each and every visitor. "Diarrhea? No. Cough? No. Vomiting? Uh, no. Shortness of pants? No. Inability to stay awake in the middle of a sentence? Yes." This last one became the focus as the ED docs brought in a physician from ICU to judge whether my decreased mental capacity warranted admission to that intriguing unit. I guess I woke up enough to wave that fate off, but again 10 Long loomed in our immediate future.
Since that admission I have returned to (relative) normalcy insofar as I am functioning quite well. Besides writing this blog post, listening to kick-ass music, and recognizing the kind greetings of many of the folks who work here, I am remarkably stable and well. It is strangely comfortable, oddly enough, primarily because I am such a bitchin' dude and they ADORE me. Yeah, right, it is the people here who create it, and everyone involved seems intent on keeping a fat old transplant recipient motoring on down that ol' Transplant Turnpike. Lucky for me.
So, the search continues for the elusive cause(s) of all this. Could be a virus of unknown name, a bacteria, fluid, or simple but violent flatulence. See, the average person, including the Queen her own self, farts 14 times a day, so naturally after the fartoscopy results came in, that is suspected. Additional face masks have been issued to all staff here on 10 Long in case that is the main villain. The possible treatment in that case is too gruesome for even these liberalized pages.
SOME OTHER STUFF
Along the same route (see above) I was pleased to be selected to address a group of second-year med students recently, right here at Palacio Parnassio. Cheryl accompanied me where we met up with Laura, a CTDN clinical coordinator, and Ashley, a donor wife. Laura spoke first to this elective class on transplants about the process. Then Ashley shared that she had lost her husband, age 31, in a snowboarding accident. Ashley, then seven months pregnant with their first child, experienced a tragic loss but, knowing his wishes, was able to avoid handling anymore unexpected developments at that difficult time. She is still feeling the loss every day, but does take comfort in that her husband saved several lives. Pretty incredible stuff.
Then it was time for Your Correspondent to lecture, just as the assorted to-go lunches were opened. The aromas of Panda Express blended with Palio, Subway (wait, you can't smell a Subway sammich!), and Moffitt Cafe as the speaker (me) emitted a noticeable stomach growl. During my impassioned address I did see one young man in the back of the room with his head on his iPod, a bit of drool pooling on the darkened screen. Did anyone hear "Bueller..... Bueller..... Bueller"? Maybe not, but it woulda been hella cool.
OH, YEAH, ONE MORE THING
Several other notable occurrences took place this month, including a swell Dinner with the Gang, a successful 49'ers Playoff Party courtesy Sandy C., and The Sleep Study from Hell. This last one is best left to your vivd imaginations, and it is probably on YouTube somewhere. If so, knock yourselves out but make sure no one under 17 is admitted.
Oh, the One More Thing thing. Faithful readers (and if not, why not?) will recall my account of an experience I had on March 21, 2010 in the wake of my transplant. I was sent nighty-night to sleep on a bed alarm to assure my safety, and remember, it played Take Me Out to the Ballgame< on the occasion of a wee-hour ("wee" hour...get it?) comfort break.
I was doing a lap of the floor this visit when I heard the unmistakable sound of Mary Had a Little Lamb, one of my childhood faves. It instantly jumped into my (what's left of a) brain.....S**T! Izzat a BED ALARM? My innate curiosity was instantly aroused (aroused...get it?) and I rushed breathlessly back to my quarters. No, I had plenty of breath, Dr. Lung Guy (one of the fine, young Asian docs here who look like a younger version of Dr. Duncan H. except for the Asian thing and all) and when I arrived, there were my very own set of quarters laid out on the bed. After reassembling all four, I was able to call for my nurse, the very excellent Meg.
Meg and her student Emily arrived (breathlessly) and I asked "Did I hear a bed alarm playing Mary Had a Little Lamb? The one whose fleece was white as snow?" "Why, yes you did" she said. My mind raced, asking what other models of bed alarms were available, and could I get one on Amazon to use at home when I, you know, have to, uh, Go? To my amazement she told me there is a SELECTION of melodies! A vast array of my favorite artists leapt to mind; Joe Bonamassa (on my headphones right this minute), Eagles, Stones, Elton, Liberace....the possibilities seemed endless.
But, no, hold on there, pardner. There is only one version, and it plays the two selectons mentioned above OR a simple and irritating regular old "beep beep beep . But, Meg kindly told me, Ballpark is great, on account o' the Giants and all. With due respect to SF fans everywhere, my preference would be Back Home Again in Indiana which truly brings tears to my eyes every time Jim Nabors belts it out at the Indy 500. "Gentlemen and Danica, Start Your Engines" indeed.
And there is the story on bed alarms and other matters of the moment, here on this fine Groundhog Day, 2012.
Bob/Irv
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