Stumbling Blocks

I took my red-headed friend, Lois, to Spaghetti Warehouse to celebrate her 74th birthday.

"This is my lucky day!" I said, driving between lines of parked cars to find a space right in front of the entrance door.

Lois, who has difficulty walking, climbed out of my Hyundai and cautiously moved between my car and the next. She stopped and pointed down to the concrete slab, meant to stop tires, which extended between the two cars. Seeing the hazard, she managed to step over, using her cane. She said, "That is a real stumbling block."

"Yes," I said, "Several times I've tripped over one of those and taken skin off my knees, elbows, and my big nose."

It is important to look where I am going. But sometimes no one sees the hazard in front, particularly if it is not something solid, like a big piece of concrete. As Lois and I sat over our lasagna, I did not foresee the stumbling block which would change my life within the next week.

I am content with my life. Usually. I was annoyed with my brother, George, who spent two weeks at my house constantly moaning about his fate. He was miserable. He could not do the things he wanted to do (i.e., go to topless bars, etc.). Like Cher in "Moonstruck", I wanted to slap his face and say, "Snap out of it!"

I did not do or say that. I called my other brother, Don, who took George back to Fort Worth to be miserable in his own house.

Determined to live my own life to the fullest, I picked up the phone and finalized reservations for TWO trips. In October I go to New York City to visit my friend, Gertrude. Then in December I am spending all the money I've saved for the past two years and I will go to India to see the Taj Mahal!

I have various physical problems, but, luckier than most old ladies, none of my ailments cause pain. I lead an extremely active life. I've traveled all over the World -- although this will be my first trip to India.

I never anticipated a stumbling block when I saw my kidney doctor for a regularly scheduled appointment. I sat in the little exam room and waited for my little Indian doctor to sit down in the chair facing me and say, as she has done every time I've seen her, "Your kidneys are struggling just as they have for the past ten years."

Instead, the specialist looked at the lab reports and said, "In the past three months your kidney function has dropped from 20 percent to 9 percent."

"Nine percent?"

I sat back in disbelief.

The doctor patted me gently on the shoulder and said, "You know what this means."

"Dialysis," I said.

That was my stumbling block. I blurted out, "I'm going to India in December."

The doctor's eyes lit up. "Take me with you!"

We talked about my situation. I have an appointment next week for an ultrasound with a vascular surgeon who is to put a "port" in my left arm. It will take two months for that to heal. Baring complications, I can take my trips. Dialysis will begin in January.

Surprisingly, for a person who admits to being bipolar, I do not feel depressed. Seeing the Taj Mahal will be a grand finale after years of going any place in the World I wanted to go and doing whatever I wanted to do.

Then I will spend the rest of my life confined to Garland, Texas, going several times a week to sit in a chair for four or five hours while dialysis cleans my blood of the poisons caused by my failing kidneys.

The doctor says I can spend the time reading and watching television. I plan to take a laptop computer and write blogs. Also, I can work on revisions of those novels that publishers have rejected for all these years. What if they never get published? Posterity will be the loser.