A Light at the End of the Tunnel

After almost two years of waiting and poking and prodding, six months of dialyzing, and about four weeks of nailbiting, a small Christmas miracle occurred. Mom got a kidney transplant. Granted thousands of these operations happen every year, it still seems surreal and amazing. The organ starting functioning almost immediately, and thus far there have been no complications. I didn't think the day would arrive so soon or wash over us all so smoothly. Best of all, Mom sounds great. It's literally like she has her life back. There's a different note of hope in her voice now. For the time being she needs a lot of sleep and a few more weeks of monitoring, and she cannot be in crowds for a while. What a small price to pay for another shot.

We don't know the exact identity of the donor. I want to send my thanks to her and her family, a 26-year-old schizophrenic who had a seizure while in an institution. The tribulations this young woman experienced must have been so painful for her loved ones to witness. Having to make a decision to give others the gift of life in the midst of such grief and anguish is so selfless and courageous.

[public service announcement] Don't know what to gift for the holidays? Please sign the back of your license and become an organ donor. Yes, it's hard to look mortality in the face and prepare for the worst. This small act will allow your family the peace to not have to make a decision for you, and will give a number of people a second chance on health and happiness. Those two things are priceless.

Fear of Falling

Many of you have asked me why I have not posted anything in a couple months. There are several reasons for this. One big one is, I had a very bad bike accident on August 30 and needed 20 stitches just below my knee. This happened two weeks before my very first half Ironman race and was a huge blow to my confidence, not to mention very painful and disruptive to my normal routine. For two weeks, I could not straighten my leg, and because I was given incorrect care instructions, it took a long time to heal. Now I have a gnarly scar, and it is slowly fading.

Ironically, the reason why I fell and got hurt was because I was afraid. The bike has been the weakest part of my triathlon mainly because I find riding with clip-in shoes really intimidating. Flying over the handlebars of my brother's BMX and tearing all the soft tissue in my rib cage two weeks before my Sweet 16 didn't help either. More fundamentally, I have often been afraid to fail, to f*ck up, to fall down. What I realize now is that, falling from time to time is inevitable. The key is picking yourself up to keep going. While I was recovering, I read "It's Not About the Bike" by Lance Armstrong. For a professional elite cyclist, he has fallen a lot, and look where he is. I also read "The Long Run" by Matt Long - thanks Frevin. If his recovery doesn't inspire you, I don't know what will.

Ultimately, this episode made me realize that falling down occasionally is nothing to be afraid of. Also, I need to make friends with my bike so I can get back to the joy I used to experience as a kid, riding around Bayside. Like many of my triathlete comrades, I've decided to name my bike Lucy (after the bossy character in Charlie Brown). Before the end of the year, my goal is to learn as much as I can about how Lucy works and get back on the bike outside. If any of you out there want to accompany me, I will reward you with home-cooked goodness.

This of course has been just one piece of my recent saga. More to come...

Breakfast of Champions

There's nothing like waking up with breakfast already made. It's even better when the apartment smells heavenly. My crockpot oatmeal is convenient and fragrant, plus it's healthy, easy, and can serve several people or be refrigerated for later in the week. Thanks to Mommy's Kitchen for the inspiration.

1 cup steel-cut oats

4 cups water

1/2 cup milk

cinnamon stick and ground cinnamon

nutmeg

2-3 cloves

Semi-Homemade

During my FMLA break, one of my biggest tasks has been cleaning the house. My parents have started referring to me as the White Tornado, and they definitely batten down the hatches once I get started, especially when trash bags are in tow. My mother refuses to part with most of her possessions, each one has a story around its origin. The typical shrieked response is, "You can't get rid of that! That belonged to Grandma/your Aunt Frances/Bisnonna Meme," or "so-and-so gave that to me for my bridal shower." I have to admit, some of the pieces are really nice, such as a kitschy orange flower-shaped fruit bowl, but come on, a horse-head creamer? Three basket steamers? A British pudding mold? The kitchen has taken the longest thus far due to the number of hiding spaces and sheer volume of stuff that needs inspection, dusting or full wash, and neat stacking and organization. It shocks me and my folks how good I am at it, since I'm not exactly the neatest person. My room still has not been tackled properly, although I have been purging clothes.

Besides housewares, my mother is afflicted with Italian Famine Syndrome. Scratch that, it seems that most ethnic mothers are utterly paranoid of having their mission to keep their families well-fed thwarted by famine, blackouts, or supermarket closing hours. As a result, we have overflow of canned goods and spices on industrial warehouse shelves in the TV room. Many of these cans are past their expiration date. I ignore this since I hate to throw away food, and most canned products are pumped full of preservatives anyway. Thus I restack and demonstrate to my mom that we do not need anymore canned tuna, coriander, or jalapeno jam. The second prong of this attack is to use as many of these products as possible. We have been having jello and instant pudding at least twice a week. For Dad who insisted on three Costco jars of Welch's grape jelly, there is brownbag peanut butter and jelly, and one empty jar. I've also continued to sift through recipes, almost like Iron Chef. Instead of buying ahi tuna, I mixed canned Italian albacore in with the mayo mixture and used up two open jars of capers instead of opening cornichons in this yummy open-facedsandwich. Mom loved it. When my Betty Crocker mood struck, I had all the ingredients for Nigella's coffee-walnut splodge cookies to take to a friend's.

So I admit, I tend to scoff at people who "cook" by opening cans or boxes. Besides the health benefits of eating minimally processed food, cooking loses its creative edge when the only task is to add water. However, good food is good food, and if one can save time in an already busy day, it's still better than fast food. Sandra Lee, I will never thumb my nose at you. Maybe giggle at your emphasis on cocktails, but I respect thee for liberating busy cooks from the guilt of not having enough time to make everything from scratch. Will save that for the weekends....

Pedestrian Voyeurism

I kinda doubt anyone cares about what happens on my block, because there's not much. When my neighbor across the street answers the door in a towel, even less so.

There's Something Wrong

Two years have gone by since the horrific "wrong-way" crash, and last night HBO debuted its documentary on the families involved. It's hard to watch. Besides the picture of Diane Schuler dead on the grass, the surveillance video is so eerie to watch. Besides the images, it made me wince to see the Schuler family grap at every straw they can to "clear Diane's name."

Sometimes it is hard to accept a painful event, especially if there is no closure. It seems that the Schuler family is struggling to come to terms with what happened or that she could have done something "bad". It struck me that the alcohol and marijuana in her system is being contested so vehemently, even though they admitted she smoked pot on occasion to help her sleep. They are insistent on a second autopsy and have latched onto a "medical" situation as the root cause, such as her abscess tooth.

Separating the person from the action, Diane is human, her friends and family loved her, and she made a choice to drink and smoke pot at some point that had tragic consequences. In addition, exhuming her body for an autopsy may revisit the physical state of her body, but there is no way to trace her mental and emotional well-being. Perhaps she had a psychotic break or a panic attack, either of which would not leave a trace in her system like BAC or THC. There may have been secrets she had, lingering pain, unspoken feelings. There is no black box for the mind.

A commenter on HBO's site said it best, there are no winners in this situation. One can only hope that the loved ones left behind can find peace with what transpired, accept what happened and her humanity, and forgive.

This P*sses Me Off

Food trucks rock. The crackdown is so ridiculous. Any shop that feels threatened by a food truck probably sucks. Get over it, it's called a free market. Thank godness for The Lot on Tap