Crazy Love

When I had sophomores as part of my teaching assignment, Macbeth was required reading. It's no secret that Cam and I love Shakespeare—a love that most people likewise share once they get to know the Bard's language and poetry.

I think my sister, Marcie, sparked my love for theater when I was about six. A few years my senior, Marcie was old enough to see the dazzling traveling production of Saturday's Warrior, and as soon as she got home, she told me every incredible detail as only a child can—bales of hay on the stage like this (oooh), the lighting like this (ahhh), the smart girl said this, he said that, and so on. I was mesmerized.

And then, when Marcie was in high school, she came home with this book that she said was soooo good. "It's called Macbeth," she told me, with excitement beaming from her blue eyes. The cover didn't give any clues I could decipher (just an agonized man in weird clothes), but I figured whoever this Macbeth was, she must have a juicy story. (Beth is obviously a girl's name, and also Marcie's middle name. You see my mistake.)

I grew up to teach sophomores the "cursed" play whose title many actors won't even let you say in a theater for fear someone in the cast will end up in the hospital (it's custom to call it "the Scottish play" to avoid near-death experiences, and yes, there's an actual history of deaths and many accidents over its centuries of performance).

I always divulged to sophomores my secret desire to put my stage training to use one day as Lady Macbeth.

"Wouldn't I be fabulous?" I'd say, making my eyes wide and wild.

Acknowledging my less-than-edgy look, I'd defend my self-casting choice: "Really—you wouldn't expect so much power-tripping and evil all of a sudden from this face, right? It'd be perfect!"

What could they do? Nod.

Sure, Mrs. Deaver. Just like someday you'll perform Shakespeare with Kenneth Branagh. When's this class over? Oh—woops. Forgot that I'm a teenager; I know end-of-class times better than I know my full name. Uh, this class is almost over, Deaver. Leave la-la land and get back to trying to entertain me into learning.

I still think I could do great things with Lady Macbeth. Her husband is making it up the ranks, he has an unsolicited conversation with three mystics who know the future, and BANG! An upstanding couple is on a path to self-created doom once Lady Macbeth glimpses the power that will certainly be theirs.

And then she sleepwalks, trying to rub away invisible spots on her hands. She dissolves into ma-a-a-ad-ness.

It's awesome. And every little drama queen's dream part. (And every grown male's nightmare, Cam would say to the insane wife part.)

Is there a point here? you're wondering. I thought that I was going to get an update on Cam's blood numbers so that we can all stop worrying he'll suddenly drop dead if he's force-fed a potassium-laden banana.

I'm getting there, reader. It's all connected. You just have to be patient and enjoy the ride.

And that's the point!

You have to be patient.

And enjoy the ride.

Something random made me think of Macbeth a couple of days ago when, once again, I just wanted to KNOW—

What exactly is Cam's blood potassium level? Is the nap he's taking normal, or is it a fatigue warning sign? (Of COURSE I Googled whether there truly are no warning signs for high potassium-induced death in kidney patients . . . and oh, great, the ever-easy-to-spot-as-a-warning-sign "FATIGUE". My worries are over . . .)

I just wanted to KNOW, Potassium is just fine, all signs indicate that if he continues to watch his diet, including avoiding the nefarious orange juice (it's the real potassium culprit according to Dr. Nephrologist), he won't drop dead between now and his next blood check.

Perfect! I'll stop worrying and wanting to know . . .

. . . until I start to anticipate the next doctor visit we have with the next specialist in about a week.

Huh.

I think there's a problem here.

And this is where Shakespeare's talent to tell a good story comes in. In Macbeth, a decent couple has a common human desire fulfilled: they learn the future.

And it destroys them.

Not only do Macbeth and Lady Macbeth recklessly force-create that future; it's more than that . . . it's as though they don't know how to even consider other options, or other ways that their certain future could come to pass without forcing its existence through murder. (Okay, so their situation is extreme, but it still serves my point.)

BECAUSE they know the future, everything unravels for the Macbeths. Like I said, it's as though they lose the power of choice because they're so driven by the exhilarating thought of their certain future.

My religion (LDS church) has lingo for that "power to choose"; we call it agency. To us, agency is a God-given gift. We use agency to stick one foot in front of the other in the direction of good, or we don't. In fact, we LDS view eternity kinda this way: humans are like kids sent off to college. God sends His children to earth, and humans show God that they'll make good choices on their own, with their agency. Humans just don't remember the "pre-college" years because then they wouldn't need faith. It would be too easy to choose; like the Macbeths knowing the future, it would inadvertently take away the beauty and power of agency.

And that's what life is, uncertainty and choices. To the epic poet Dante, what makes humanity beautiful is that God gave us both intellect—ability to reason—and will, the ability to act on reason; to choose.

Ultimately, in Dante's picture of hell (Inferno), humans actually become what they repeatedly embrace in life. For those in Dante's fictional hell, God can't claim them as His own because they willfully chose a love of something else in life. He has to let them continue to be what they embraced in mortality.

And choosing to not take sides, to fence-sit and not use the precious reason and will at all? Because it's scary, because we think we'll get it wrong or fail, because we don't feel like it, because of whatever—in Dante's concept of eternity, that has terrible consequences as well.

In fact, in one of the circles of Dante's hell, he has fortune/future-tellers. If I understand Dante, he implies that not only do the future-tellers attempt to play God, they defy the very concept upon which God set up human life: dependent upon individual reasoning to govern will through uncertainties.

I think one reason why Shakespeare's and Dante's works survive the centuries is not just because of the astonishing complex and astute ways they use language, but because they're able to create stories that resonate with our deepest human yearnings. And within those stories, they show us some wisdom about how to manage the frustrations of being human.

So Macbeth and The Divine Comedy say to me in this moment, "Krisha, you don't need all the answers right now." (And believe me, there are a lot of questions—beyond rare cancers and kidney failure—that I really want answers to in my life. Where the hell are our cute kids? would just be the start of a long list of things I'd like answers to. Now.)

But knowing how things work out, though we think it would give us peace of mind, would ultimately remove the beauty of what makes us human. What makes us divinely human is wrestling with the unknown and putting one foot in front of the other every day anyway in the direction of good—whatever good we've wrestled within ourselves to find and to find in others.

So what are Cam's numbers?

I would have told you from the start if I'd known. But I wrote all this during another day of not knowing.

Dr. Nephrologist just returned Cam's call. 

Cam tried to withhold information about the call and use it as leverage to get a backrub.

But he's not truly manipulative, so he stopped the playing around and told me.

And I thanked God. 

And then I held Cam really tight for a really, really long time. 

Actually, God had to get thanks while I held Cam tight (I don't think either of them minded). And then I held him (Cam) for a really long time after.

"Sometimes," I breathed into his ear, "I think that nothing bad can happen to you if I just keep holding onto you really tight." 

"You might squeeze the air out of me," I heard a muffled voice say that sounded vaguely like my husband's.

I squeezed harder. 

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And if you really want numbers—

They're slightly improved over five weeks ago, still higher than we hoped for, but not imminently dangerous.

If the potassium rises over the next few weeks, we'll make Cam get back on the sandy-syrupy, potassium-eliminating concoction that he stopped taking a week or so ago, on a "hunch" that he'd be fine.

And in the meantime, I'll keep watch like a crazy lady on the fruits and vegetables he eats, along with that salumi appetizer we had last night (phosphorous is also a kidney patient hazard), and I'll hope my squeezes let him know that my kooky protectiveness comes from crazy love. 

That's what I KNOW today.

Absurd Conversations, Episode 2: or "It's Not Time To Worry Yet"

Cam doesn’t know that he’s extraordinary.

As you hopefully know, Cam has not had dialysis since the end of January. Yesterday our dentist asked me how dialysis had been for Cam.

“Awful. I could always tell that he was miserable the whole time, but he never complained.”

Our dentist almost teetered off his rolling chair because he pushed away from my exam recliner so fast. "Really?" he exclaimed. "He never complained?"

“Really. Never.”

Dr. Dentist went on and on about how he couldn’t believe it. How extraordinary.

Now, don’t go getting the idea that Cam is perfect. I worry that that’s the picture that I paint for you. In reality, he's far from it (he made me write that), especially when dealing with stalled electronics, stalled traffic or frustrating customer service, but I choose to write about the many things that make him close to perfect.

So today we schlepped back to the nephrologist. (That’s fancy for “kidney doctor” – nephrologist, that is. Schlepped is Yiddish or Jewish or Angeleno for “drove the really long way that wouldn’t really be long if there were fewer cars on the road and a better mass-transit system.")

Anyway, we schlepped to Dr. Nephrologist for the first time in five weeks because the logistics of a recent job for Cam had prevented him from having his blood checked.

I’ve been eager for this check-up. See, Cam had been having his blood checked at least once a week before – sometimes every two or three days – so going five weeks felt like a dangerously long time to me.

Here’s why –

I now present Absurd Conversations, Episode 2: Kidneys and Potassium.

Please note that this ACTUAL conversation took place in January, not recently.

Nephrologist: Cam, I had you come in because yesterday’s blood test showed your potassium is high. Since elevated potassium in a kidney patient puts you at risk for a cardiac episode, I want to do an EKG.

He does the EKG. The EKG comes back normal.

Cam: How will I know if my potassium gets too high? What kind of signs or symptoms will I have?

Nephrologist:  Probably none. It'll just kill you.

I wish you could have actually heard the delivery of that last line, because there wasn’t even a beat between Cam’s question and the answer. Actors and comedians clean house with timing like that.

We laugh about that line a lot . . . now.

I know Dr. Nephrologist hadn’t meant to be shocking because shortly thereafter, he repeatedly checked that I understood that Cam’s EKG looked fine. Had he read some worry or bewilderment in my face? Nah...

Dr. Nephrologist goes on to explain that because of Cam’s borderline kidney function, he’d be perfectly justified in requiring Cam to continue dialysis three times a week, IF Cam weren’t so responsive about doctor’s orders.

BUT, since Cam IS so responsive, they would just watch his blood levels carefully . . . so, kids, there’s something to be said for being good at following directions after all.

Here’s the story Dr. Nephrologist then shared to make his point about following a nephrologist’s directions:

A few months prior, Dr. Nephrologist had seen a patient who didn’t live locally. He tells the patient, an older man, that when he returns home, he must see a local doctor for treatment. The man goes on his way.

Dr. Nephrologist has his office manager call the man's family repeatedly: Has he gotten treatment? Has he gotten treatment? He hasn’t. He hasn’t.

Again, has he gotten treatment?

No. He’s dead.

The End.

I did not make up any of the preceding Absurd Conversation from January. I am not that creative. Or that morbid.

Do you see why I was eager for today’s check-up?

Even Dr. Nephrologist was eager and excited to see Cam after five weeks. He took off his gloves and held out his arms and said, “Give a hug.” Picture Woody Allen, just a lot sweeter, with curly hair, and insanely smart about kidneys. It was adorable.

So how did it go? I don’t know. Cam will call and get today’s bloodwork results late tonight, just like Dr. Nephrologist said to. Yes, really. Insanely devoted doctor.

Why do I worry? Cam hasn’t dropped dead yet. And yes, Dr. Nephrologist sufficiently put that fear in me. Hello, did you read the preceding Absurd Conversation?

While schlepping to Dr. Nephrologist this morning, I realized that Cam doesn’t realize that he’s extraordinary with his cheerful "let's think about only what we know is reality".

I think I’ve had times when I’ve been really good at being positive, but other times when I struggle.

So during our schlep this morning, I made a request: “Just give me credit for handling this well, please. You went weeks without your blood being tested.” With Dr. Nephrologist’s consent, Cam always adds.

I made the request because I wanted to know that it’s okay that I’m not extraordinary. That I worry. But that surely someone who knows me as well as Cam does understands that I could have worried a lot more if I hadn’t been making an effort not to worry.

If you worry about Cam, too (which you keep in check, I’m sure), please feel free to bug me by tomorrow if I haven’t given you an update about his blood results. I don’t want to leave you hanging for a month like I did about the lungs.

Oh, speaking of lungs, he got a chest x-ray today, too. Dr. Nephrologist said the lungs sounded good, so surely all is well on that front, too!

Yup. Surely all is well.

It’s not time to worry yet.*

*Can’t take credit for such a great line. It’s from the wise father, Atticus Finch, in To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, that classic that when I read it as an adult made me exclaim, “I read this in high school? It’s incredible!”