A friend and colleague saw me in my office yesterday and remarked that I looked red-eyed.

“I’m emotional, but today it’s good emotion,” I told her. And it was. Over the past few days I’ve been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support and positive energy we’ve received in person, through e-mails and texts, and over Facebook, Twitter, and other channels.

We have a long road ahead of us as we help my father look for a living donor for a kidney transplant, but we’re moving in the right direction.

“I have so emotion about all of this I don’t even know what to do with it or where to put it, except to be grateful,” I told my husband today.

And so I am–grateful, humbled, and hopeful.

Thank you for spreading the word, for the words of encouragement, and for so much more.

I’d like to post about gratitude as much as I can in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. However inadequate they seem, the simple words “thank you” are a place to start.

*    *     *

New to this story? My father needs a kidney, and we need some help finding a living donor. Please share his letter and if you’re on Twitter, consider using the hashtag #kidneyformike

My father needs a kidney transplant. We are exhausting all means necessary to find a living donor match for him. Please read his letter below, and please share this post as much as you can, and link to it on whatever social media platforms you use.

*   *   *
Dear Friends and Family,

I write you today with a great sense of urgency. As some of you may know, I am
a kidney cancer survivor and when I was thirty-two, doctors removed one of my
kidneys to save my life. Unfortunately, thirty-five years of diabetes and the toxic
side effects of the drugs I must take to treat polymyositis, a muscle disease, have
strained my remaining kidney. Despite my continued efforts to maintain kidney
function, I am now in renal failure and my doctor has determined that I need a
kidney transplant to survive.

I have fought through diabetes, polymyositis, heart disease, and cancer, and I am
not done with my fight yet. I have too much to live for: my wife and I have raised
three children, and they have blessed us with seven young granddaughters. It is my
greatest wish to live to see them grow into the amazing young women I know they’ll
become.

Humbly, I am asking if you or anyone you know might be willing to be tested as
a potential living donor. Living donor transplants represent the best opportunity
for positive long-term outcomes, and provided I am able to find a suitable match,
my medical team is confident this surgery is my greatest chance for living a longer,
healthier life.

I realize that donating a kidney is an incredibly generous act, as well as a major
sacrifice. I wish that I did not have to ask anyone to make such a sacrifice, but I am
incredibly grateful that this option exists.

If you are interested in learning more about the Living Donor Program or are
considering being tested, please contact the Beth Israel Living Donor Team. You can
reach Tracy Brann at 617.632.9851. Based on this conversation, they will guide
you through the process should you choose to proceed with the testing. The Beth
Israel Living Donor Team can walk you through the health risks and the many other
considerations that go into this surgery, but rest assured that the medical expenses
will be paid for by my insurance.

This is truly a life and death matter, and on behalf of my family and myself, I thank
you for your time and consideration. Please do not hesitate to contact me with
any questions or concerns.

Sincerely,
Michael A. Mingolelli, Sr.

*   *   *

Thank you in advance for anything you can do to help us.

Hi All,

Just a short note to say I’ve added a new RSS feed for this site, if you used to read A Chronic Dose that way and prefer to keep up with that. You can find the button at the top of the page on the right side, with the social media buttons (FB, Twitter, etc.).

So, now there are two easy ways you can subscribe: you can sign up for email updates on the sidebar, or you can update your feed using the new button above.

I think that’s the last tweak–thanks so much for bearing with me, and following me over here.

Sometimes when I am driving the last leg home, I am still surprised that this ride, that this life, is mine. Thankfully it is a beautiful, scenic New England drive, full of vibrant leaves, pastoral fields and farms, antique houses, and marshy conservation lands, because it certainly isn’t a short drive. (Thankfully, too, I don’t commute to downtown Boston every day, or at rush hour.)

After I battle the pedestrians and buses and cyclists and congestion of Huntington Avenue all the way out of the city, then the traffic lights, construction, and congestion of my old neighborhood, and start the back roads route home the rest of the way, something in me shifts. I am less tense and anxious. There are fewer traffic lights, more people willing to let me change lanes or turn left, there is lots of sky and trees and the changing of seasons is so distinctive. As I cross from one town into the next, inching closer, I relax. I appreciate the scenery. I don’t care what’s on the radio. If my daughter is with me, we talk about the colors she sees on the trees, or what colors the horses are, or where the moon goes when the sun is up high.

Remember, this is coming from the person who, for fourteen years, has lived in the city or right at the edge, who has never been beyond a few minutes’ walk to coffee, Thai, and public transportation. When I lived in Dublin, I was around the corner from the Guinness Brewery and could smell the hops, and less than then minutes on foot from Trinity College and City Center. When I moved back to Boston from Washington, DC, I lived above a trendy restaurant in the South End, then directly across from the State House in Beacon Hill, then right at the intersection of three of the busiest roads in the city where the Jamaicaway, Rt. 9, and Huntington Ave meet. Even when we were on the outskirts, we were still on the D Line train, and had a commercial area with shops, cafes, and restaurants around the corner.

Admittedly, I was a suburban and exurban snob, and couldn’t imagine being far away from so much. I thrived on the proximity to people and places, and drew energy from the pace around me.

Until I didn’t anymore.

My favorite place in the world, my happy place, if you will, is Cape Cod. Just the thought of it brings up memories of long summer days, lots of cousins and family, time with my grandparents, and a freedom to be just be, instead of being a patient or a student, etc., that never existed like that in any other part of my life. We’d pack up the car for the summer and as soon as we crossed the bridge, I relaxed.

I love the beach and I love summer, but as an adult, my favorite time of year on the Cape is the fall and the very early spring, when the crowds are gone and the view is just as spectacular, if not more so because there is no else clamoring for the view. A short weekend trip or just an overnight gives me peace like nothing else. Even with wi-fi and deadlines and my briefcase and traffic at the bridge every time I am there, I breathe more deeply, I exhale more fully. There is less congestion in every sense of the word, and less pretense. I can’t think of a better way to describe it than that.

To a smaller degree, it’s that same content feeling I notice on my long drive home. We expected a lot of benefits (and challenges and drawbacks) from our move, but this I did not expect. I never thought I was someone who was suited for lots of trees and quiet, dark nights and small-town life. Place had a different meaning.

But somehow, it’s working. Life feels a little less out of control here. And with a lot of very hard, very heavy stuff going on behind the scenes lately, I will take serenity wherever I can find it.

And, in the spirit of new places, my new site, laurieedwardswriter.com, will be up and fully functional in the next day or so. This blog will still exist under this name over on the new site, and this current site will automatically redirect you to the new home for A Chronic Dose and you can still subscribe from there and update your feeds, but the blog will be one branch of a larger site dedicated to my books and my professional identity. It’s more than a much-needed design and function update. It’s taking ownership of a distinction that is fundamentally really important to me: that of a writer who is also a patient, not a patient who writes.

Anyway, I am really excited to move to the new site, and to change up the style, consistency, and frequency of my posts over there. Sometimes the best way to really find a groove again is to start from somewhere totally new.

I can tell that I really am finding a groove again after such a long time—I find myself writing posts in my head while stuck in traffic. I think about essays that I want to write and send out to editors. (I don’t see this happening any time real soon, but the impulse is there. The stories and opening sentences and phrases are there.)

A confession: I have always had an extremely strong aversion to the term self care. Like, shudder. Unless I’m using it in terms of my newly-minted two-year-old and things like her brushing her own teeth, putting on her shoes, and things like that, it’s just never, ever been part of my lexicon.

It’s hard to articulate why, but part of it is that to me, it somehow seems…indulgent. Intellectually I know that’s not true, and that what is self care to one person may seem extravagant to another, and vice versa, and that what self care means to and among patients varies widely, too.

After a whirl wind new baby-more demanding job-family health extravaganza-book due-selling, buying, and renovating-house couple of years, I think I am finally settling out a bit. Even just having the book done and not automatically having to work late every night, or occasionally using my daughter’s weekend naps to do housework instead of just work work has made an enormous difference.

And with some space to actually do things deliberately this fall, instead of just scrambling to stay afloat, I find myself trying to establish new patterns. Like I said, September always feels like a fresh start to me, and that is especially true this fall, as we’re getting used to our new town and new lifestyle. I never knew how much of an impact place would have on me, but more on that later.

(And, speaking of fresh starts and new locations, I’m going to launch whole new site really soon! Stay tuned for details as we tweak final changes…I am really excited!)

I’m going to bed earlier, which for me means striving for 11pm, but it is a start. I actually feel asleep at 10:30 the other night and it felt wonderful. I really miss the awesome gym near where I used to live, but I have found a home workout routine that I can fit into my life realistically and can stick with, and it feels good to have some structure back, especially after a summer of living out of bags and packing and unpacking way too many times.

I’m experimenting a bit with recipes again, and incorporating a lot more high-protein vegetarian meals into our family diet. I’m planning late afternoon adventures most days of the week, and lately, I haven’t stopped to get the coffee on the way to the playground or the farm or the pumpkin patch that I always used to need en route to our various jaunts. (Every time we pass by a Dunkin Donuts, my daughter says “Mama really likes coffee.” Yikes.)

I got my hair cut for the first time in, oh, seven months, last week. “Don’t ever do that again,” said my new stylist. Trust me, I won’t.

For so long, when I couldn’t find a life rhythm, I couldn’t find a writing rhythm, either. There was no place for new words, for reflection, for ideas swirling around and percolating. I much prefer imagining new posts while stopped at red lights to falling asleep at them (because yeah, that happened).

I’m not trying for radical changes, I just want a little bit more balance. If that’s self care, then I guess that is now a part of my lexicon.

So tell me, what sorts of small changes or new habits are you undertaking? What’s one practice or tip you absolutely recommend?

“I love you! Bye bye!”

And with that, she was too engrossed in arts and crafts to give much notice to our leaving. I spied a glimpse of her through the window as we crossed the parking lot: earnest, happy, comfortable.

As far as first days of school go, it was a success. (She’s not quite two so it’s a daycare at a school, but she likes calling it school and feeling like a big kid.)

There is so much I am excited for her to learn. Now, she’s known all her colors, numbers, and letters for a really long time, is good with self-care, and says “please,” “thank you,” and “bless you” when people sneeze. Those aren’t the kinds of lessons that matter to me right now. Instead, I am eager for her to socialize. To learn to share, and to cultivate an awareness of others and their needs in relation to her needs and her wants. To learn how to situate herself and her personality within a group of peers, and to remain confident in her ability to play and discover independently, too. I am excited to see how she grows and changes from these oh-so-important life lessons.

It’s a big change for our family, out-of-home care, and we love the place—dedicated staff, part-time hours that meet our needs, and wonderful activities and opportunities. It’s a good change, and she is thriving there, so it is time to give her the space to do that. But it represents the beginning of so much: the little world she has known so far is getting bigger, and for the first time, people beyond our relatives and our close friends will have direct influence on her. This is all natural and normal, but letting go…it is not easy.

I tend to think in semesters, an inevitable byproduct of twenty-one years of schooling and now several years teaching in universities. September always feels more like a new year than January 1 does, so it is fitting that so many things are transitioning right now.

The final copy edits are done on my book, which is now with the typesetter. I should see proof pages soon. Obviously I feel an enormous sense of relief to be at this stage, but it’s also unsettling. Maybe this is a normal part of writing, but right now, I am overwhelmed by the idea that this is final, there is nothing more I can add or change. Right now, as it turns from a marked-up manuscript into an actual book, I am plagued with what isn’t there, the themes and ideas that I didn’t delve into. Scope is incredibly hard to manage, and while intellectually I know I can’t include everything that’s ever interested me or is somewhat related to my topic or I’ll have a thousand pages, I can’t quite silence the little voice that asks, “What about…?”

I tell myself I’ve done the best I can, I’ve put in the hours and the revisions and asked the right questions and now it is out of my hands. Soon these pages will be out in the wide world, and so many more eyes will see them beyond the tight little circle of readers and editors I’ve had. The words will have to stand on their own, and it is time to give them the space to do that.

It is normal, it is natural, it is the progression of things.

But when pieces of your heart are out there, the letting go? It is not easy.