Medicare costs out of control. Cataract surgery

Ripping off Medicare?

                How much does a cataract surgery cost Medicare?  I did not receive an itemized bill.  Happy to have the cost taken care of, I didn’t care.  I wanted the multifocal lens, to do away with even reading glasses.  That is not covered by Medicare, so it is an out of pocket expense of $2,500. 

                I had one eye done in the United States where I could use my Medicare insurance.  The other eye was done in Mexico, a cash affair.  To have a trifocal German Weiss lens put in, the total cost was 30,000 pesos, or roughly $1,500.  Obviously, without the multifocal lens it would have been well under $1,000.

                So, how much does Medicare shell out to an ophthalmologist for this basic procedure? 

                Let us compare to two procedures.

                In the US, I received the personal attention of the doctor’s technical assistant.  She spoke with my by phone about the medicines I needed prior to the surgery.  There were drops that were needed, to prepare the eye.  One small vial of drops cost $300.  She arranged to get a discount card for me, perhaps from the manufacturer, to reduce that cost by half.  I was given a detailed schedule for applying the drops prior to surgery.  The instructions included washing my eye with baby shampoo the night before and the day of surgery.  For the office visits, I sat in front of about five machines that measured my eyes.  Not quite sure what each of them measured, but it felt professional and efficient.

                On the day of the operation, I was instructed to go to a local hospital.  This hospital provides a wing devoted to this ophthalmology group.  Clear directions sent me from the hospital entrance around to their wing.  I was greeted at a polished wood reception counter, and checked in.  There is a carpeted waiting area with comfortable chairs.  I was invited to put on a hospital gown, to be more comfortable.  I was given a bed on wheels, and a tall shaven head man came to me and introduced himself.  He was the technician who was to prepare me.  He explained what would happen.  He was upbeat.  We quickly discovered something in common, and became best friends.  When the time came, I was wheeled into the operating room.  By this time I am so well informed that I am completely relaxes.  The local anesthesia is administered.  I am totally awake.  I am offered something that might take the edge off, but I tell them I am fine.  The procedure, done in a dedicated sterile room, was quick and painless except for one little pin prick.  I assume, by its timing in the event, that it was the lens going in. 

After the procedure I return to the other room.  I sit up, and am given a package of bandages and drops for doing my own after care.  Inside the bandage they’ve applied, there is a concave clear plastic tear-drop shaped perforated disc.  This will protect my eye, especially when I sleep.  I am given a sheet of instructions for the following three weeks.  It is a schedule, clearly written out, of how and when to apply each of three vial of drops I’ve bought.

I notice that the waiting room as well as the beds are full.  This is clearly an assembly line.  No telling how many of these procedures the doctor does in a day, although he may only do this procedure twice a week.

I have a follow up visit the next day at the town office of this ophthalmology group, which is pretty routine.  The doctor just wants to have a look at his work.  A week later I have another follow up with the referring optometrist, but I figure this is just his way of getting his cut, by charging the visit to Medicare.  There is nothing for him to do or see.  I blow it off.

During and after the surgery I have no pain or discomfort.  Given all the anti-inflammatory and antibiotic drugs I’ve been given, how could I.  I am given the instructions, not to bend over, not to lift anything heavy for at least a week.  They give a safe margin of error for the prognosis.  Three to six weeks and my vision will return to clarity. 

I think about how much all those machines cost, with which my eye was so closely examined and measured.

For months I have suffered with crazy vision.  One eye is normal, the other still needs corrective lens.  I try some old contact lenses.  They help a little, but they sat in sealed packets for years, and were probably slowly degrading.  Reading, for these months, is a big problem.

Finally I am free to go to Mexico.  I drive there from Florida, and settle into an unoccupied piece of land where I started and then abandoned a house.  One house on the community land is completed, and I am allowed to stay there.  I slowly make contact with the medical community, I see one doctor and then another, and I am told that the required lens is on order.  Once it arrives, my surgery will be scheduled.  I am in Mexico about four weeks before the day comes.

When I first met the doctor, perhaps the only one in town that does multifocal lens, and apparently he hasn’t been called upon to do many, he peers into my eye with one machine only.  Later a doctor friend would refer to this as a sonogram.  The appointment took perhaps five minutes.  He then searched out and ordered the lens, for which I would have to wait another two weeks or so.

I called ahead of that day to ask if I needed to do anything to prepare.  Any drops?  Shampoo for the eye?  No, there is nothing.  Just arrive at 10 am, fasting.

For safe keeping, I squirt my eye with remaining drops of anti-inflammatory left over from the previous eye surgery, that morning.  I scrub the eye with baby shampoo.  I show up at the doctors office before 10.  Then I am told the surgery will be at 11;30.  The receptionist said something about needing time to fill out history forms, but I thought my appointment got bumped.  The doctor was squeezing me in, as it was, as a favor to my physician friend.  And so I waited, light headed from a light supper the night before and no breakfast nor water.

The first referring ophthalmologist arrives, and waits in the tiny reception room.  I didn’t recognize him at first.  After some time, he came up to me and said softly, are you ready?  We are ready.  Yes, I agreed.  Ready.  It would still be some ten or fifteen minutes before I was prepared with gown, hair net and booties.

The procedure took place in a back room, on a guerney or examining table.  The referring doctor gowned up and was assisting.  There was not much talking, no mood lifting banter.  So far, three different drops had been applied, and they all stung to varying degrees of intensity.  The last were applied and I laid down.

The procedure took place.  I think the US doctor used laser tools, which this doctor did not have.  The first procedure felt smoother.  That being said, there was very little discomfort.

When it was over the eye was bandaged.  I was instructed to take care of it, don’t put pressure on it, don’t bend down or lift anything heavy. There was no plastic disc to protect the eye under the bandage.

These two Mexican doctors had done cataract surgery for my friends and their elders.  None of them requested the multifocal lens.  All had excellent results.

My question is obvious.  Is all that primping and pampering given the US patient and charged to Medicare necessary?  Yes, it feels good, but it doesn’t change the outcome.

Congress doesn’t dare cut Medicare funding, for fear of an outcry from the public.  I think the reduced funding requirements should come from within.  The medical profession in general relies on more and more instruments of measurement, expensive equipment and lab tests, to avoid liability from error.  Perhaps this testing is also a cover-up for the poor diagnostic skills acquired during medical training.

There is so much wrong with health care in the US.  I am only addressing one small specialty.  Of the broader field of western medicine, I believe that once treatment is applied, it is quality for the most part.  (I am sure there are studies out there reporting on this; I am not aware. I am being optimistic.)  But the expense around it is out of control.  There is a great body of traditional healing that is suppressed, not integrated into our system of health care.  When I lived in China I had access to many affordable natural remedies over the counter that relieved symptoms I might have gone to the doctor about in the US, if I could afford it.  In Mexico, and among my Mexican students in America, I have been acquainted with traditional healers.  I respect their work.

These are my observations from undergoing the same procedure in two medical systems.  And gratuitous ramblings on the topic of health care in general.  I welcome your comments.

Remembering an old friend and mentor

Birthday Blessings, Losar 2007

When you find a place you really love, it is hard to leave it.  Sometimes, however, there is no other choice.  While it is true that you cannot enter the same stream twice, that stream can still hold sweet water.  And so I left one Tibetan community and returned to another.

2006. This is a story about visiting an old friend, and reconnecting with a new friend.  Having left China (East Tibet) after being denied a worker visa renewal, feeling at sixes and sevens, I returned to a safe place.  India.  One goal was to visit the current incarnation of my deceased root guru. I learned he was in Bylakuppe, which is a Tibetan refugee camp a few hours from Mysore in Karnataka, southern India.  This is where the ancient Sera Me and Sera Je monasteries had been established, after the Tibetans were exiled from Tibet. 

Upon arriving at New Delhi (Indira Gandhi) airport, and spending a night in the refugee community, Majnukatilla, my feet trod once again a familiar path.  How well I knew this road, this 8 hour journey by overnight bus up a twisting bumpy mountain road to McLeod Ganj. This is where my life found its center, during 3 years in the 1970s.  This was my first time to revisit this mountain village in the Dhauladhar Mountains in Himachal Pradesh, north India.  I remembered a sleepy town where the only cars to brave the narrow and rough mountain road were the rare visitors to His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  We lesser mortals rode the rugged bus, each trip a death-defying act over narrow ascending roads cut into the mountainside, or walked the half-hour path down to Dharamsala markets.

The buses entered the small plaza, discharging their passengers before making tight U turns to prepare to head down the mountain again.  In this same plaza sometimes a projector and screen would be set up in the evening, and chairs set out to watch a rare movie.  At the wide convergence of the dirt streets leading up and down the hillside from the plaza, Tibetans on holiday occasions would form a circle and dance traditional dances.

McLeod Ganj is set on a mountain ridge at most one mile long. At one end was the small plaza.  Entering the plaza there were buildings straddling the ridge on either side. Behind the plaza at one end the mountain rose further, where there were stone-built colonial homes left by the British.  This was one of their ‘hill stations’, where they sent their families up from the plains to escape the unbearably hot summers.  In the center of this long narrow plaza there was a cement building housing a large rotating Tibetan cylinder filled with papers inscribed with ‘om mani padme hum’.  Each time it made a complete revolution a bell would tinkle.  Beyond that was a row of smaller such cylinders in rows, roofed but open.  Devout Tibetans came daily to turn these prayer wheels, repeating the same mantra or other prayers.  In one of these wooden buildings on the left side of the narrow road the Tibetan doctor had his medical practice.  When he was not seeing we mere mortals, he was occupied with tending to the health of His Holiness the Dalia Lama.  Or perhaps it was the other way around.  He was to go on to become a world renowned authority on traditional medicines, traveling and lecturing all over the world (Dr Yeshe Dondun). 

Further down the long narrow plaza, before the terminus of the ridge, there was a road sloping down to the right, towards a smaller prominence on the far edge of this ridge.  Except for a few hotels, there were no buildings here.  This was the path that pilgrims walked, alongside untouched woods, to the home of the Dalai Lama.  Hidden in the woods was a primitive nunnery for about 20 Tibetans.  (After I was ordained as a nun I asked if I could join this community of Tibetan nuns in this forest.  I was told it is too primitive for a westerner; I was denied community there.) Believers would take the narrow path below and around the ‘Palace’ repeating mantras, in a practice called ‘kora’ (circle).  They believed they were acquiring merit, canceling out some of their negative karma.

In the decades following the establishment of the Tibetan Government in Exile here, the focus for western residents (aside from those rare visitors who came briefly for a personal audience with the Dalai Lama) was attending the ‘Tibetan University’.  This was a project developed by the Dalai Lama with the purpose of preserving the Tibetan language, art, culture and Buddhist teachings by transferring them to westerners.  It was described in an article in Asian Times in the 70s.

A lucky few could find rooms in the apartments built around the government center, halfway between McLeod Ganj and Dharamsala.  These two-story buildings were mainly for the exiled Tibetans, and westerners who found housing there were usually visiting scholars come to study with the lamas and or to do research at the Library of Tibetan Books and Archives.

My shack was part of 'shanti bhavan', above McLeod Ganj in the forested former Raj-era compounds.  To attend the daily teachings at the Library entailed a walk down some 2,000 meters of altitude, on a dusty winding road. The walk down in the mornings was pleasant. In spring it included a short cut through a flowering rhododendron forest.  The road down was very steep, the view breathtaking.  A large lake was a shimmering ribbon of silver on the distant horizon, drawn on a canvas of blue haze.  To the right was the mountain wall.  To the left was a sheer drop off and the other side of the gorge.  It was a steep gorge cut by a river of melted snow runoff.  The return journey was arduous, in the burning hot afternoon mountain sun. 

On cold winter mornings, shivering in my nun’s traditional robes, I would rush down the small slope to a chai shop in McLeod Ganj for morning sweet chai and a roti, and maybe a cup of freshly made sour yogurt, before the long walk down the mountain to the Library.  The shop, with its worn linoleum floor and made of wood slats, darkened from years of cooking fires, was balanced precariously over a precipice. The cooking fires warmed the room.  A handful of other westerners were also there for the same reason. It was a cozy, intimate experience.

Because much of the housing construction was of unlined, uninsulated wood, winters were brutal.  Luckier, wealthier students and monks lived in concrete block houses, but these were also unheated.  The cold was unrelenting.  Each year there would be a mass exodus of lamas, and their followers, to the warmth of Bodh Gaya on the plains of Bihar state.  Usually from December until the Tibetan New Year, or ‘Losar’, the center of devotion would shift to the sacred area where Buddha was believed to have attained enlightenment.  Buddhists of all traditions were there. It was a rare opportunity to study with other traditions.  Notably was a Burmese teacher name Goenka, who led intensive 10-day meditation retreats in the Vipassana tradition.

When we all returned to McLeod Ganj to live out the short remaining winter weather, it was time to celebrate the New Year.  The high light of this time was receiving the Dalai Lama’s blessing.  He would sit in the main temple on his elevated seat, and a long line of devotees would snake outside the building waiting for their moment.  As I approached his seat, hands folded and draped with a traditional white silky scarf called a ‘khata’ that I would offer him, I would cease paying attention to whom else was in line.  My breath deepened, my spirit stilled, focused on the strong peaceful presence of the man who was about to lay his precious hand on my head. I knew that he knew who I was, and that his blessing was personal. 

Thirty years of change greeted my return.  Buildings had blossomed everywhere on the mountainside.  The dusty narrow steep road down to the Library and Dharmsala beyond was now paved.  It was regularly traversed by taxis and a few private cars.  There were frequent jams, where the road was not wide enough for two cars.  The narrow streets in McLeod Ganj proper were made more narrow by rows of vending tables, nevertheless cars dared traverse its 200 meter length, threading throngs of pedestrians with blasts of horn. 

Much of the forest that had been the front yard of His Holiness’s home was gone.   Many luxury hotels crowded the cliffside, shops and boutique restaurants hug the hillside, and there were new monasteries.  On the cliffs edge of the narrow road, stalls lined the sloping connecting road leading to the Palace.  Leathered brown faces sat beside blankets or tables filled with turquoise and coral stones set in silver, or mani beads.  These are strings of 108 beads, made of fragrant wood, or eye of the Pepol tree, or smoothed semiprecious stones.  

The small ‘ani gompa’ or nun’s temple had been replaced by a far more comfortable nunnery.  The Dalai Lama had done much to raise the level of the nuns.  They received more profound teachings than were available to them before, and were respected for their spiritual depth and learning.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s His Holiness would come down to the plaza, sit with his students over chai and laughter.  By the time I had arrived, the population both Tibetans and westerners had grown to an uncomfortable level.  He could no longer stroll anonymously in his village streets.

By the time of my return visit, the population had swollen to a seemingly insupportable size. His Holiness would give regular teachings each month, announced on his web site.  Throngs of westerners and Tibetans alike would travel in for the week-long teachings and sacred initiations.  The hotels were full, the Tibetan family homes were crowded with distant relatives sleeping on couches and floors.

My plan was vague; I was running away from disappointment, looking for a healing solution.  While passing through Bangkok from China I managed to obtain a ten-year tourist visa.  My goals included getting back in touch with my teachers, get some teachings, do some retreats, and otherwise jump start my flagging spiritual life. 

After a few days in a hotel in McLeod Ganj I was lucky to find an apartment halfway down the mountain towards Dharmsala, in an area that used to house the exiled government secretary.  In its day its address was home to a publishing house, which specialized in translations from the Tibetan scriptures and commentaries to English.  Now the area was developed and still developing, the now-asphalted path lined with concrete construction.  My apartment was in a 2-story quadplex.  It was modern, with tiled floors, a large shower and well-equipped kitchen.  

I applied for and awaited my permission to go to the Bylakuppe refugee center in Karnataka, were I would visit with the young incarnation of my deceased Library teacher. This would be a new experience for me.  Would he recognize me?  Would he find it strange that I treated him like an old friend, this 11 year old boy?

My year was coming to an end as the Tibetan New Year approached.  I had renewed my acquaintance with some of my teachers, sat in on illuminating teachings, and spent months in retreat meditating on these teachings.  I had made it down to Bylakuppe, and met the young ‘yangtse’.  As it happened, the holiest day of this Losar would fall on my birthday.  It was raining, cold and miserable in McLeod Ganj.  My summer wardrobe was hardly appropriate for this cold and wet weather.  My stay would be short.  I found a bed in a lodge run by a group of monks from a traditional monastery, right on the central plaza.  Losar was a holiday festival, a time for everyone to relax and enjoy themselves.  It was fun to be around the monks in these days.  Their childlike sense of play, and the laughter that filled the shared restaurant-reception area was infectious.

Reflecting on the old days of receiving His Holiness’s personal blessing at Losar, I wished to re-experience that intimate connection.  In reality, during the intervening years he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and become world-renowned.  It would be impossible for him to continue that practice of touching each of the tens of thousands of visitors who waited expectantly for his blessing.  Instead, the day’s activities in his temple would take on a different aspect.

I could not face these crowds of strangers.  Instead, I decided to spend the hours doing kora around his holiness’s home and temple.

Even that had been built up.  Of course, much of the path on the exposed side of the mountain was still narrow and unpaved.  But along a broader strip of land new homes had been added to the mountain slope, for honored reincarnate lama teachers, benefitting the monks studying in HH’s monastery.  Devoted followers had donated shrines, small buildings housing precious reliquary and candles.  Near the end of the long circle there was a small plaza, lined on one side with mani wheels and on the other by an enclosed shrine.  I reached that point at the end of the kora, just as the sun came out dispelling the drizzle.  I folded my umbrella, and stopped for reflection. 

I closed my eyes, and focused on that precious presence.  I wished him a happy new year prayer.  To my astonishment, a warmth flooded over me, accompanied by an inner light and profound peace.  It lingered for a long moment.  He came to me, and wished me a happy birthday, letting me know that he had not forgotten me.

Upon that joyous note, I soon booked my travels back to Kham, East Tibet, where my friend was awaiting the arrival of her first child.  I was the designated doula, or midwife.  I was returning to China as a tourist, for a short stay of three months.  The future was uncertain, but I knew that whatever came my way I could weather it, knowing that I was held in the heart and under the protection of a very special spiritual being.  Though I be alone in the world, I know I am tethered by an unbreakable cord.

Respect your gender

Respect your gender

These are confusing times, when a three-year old boy wants to play with dolls so his mother says he is a girl.  This is my send article on this topic.  As you will see, I have been giving it a lot of thought.  These are my conclusions.  Please feel free to dialogue, through the ‘comments’ section. 

I was a tomboy.  I played cowboys and Indians.  In winter, with the neighbor boys, I built snow forts and fought off the invaders with snowballs. 

I remember a two-foot tall doll I was given for a birthday, perhaps it was my eighth.  I did not know what to do with it.  I propped it in a corner, looked at it, wondered what to do with it.  It felt so alien.

My favorite dress was blue jeans. I never enjoyed clothes shopping, I simply had no clue.  I remember a time in high school when, with my own money earned from babysitting, I went shopping for clothes.  Of course, mother took me, and had ultimate say over what I chose.  I picked out a gabardine pleated brown skirt that pleased her, and that was too small.  I spent all my money, and I never wore it.  My shopping mind set has always been to walk into a store with a specific target, hunt it down, buy it and leave.  Wandering the mall just looking at things gives me a headache.  What’s the point

I never wanted to marry.  High school flirtations were all about seeking the love, acceptance and intimacy that was denied me in childhood.  Boys were not drawn to me.  I felt like I just didn’t give out the right vibe.  I had my flirtations and explorations, but that feeling stayed with me throughout my life.

One of those explorations resulted in a pregnancy.  There were no options, no discussions.  I knew what the right thing to do was.  And maybe now I would finally have that love and intimacy that I craved. 

I have to laugh when I think of it now.  I didn’t have the usual slut vibe.  I was a serious kid.  But I was a horny kid, once I discovered the pleasure of sex.  I guess I had the masculine sensibility of it all.  Men sew their wild oats, while a good Catholic girl is meant to be modest, chaste.  Hmm.  I had a few wild oats of my own to sew, though my virginal pregnancy and marriage postponed that.

As a mother I was a good mechanic.  There was some kind of maternal connection that was missing.  I loved my kids, but did not find motherhood satisfying.  My mind lay fallow.

I left my kids, and suffered the condemnation of abandonment for the rest of my life.  They suffered it, too.  Yet to stay with them would have been suicide.  I remember being in the car with the family.  We were ‘happy’.  Yet I wanted to push open the door and jump out at a high speed, in hopes to end my futile existence.  Now, some fifty years later, I understand.

When I began to understand reincarnation, I made sense of my maleness.  Of course.  These feelings were simply left over from a previous life.  I am a man in a woman’s body.  So be it.

I had the best of both worlds.  I was perceived as a woman. I participated in the sacred mystery of having a life grow within me, three times.  My body was fertile!  On the other hand, I did not understand how to be subjected by a male partner, nor what it would entail to make him happy. No doubt, this is why my attempts at marriage were doomed.  I have always been fearless.  If I could imagine it, I could attempt it.  I traveled freely, which was my destiny.  I have had an independent life.  Observers say I am not homely, yet I have never been a magnet for men who were seeking a partner.  My intelligence, confidence and independence were surely effective deterrents. 

I cannot imagine what I would have become if I stayed in my marriage with my children.  It is simply unimaginable.  For their sakes, I am happy that I had the opportunity to bring life into this world.  That is a humbling experience.  They can never forgive me for that.  Had I changed my gender in my youth, as people today are doing, I would have avoided causing these people this pain.  On the other hand, they would not have been born!  Which is the more noble path?

People seek happiness and fulfillment today, IMHO to an absurd degree.  Of course my life had its share of emotional pain and suffering.  But what life does not?  I took my gender ambiguity in stride.  I did not obsess over it.  What has happened in our world to shift the balance, such that people are not willing to accept this dysphoria and get on with their lives?

As a woman, I have never knew an insurmountable barrier to doing what I wanted to do, to fulfilling my destiny.  I have worked on my car, changing the oil, replacing a manifold gasket for example.  I have remodeled a house, doing carpentry, plumbing, putting up sheet rocking, painting. Perhaps the greater difficulty is with a man who feels like a woman, who wants to wear makeup and high heel shoes.  Who would rather play with dolls, who likes soft and frilly things, who isn’t interested in ‘manly’ things.  Perhaps in our culture that is more an obstacle than to such as myself.  Yet in my childhood and among my peers in adulthood I have known of husbands and fathers who preferred to cook, to sew clothing and frilly drapes, and to do other traditionally feminine things while their wives worked and had a career.  Why is that not enough any longer?

I shake my head.  Are these rhetorical questions?  My curious mind wants to know.  These things trouble me, as I see the culture, the social order crumbling around me.  The answers do not matter.  We have gone too far into devolution.  There is no remedy.  We are on a collision course, we cannot heal the planet nor our societies.  We are all doomed.  Pass the tequila.

Retirement stalemate; some ramblings

I am going to ramble a little here, unlike my usual 'polished' essays.  As the Brits say, I am at sixes and sevens.  I have no answers, only questions.  In the Mexican Prologue I said I didn't know whether to go forward or back.  It seems I have been rocking constantly in the six intervening months.  One step forward, one step back.

Hindsight, ain't it great?  I wish I had put the house on the market 'as is' and be done with it.  But the predominance of opinion by those advising me seem to be, remodel--you'll get more money.

Wrong!

Contractor quagmire 

The remodeling began.  I withdrew the last of my IRA funds, what savings I had left from China, and a withdrawal from a credit card to pay a contractor to remodel the house.  To make a long story short, he did not know what he was doing, beyond scamming me.  What work he did on the house had to be torn up and redone.  He walked away with almost $12,000.  I found a new contractor, recommended by my realtor.  This contractor said he could do the job in a month, more or less.  Three months later, the house is still not ready to go on the market.  I reduced the price in order to unload it anyway, but the buyer was coming in with a VA loan. This meant an excruciatingly detailed inspection report.  The house failed. The buyer walked away.

I paid the new contractor with borrowed money, assuming the  house would sell quickly and I could repay the debt.  Wrong!

The debts became due.  Turns out, just paying off the monthly bills on these credit cards uses up all my monthly social security pension check. I found myself going to bed hungry.  Food money going to pay for the gas and light bill, and servicing the swimming pool.  Soon the home insurance payment would be due.

Logically I know that to every problem there is a solution.  I found none.

I reached a wall.  The only way out is death.

These were my bleak thoughts.



Mexico House

The low cost of finishing the Mexico house, as estimated by our community leader, was for a very basic, primitive home.  Maybe okay for periodic meditation retreats, but not for a full retirement life. To finish it as I envision it would take most of what I would garner from the sale of my Florida home.  This doesn't make sense, because renting in Mexico is so inexpensive.

I am not putting anymore money into the house, except to brick up openings and repair a broken window so that the house is sealed from the elements.  It will sit there, awaiting future developments.

My brother, who himself went through bankruptcy proceedings, urged me not to dismiss this option, but to seek legal counseling.

Using AVVO, I paid $49 for a 15 minute on phone consultation.  From that brainstorming session, I came up with a plan.

I will come to terms with the banks, let them know I am not in a position to pay them.

I will apply for food stamps.

I will take the money back from Mexico.  It will pay the insurance bill, maybe some of the tax bill when it comes due in November, furnish my house from Salvation Army or whatever, pay arrears for electricity.

I will bite the bullet and pay for a new junction box installed, since the inspection revealed that this one is out of date and no longer acceptable, even to the insurance company should they inspect.

I will continue forward with volunteering at the Pet Resource Center, to give myself some human contact.  i will adopt my own dog, to give me a companion at home.

God has a plan

In January when I went to Mexico to buy my car, I was dazed and confused that it did not work out. I kicked myself for not having anticipated the road block that I encountered.  I had already converted the dollars to pesos, and didn't want to lose money converting it back again.  So I left it there.  As I mulled it over, I came to the conclusion that only the future would reveal the true reason why I made that trip.

Now I see it.  Had I not left the money in Mexico, surely it would have gone into the bottomless pit of the remodel.

The exchange rate gave me a lot of pesos for my dollar.  The exchange rate has changed again, in my favor.  It is time to reclaim my dollars.

The best thing of all is that I received a very caring note from my siblings saying that they were in this together with me, with their help we would get through this.  I have always been very independent, not wanting them to see me as a freeloader.  My path has been very different from theirs, and I think historically that they saw my path as being irresponsible.  Externally my life may have appeared to be that of a carefree hippy unbound by societal conventions, unfettered by responsibilities.  I think my achievements since those days have demonstrated that that is a misread.

The time has come to accept myself as part of a family unit.  It is humbling.  Yet I know I have come to the end of my knowledge.  In this culture I do not know how to maneuver to get myself out of this situation.  I accept whatever help is proffered by my dear sister and brother.  They know the lay of the land far better than me.  I gladly accept their wisdom and experience.

For now, I will move back into the house, reconnect the utilities (which I canceled when I thought the house had sold), and begin my retirement.  I will focus more on my writings, even though I know at my age, no publisher will accept a first book by someone of my age.  Though the subject matter may be interesting, I am still a very green writer.  Nevertheless, I will get my storied down on 'paper'.  This is always how I said I would pass my retirement.  Let it be so.

Lost and Adrift, Luna at the Pet Resource Center

Lost and Adrift; Luna at the Pet Resource Center

Luna could have been running with the pack on any street anywhere in the world, she is just that common a mixed breed.  A lean body, almond husk brown, medium height, a long thin snout and expressive ears the folded over at the top was how she looked when I met her, but she was still a puppy of 8 months; she could still grow.

I have not been without a pet since 1990.  All along it had been cats, until the very end.  Then, two years before I decided to retire and return to America, I met MeiMei.  A friend handed me a tiny puppy, at most 8 weeks old.  Now I was a dog owner, too.

Having had my career in English teaching abroad for most of the past 15 years, I had lost contact with American society.  No friends met me at the airport.  No welcome home parties.  I was on my own.

Culture shock is common in such situations, of living in a new culture.  Since I am American, it is called reverse culture shock.  The disorientation and emotional upheaval is pretty much the same.  Since I was also without a job with hopes of retiring, at the same time, I was deeply at a loss, in a daze.

I moved back into the house I had left 8 years earlier, when I tried briefly to make a go of living in America once again.  That hadn’t gone well, but at least I managed to put what savings I had into something solid.

The house presented its own problems.  Trying to deal with these brought me into contact with tradesmen and craftsmen.  I felt buffeted about, needing to make decisions, floating without an anchor in a world that technically spoke the same language, but was fraught with misunderstandings and treachery.

I thought I would go mad without the comfort of my feline and canine friends.  I tried to adopt a dog, but quickly discovered that he needed order, structure, a schedule.  Being adrift as I was, I was ill equipped for his needs.  After two weeks, I returned him. He found a good home the next day, I later found out.

I started making regular visits to the Pet Rescue Center.  In my county it is a large and very well managed place.  Nevertheless, it was constantly being overwhelmed by newly arriving dogs and cats.  I walked down the many aisles, looking at the data sheet hanging at each kennel.  I quickly realized that the small dogs moved in and out very quickly.  They were in high demand.  The larger dogs, the American Staffordshires, fighting bull dogs, German shepherds and mixtures of all three, had been there one, two, even three months.  Euthanasia would be their future. 

Another item on that sheet was holding back otherwise adoptable slightly smaller dogs, and pure breeds like boxers.  There was a line, Heartworm, followed by either positive or negative.  The positives did not get adopted.

I inquired at the front desk.  Was this condition incurable?  I was told that a cure was available.  It was expensive, however, and so the Center could not treat these animals. 

How expensive?  I asked.   I sat at the desk.  It was a long convex counter, with about seven computer stations.  Rarely were all manned, but I was lucky to find an assistant who was free to explain the facts to me.  It required one trip to a vet.  There the vet would administer medication; I think he said it was a pill.  One follow up checkup, and it was done.  The cost was about $250, he said.

During my strolls down the different kennel buildings, I spotted Luna.  She had been there a month already.  I wondered why.  She wasn’t overwhelming in size, she had good coloring.  She was a German Shepherd mix; mostly brown, peppered at the brow with some black hairs.  It was an attractive effect, though not striking. 

In the late afternoon when the dogs were tired, and there hadn’t been a lot of foot traffic, the kennels were quiet.  But early in the day the cacophony was deafening, as all the dogs roared.  Luna was among them.  When she barked, she bared her teeth. This made her appear ferocious.  Her descriptive sheet hanging on the kennel was marked with a big B, for biter. 

I started visiting her every day.  I went to the Pet Smart shop and bought yummy beef treats, which I unashamedly used to bribe her.  She perked up, and paid attention.  On subsequent visits I found a dog grinning at me, wagging her tail.  I wondered if she was intelligent, trainable.

The procedures at the kennel provided for a meet-and-greet.  So I went through the steps to ask to meet with Luna.  A request went out on walkie talkie for a worker or volunteer to come to cage A-15 for a meet and greet.  Sometimes the wait was so long, that I sat down on the cement floor.  Luna would lay down, tail wagging, pushing her paws through the bottom of the gate.  We would talk, I stroked her, held her paw, until someone finally came.  Each time we went out to an enclosure, she would immediately pee.  I had noticed that her kennel was usually clean, when other kennels were smeared with feces.  I took that to mean that she was fussy about sanitation, a dog who would not easily have accidents in the home.   If we had a 20 minute visit, she would poop too.  These were good signs.

I brought a ball, and we played fetch, sort of.  I tried to get her to run with me, assuming she never got enough exercise.  We went over basic commands; sit, come, down.  She responded quickly.  As for the biting, it didn’t seem to be in her nature.

Each time I asked for a meet and greet with her, I had to sit at the desk and listen to a reading of her file.  The ‘biting’ incident was totally understandable for a german shepherd, especially if the household failed to understand her nature.  A strange child ran across the year, approached the porch and rushed the dog.  The dog, in guard mode, lunged for the child with open mouth.  No blood was drawn, but everyone was freaked.  The dog was dangerous, and had to be surrendered.

Luna calmed down.  When dog seekers walked down the aisles, she did not bare her teeth and bark.  She barked, of course, but half-heartedly.  When not responding to the barking pack, she would greet visitors with an expectant gaze and wagging tail.  She was more receptive to what might happen.

After spending time with her every day for a week, I came to see her as usual but found her cage empty.  Someone had adopted her!

I signed up to be a volunteer.  There were a number of steps involved, it was not an immediate process.  I went to orientation.  Then I would get training for specialization.  I could choose to work with the vet techs.  Or get trained to work with small groups of dogs for socialization, play time.  There was the job of cleaning the cat cages early in the morning.  This pet center ran a tight ship.

I missed Luna, but was very happy for her.  I was still not in a position to adopt a dog.  I have been having a very difficult time figuring out a livable, affordable retirement plan.

Before I could go on to the next volunteer step, my circumstances swept me away again and I left town. One thing is now clear, though, about my retirement life.  I will return to my house, and adopt a companion. With this goal in mind,I will find a way to afford living in my home.  One point of structure for this new life will be my schedule as a shelter volunteer.

Retiring in Mexico Prologue

Retiring in Mexico Prologue

As much as it hurt, in the end I had to leave my beautiful terrier mutt behind in China.  It was unrealistic to try to take her with me when my first few months post-China would be as a vagabond.  Not to mention that the paperwork for exporting/importing a dog must be begun far in advance of the travel.  I began thinking about it in September, and that was not nearly enough time for a November flight.  A neighbor in the same apartment complex took her, in the end, because of the 7-year old daughter.  The mother is a doctor, an educated person.  My Italian friend, Francisco, lives a few floors down with his Great Dane and assures me she is a responsible person, a good family.  Farewell, my dear MeiMei.

Mother Goose (cat) is no doubt wandering the grounds of the complex, waiting for the sound of my jingling keys.  When I traveled in late October for a week, she stayed outside.  When I returned it was raining, but she was warm, dry and well fed.  She has an incurable gum infection, which makes her cranky and uncomfortable.  For that reason I could not burden another family with her care.  She came to me a stray, and she returns to that life but hopefully in a better endowed neighborhood.

So much for my separation sorrow.

That is not to say that there aren't a few friendships that I am leaving behind with sadness. Former students, former employees, I forged bonds with some very dear people.  This is the inevitable outcome for a gypsy such as I.

My retirement begins with blessings.  My departure date was triggered by the expiration of my rental lease.  It coincided with a meditation retreat in Mexico, led by an old acquaintance, Jhampa, from 40 years ago in India.  This week of quiet reflection was a very good transition.  After the weekend crowd left we were just a handful of people, including the retreat leader and his translator.  We had plenty of opportunity to forge new bonds here in Mexico.  Dr. Rudy decided to go out of his way and drive Jhampa and me to Guadalajara from Morelia, before returning to Durango.  It doubled his journey, but he wanted that extra time with us.  The three hour drive was lively and enjoyable.

I had asked the good doctor to do me a favor and take my heavy suitcase back to Durango with him. But when we arrived at the Guadalajara bus station we forgot, and hauled all the luggage out of the car.

From the Guadalajara bus station I took a taxi to Chapala Lake, where my American artist friend, Catherine, was living (temporarily).  I saw first hand how well we North Americans can live on our meager government pensions.  I was impressed, and relieved.  Next to the village of Chapala where she rented a house, there is a village called Ajijic.  It sits on a small bay of the lake, where the hills gently curve around.  It is quite beautiful.  It is overrun with retired foreigners.  We spent a day there, and on that day I ran into Venerable Amy.  This was another blessing.

Catherine has been retired for maybe five years now.  She went to Thailand, but then returned to our continent.  She lived in Oaxaca for three years, but then when her best friends were leaving she decided to leave too.  She moved to San Miguel Allende.  But after six months of that, she wanted to explore something else.  She found this home in Chapala, but in the living of it she felt it was too quiet.  In the end, she will go back to Oaxaca.  I will get to visit her there in the Spring.

When I arrived in Chapala, I found that Catherine already had a house guest.  Sofia is an artist, too, and they met in Miguel San Allende.  This woman blew me away with her wit, her energy, her grace and her talent.  She was on her way to Berlin, where she would have a showing of her art.  Then to Paris, and Italy.  She speculated that perhaps, as some had hinted, her art might find a more welcoming audience in Europe.  She was prepared to continue her retirement there, somewhere in Europe.  I was stunned at the answer when I finally got the courage to ask her age.  She is 79!  This should encourage me to pursue my writing career, in spite of my late start.  Would that I could be half the woman she is.

Jhampa is the Tibetan name given to Joe at his ordination as a Tibetan Buddhist monk.  We were in India at the same time, studying with the lamas.  He had the good fortune to hold a Canadian passport, while mine was from the US.  Such were the visa laws in those days, that Commonwealth countries had no visa requirements, but Americans were tightly controlled.  He stayed many more years, but I left after three.

He had the idea to organize a retreat/retirement center for those of us of that generation, who had studied with the lamas either in India or in North America. High in the Sierra Madres, in apple orchard country, he formed a non-profit organization and secured a plot of land.  He divided it into 20 lots, and put in the infrastructure of water, sewage and electricity.  I heard about it in 2010 or 2011, and decided to begin to plan my retirement there.  I had enough savings to pay for the property and have a shell erected.  But then I opened the bakery, my personal Money Pit, which haled any further construction.

When I left China, my top priority was to see this property.  I was dependent on Jhampa for making arrangements.  After the retreat he was busy for a week or so, and could not spend the time with me that he wanted, to show me our nascent community.  After a few days in Chapala, I headed out to Durango through Guadalajara.  When I went online to see the bus schedule, I discovered that there were two routes.  One was inland, through Mexico City, the other was by coast to Mazatlan, and then up the mountain to Durango.  Why not?  I was in no hurry.

I opened the AirBnB website, and scouted a place to stay in Mazatlan.  I booked the room.  I had an excellent experience, staying with that AirBnB host for a week, and so I got to see lovely Mazatlan, and swim in the warm Pacific.

Jhampa had arranged a hostess from among his Durango dharma center group, a place for me to stay until he was free to show me around our land in the countryside.

I met a few people from this group, during my prolonged stay in Durango.  One evening Ven. Amy gave a lecture and meditation session, which gave me the opportunity to visit the center and meet other members.

Venerable Amy is an American nun having roots in our same 'sangha', or community of students of Buddhism. She is currently in Mexico scouting out a location for a home for a group of nuns.  There was one location in Guadalajara, besides ours and another.  Not surprisingly, she took a side trip to Chapala Lake, where we bumped into each other on the streets of Ajijic.  I introduced myself, assuming who she was, and we agreed this was auspicious.  I mean, seeing a caucasian dressed in the maroon robes of Tibetan Buddhism and a shaved head doesn't require a leap.

Our little community, called Luz de Compasion, is born of a noble idea.  We baby boomers coming into retirement age, so many of us independently single, trend towards thinking of coming together in like-minded communities.  I just read of one such noble idea come to realization in the UK, and we will all watch it closely over the years to see how it fairs.  Not that we have that many years to sit idly by, to wait and see.  I speak of the Older Women's Cohousing group, in High Barnet, UK.  There, 26 woman begin taking possession of the newly built complex this month, December 2016, after 'planning ahead'.  I wonder how many years it took to make this happen.

I haven't asked Jhampa recently, but when I made my purchase of two lots I recall that more than half the lots had been sold.  Right now there are four buildings on the land, intermingled with corn fields and squash rows.  Only one house is completely finished, and this Canadian has already put it up for sale.  In the intervening years, waiting for others to decide to move onto the land, he found a better situation in Canada and will no longer be part of our group.  Another house, nearly finished, belongs to Jhampa.  He and his wife are currently living in Torreon, three hours from Durango in a desert valley.  It is unlikely his wife is going to want to move.  The other structure is completed on the ground floor, but a second floor is under construction.  This person has actually used his house, coming for a four-month retreat.  At the moment no one lives on the land, and so there is a caretaker, from the adjoining land, who watches over the houses in exchange for planting his corn and squash there.

This land is beyond a small village named Canatlan, which itself is a 40 minute drive from Durango city.  From the paved highway which leads to Juarez, a dirt road runs about a mile through fields and woods to the property.  During rainy season, it turns to mud.  It is a rutted bumpy ride, at best.

So here I am, caught mid stride.  Do I go forward, or do I go back?  Do I try to put this unfinished house on the market, or do I try to finish it and use it.  The caretaker has a beautiful black horse.  I could strike a deal with him to provide grain for the winter feed, in exchange for the right to ride him to town when I need groceries and socialization.  Straight out of a childhood dream.

In fact, many of the western cowboy films that fed those dreams were filmed right here, on this plateau.  John Wayne himself bought a large plot of land, many acres, where films were shot.  Right around Canatlan.  His wife was Mexican, for those who didn't know.

Ven. Amy is spending a few nights on the property.  She will decide at a future date whether or not this will be her choice for her future convent for Buddhist nuns.  We are hoping she will share this property with us, to bring some life into it sooner rather than later.

I could finish the house very cheaply, or I could use quality materials that will reduce the dampness and better control the interior environment. At minimum, once I finish the house one way or the other I will stash my extra stuff there while I explore the rest of Mexico.  You know, the winter clothes, the tankas (Buddhist iconography), photos etc.  Jhampa estimates I could finish it and furnish it sparsely for between $10,00 and $15,000.  I think if I were to do it up nicely, using sheet rock in the bedrooms, some laminated flooring as well as tiles, a well-equipped kitchen, a Franklin wood-burning stove, double paned windows, it would run me at least $25,000.  Is it worth it?

These are the choices facing me, in the Spring.  Right now I am heading to the States to enjoy the holidays with family, and then work on getting the Florida house ready for sale.  The post-sale bank account will allow me to wander for a while, visiting friends in the States, and then exploring Mexico.  My next post should be give details about the nitty gritty of retirement in Mexico, after I have done my explorations.

September thoughts

Hello, dear blog followers, both of you.  I'll bet you've been wondering what's been going on for the last month or so, right?

I finally got to sign off one item from my bucket list.  I climbed Jara Mountain and soaked in the hot springs there, at 4,100 meters altitude.  I did due diligence, checked the weather,  booked the horse trek from my friend Angela, booked the air ticket, and arrived in Tagong.

I had two Danish friends accompany me.  We all behaved as the proper tourists, making our bookings ahead of time, like our hotel in Chengdu for the night we arrived in Sichuan and so forth.

We were feeling the altitude, and asked Angela if we couldn't move back the start of our trek, to give us another day of acclimating.

I would have preferred to push it five days out.  However, the return flights had already been booked, my Danish friends planning to leave Chengdu even earlier by four days than me.

Angela informed us that if we delayed even a day, we would clash with a tour group of 100 Chinese people and their 80-yak cargo load, also going to the pristine valley of the hot springs.

And this is why I prefer spontaneity.  I break out in a rash, if I must plan my activities more than a day or two before my next travel move.

We did the trek suffering severely with altitude sickness.  It was a nightmare, an ordeal, an endurance contest.

Now I am back in Changzhou.  First, begin the long process to renew the work permit and residence permit.  Simultaneously, start packing up the apartment.  I am leaving Changzhou.  If I return to China, it will be to Chongqing or Sichuan province.

It is difficult to sort through 6 years of accumulation, especially when part of it comes from the bakery.

Then, on to unfinished business.  The house in Mexico, begun but not completed, needs to be visited.  I have never even been to the project site, or anywhere in Durango State.

The house in Florida.  After this summer of illness in Changzhou, I pretty much know that I could never live in a climate as hot and humid as Florida.  Time to give that up and move on.

And then there are the pets to be considered.  I know about cats, but I am still learning about dogs.  Cats are 1. place identifying and 2. people attached.  So if I remove myself but leave the cat in familiar surroundings, she'll not be traumatized.

Dogs, however, are people-attached.  I saw it when I left her at the kennel for two weeks while I traveled.  On the day I took her there, she screeched and screamed whenever she lost sight of me.  When I returned, she had licked a spot on her leg raw.  It cleared up as soon as we got home.  Except that in all that irritation, she may have picked up some kind of bug, because now there is a rash on the skin that she licked constantly.  Or did the rash come first?  She will visit the vet this week and have all that taken care of.

I called the airlines.  She can travel with me in the passenger cabin.  So she will go to Mexico with me.  Then on to the States.  Maybe I will have to leave her with my daughter, if daughter thinks this is a good idea.  I think the dog will recognize the similarity between daughter and me, and instantly feel at home.

This latter is a result of not knowing what comes next, after the house in Florida sells.  Will I want to return to Mexico?  Not likely, if I am the only resident in that desolate spot.  Then, what?

Is there family I want to live with?  No matter.  No family is expressing interest in my company.

Of course, at my age, I like many of my peers wish for a sudden aneurysm to bring the story to a swift and happy ending.

Today I will go in search of a smartphone to replace my iPhone, which stopped connecting to the internet a couple of months ago.  Thankfully, being a minor holiday in China (mid autumn), I have two days off from work.  On Friday, back into the classroom.

Retirement begins

Post-bakery

                The bakery episode is now ended.  What next?  Now I explore retirement.  What does that mean for someone still intellectually active, physically able?

                I made up my mind that if I was going to continue to live, I must have a life partner.  This seemed a bit unrealistic.  I haven’t found one in all these years.  Why now, particularly when the physical limitations of old age have transformed a once desirable body?  If my partner is a woman, that doesn’t matter.  What are my chances of finding a Chinese like-minded woman? 

                If I moved back to Florida I could post ads, like in Craig’s list, for a housemate of a certain age and financial stability.  It feels like trying to find a good employee at the bakery.  Many come and try out, but the good ones never stay.

                Then along comes this bizarre text message from America. Someone is enquiring if I am the Satina as seen on China TV, under ‘Life of Foreigners in China’.  I say yes.  This person explains that they think their father is the man I was looking for, according to the TV show description. 

                That person, as it turns out, was the daughter of a retired man in Chongqing.  She connected us.  We began communicating.  But over the phone, with my limited Chinese, there was little we could say.  He calls every day, to say ‘good morning,’ and ‘have you eaten?’  After a while this gets tedious.  I like the sound of the voice, however.  Once, Jamie helped translate through a conversation.

                I decided it was time to meet.  If he comes to Changzhou, how would I entertain him?  I am a visitor here myself.  Also, being summertime, my friends are all traveling. 

                I booked a flight to Chongqing, for five days.  He planned my introduction to Chongqing, and himself. 

                The flight to CQ was delayed by typhoon-like weather up north, where the flight originated.  We were in phone contact.  I told him, I have heard no news of when the flight would actually depart, so he should go home and wait.  He stubbornly stood at the airport, clutching a bouquet.

                Just before midnight the plane finally arrived in CQ.  As I headed for the baggage carousel I glimpsed a figure beyond the exit doorway.  A serious-faced many clutching a bouquet of roses and lilies stood facing the door.  The luggage took forever to finally arrive. 

                We recognized each other from our pictures.  He greeted me warmly and took my suitcase handle.  We rode the subway to my hotel.  The pavement was wet, it had been raining all day.  He saw me checked in and settled, and then he left. It was well after midnight.

                We spent two days touring the city, and a third day just relaxing at his apartment.  I was glad for the rest, because he had walked my legs off.  We watched a soccer match, and then a ballet of Romeo and Juliet (his choices).  I got on his computer and found translation software, so we could have some deeper conversations.  He cooked lunch for me.  Chicken soup, unadorned with the famous Chongqing spiciness.

                On the final day, he collected me for my morning flight, and saw me off at the airport.

                He is on a fixed income.  He spent a lot of money on me, for food, a romantic evening harbor boat tour, park entrance fees and transportation.  I would have to wait patiently until his coffers filled again for his flight to Changzhou.

                As the weeks went by, our communications became more sophisticated. He learned to use WeChat, with the translation feature.  I no longer had to try to write in Chinese, fraught with selecting the wrong character and sending gibberish.  I wrote in English, he in Chinese.

                By the time he bought his ticket and fixed the date, four weeks later, I was very eager for his arrival.  ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ I kept hearing in my head.

                I did a careful search for a suitable yet affordable guest house for him.  I would provide the housing.  I worked hard on making my spare room suitable as a bedroom, but the sheer quantity of my ‘junk’ was making it nigh impossible. 

                When my well-publicized attempted relationship with LaoZhu failed, a year earlier, Changzhou online gossip withered my reputation with assertions that ‘it was all a publicity stunt.’

                Xiao Wang has always been more a friend than a journalist.  Reading about me in the first serious photo-journal piece in a small Changzhou newspaper, in January of 2013, he tried my baked goods and liked them.  I got to know him first as a customer.  The TV station is in the same block as the bakery.  Then he asked if he could do a short ‘human interest’ story for his station’s evening newscast.  It was cute, showing me interacting with the community buying supplies for the bakery, baking, and greeting customers. 

                Two years later I was thinking about my future.  I decided that my best bet was to find a Chinese boyfriend.  I asked my repeat customers, with whom I felt comfortable enough, to consider introducing me to their elder widowed friends and relatives.

                Xiao Wang thought it would make a good story.  By this time I had rented the next-door larger space, and it made a nice backdrop for the piece, where I asked the viewers to help find me a ‘gentle hearted man’.  Xiao Wang has a lovely sense of humor, and so the piece was light hearted and very well received.  It led to the other Changzhou station wanting to do a piece, plus another newspaper, plus another writer who wanted to do an in-depth piece (I never knew what happened with the latter’s work, if he sold it independently or what).  All this became a hot topic of discussion on the internet.

                Eventually it caught the attention of a reporter in Beijing, working for CCTV4.  That station was doing a sporadic series on lives of foreigners in China.  Though I can’t be sure, I think that is the one that Linda eventually saw, while living in Brooklyn

                I could not resist assuring XiaoWang that my search had not been a publicity stunt.  I sent him a picture of HuiWen.

                A week later he contacted me, and asked how things were going.  I told him HW was due to arrive in days.  He wanted to meet.  We met at Starbucks, and there were two people with him.  The lady was the reporter in training, and the other guy was the cameraman.  Poor anonymous cameramen, I thought maybe I had worked with him before but couldn’t remember, and never got a chance to ask.

                I knew that Xiao Wang was no longer ‘just’ a journalist.  You see, the station entered his video of my romantic search to a Jiangsu Province-wide competition.  He won first prize.  With that award came a promotion.  Now he trains budding journalists.  He says he has 150 trainees!!!  The two he brought along would be doing the piece.  They don’t speak English, so we did the interview in Chinese.  At one point, Xiao Wang must have felt that they weren’t getting the whole story, so he jumped in and led the interview for a short bit.  We talked about the rumor that it had all been a publicity stunt, and how I felt about that.  That part we did in English.

                We agreed that they would film HWs arrival at Changzhou airport.

                Now, how do I include HW in this?  I don’t want him thinking about it ahead of time, with time to be nervous.  Yet it would be unkind to just spring it on him, a camera trained on him while he exited the secure area, and a microphone stuck in his face.

                I wrote Linda.  I asked her to ask him if he wouldln’t mind being interviewed for the TV spot.  He replied that he did not want that, he did not want to ‘be famous’.  I gently reminded Linda that it was too late now, that she only knew me because of my TV appearance, and it was only right that Xiao Wang should be able to produce the last segment, the end of the search and the beginning of true romance.

                And so he was aware that at some point he would be interviewed.  He took with good humor the work of the TV pair at the airport.  He hugged me warmly, as I gave him his symbolic red rose of love’s declaration. 

                I am not above being an opportunist.  The weather is very hot.  I had bought a special dress for the occasion, which was two-layers thick.  If I said no to the journalists, I’d be traveling for almost two hours in crowded hot buses to get to the airport.  They, on the other hand, would provide an air-conditioned trip there and back.

                On the trip back I thought their questioning of him was a bit intrusive.  I sat quietly, hoping Xiao Wang would make sure in the editing that things didn’t get too personal.

                I thought we would have to drop off his luggage at the hotel, and then come to my apartment.  But as it turned out, he brought just one small backpack, so we came directly to the apartment.  Later on I would take him on my ebike to the guest house.

                My bilingual friends were all out of town.  Sonja is probably in Jilin with her family.  Siok-Eong and Mark were visiting family in Malaysia until the end of the month.  Christel and Steffen would arrive a few days after HWs arrival, but they are not bilingual.  Jamie is still in town, and happy to serve as a translator.

                I thought of Lucy and her husband.  I met him only once, and would like to get to know him.  He is a bookworm, a gold mine of Chinese history and culture.  He does not speak English however.

                Meanwhile, HW and I are trying to get to know each other, while enduring temperatures hovering around 100 degrees.  At least the humidity has left the 88% range, standing around 64%.  Even so, this is the kind of weather where you dip in and out of the shower all day, unless you sit in an air conditioned room all day.

                On our first night alone, we walked to the Italian restaurant, Monkey King.  He is staying very near that location, which is also across from Yancheng Park.  We had plain pizza with garlic, and linguini with shrimp and pesto.  I ordered us two glasses of pinot grigio.  The bill was over 200 rmb, but I didn’t care.  My gesture of welcome.

                The next day we just hung around the house.  We watched TV, movies, chatted, played with the dog and cat.  I ate leftover dal, and he bought take-away pulled noodles.  We cooked a simple meal of egg plant, and cucumber

                On Saturday I had an 8 a.m. appointment at the dentist.  The previous night as I walked him halfway home, I told him I’d like him to come with me, and have his teeth looked at.  He said, no, no, his teeth were fine.  I said they needed attention.  His breath stinks.  He protested that it was because of all the garlic we at that day.  I gently disagreed.

                He came of age during the pioneering age of the revolution, where men were tough, life was rough, and it was all for the better good of building a new China.  Dental hygiene was the least of their cares.

                On the third day we went to the dentist.  I had a root canal done.  His cleaning took longer than my root canal.  Afterwards the dental assistant told me he wasn’t finished, and needed to come back for more.  I made an appointment for the following Monday.

                We went back to the hotel.  By then I was already feeling tired.  His room has twin beds.  I thought I’d lay on one, he’d lay on the other, and we’d chat and nap.  I lay down, and he sat on the side of the bed with me.  We talked.  One thing led to another.  We kissed.  Sparks flew.

After that we walked arm and arm around the retro Old China buildings outside the Park gates, looking for a place to eat.  The area has grown up a lot since I first visited it.  They no longer have a family-style small noodle shop.  Everything is expensive there now.  We wound up finding a pulled noodle place down from his guest house.  We came back to the flat and I opened the translation software. 

                I put a light-hearted Chinese movie on the TV, and took a nap on the couch.  He was sitting on my favorite chair (not using the foot rest) and wound up falling asleep too.

                We cooked and ate in.

                We spent the evening playing cards, with much laughter.

                I have paid his room through Sunday night.  We decided that Monday he would move in.  No need to prepare the spare room.

Transgender

Transgender

Suddenly this concept is popping up wherever I look.

There is the Oscar nominated film, the Danish Girl.  My good friend Cal revealed to me that he is transgender. North Carolina passes a law around transgenders and public toilets.

I cannot give this topic a superficial pass.  Suddenly this condition is ascending to claims on constitutional rights.  I have to ask myself, where has this issue been all my life?

I was certainly aware of transvestites, men who like to dress in women’s clothing.  There were plenty portrayed in movies as being prostitutes, flirting with men.

In grammar school there was a boy who was in my dance class.  He was more sensitive, gentler than other boys.  He grew up, got married, and raised a family.

Another boy, handsome, Italian, slight build, flamboyant and a hairdresser to boot, appeared at the 20-year high school reunion with his wife on his arm.  I would not have predicted that.

There were what we called dykes.  Females with masculine preferences for dress and demeanor.

How did we come from that, to a state where a mother says she knows her three year old son is transgender?

Our culture is becoming more and more fractured, with everyone indulging their individuality at the cost of a cohesive society.  Why suddenly do they claim special rights and privileges, special concessions to their preferences.  I don’t get it.  As someone famously once said, ‘Why can’t we all just get along?’

I look at my own life through these newly ground lenses.  I never played with dolls.  In our day, the name given to girls like me was tomboy.  No one ever called me a dyke.  I played nice with boys, when forced to, like having a crush in high school, and needing a date for prom night.  None of this ever came to anything.

Years and years ago when I was in the workforce, I had the sense that I was a man in a woman’s body.  I was independent, self-reliant.  I didn’t know how to pick up boys.  Boys sensed no pheromones from me.  Of course, I did live through the sixties when men suddenly had permission to screw anything that moved on two legs, and women were persuaded to think this brought them ‘hip’ status. 

It didn’t help that I was raised in a home without open displays of affection.  My mother was indoctrinated into the child-raising philosophy of the time, that to give too much attention to a child is to spoil them, give them an over inflated ego.  She took it to the extreme, closer to the ‘cold bitch’ side of the spectrum.  Once I discovered sex I had a spell of insatiability for physical intimacy.  But before long I was able to distinguish between the biological act of sex, and genuine affection and love based on mutual respect and admiration.  In fact, I found that latter to be extremely rare, though I held onto the possibility that it might be more than an urban legend.  I got tired of pretending that I was finding love in each encounter, when in fact I was being used as a dumping ground for male sweat and sperm.

While traveling alone around the world I gradually found my balance.  I developed a sense that I could do anything a guy could do, and often better.  I did not relate with the women whom I met traveling, who seemed to require a male counterpart to help make her decisions.  I did occasionally run into the rare couple who absolutely did complement each other, and I did envy them.  You never know a book by its cover, but they had the appearance of being best friends.

I did encounter women to whom I was attracted.  That is, their femininity and grace made the sun shine a little brighter for me.  And then there were the other women like me, such as the famous Miss Jones. 

We met on a Greek Island, and met again on a kibbutz.  I had already started to meditate, so we would meditate together.  Her energy helped me find my center, and my meditation improved.  Then we went our separate ways, only to meet again in Nepal.  I had heard of this American who ran a café in Kathmandu.  My colleagues at the monastery would visit her shop when they were in town.  It was a meeting place, also a place to dump the shopping while you go out for dinner, that sort of thing.  When eventually I had the opportunity to go into town with these people, she and I rediscovered each other to mutual delight. 

I think of her, when I see how my bakery in China has served a similar purpose in its short life.

Would my life have been easier if I taped my breasts and walked around in men’s clothing and hairstyle?  That seems weird to me.  I would have complicated my life even more.  The only possible advantage I could imagine would be if women were then attracted to me.  But in fact, I think my personality is a put off to men and women alike, so I doubt that would have been the result.

I speculate as to how different my experience is to someone calling themselves transgender.  I guess I will never know.  As I said, I didn’t play with dolls.  I played cowboys and Indians.  I dug out dirt to make runways and villages for what is now called matchbox cars and trucks, together with the neighborhood boys.  I climbed trees, played stick ball (when the cruel neighbor kids weren’t ostracizing me, for whatever reason of the moment).  I flew with the wind on my bicycle, exploring the town, visiting the far flung kids from my school class.  Alone, always alone.

This was all excellent preparation for the long and adventurous life I led, taking me around the world, learning languages, absorbing cultures, and having many careers.  This life was well-suited to someone who has given up romantic dreams of idyllic love.  The romance was in the travels, the possibilities that lie just around the corner.  Had I been a dependent woman, waiting for my identity and security to be provided by a male, I would have been stopped in my tricks thousands of miles and decades ago.

I feel bad for people who are not confident in expressing themselves.  For that poor little boy who likes to dress up as a girl and play with dolls, that he should have to be stigmatized for the rest of his life by his mother telling him his gender roll was confused, I feel for him.  Why must everything be so black and white.  Why cannot I be both male and female, in whatever body God gave me?  Why do I have to choose one or the other?  From talking to my transgender and gay (or should I say LTGBQ) friends, I feel that the real problem is a lack of tolerance in our relationships.  If a guy wants to wear ruffles and laces to work, why can’t he?  Why must he be gossiped about, judged wanting in masculinity?  If a woman chooses a mannishly short haircut and is given to wearing three-piece suits, what’s the problem?  Why must we treat these people differently, to where they develop a chip on their shoulder, and feel the need to run from civilized society and develop a subculture?

My cousin, when here four children were under ten years old, came home and found her husband in flagrante with a man in the basement.  Did she have to get hysterical?  Did she have to treat him like he was a felon who should never be near his children again?  For the rest of her life, does she have to go ballistic whenever they need to have a conversation?  He did not go on to develop a stable relationship with a man.  She forced the breakup of the marriage, and her children to grow up without a father, for what?  I admit I am not walking in their shoes.  Maybe I would not feature being penetrated by a tool that had been dunked in shit.  Or maybe, just maybe, enlightened people could find a way around such traumas and let their friendship go deeper.  We are all flawed human beings.  Can’t we make a better effort at loving each other unconditionally, accepting our flaws and theirs, and just get on with life?

Why do we have to fragment our society into smaller and smaller peer groups, and then demand special treatment because our decisions stand in the way of our sharing the rights and responsibilities of the society we have chosen to leave?  Many States have passed laws given gay couples legal rights, such that if one of them were hospitalized the other would have the right to be treated as family; they can be on each other’s medical insurance.  Why must they go a step further, and demand the right to shatter the milleniums-old established institution of marriage?

Truly, our culture is on the brink of extinction, no less than our planet as we know it.  Young people can’t see it, they are caught up in the moment.  Like not seeing the forest for the trees, they are blind to what is happening.  We old people are marginalized, so clearly our perspective is quaint and irrelevant.

There is nothing new under the sun.  When we have to develop a whole new vocabulary to describe what has been going on forever, we are ascending a tower of babel.