I'm Donating a Kidney for My Son...But Not Like That

In 5 weeks, I'm traveling from NYC to Charleston, SC to donate one of my kidneys- the left one, to be exact- to my friend Erin.

When people learn I'm doing this, they say one of three things, and I kind of rustle at all three.

Wow, she must be a really good friend.

No, not really.  I have known Erin for over 25 years, though we've never been close.  I don't know her birthday or middle name, favorite foods or music, and I'm not sure I even have her email address.

Though in some ways, I feel like I know Erin a lot better than I actually do, because she reminds me so much of me.  We are the same age, we are both actors with spouses who work in theatre as well, we've both moved around a bit, we both have cats (for what that's worth)...and I'd like to think that someone would step up and donate for me if I ever needed a kidney.  Or donate their hair if I needed a wig- that'd be cool, too.

So, while she's not a close friend, she's kind of me.  Only with more talent and darker hair.  And fewer pets.  And a car.

You're a hero.

No, I'm someone with two kidneys, and I only need one.  I'm someone who is no longer afraid of surgery or recovery, after the c-section delivery of my son two years ago.  I'm someone who maybe doesn't realize the magnitude of the gesture or the impact it will make.  I'm someone who likes to get things done, and just happened to go through the donor screening process quicker than anyone else.

So, I'm not a hero, I'm just efficient and not so scared of hospitals.   And someone said that a hero "ain't nothing but a sandwich," which really just makes me hungry.

What if your son needs a kidney, and you're not able to give him one?

This one is the toughest one to hear.  I don't worry about this at all because my son has a father and tons of relatives who would gladly donate for him.  And maybe someone not related will remember that I did this, and they'll step up to lend a hand...or a kidney.  Or maybe, just maybe, he will stay healthy and never need someone to donate anything other than money to support the non-profit he will one day start to help orphans or homeless pets.

But really, my son is the biggest reason I'm donating.  Having him has given me confidence and made me kind of fearless.  He's made me strong, made me brave.  He's made me live more in the moment and not worry so much about "what if?"

I hope that my donating a kidney will teach my son to be generous and compassionate.  I hope he, too, will live his life in the moment, and without worry for what misfortunes the future might hold.  I hope he is loving and caring, healthy and happy, and always willing to lend a hand.  And tell a good joke- people like jokes.

I've learned a lot about organ donation and insurance as I've gone through this process.  I've learned that insurance only covers the actual medical bills, but not the bills for help at home, transportation or hotels, lost wages, or a host of other things.  Doctors tell me I'm not allowed to lift anything heavier than a jug of milk for 4-6 weeks after the surgery, and I have a toddler who wants to be picked up about 50 times a day.  Wish me luck with that one.

I have the most supportive husband in the world, and we're determined to make it work.  Because spending money or being uncomfortable for a few weeks is a small price to pay for someone to keep on living.

And if my son one day thinks I'm even remotely cool for donating a kidney to a friend, then it will have DEFINITELY been worth it.

And I'll call Erin and tell her.  Because she'll still be here.

(And if you'd like to donate, please click here.  And thank you so much.)

Home is Where the Toddler Is

I've taught my child a new party trick.  It goes like this:

ME:  "Sweetie, how old are you?"

MY SON:  "Two!"

ME:  "And how old is Mommy?"

MY SON:  "Twenty-nine!"

Our son turned two at the end of June, and I swear, every day he blows our minds with what he can say and do.  His vocabulary is growing exponentially, and is so advanced, I think he knows enough words to get a job at the local Duane Reade, should it come to that.  (And with the price of preschool in NYC, it just might.)  He strings together crazy long sentences like, "Daddy took our car away, Metrocard ride bus go see Rory's house OK."  (In my husband's defense, "our car" was a ZipCar, and had to be returned.)

His sense of humor is getting more refined, too.  He makes so many faces-his latest one involves kind of a coy pucker- a face reminiscent of Dr. Evil or Pee Wee Herman.  He pairs it with a sideways glance- and he knows it's hilarious.  His laugh is a genuine belly laugh, and sounds like tinkling bells or a happy waterfall, or maybe angels and fairies playing ping pong.  Something damn adorable and whimsical, I can tell you that.

I am more in love with our son now than I think I have ever been, and I'm dying a tiny bit inside because I'm going to leave him for five nights while I go out of town to shoot a film. 

Aaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  That's me screaming from way upstate. Can you hear me?

My mother in law is coming to town to lend my husband a hand for a few days, and I know my son will be in the excellent care of his daddy and grandma, but...no one does things like Mommy does them.

Mommy knows how he likes his avocado cut, how long spaghetti noodles should be, and the perfect jelly-to-peanut butter ratio for his PB&J.  Mommy packs the perfect bag for outings (usually) and keeps a few surprises hidden away for when emotions run high- usually his, though sometimes mine. (Long lost truck for him, sippy cup of wine for me.)  Mommy's arms fit perfectly around him, and her face nestles exactly in that little crook between his head and shoulder.  Or maybe it's the other way around.  Either way, there's nothing like it.

When I was in first grade, I was a Brownie.  I lasted about a year, maybe two, partly because my mom hated being the Troop's Cookie Chairman, but also because I hated camp outs and sleep-aways.  I was always homesick, even when my mom was a chaperone.  With my Brownie days behind me, I thought homesickness was behind me, too.  But tonight it's becoming clear that I haven't REALLY felt homesick yet.  I have a hunch that this week is going to be really, really hard.

At least for me.

My son will be eating ice cream for breakfast.  And if that distracts him from being sad, that's fine by me.

In fact, bring me a pint of Cherry Garcia.

Maybe I'll be fine, too.

The Asking is the Hardest Part. (And Surgery Probably Isn't that Fun, Either.)

I'm giving someone a kidney.

It's not for my best friend, it's not for a relative. It's for a woman I greatly admire, a woman who reminds me of me, someone whose family has made my family possible.

It has never occurred to me to not give her my kidney.  People find that strange.  I think even she might.

Surgery is scheduled for November 12th, and so far, my biggest concern is booking flights for my husband, son, and myself to Charleston, SC where the transplant will occur.

My OTHER big concern (OK, there are a few) is how our two families are going to pay for all the aftercare.  She will have much different needs than I will, but the list of potential problems- the list of needs and can'ts- gets longer every time I start it.  I'm sure it is the same- and lengthier- for her.

I was disappointed to learn that a donor (that's me) is barred from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk for 4-6 weeks after surgery.  It seems like my toddler drinks a gallon of milk a day.  That means not picking up my son for 4-6 weeks.  That's a tough one.

For her, there are endless doctor visits and medications- some to suppress her immune system to keep her body from rejecting the kidney. There are needs not yet realized.  There are special meetings to find out just what those will be.  Phone calls to insurance companies to hear what isn't covered.  Another long list.

Both of us will need extra care at home, extra help with things we probably will hate admitting we need help with. I felt that way after my C-Section.  Helpless, a burden.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this, except to say we will need some good juju directed our way.  We may ask for help in various forms.  Maybe you can bring one of us dinner (She's in SC, I'm in NYC.) Maybe you can watch our pets/child.  Maybe you can make us mix tapes.  Maybe you can spread the word about living kidney donation.  We will be asking.  We hope you will be open and willing to listen.

When it comes down to it, it's just a kidney.  Most of us have one to spare.  We just need a little help after we let it go.

Thanks.

Not an Acceptance Speech, but a Pat on My Own Back

I'm going to cut to the chase.

I am really proud of myself.  

I have friends who do this stuff every day, who can turn on the TV any time and see themselves on a national commercial, or as a series regular on a TV show, or who have a long list of IMDB credits.  And I know they all worked really hard to get to those places.

And you know, I worked hard to get myself on LAW AND ORDER:SVU this Wednesday night at 9pm EST on NBC, check your local listings. 

I played it cool in the car, riding to set in Staten Island with Danny Pino.  I played it cool when Mariska and I talked about our childbirth experiences between takes.  I let my cool drop a bit when I asked to take a photo with Mariska at the last possible moment at the end of our day of shooting- but I regained my cool by NOT posting it on Facebook (though I did text it to a select few friends and family.)

But I'm really, really excited to see this episode on Wednesday night at 9pm EST, check your local listings.

Dean and I moved to NYC 3.5 years ago to pursue our dreams.  My pursuit idled a bit while I was pregnant with Elrod (though I did stifle my urge to vomit long enough to do a play and a film out of town in my first trimester), and the pursuit continued to simmer on the back burner for the first year I stayed home with him- and I wouldn't trade that for anything.

But you know what?  I knew when the time was right to jump back in, and I did.  I jumped and I took swimming lessons, and I swam and I met the lifeguards, and I learned to love the sand, and....I can't carry this metaphor on any longer- it was pretty weak to begin with.

My point is that I am proud that I got myself on a TV show that almost everyone has seen, and I look forward to one Saturday afternoon a year or six from now, watching a LAW AND ORDER:SVU marathon on TBS, and seeing myself on screen again, and then waiting three months for that residual check for $1.09 to arrive in the mail.  And some of you will recognize why a check for $1.09 is so meaningful to me.  I know Iron Balls McGinty will.

If you're like me, you might be thinking, "Well, this is good, but what if it's the only thing you do?  What if there aren't any more TV gigs in your future?  Hundreds of actors have been on this show over the years.  Maybe even THOUSANDS.  So what?"  And to you I say, "Will YOU be on SVU this Wednesday night at 9pm EST, check your local listings?"  And if you're a friend of mine who has been on the show, well, then...please be more supportive and optimistic.

This may be all I do.  It may be the last good credit on my resume.  Or it may be the first.  Or second, because I did do ARMY WIVES, and that's not too shabby.  (For you SC actors, people up here are impressed by it, and don't know that a bunch of us locals got cast.) But I hope it's not the last good thing.  I don't feel like it's time to get out of the pool yet, I'm just ditching my water wings.  (Too soon to revisit the crappy metaphor?)

If you're a friend and you're planning to watch it, thank you so much.  It makes me tear up and happy and embarrassed and excited.  If you don't like me and are planning on watching it, don't you have anything better to do than read my blog and watch me on TV? (High five with my friends.)

I will be watching the show this Wednesday night at 9pm EST in my living room with our good friend Stephen Stafford (Dean is in Nashville this week, being a kick-ass playwright.)  Elrod will be sleeping in the next room, so we will have to be very quiet while we sip champagne and wait for my big moment.  And then I will blush and feel proud and probably text my mom and cry a little.

Unless they cut me out.  Then I'll cry a lot.

DISCLAIMER:  I had to go rerecord some dialogue for the episode last week (called "looping"), and they didn't cut me out.  In fact, it looks awesome.

A Birthday Tradition

Today is my son's first birthday.

Every year on my birthday, my mother calls me- not just to sing "Happy Birthday," but to recount the story of my birth.

Highlights from the story include:

*High on anesthesia, Mom saw my father and told a nurse, "I think I know that man."
* The nurses in the nursery called me "Rosebud," because of my ruddy pink skin and (if you ask Mom) my delicate beauty.
* One nurse fell asleep while rocking me, and Mom flipped out.
* The day I was born was the best day of her entire life.

I always thought that last statement was sweet, but I never really understood how much she meant it until now.  And frankly, I never thought I'd ever be the one saying anything remotely like that.  Ever in my life.  Ever.

But here I am.

I had a few minutes alone with my baby this morning, feeding him a bottle.  As we sat there, quiet and cuddly, I found myself telling him the story of the day he was born.

After all, it is his birthday.

Highlights from the story include:

*Acupuncture induced my labor.
* We had to "walk the halls" until they could check me in a hospital room, and a custodian found me groaning and laboring on my hands and knees in an empty conference room.
* While I was getting an epidural, I buried my head in the ample, comforting bosom of a Trinidadian nurse named Anselma.
* It was the best day of my entire life.

While my baby probably didn't understand what I was saying, I like to think he understood what I was feeling.  Feeling nostalgic. Feeling intense, immeasurable love.  Feeling incredibly fortunate.

And also feeling glad that I still have a few good years before he starts rolling his eyes when I tell him this story.

But when he does, I'll know that deep down inside, he secretly loves hearing it.

Because I sure did.

Thanks Mom.

Happy Birthday, Elrod.

Salsa-pocalyose

Long ago, my friend Jody moved to NYC.  Riding on the train one day, he was approached by a rep from Calvin Klein, and asked if he'd be interested in modeling for an upcoming shoot.  The man had legit business cards, and Jody was a handsome guy.  Jody said yes, and the man replied, "Good.  Just one more thing.  Can you snowboard?"

Crestfallen, Jody told him that no, he could not snowboard, but he would "look damn cute standing on one."  Jody didn't get the job.

Hindsight is 20/20, and we all told him, "You should have said YES!  You could have learned to snowboard in time for the shoot!"  Any actor would give the same advice:  always say YES.

Can you tap dance?  YES!
Can you speak Spanish? YES!
Can you fly fish? YES!

To these three questions in particular, I feel comfortable answering "Yes."  I actually CAN do all three things with varying levels of success.  I took tap from 4th through 9th grade.  I know enough Spanish to translate the Spanish advertisements on the subway, even ones without English versions hanging alongside of them.  I lived in Montana for two years, where the men give their women waders, boots and fly rods instead of engagement rings.  So, YES.  I can do those things.

This week, my agent called with a commercial audition for me.  I'd audition for the role of "Woman," early 40's, a young Sally Field type, with longish hair and a zest for life.  Perfect.  And then she said, "Just one more thing.  Can you salsa?"

(pause)

"YES.  Yes, I can."

The internet is an incredibly useful tool. Want to give your loved one a foot massage?  Interested in fish taxidermy?  Want to cut your own hair? You Tube has videos to help.  You Tube can also teach you how to salsa.

With the audition looming a day away, I watched a handful of those how-to-salsa videos, and felt I had a good grasp on the basic steps I needed to know to get by.  Until now, by salsa experience was traditional, mild to medium.  I'd been known to try the occasional pineapple-habañero salsa, but very rarely, and there was usually a margarita involved.

But that's a different type of salsa.

When you go to a commercial audition, the waiting area is often filled with people who look a lot like you, but with mild variations.  Someone's cardigan may be a darker green, or maybe their ponytail is a little higher.  At this audition, no one looked like me.  The place was filled with (say this with an accent) Dancers of zee Salsa.  Women had weird Madonna arms and swirly, low-cut dresses, their partners (some brought actual dancing men) were clad in snug black t-shirts or white, flowy shirts with a few too many open buttons.  To some actors, it might have been intimidating.

But not to me.  I was out of the apartment.  I had a babysitter.  There were actual adults in the room, and I was fairly certain I'd be speaking complete sentences to them.  No, I wasn't intimidated.  I was already a winner.

And then they called me in.

"Monica, you're going to dance with Bernardo."

Bernardo reminded me of that guy from the Dos Equis commercials, The Most Fascinating Man in the World.  A cross between Ricardo Montalban and...a younger Ricardo Montalban.  Bernardo said, "Jest fahllow me."

I tried. I really did.  From the hips up, I was great.  I smiled, I snapped my head on the turns, I held my arms where the lady in the video told me to keep them.  I moved my hips as much as any white girl who's seen Shakira can move them.

But my feet.  Oh, my feet. Poor Bernardo got stepped on many times over, and at one point- and I didn't think this was possible- our KNEES banged into each other.  He said, "Relaaaax, and fahllow me."  I thought I was.  During my elementary and middle school tap training, I never had this problem.

When it was over, the casting director said, "You moved your hips, so that was good!  And you looked like you were having fun."  (A small victory.)

Bernardo said, "Goodbye."  (A crushing defeat.)

In the elevator, I updated my Facebook status to simply read "Salsa-pocalypse."

I wasn't surprised that I didn't book the gig, and I wasn't too bummed out about it.  After all, I had a break from The Best Baby in the World, and when my husband got home, he made me another delicious meal- this time, fish tacos.

Rummaging through the fridge, he asked, "Where's the salsa?"  I told him I'd been so busy watching dance videos, I'd forgotten to go to the store.

He said, "But your Facebook page said 'Salsa-pocalypse'."  So, I explained about my day, about Bernardo, and about saying YES.

Deflated, he replied, "Oh.  I was hoping for salsa."

So were we all, Dean.  So were we all.

There's Never Enough Time

It's been months since my last blog post.

Mainly because there just isn't any time for that sort of thing when you have a baby.

There's no time to pick the avocado out of my hair.  No time to pick up the hairball the cat just threw up. No time to unpack those last few boxes from our December move, or to send out thank you notes and birthday cards.  No time to clean.  Anything.

Truthfully, it's not so much that there's no time for ANYTHING.  There just isn't time for EVERYTHING.  No time to squeeze it all in.  No time to see that play that was just extended for a third time, or to have drinks with friends past 9pm.  No time to go to the gym...not that I complain about that most days.

But there is time for some things.

There's plenty of time to feed oatmeal and bananas to the baby, even if most of it ends up on the floor or behind his ears.  Plenty of time to splash with him in the bathtub, and to read "Peek A Who?" and "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" whenever he grabs the books and crawls my way.  There's plenty of time to clap our hands and dance to "Rockin' Robin" for the one thousandth time, and plenty of time to cuddle with him on the sofa while he giggles at "this little piggy."

There's ample time to baby proof the apartment as our boy gets braver and more interested in opening drawers and doors.  There's tons of time for zerberts (I looked up how to spell that) and rocking and making finger-painted art projects for friends and family.  There's even time to change diapers.  (Let's face it, there HAS to be.)

Having a baby has made us realize what is truly important.  So while one may be stressed that their champagne glasses didn't match when they toasted their baby's baptism (Who, ME?), there are much, MUCH better things that deserve my attention and limited brain space.

Like wiping off that little drop of milk from the corner of the baby's mouth after he falls asleep in my arms.  Or marveling in the piece of hair on the back of his head that is just starting to curl.

But not cleaning.

The cleaning can wait.