Ya know, some days life is a tad daunting. I usually sleep a restless sleep, awakened by burning sensations or random pains, despite my night-time dosage of amitriptyline. The alarm goes off at 5 so I have time to do my exercise bike, or my muscles stiffen up all day (although honestly, I'm so exhausted lately I have been missing it more and more – self defeating, eh?). I'm out of the shower by 6, have makeup and work clothes on at 6:30, help get the kids wrangled while packing my lunch and having breakfast. Then I'm on the road and jockeying for position on the interstate to get to the office in a timely manner.
I spend the day in an office chair working at a computer, getting up often so I don't stiffen up from staying in the same position for too long.
I go home and there's the kid-wrangling through dinner, then if there's no choir practice or kid's activity, I put da boy to bed at 8:00, which can take an hour.
Then into bed myself, and it all starts over again.
Not bad really. I know a lot of moms who do a heckuva lot more than I do during the day.
And I hate to whine. Sometimes anyway. But I'm gonna whine here. Just doing this much has become hard. And I used to do so much more. But now, pulling myself out of bed is painful as well as exhausting. I stay in the shower too long some mornings just because the warm water on my muscles feels so damned good. I can't always grip the knife very well just to cut up my son's banana. My daughter's basically on her own except for dialog – "Got your violin? All of your homework done? Put on your coat!"
While I sit in my office chair I can expect back spasms, shoulder spasms, electric shocks, chest pains, heartburn, neck aches. Also on a good day energy drinks will actually keep me awake. On bad days, I doze off during meetings, and hard as I try, I just can't f*cking help it. It's humiliating.
Last Friday, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much Diet Dr. Mountain Dew I plugged into my gullet ("Hook it to my veeeeeeiiiiiiins!") I still nodded off several times during a packed-house industry meeting. When an opportunity came to leave the meeting early, I jumped on it so I wouldn't debase myself or my company any further.
In the evenings, I dread every moment I have to walk up or down stairs. Down because it hurts and I feel like gravity's gonna knock me over at any moment. Up because it kinda hurts, but more relevantly I feel like my legs are suddenly made of lead, or like I'm trying to walk upstairs while submerged in a pool of water. Kind of like in nightmares, when you're trying very hard to move quickly and you just can't? They refuse to work with me. And as much as I love our home, at these moments I curse owning a two-story house with a basement.
And at Alan's bedtime, sometimes he asks me to lay in the floor next to him. Every time he does, I pray he doesn't want anything after I'm down there, because it's damned hard to get up again.
And the weight. As I take these stupid fibro meds, my weight keeps piling on. Which makes movement even harder. I have another doctor's appointment on the 19th. I'm going to talk to him about trying to further refine my meds. Something's gotta make this better.
So yeah, I have my whiny pants on today.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Entry 21 - Snickers are on the 6th floor
I want to eat right now. I VERY BADLY want to eat right now. I got a tea instead.
Why am I so adamant about eating right now? Because I feel fraggin' miserable.
Fibro pain is shooting everywhere around my neck and back. My jaw hurts like hell. My legs feel like they're coated in concrete. I'm having trouble staying awake.
Food takes me away, if just for a minute.
Yes, I realize that's totally self-defeating. Oh well.
I'm gonna try very hard not to eat until dinner, but no guarantees.
Why am I so adamant about eating right now? Because I feel fraggin' miserable.
Fibro pain is shooting everywhere around my neck and back. My jaw hurts like hell. My legs feel like they're coated in concrete. I'm having trouble staying awake.
Food takes me away, if just for a minute.
Yes, I realize that's totally self-defeating. Oh well.
I'm gonna try very hard not to eat until dinner, but no guarantees.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Entry 20: My First Memory
Know what's funny? My earliest, earliest memory is about food. Specifically, highly unhealthy food.
True story.
I told Mom years ago about this memory I had. I wanted chocolate ice cream, and I wanted it bad. It was in the freezer of a short brown refrigerator, and I couldn't reach it. So I opened the fridge part of the appliance and climbed until I could reach the freezer door.
I can't remember if I got caught, or if I actually got the ice cream or anything. I just remember that I. Wanted. ICE CREAM.
Oh. I also remember I was only wearing my underwear. Mom and Dad had a hellacious time keeping clothes on me as a kid. They finally got me to at least keep my underpants on as a compromise.
So, apparently Mom and Dad owned the short brown fridge before we moved to the farm. Since we moved the day after my second birthday, and since I potty trained at a little over a year, it was sometime in that period.
(I know people say you can't have memories before like, five or six, but it's an incredibly common phenomenon in our family, so I think those "people" are mistaken.)
So how sick is that? My earliest memory was wanting, working my hardest, thinking creatively, to get to CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM AAAAAHHHH!!! GIMME GIMME!!!!!
Ah, sometimes nothing changes, eh?
I'm having a really hard time sticking to Weight Watchers. I want to do it, but I swear, I am having a helluva big problem with it. I'm getting plenty to eat. I'm spacing my meals and snacks out well.
But I don't get to stuff myself. I'm having carrots instead of popcorn, apples instead of chocolate bars.
Well, let me rephrase that – I shouldn't be stuffing myself. But occasionally I'll reach a time where I just can't stand it and something luscious and fattening will disappear.
I am my own worst enemy.
And know what I want now? CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM!!! Aaaahhhhhh!!!!!!!!
True story.
I told Mom years ago about this memory I had. I wanted chocolate ice cream, and I wanted it bad. It was in the freezer of a short brown refrigerator, and I couldn't reach it. So I opened the fridge part of the appliance and climbed until I could reach the freezer door.
I can't remember if I got caught, or if I actually got the ice cream or anything. I just remember that I. Wanted. ICE CREAM.
Oh. I also remember I was only wearing my underwear. Mom and Dad had a hellacious time keeping clothes on me as a kid. They finally got me to at least keep my underpants on as a compromise.
So, apparently Mom and Dad owned the short brown fridge before we moved to the farm. Since we moved the day after my second birthday, and since I potty trained at a little over a year, it was sometime in that period.
(I know people say you can't have memories before like, five or six, but it's an incredibly common phenomenon in our family, so I think those "people" are mistaken.)
So how sick is that? My earliest memory was wanting, working my hardest, thinking creatively, to get to CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM AAAAAHHHH!!! GIMME GIMME!!!!!
Ah, sometimes nothing changes, eh?
I'm having a really hard time sticking to Weight Watchers. I want to do it, but I swear, I am having a helluva big problem with it. I'm getting plenty to eat. I'm spacing my meals and snacks out well.
But I don't get to stuff myself. I'm having carrots instead of popcorn, apples instead of chocolate bars.
Well, let me rephrase that – I shouldn't be stuffing myself. But occasionally I'll reach a time where I just can't stand it and something luscious and fattening will disappear.
I am my own worst enemy.
And know what I want now? CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM!!! Aaaahhhhhh!!!!!!!!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Entry 19 – A half pound is worth more than 75 cents
Dumb title, I know. It's a play on words, ya see, since I'm married to my lovely Brit boy. Half a pound? UK-US conversion rate? Yeah, screw it. Let's move on.
Anyway, I lost another half pound this week. Sounds like a pittance, but considering it was Halloween and candy abounded at our house, that half pound is worth a helluva lot to me.
I remember growing up, I hated summers. Why, you ask? Because I gained more weight in a summer than I gained during the school year. At least when I went to school, I couldn't have constant access to food. So while I'd maybe gain 12 – 20 pounds during the school year, I gained 20 – 30 over a summer.
Now I'm an adult. Except for hearings, I have that same constant access to food. And given it was just Halloween and the kids came back with a good haul (half of which is milk-laden and little dude can't eat), It's a wonder I don't weigh 900 pounds.
So the fact I lost half a pound. That actually means a lot to me.
That said, the fibro still sucks. After walking the kids around Halloween night, and carrying Alan for a block before the back and leg spasms were too bad to continue lugging that 40 pounds of childmeat around anymore, I was toast. Total toast. (Which is ironic, you see, because I can't eat toast cause o' the gluten.) It was by sheer force of will that I got up the next morning to do my exercise bike. Well, force of will and the knowledge that if I didn't, I'd be largely unable to move that day.
I still feel it. There's an aching in my knees, constant gnarling pain in my lower back, some shooting paints down my right leg. (There usually is in my left leg, so now at least they're on equal footing – HAHAHA footing. It's a pun).
Unrelated to Halloween, but probably related to fibro, I started a migraine last night, took a migraine pill, which helped for a while until the migraine exploded in the wee hours of the night. At 5 am I took another migraine pill, slept in a bit (skipping my exercise bike – paying for that already), and hauled my butt in with a migraine hangover.
This week has royally sucked.
Except for my half pound. That half pound really is worth a lot.
Anyway, I lost another half pound this week. Sounds like a pittance, but considering it was Halloween and candy abounded at our house, that half pound is worth a helluva lot to me.
I remember growing up, I hated summers. Why, you ask? Because I gained more weight in a summer than I gained during the school year. At least when I went to school, I couldn't have constant access to food. So while I'd maybe gain 12 – 20 pounds during the school year, I gained 20 – 30 over a summer.
Now I'm an adult. Except for hearings, I have that same constant access to food. And given it was just Halloween and the kids came back with a good haul (half of which is milk-laden and little dude can't eat), It's a wonder I don't weigh 900 pounds.
So the fact I lost half a pound. That actually means a lot to me.
That said, the fibro still sucks. After walking the kids around Halloween night, and carrying Alan for a block before the back and leg spasms were too bad to continue lugging that 40 pounds of childmeat around anymore, I was toast. Total toast. (Which is ironic, you see, because I can't eat toast cause o' the gluten.) It was by sheer force of will that I got up the next morning to do my exercise bike. Well, force of will and the knowledge that if I didn't, I'd be largely unable to move that day.
I still feel it. There's an aching in my knees, constant gnarling pain in my lower back, some shooting paints down my right leg. (There usually is in my left leg, so now at least they're on equal footing – HAHAHA footing. It's a pun).
Unrelated to Halloween, but probably related to fibro, I started a migraine last night, took a migraine pill, which helped for a while until the migraine exploded in the wee hours of the night. At 5 am I took another migraine pill, slept in a bit (skipping my exercise bike – paying for that already), and hauled my butt in with a migraine hangover.
This week has royally sucked.
Except for my half pound. That half pound really is worth a lot.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Entry 18 - Ambivalent, but Making an Effort
I joined weight watchers. More to come.
ETA: Dropped five pounds this week. Cautious optimism.
ETA: Dropped five pounds this week. Cautious optimism.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Entry 17 - Don't worry, I do have a point. Kinda.
I didn't mean this to be a fibro blog. I meant it to be a "FAT!" blog. I'll get to the point in a minute.
What follows is not an exercise in griping, but an exercise in observation.
Last night, I realized that just sitting still on the couch having dinner, I could identify multiple points of pain all over my body, and other just odd little hobs and nobs that struck my senses.
So sitting here right now, I'm going to just do a quick inventory, head to toe:
• I feel light headed.
• I feel like a lightly-applied vice is pushing in, just above my
cheekbones, with more pressure on the left side.
• I feel sinus drainage down the back of my throat.
• My throat feels like it's clenched tight.
• My right cheek is burning.
• My jaw joints are throbbing.
• My ears are ringing.
• My mouth is dry (probably the medication)
• My neck is stiff.
• A pain actually just shot up the back right side of my neck to the
base of my skull, and now feels tight.
• The right side of my neck has a baseball-sized ball of hot tight
pain right where it meets the shoulder.
• The tips of my shoulders hurt.
• My collarbones hurt.
• The bottom of my left shoulder blade is throbbing.
• My fingers are numb and tingly.
• I swear, my boobs hurt.
• My sternum feels tight.
• My elbows don't want to move.
• I have weird patches of pain in my forearms.
• My palms are alternating between tingly and hot.
• My fingers hare a dull ache, except the knuckles, which throb.
• My fingertips are burning.
• The spine at my center back just feels like a blister or
something – it only feels fiery when I move it against the back
of my chair.
• I think my ribs themselves are hurting. I'm regretting wearing
pants, I should have worn a dress with no waistband.
• My stomach feels pukey.
• My lower abdomen has little balls of crampy pain in various places.
• My left hip is throbbing and tender to the touch.
• Oh who am I kidding? Lots of weird places on me are tender to the touch.
• The pain from my hip seems to leech down to my left knee, where it
rests like a railroad spike at the knee cap.
• The inside of my right knee feels like a black of wood.
• I can't cross my legs, or I end up with massive inner thigh cramps.
• There's a soft-ball sized knot, just the feeling of a hot hard ball,
in my right calf.
• My feet are tingly, and the balls are throbbing.
• My arches are just kind of … tightened? Like they don't want to be left out?
• Oh, and above my right ankle, it's started to cramp. Lovely.
And I'm really not trying to complain because, well, it pretty much feels like this all the time. So you just kind of get used to it, ya know? I mean, I'm not happy, I'm not comfortable, I certainly want to treat it, but this has just become a daily thing since I've been off the NSAIDs, so I am still adjusting, but meh.
Anyway, on to the weight loss portion of the show.
I've been doing 20 minutes on the exercise bike every morning to try to help keep things managed. It sucks. I get up at 5 am to do it, before the rest of the family's awake, and to try to get my blood moving for the day. The only thing that keeps me doing it is I feel way better throughout the day if I can keep it up. I've been slacking off on weekends, which means I've been feeling shittier on weekends than weekdays. I need to suck it up and continue on the weekends, because right now, all I'm doing is sleeping and whining through my time with my family.
So at work, they're doing a health challenge – put in 400 minutes of exercise in the month of October. I got that nailed as long as I report my exercise bike time, so why not?
Then, they're bringing weight watchers in house because there was enough interest. So I'm signing up. I'm sure there's a gluten-free program I can follow.
So we'll see what happens. Pain control plus some weight loss? If I'm going to be doing the exercise anyway, maybe I can finally make it worth more.
Plus, if I lose 30 pounds, I intend to wear this awesome, amazing, alluring dress to my best friend's wedding. Her dress is very Grecian goddess. I can be her high-ranking slave girl in this rockin' piece o' material!
What follows is not an exercise in griping, but an exercise in observation.
Last night, I realized that just sitting still on the couch having dinner, I could identify multiple points of pain all over my body, and other just odd little hobs and nobs that struck my senses.
So sitting here right now, I'm going to just do a quick inventory, head to toe:
• I feel light headed.
• I feel like a lightly-applied vice is pushing in, just above my
cheekbones, with more pressure on the left side.
• I feel sinus drainage down the back of my throat.
• My throat feels like it's clenched tight.
• My right cheek is burning.
• My jaw joints are throbbing.
• My ears are ringing.
• My mouth is dry (probably the medication)
• My neck is stiff.
• A pain actually just shot up the back right side of my neck to the
base of my skull, and now feels tight.
• The right side of my neck has a baseball-sized ball of hot tight
pain right where it meets the shoulder.
• The tips of my shoulders hurt.
• My collarbones hurt.
• The bottom of my left shoulder blade is throbbing.
• My fingers are numb and tingly.
• I swear, my boobs hurt.
• My sternum feels tight.
• My elbows don't want to move.
• I have weird patches of pain in my forearms.
• My palms are alternating between tingly and hot.
• My fingers hare a dull ache, except the knuckles, which throb.
• My fingertips are burning.
• The spine at my center back just feels like a blister or
something – it only feels fiery when I move it against the back
of my chair.
• I think my ribs themselves are hurting. I'm regretting wearing
pants, I should have worn a dress with no waistband.
• My stomach feels pukey.
• My lower abdomen has little balls of crampy pain in various places.
• My left hip is throbbing and tender to the touch.
• Oh who am I kidding? Lots of weird places on me are tender to the touch.
• The pain from my hip seems to leech down to my left knee, where it
rests like a railroad spike at the knee cap.
• The inside of my right knee feels like a black of wood.
• I can't cross my legs, or I end up with massive inner thigh cramps.
• There's a soft-ball sized knot, just the feeling of a hot hard ball,
in my right calf.
• My feet are tingly, and the balls are throbbing.
• My arches are just kind of … tightened? Like they don't want to be left out?
• Oh, and above my right ankle, it's started to cramp. Lovely.
And I'm really not trying to complain because, well, it pretty much feels like this all the time. So you just kind of get used to it, ya know? I mean, I'm not happy, I'm not comfortable, I certainly want to treat it, but this has just become a daily thing since I've been off the NSAIDs, so I am still adjusting, but meh.
Anyway, on to the weight loss portion of the show.
I've been doing 20 minutes on the exercise bike every morning to try to help keep things managed. It sucks. I get up at 5 am to do it, before the rest of the family's awake, and to try to get my blood moving for the day. The only thing that keeps me doing it is I feel way better throughout the day if I can keep it up. I've been slacking off on weekends, which means I've been feeling shittier on weekends than weekdays. I need to suck it up and continue on the weekends, because right now, all I'm doing is sleeping and whining through my time with my family.
So at work, they're doing a health challenge – put in 400 minutes of exercise in the month of October. I got that nailed as long as I report my exercise bike time, so why not?
Then, they're bringing weight watchers in house because there was enough interest. So I'm signing up. I'm sure there's a gluten-free program I can follow.
So we'll see what happens. Pain control plus some weight loss? If I'm going to be doing the exercise anyway, maybe I can finally make it worth more.
Plus, if I lose 30 pounds, I intend to wear this awesome, amazing, alluring dress to my best friend's wedding. Her dress is very Grecian goddess. I can be her high-ranking slave girl in this rockin' piece o' material!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Entry 16 - How do you get past denial?
I used to be married to an alcoholic. I know all about denial. I'm quite good at it, I spent years swimming happily in it. Or, rather unhappily, but pretending to be happy.
And it occurred to me today as I was mowing through a bag of peanut butter M&M's (the food of the gods, this was the mana that fell on the Israelites) that I'm in denial once again. About my health.
Oh, I talk a good game. I'm overweight, I need to deal with it for my health and to set a good example for my children, I need to cut out caffeine, chocolate, asparatame, etc., to help get my fibromyalgia under control, blah blah blah. But do I live it? No. Because at the end of the day I still don't feel like anything bad is going to happen to me over this rather than having to continually cycle out my wardrobe to larger sizes as I get fatter and fatter.
So what is it with me? How come I can intellectually know something but I can't let it past the Chocolate Chex and into my heart? Is it not that I can't physically give up the food; is it more that I'm eating myself silly because then I can avoid really facing what my brain already knows? Because sometimes the reality of my situation sinks in, and I get sullen and depressed. I'm so pained and so tired, that when I face it, I just curl into a cranky little ball. If I keep eating and deny it, I'm literally "fat and happy."
And I think I must be onto something, because just typing that out, admitting it, is making my heart feel heavy. And not because of all the fat that's probably hanging all over it like Kevin Smith on Stan Lee. (No disrepect at all intended to Mr. Smith or Mr. Lee, I admire them both, it's just the first analogy that popped into my head, which just proves I'm way too pop-culture enamored.)
I don't eat to live. I don't even live to eat. I eat so I don't have to face the reality of life. I eat so I don't have to think about what I am. Because as long as there's a gluten-free, fat-and-sugar-filled lemon shortbread cookie in my hand and a cuppa on my desk, I can be somewhere else in my head. I can also cling to the fact that as long as I'm fat, I can blame all of the bad stuff in my life on my weight, and think it'd all be better if I could just lose weight (I've been thin, though, so I know that's not true). I eat instead of drink because I can feel high and alive and forget everything around me while I concentrate on the pleasure of food (without the drunkenness that pained me so much during my first marriage).
So yeah. I can talk all I want, but I'm not really there yet. And when I start to get there, it's kind of crushing. Which is stupid – I know I have so much, why am I so concerned about not having my health? Or is that part of what's defeating me, that I can't admit things aren't the best they could be despite how much is good? That I can't accept the dichotomy of daily pain with daily joy? That I can be physically and emotionally miserable while still being intellectually stable and "heart" happy? I've been so adamant the last few years that gray areas are acceptable and traversable, have I not really understood that beyond my law practice and the lives of my friends I so happily contribute advice to? Is it I can see the bigger picture with the entire world, but I can't get past tidbits in my own tiny isolated existence?
I'm suddenly not so hungry. M&M's are gone now, though, so that doesn't matter. But suddenly I'm thinking I need to just crawl into my own mind for a while, and see what's actually there.
And it occurred to me today as I was mowing through a bag of peanut butter M&M's (the food of the gods, this was the mana that fell on the Israelites) that I'm in denial once again. About my health.
Oh, I talk a good game. I'm overweight, I need to deal with it for my health and to set a good example for my children, I need to cut out caffeine, chocolate, asparatame, etc., to help get my fibromyalgia under control, blah blah blah. But do I live it? No. Because at the end of the day I still don't feel like anything bad is going to happen to me over this rather than having to continually cycle out my wardrobe to larger sizes as I get fatter and fatter.
So what is it with me? How come I can intellectually know something but I can't let it past the Chocolate Chex and into my heart? Is it not that I can't physically give up the food; is it more that I'm eating myself silly because then I can avoid really facing what my brain already knows? Because sometimes the reality of my situation sinks in, and I get sullen and depressed. I'm so pained and so tired, that when I face it, I just curl into a cranky little ball. If I keep eating and deny it, I'm literally "fat and happy."
And I think I must be onto something, because just typing that out, admitting it, is making my heart feel heavy. And not because of all the fat that's probably hanging all over it like Kevin Smith on Stan Lee. (No disrepect at all intended to Mr. Smith or Mr. Lee, I admire them both, it's just the first analogy that popped into my head, which just proves I'm way too pop-culture enamored.)
I don't eat to live. I don't even live to eat. I eat so I don't have to face the reality of life. I eat so I don't have to think about what I am. Because as long as there's a gluten-free, fat-and-sugar-filled lemon shortbread cookie in my hand and a cuppa on my desk, I can be somewhere else in my head. I can also cling to the fact that as long as I'm fat, I can blame all of the bad stuff in my life on my weight, and think it'd all be better if I could just lose weight (I've been thin, though, so I know that's not true). I eat instead of drink because I can feel high and alive and forget everything around me while I concentrate on the pleasure of food (without the drunkenness that pained me so much during my first marriage).
So yeah. I can talk all I want, but I'm not really there yet. And when I start to get there, it's kind of crushing. Which is stupid – I know I have so much, why am I so concerned about not having my health? Or is that part of what's defeating me, that I can't admit things aren't the best they could be despite how much is good? That I can't accept the dichotomy of daily pain with daily joy? That I can be physically and emotionally miserable while still being intellectually stable and "heart" happy? I've been so adamant the last few years that gray areas are acceptable and traversable, have I not really understood that beyond my law practice and the lives of my friends I so happily contribute advice to? Is it I can see the bigger picture with the entire world, but I can't get past tidbits in my own tiny isolated existence?
I'm suddenly not so hungry. M&M's are gone now, though, so that doesn't matter. But suddenly I'm thinking I need to just crawl into my own mind for a while, and see what's actually there.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Entry 15 - My Y's don't always work on this keyboard.
And honestl, the title of this blog is wholly irrelevant to the content, but in case I'm dropping a bunch of y's, I didn't want y'all to think I was an idiot. I think that enough on my own.
So remember when in the last post, I said I had to go off my NSAIDs because of my stomach? Well guess what! Found out I have even more shit wrong with me! Hoooooray!
So a little while off the NSAIDs, I started to feel sore. The more the anti-inflammatories washed outa my body, the more sore I got. Well that's interesting!
Eventuall, I couldn't sleep more than five hours a night, and never in a row (which would have at least helped). Hurt too bad. My neck was a mess. My left knee and hip screamed. My entire lower back burned. If the cat jumped on the wrong spot on my body, he was met with a yelp of pain.
So, I haul my sore ass back to the doc's. He does a tender point test. I almost elbowed him the ribs.
Now we can add* fibromyalgia to my long list! Woo woo!
(*I originally typed this as "ass," dancing around in my Freudian slip again.)
So, he starts me on muscle relaxants for two weeks.
No good.
He moves me to a stronger muscle relaxant and a pain killer.
Liiiiitle better. Had a few solid nights, but still not great.
Aaaaaand, I've periodically been falling asleep during witness prep at work. Which is just charming, isn't it?
Calling him again Monday.
How's the effect my eating? Well, if you recall, I'm a stress eater. This has been stressful.
A good side effect, though? If I don't get my ass up at 5 am and go put in 20 minutes on the exercise bike, I'm toast the rest of the day. So I've been exercising once or twice a day, doing interval training on the exercise bike. And I just bought small handweights to also work on while I'm on the bike.
Helps the muscles deal.
And might have a good side effect at some point, never know.
Also gives me an uninterrupted 20 minutes in the morning to listen to books on tape, which has been nice. Millenium trilogy (which I highly recommend) is done, now on to the Sookie Stackhouse series! She's dumb as a post, but oh so endearing!
So remember when in the last post, I said I had to go off my NSAIDs because of my stomach? Well guess what! Found out I have even more shit wrong with me! Hoooooray!
So a little while off the NSAIDs, I started to feel sore. The more the anti-inflammatories washed outa my body, the more sore I got. Well that's interesting!
Eventuall, I couldn't sleep more than five hours a night, and never in a row (which would have at least helped). Hurt too bad. My neck was a mess. My left knee and hip screamed. My entire lower back burned. If the cat jumped on the wrong spot on my body, he was met with a yelp of pain.
So, I haul my sore ass back to the doc's. He does a tender point test. I almost elbowed him the ribs.
Now we can add* fibromyalgia to my long list! Woo woo!
(*I originally typed this as "ass," dancing around in my Freudian slip again.)
So, he starts me on muscle relaxants for two weeks.
No good.
He moves me to a stronger muscle relaxant and a pain killer.
Liiiiitle better. Had a few solid nights, but still not great.
Aaaaaand, I've periodically been falling asleep during witness prep at work. Which is just charming, isn't it?
Calling him again Monday.
How's the effect my eating? Well, if you recall, I'm a stress eater. This has been stressful.
A good side effect, though? If I don't get my ass up at 5 am and go put in 20 minutes on the exercise bike, I'm toast the rest of the day. So I've been exercising once or twice a day, doing interval training on the exercise bike. And I just bought small handweights to also work on while I'm on the bike.
Helps the muscles deal.
And might have a good side effect at some point, never know.
Also gives me an uninterrupted 20 minutes in the morning to listen to books on tape, which has been nice. Millenium trilogy (which I highly recommend) is done, now on to the Sookie Stackhouse series! She's dumb as a post, but oh so endearing!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Entry 14 - My Luckiest Number, My Suckiest Entry
Yeah, haven't posted for a while.
But I hate my stomach. Hate it hate it hate it.
So, things were going nicely. I was eating all non-processed foods, cooking with fresh veg, etc. I was getting so much energy back during the month of June, and was actually feeling pretty danged good and confident. I'm all over this thing!
Then, Monday June 28 hit.
I'd been feeling a little ouchy in the tummy for about a week. It's come and go in duration and intensity. I rested up the weekend of the 26th, and felt pretty good about work on the 28th.
Part way through the morning, the stomach pain started up. I kept pushing through.
By that afternoon, I was in childbirth-level abdominal pain. I put my head on the desk and breathed through it until I felt well enough to drive myself to the doctor.
He gave me a new proton-pump inhibitor as well as a stomach pain medication, ordered me off my beloved NSAIDs and muscle relaxants for my jaw, and ordered an upper GI and a gallbladder ultrasound. (Told me it was scheduled for the 29th, when actually they scheduled me for the 30th, which is just the latest in a long line of incidents, and I really probably should fire that doctor, but whatev.)
I get my results back, what lo and behold – my gallbladder is covered in small cysts ("too small to have much chance of being cancerous, and it's probably not what's causing the pain" – thanks for the encouragement!) and my lower esophageal sphincter (what an unfortunate name) isn't flapping down right. So yeah, GERDy GERDy GERD GERD, my acid reflux is in full swing, and stepped it up a notch.
Cut out more foods. Somewhat unsuccessfully. There's only so much you can cut out, ya know? I've already cut out all gluten, now I'm supposed to give up tomatoes, coffee (ha!), Diet Coke (HAHA!), Red Bull (DOUBLEFREAKINGHAHA), chocolate (Sweet Jebus, no!), orange juice (okay, I'll relent there), etc.?
So whatevs, I've been eating stuff that makes my tummy feel comfy. And I'm back down to no energy. Oh, and since I’m off my NSAIDs, not only does my jaw hurt like hell (but I'm still gonna chew, dammitalltohell), but I discovered the NSAIDs were also preventing pain in my neck, shoulders, hips, ankles, knees, lower back, upper back, and I think even my blinkin' stupid traitorous elbows. So yeah, can't eat a damned thing (well, not supposed to eat a damned thing, it feels like), and activity levels are down, and sleep is crap because I wake up in pain 2 – 3 times a night.
I'm sure I've put weight back on, but I dare not look.
I'm just gonna sit here for a bit and be pissed. Every time I make a bit of progress, I get thwacked with something else. And it's really, really pissing me off.
But I hate my stomach. Hate it hate it hate it.
So, things were going nicely. I was eating all non-processed foods, cooking with fresh veg, etc. I was getting so much energy back during the month of June, and was actually feeling pretty danged good and confident. I'm all over this thing!
Then, Monday June 28 hit.
I'd been feeling a little ouchy in the tummy for about a week. It's come and go in duration and intensity. I rested up the weekend of the 26th, and felt pretty good about work on the 28th.
Part way through the morning, the stomach pain started up. I kept pushing through.
By that afternoon, I was in childbirth-level abdominal pain. I put my head on the desk and breathed through it until I felt well enough to drive myself to the doctor.
He gave me a new proton-pump inhibitor as well as a stomach pain medication, ordered me off my beloved NSAIDs and muscle relaxants for my jaw, and ordered an upper GI and a gallbladder ultrasound. (Told me it was scheduled for the 29th, when actually they scheduled me for the 30th, which is just the latest in a long line of incidents, and I really probably should fire that doctor, but whatev.)
I get my results back, what lo and behold – my gallbladder is covered in small cysts ("too small to have much chance of being cancerous, and it's probably not what's causing the pain" – thanks for the encouragement!) and my lower esophageal sphincter (what an unfortunate name) isn't flapping down right. So yeah, GERDy GERDy GERD GERD, my acid reflux is in full swing, and stepped it up a notch.
Cut out more foods. Somewhat unsuccessfully. There's only so much you can cut out, ya know? I've already cut out all gluten, now I'm supposed to give up tomatoes, coffee (ha!), Diet Coke (HAHA!), Red Bull (DOUBLEFREAKINGHAHA), chocolate (Sweet Jebus, no!), orange juice (okay, I'll relent there), etc.?
So whatevs, I've been eating stuff that makes my tummy feel comfy. And I'm back down to no energy. Oh, and since I’m off my NSAIDs, not only does my jaw hurt like hell (but I'm still gonna chew, dammitalltohell), but I discovered the NSAIDs were also preventing pain in my neck, shoulders, hips, ankles, knees, lower back, upper back, and I think even my blinkin' stupid traitorous elbows. So yeah, can't eat a damned thing (well, not supposed to eat a damned thing, it feels like), and activity levels are down, and sleep is crap because I wake up in pain 2 – 3 times a night.
I'm sure I've put weight back on, but I dare not look.
I'm just gonna sit here for a bit and be pissed. Every time I make a bit of progress, I get thwacked with something else. And it's really, really pissing me off.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Entry 13 - For Good Luck and Good Living!
Happened upon an interesting article in the local paper today about a doctor self-treating her MS with diet and exercise. Linky.
What I find very cool is, I'm more or less doing the same thing she is (although I haven't gotten into the exercise portion much yet, but that's more time than desire, which I'll explain below).
I've adopted something similar to her eating habits, although I got my idea from Joel Fuhrman's "Eat to Live." He recommends eating organic foods in as close to their natural state as possible – aim for one pound of fresh veg a day, one pound of cooked veg, four fruits, one cup of legumes, one ounce of nuts, one tablespoon of flax seed. If you can mash all that down, then you can indulge a bit with other things such as up to one serving of a starch (sweet potato, rice) and maybe even meat twice a week (although it'd better be fish, baby). Fuhrman largely pushes the vegan lifestyle, which makes this former cattle owner, current grill owner, and total steak aficionado a little antsy. The main point is, though, eat extremely nutrient-dense foods. Bypass iceberg lettuce for romaine or fresh spinach. Use germinated quinoa (germination before cooking ups the nutrients) instead of white rice. Yadda yadda.
I love fruit. I kinda like certain veg, fresh and cooked (I've actually found I like just eating romaine lettuce leaves as a snack). It's hard to limit to one ounce of nuts, but I have been. I love me some starchy carbs, but it doesn't necessarily break my heart to give up the majority of 'em. Lovin' the quinoa, and actually I think it tastes a bit better when germinated to little sprouts before cooking. Giving up meat and other animal products, though? Yeah... I'm not doing that. I have two fat free yogurt smoothies a day (the banana in each helps me reach the fruit goal, along with my morning and afternoon apple/pear/orange snacks at work), and I'm eatin' meat with most of my evening meals. Sorry, dude, I have canines with which to rip animal flesh from the bone, I'm usin' 'em.
But you know what? I've lost seven pounds. And that's not even the most exciting part! I come home at night, and I have energy. I'd forgotten what that feels like. I can get my cooking done, play with my son, take care of some house duties, all without wanting to sit down and take a nap! My evenings haven't been like this in years. I'm stunned – a week and a half in (off and on – see what happened last weekend), and I'm lovin' life again!
My stomach's screaming at me a little bit – "Hey, why are you giving me stuff I have to digest, you bitch???" – but it's adjusting. I'm also waking up on the first alarm in the morning rather than smacking snooze. I'm dropping off to sleep quicker. I've randomly been dropping to the floor to do the plank position and push-ups. If I had more time, I'd start doing the Wii Active or my exercise bike again! A few more pounds, I might pull out my elliptical trainer (stupid weight limit on it that I'm still a tad too close to). My sex drive is up (John and I are both liking this part). And – shock and awe – I have no desire to eat the M&M's from the sixth floor vending machine!
Holy crap, is this actually working? I don't wanna be too optimistic, because I always start things out all gung ho then find myself consuming an entire bag of Cheetos Puffcorn in one go, but I'm a little bit excited here! And not just because of the weight, but because … I feel danged good!
I so hope I don't get all self-destructive on myself and blow it all over a candy bar or some crap. DO NOT WANT.
What I find very cool is, I'm more or less doing the same thing she is (although I haven't gotten into the exercise portion much yet, but that's more time than desire, which I'll explain below).
I've adopted something similar to her eating habits, although I got my idea from Joel Fuhrman's "Eat to Live." He recommends eating organic foods in as close to their natural state as possible – aim for one pound of fresh veg a day, one pound of cooked veg, four fruits, one cup of legumes, one ounce of nuts, one tablespoon of flax seed. If you can mash all that down, then you can indulge a bit with other things such as up to one serving of a starch (sweet potato, rice) and maybe even meat twice a week (although it'd better be fish, baby). Fuhrman largely pushes the vegan lifestyle, which makes this former cattle owner, current grill owner, and total steak aficionado a little antsy. The main point is, though, eat extremely nutrient-dense foods. Bypass iceberg lettuce for romaine or fresh spinach. Use germinated quinoa (germination before cooking ups the nutrients) instead of white rice. Yadda yadda.
I love fruit. I kinda like certain veg, fresh and cooked (I've actually found I like just eating romaine lettuce leaves as a snack). It's hard to limit to one ounce of nuts, but I have been. I love me some starchy carbs, but it doesn't necessarily break my heart to give up the majority of 'em. Lovin' the quinoa, and actually I think it tastes a bit better when germinated to little sprouts before cooking. Giving up meat and other animal products, though? Yeah... I'm not doing that. I have two fat free yogurt smoothies a day (the banana in each helps me reach the fruit goal, along with my morning and afternoon apple/pear/orange snacks at work), and I'm eatin' meat with most of my evening meals. Sorry, dude, I have canines with which to rip animal flesh from the bone, I'm usin' 'em.
But you know what? I've lost seven pounds. And that's not even the most exciting part! I come home at night, and I have energy. I'd forgotten what that feels like. I can get my cooking done, play with my son, take care of some house duties, all without wanting to sit down and take a nap! My evenings haven't been like this in years. I'm stunned – a week and a half in (off and on – see what happened last weekend), and I'm lovin' life again!
My stomach's screaming at me a little bit – "Hey, why are you giving me stuff I have to digest, you bitch???" – but it's adjusting. I'm also waking up on the first alarm in the morning rather than smacking snooze. I'm dropping off to sleep quicker. I've randomly been dropping to the floor to do the plank position and push-ups. If I had more time, I'd start doing the Wii Active or my exercise bike again! A few more pounds, I might pull out my elliptical trainer (stupid weight limit on it that I'm still a tad too close to). My sex drive is up (John and I are both liking this part). And – shock and awe – I have no desire to eat the M&M's from the sixth floor vending machine!
Holy crap, is this actually working? I don't wanna be too optimistic, because I always start things out all gung ho then find myself consuming an entire bag of Cheetos Puffcorn in one go, but I'm a little bit excited here! And not just because of the weight, but because … I feel danged good!
I so hope I don't get all self-destructive on myself and blow it all over a candy bar or some crap. DO NOT WANT.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Entry 12 - Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Eggs and Spam
So, I stopped by a Barnes & Noble at a mall yesterday on my way back from dropping off NinaBell with her dad. As I was leaving, there was a car letting someone off by the door, and an SUV filled with college-aged boys behind that. They were stopped, I was at a crosswalk, so I claimed "pedestrian right-of-way" and stepped out. Right at that time, the SUV swung around the parked car and almost hit me.
I just kept walking, when one of the boys in the SUV yelled, "Hey, that lady's made of Spam! I didn't know Spam could move!"
Asshat. C+ for originality, F for execution. Seriously, I've heard far better than that in my life. I need to credit A.S. in high school for the crack about, "The school had to build extra supports structures under your desk so you wouldn't crash through the floor" for one of the best.
But I had a good response - usually, that would have sent me into a bucket o' tears and a bucket o' chicken. But this time my reaction was, "Fuck you, asswipe. I'm going home and having some romaine lettuce, and an apple with peanut butter, cause I can lose weight, but you'll probably ALWAYS be an asshole."
Major breakthrough for me there! Instead of getting sullen, I got angry and motivated.
I had actually fallen off the wagon this weekend, too. I'd eaten peanut butter M&M's (their siren song is strong and pulls me to my doom) cheese tots at Sonic (oh so delish!) and even had a mocha java chiller. I was going to have cheese tots again for lunch. I truly, I need to thank that motherfucker for getting me back on the path.
The last week, I've largely been trying to eat foods in as close to their natural form as possible. I'm cooking my quinoa – would be a bit tough otherwise – and I'm using non-fat, low sugar yogurt in some smoothies, but otherwise, I'm trying to keep things largely fresh and uncooked.
I've lost six pounds.
When I ate the cheese tots after a week of good eating, I felt like crap.
When I completed the drive to drop my daughter off with her dad, I didn't collapse as I usually would. Instead, I got laundry done, and pre-made my breakfasts for the week (for breakfast, quinoa with apples and cinnamon, coconut milk on the side for hot cereal goodness; for lunch, quinoa and mango salad with cranberries, green onions, fresh parsley, and a white wine vinegar dressing). Then I gave the boy a bath, and fell asleep for a good night's rest.
Not too shabby, right? Nutrient-dense, fresh foods are the nom, and I deserve to feel good, so I need to keep eating them.
I deserve to feel good, dammit. And not the temporary chocolate-y "feel good," but actually feel good.
I just kept walking, when one of the boys in the SUV yelled, "Hey, that lady's made of Spam! I didn't know Spam could move!"
Asshat. C+ for originality, F for execution. Seriously, I've heard far better than that in my life. I need to credit A.S. in high school for the crack about, "The school had to build extra supports structures under your desk so you wouldn't crash through the floor" for one of the best.
But I had a good response - usually, that would have sent me into a bucket o' tears and a bucket o' chicken. But this time my reaction was, "Fuck you, asswipe. I'm going home and having some romaine lettuce, and an apple with peanut butter, cause I can lose weight, but you'll probably ALWAYS be an asshole."
Major breakthrough for me there! Instead of getting sullen, I got angry and motivated.
I had actually fallen off the wagon this weekend, too. I'd eaten peanut butter M&M's (their siren song is strong and pulls me to my doom) cheese tots at Sonic (oh so delish!) and even had a mocha java chiller. I was going to have cheese tots again for lunch. I truly, I need to thank that motherfucker for getting me back on the path.
The last week, I've largely been trying to eat foods in as close to their natural form as possible. I'm cooking my quinoa – would be a bit tough otherwise – and I'm using non-fat, low sugar yogurt in some smoothies, but otherwise, I'm trying to keep things largely fresh and uncooked.
I've lost six pounds.
When I ate the cheese tots after a week of good eating, I felt like crap.
When I completed the drive to drop my daughter off with her dad, I didn't collapse as I usually would. Instead, I got laundry done, and pre-made my breakfasts for the week (for breakfast, quinoa with apples and cinnamon, coconut milk on the side for hot cereal goodness; for lunch, quinoa and mango salad with cranberries, green onions, fresh parsley, and a white wine vinegar dressing). Then I gave the boy a bath, and fell asleep for a good night's rest.
Not too shabby, right? Nutrient-dense, fresh foods are the nom, and I deserve to feel good, so I need to keep eating them.
I deserve to feel good, dammit. And not the temporary chocolate-y "feel good," but actually feel good.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Entry 11 – Live Every Day As If You Were Dead Yesterday
As is readily apparent, I've been thinking lots about my weight lately and why it's been such a lifelong struggle. Since I drove to Kansas and back this weekend, I had a lot of time in the car to think (God bless the man who intended portable DVD players, so the kids were well occupied and not begging for stops every 40 minutes).
Anyway, this is far too over-thinking and introspective, but I present now my weekend o' brain busting.
I hate to sound braggie, but I certainly don't suck. I'm tall, I'm pretty, I'm smart, I have a wonderful husband, amazing kids, good family support all the way around, an awesome job, a beautiful home, – If I knew me from the outside, I'd probably hate me. Not that I've had a perfect life in the past by any means, but damn, the here and now is pretty frickin' sweet. Which is probably why, to some extent, I do hate me. It's all too good. I have to have something wrong with me, or I would be unlikable.
On another level, I have to have something wrong with me, because some part of my mind does not believe I deserve all that I have. I'm just the overweight arthritic schlump lisper from my childhood. Or the self-entitled bitch from my misspent 20's. I've always looked to the past and, in any specific era, found things that have been wrong or I've done wrong. I didn't feel like me until my thirties, and now that I'm here, I like it. But I admit I've always felt somehow defective. Now that most of those defects are excised or controlled, I almost feel guilty for having it so good. So am I self-creating this defect as a punishment for bad behavior?
Then there's the idea that maybe I'm thinking I have to have something wrong with me to maintain some sort of cosmic balance - that if I didn't have my weight wrong, then something else terrible would happen to balance all of the good. I'm using my body as a sacrificial lamb to avoid other catastrophes.
Yet another level, I hate to feel ordinary. Which, who doesn't? But I do worry I take it to narcissistic levels at times. Possibly enough to defeat myself. Maybe part of it is I very badly want to be different, to stand out, that I'm afraid I won't if I'm not overweight? I want to be somewhat broken so I have something that sets me apart, that makes people take notice?
I dunno. Probably most likely option 2 or – punishing myself or sacrificing myself in some twisted definition of yin and yang. My family's awesome at that, of thinking we're never good enough for what we have, or thinkging we have to have some kind of balance. Because I know while food gives me a temporary high, it's going to just cause more pain, physical and emotional, in the end, so why keep jamming it down the gullet in stupid, painful quantities?
I also heard a statement this weekend about second chances at life. There's a passage in The Lovely Bones about how the murdered Susie inhabits her best friend's body for a moment so she can kiss her boyfriend, and the pleasure in just the feeling of having lips, and touching those lips to another's. It made me think, maybe the old saying, "Live each day as if it were your last" is backwards. It should be, "Live each day as if you were dead yesterday." How would I treat my body differently in order to get the maximum pleasure out of every moment, and to extend those moments, if I spent 24 hours without one? Would I jam down all the cake I could (gluten free, of course), or would I treat my body like the temple it is, would I be a good steward of my body so that so many other sensations I've missed out on thus far would not be dulled? We're only here a relatively short time, why spend it in self-inflicted, preventable misery? Why am I willing to let temporary pleasures of food interfere with the indelible pleasures of playing in the floor with my children and being able to easily stand up again afterwards? Why do I dull my brain with sugar highs when I could let a sharper mind handle my tasks?
I need to be better to, and for, my body and my mind. I know there are more fulfilling pleasures out there than a melting chocolate.
Anyway, this is far too over-thinking and introspective, but I present now my weekend o' brain busting.
I hate to sound braggie, but I certainly don't suck. I'm tall, I'm pretty, I'm smart, I have a wonderful husband, amazing kids, good family support all the way around, an awesome job, a beautiful home, – If I knew me from the outside, I'd probably hate me. Not that I've had a perfect life in the past by any means, but damn, the here and now is pretty frickin' sweet. Which is probably why, to some extent, I do hate me. It's all too good. I have to have something wrong with me, or I would be unlikable.
On another level, I have to have something wrong with me, because some part of my mind does not believe I deserve all that I have. I'm just the overweight arthritic schlump lisper from my childhood. Or the self-entitled bitch from my misspent 20's. I've always looked to the past and, in any specific era, found things that have been wrong or I've done wrong. I didn't feel like me until my thirties, and now that I'm here, I like it. But I admit I've always felt somehow defective. Now that most of those defects are excised or controlled, I almost feel guilty for having it so good. So am I self-creating this defect as a punishment for bad behavior?
Then there's the idea that maybe I'm thinking I have to have something wrong with me to maintain some sort of cosmic balance - that if I didn't have my weight wrong, then something else terrible would happen to balance all of the good. I'm using my body as a sacrificial lamb to avoid other catastrophes.
Yet another level, I hate to feel ordinary. Which, who doesn't? But I do worry I take it to narcissistic levels at times. Possibly enough to defeat myself. Maybe part of it is I very badly want to be different, to stand out, that I'm afraid I won't if I'm not overweight? I want to be somewhat broken so I have something that sets me apart, that makes people take notice?
I dunno. Probably most likely option 2 or – punishing myself or sacrificing myself in some twisted definition of yin and yang. My family's awesome at that, of thinking we're never good enough for what we have, or thinkging we have to have some kind of balance. Because I know while food gives me a temporary high, it's going to just cause more pain, physical and emotional, in the end, so why keep jamming it down the gullet in stupid, painful quantities?
I also heard a statement this weekend about second chances at life. There's a passage in The Lovely Bones about how the murdered Susie inhabits her best friend's body for a moment so she can kiss her boyfriend, and the pleasure in just the feeling of having lips, and touching those lips to another's. It made me think, maybe the old saying, "Live each day as if it were your last" is backwards. It should be, "Live each day as if you were dead yesterday." How would I treat my body differently in order to get the maximum pleasure out of every moment, and to extend those moments, if I spent 24 hours without one? Would I jam down all the cake I could (gluten free, of course), or would I treat my body like the temple it is, would I be a good steward of my body so that so many other sensations I've missed out on thus far would not be dulled? We're only here a relatively short time, why spend it in self-inflicted, preventable misery? Why am I willing to let temporary pleasures of food interfere with the indelible pleasures of playing in the floor with my children and being able to easily stand up again afterwards? Why do I dull my brain with sugar highs when I could let a sharper mind handle my tasks?
I need to be better to, and for, my body and my mind. I know there are more fulfilling pleasures out there than a melting chocolate.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Entry 10 - Focus on the Positive
So, my good bud Laurel (waves at Laurel) suggested I try a "think positive" approach on dieting. In particular, eat certain "good for you" foods every day, as a requirement. This foods are "fill you up" standards. If I'm still hungry after those, I can still snack on something else, but I have to eat certain healthy foods (ones I actually like) before I can do anything else. The plan she put out is more structured than that, and includes some exercise, but it sounds reasonable, right?
We're going to try that together as of Monday.
In the meantime, I still need to figure out why I have some self-destrutive behaviors. Hubby and I discussed this last night. I have two things that, for me, would typically be tremendous motivators: 1) Health and 2) Hypocrisy. Health, well, I've laid out my pre-cancerous condition below. The hypocrisy needs a bit more explanation.
Dad died of lung cancer, after 40 years of smoking (although he'd quit 10 years before he was diagnosed), although working for the railroad around large diesel engines couldn't have helped. Not to mention all those farm fertilizers. But I digress. As a result, I cannot even look at a cigarette now without getting nauseous. The smell of them makes me positively sick not only physically, but sick with grief. My brother, however, still smokes. It astounds me, and I have not been able to figure out how, after knowing, witnessing first hand what smoking can do, he still does it.
Yet, what am I doing? The same thing. I know the consequences of what I'm doing to my body, yet I'm still cramming food down as fast as I can.
Normally my own hypocrisy, my judgment of others for something I do myself, will make me reconsider my stance, will help me re-evaluate the whats and whys of everything. I'll either stop my actions or alter my opinions because I cannot stand hypocrisy.
But in this case, I can't do it. To paraphrase Homer Simpson, in this particular instance, you couldn't out-hypocrite me on the hypocritiest day of the year with an electrified hypocrisy machine.
Food's always been there for me. It's always been a constant. When my oldest sister took off, I still had buttery popcorn. When my first marriage was disintegrating, I still had chocolate. When Dad died, I still had eclairs (well I don't now because of the Celiac, but I did then). People, by their own choices or by unfortunate circumstance, can't always be there. But I'll always have food, right? I mean, I need it to live! What better justification for relying on it?
Over-relying on it is the problem, though. And that's what I do. Hence my Grimace-y figure. Only less purple.
We're going to try that together as of Monday.
In the meantime, I still need to figure out why I have some self-destrutive behaviors. Hubby and I discussed this last night. I have two things that, for me, would typically be tremendous motivators: 1) Health and 2) Hypocrisy. Health, well, I've laid out my pre-cancerous condition below. The hypocrisy needs a bit more explanation.
Dad died of lung cancer, after 40 years of smoking (although he'd quit 10 years before he was diagnosed), although working for the railroad around large diesel engines couldn't have helped. Not to mention all those farm fertilizers. But I digress. As a result, I cannot even look at a cigarette now without getting nauseous. The smell of them makes me positively sick not only physically, but sick with grief. My brother, however, still smokes. It astounds me, and I have not been able to figure out how, after knowing, witnessing first hand what smoking can do, he still does it.
Yet, what am I doing? The same thing. I know the consequences of what I'm doing to my body, yet I'm still cramming food down as fast as I can.
Normally my own hypocrisy, my judgment of others for something I do myself, will make me reconsider my stance, will help me re-evaluate the whats and whys of everything. I'll either stop my actions or alter my opinions because I cannot stand hypocrisy.
But in this case, I can't do it. To paraphrase Homer Simpson, in this particular instance, you couldn't out-hypocrite me on the hypocritiest day of the year with an electrified hypocrisy machine.
Food's always been there for me. It's always been a constant. When my oldest sister took off, I still had buttery popcorn. When my first marriage was disintegrating, I still had chocolate. When Dad died, I still had eclairs (well I don't now because of the Celiac, but I did then). People, by their own choices or by unfortunate circumstance, can't always be there. But I'll always have food, right? I mean, I need it to live! What better justification for relying on it?
Over-relying on it is the problem, though. And that's what I do. Hence my Grimace-y figure. Only less purple.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Entry 9 - Vacation
So, good and bad from this vacation. Good - I didn't give a damn what I looked like in a bathing suit. Seriously, for the first time in my life I walked arouna and didn't care. Not even as a skinny thing did I have that much confidence in a suit. Or is it more I don't give a crap what people think anymore? Either way, I think it's a step up.
Downside - remember that six pounds I initially lot? Then three of 'em came back? Well, the other three also came back and brought three more friends along. This time, I totally deserved it. I ate like a frickin' pig over vacation. Partly because it's really hard to eat on the road when you can't eat gluten, so you thrive on baked potatoes because it's about the only thing they don't beat with a wheat stick before they serve it to you. But also partly because I ate three small bags of jelly bellies in five days. One bag was sweetened with Splenda, though! Do I get partial credit?
I ate the most when I was driving. I suppose as a way to ease the boredom.
Gotta figure this out. Just gotta.
Downside - remember that six pounds I initially lot? Then three of 'em came back? Well, the other three also came back and brought three more friends along. This time, I totally deserved it. I ate like a frickin' pig over vacation. Partly because it's really hard to eat on the road when you can't eat gluten, so you thrive on baked potatoes because it's about the only thing they don't beat with a wheat stick before they serve it to you. But also partly because I ate three small bags of jelly bellies in five days. One bag was sweetened with Splenda, though! Do I get partial credit?
I ate the most when I was driving. I suppose as a way to ease the boredom.
Gotta figure this out. Just gotta.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Entry 8 - ...
Too busy to do a damned thing.
Not too busy to gain weight, though! Somehow I'm up 3 pounds despite doin' nothin' different.
Welcome to my world, peeps.
Not too busy to gain weight, though! Somehow I'm up 3 pounds despite doin' nothin' different.
Welcome to my world, peeps.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Entry 7 – Good Way to Be Gutted (No Pun Intended)
Last night, I found myself in a position no mother wants to be in. Comforting a wailing, full-body sobbing child with no readily discernable way to fix the problem.
I remember when I was young, being told multiple times I was fat. I started dieting in second grade because of it, and have had a love/hate relationship with food and my body ever since. I vowed I would do all in my power to make sure my daughter never went through the same.
Now, my daughter probably has 5 – 10 extra pounds. But she's not fat. She's study, but she's not fat. And no matter how much weight she loses – well, she's built like her mother. She ain't never gonna be a little thing. She's going to be broad-shouldered, broad-hipped and (unlike her mother) long-legged. Kid's got gorgeous legs, like a colt. But I digress.
Anyway, she's 5'2", 117 pounds. She wears a solid size 4 in clothes, size 9 in women's shoes. Oh, and she's not even 11 yet. Did I mention that?
A couple of week's ago, the mother of one of Anna's friends told me how much she liked Anna, because Anna was such a confident little girl with such a great self-esteem. If only she could see what the other kids have done to my girl's self esteem as of last night.
Yesterday evening, one of her friends (a teeny, tiny little thing, like most girls around) told Anna that her friends were calling her fat. Anna was shaken, and finally cracked. Apparently this has been happening at school regularly, too. She's never chosen for races because people assume she can't run. Kids poke her in the belly. (Are they expecting a Pillsbury Dough Boy laugh? Junior asshats.) Mama not happy.
Especially since at Anna's age, I was already wearing a women's size 16, and I was 2 inches shorter. Those kids don't know fat. Bastages.
Anyway, there she was, doing the same thing I used to do – sobbing in her mother's arms, wondering why kids can't just lay off and let her be her. Then veering into, "But NAME is my height, and wears a girls' size 14! Why am I so much bigger?" Well, honey, NAME is 1 ½ years older than you, is tall and thin and has very narrow shoulders and narrow hips, and has already been told by doctors she's not going to get much taller. You, however, are poised for basketball stardom (as long as you don't get your mother's grace).
But to a sobbing tweener, that just doesn't compute. Or matter. So all I could do was hold her, and tell her I knew exactly what she was going through, and that it sucks. I told her about the time one of the boys in class told me the school had to build a support structure under my desk so I wouldn't crash through the floor. Kids can just be mean little shits to each other, and you just have to grow past it, and not let it get to you. Not that I've necessarily done it successfully, but you know, I'm an adult now who thinks that for a big chick, I'm pretty hot. Just not all that healthy. Which is all you really should be concerned about – being healthy.
Why can't kids just jump past the cruelty? Why does this have to be a rite of passage? My daughter is beautiful, inside and out. The girl has more love in her heart to pass to the world than anyone I've ever known. Why can't the mean-spirited little hellions back the NFBSK off?
And I swear, if my kid ends up being anorexic or bulimic or a binge-eater over this shit, there will be hell to pay.
I remember when I was young, being told multiple times I was fat. I started dieting in second grade because of it, and have had a love/hate relationship with food and my body ever since. I vowed I would do all in my power to make sure my daughter never went through the same.
Now, my daughter probably has 5 – 10 extra pounds. But she's not fat. She's study, but she's not fat. And no matter how much weight she loses – well, she's built like her mother. She ain't never gonna be a little thing. She's going to be broad-shouldered, broad-hipped and (unlike her mother) long-legged. Kid's got gorgeous legs, like a colt. But I digress.
Anyway, she's 5'2", 117 pounds. She wears a solid size 4 in clothes, size 9 in women's shoes. Oh, and she's not even 11 yet. Did I mention that?
A couple of week's ago, the mother of one of Anna's friends told me how much she liked Anna, because Anna was such a confident little girl with such a great self-esteem. If only she could see what the other kids have done to my girl's self esteem as of last night.
Yesterday evening, one of her friends (a teeny, tiny little thing, like most girls around) told Anna that her friends were calling her fat. Anna was shaken, and finally cracked. Apparently this has been happening at school regularly, too. She's never chosen for races because people assume she can't run. Kids poke her in the belly. (Are they expecting a Pillsbury Dough Boy laugh? Junior asshats.) Mama not happy.
Especially since at Anna's age, I was already wearing a women's size 16, and I was 2 inches shorter. Those kids don't know fat. Bastages.
Anyway, there she was, doing the same thing I used to do – sobbing in her mother's arms, wondering why kids can't just lay off and let her be her. Then veering into, "But NAME is my height, and wears a girls' size 14! Why am I so much bigger?" Well, honey, NAME is 1 ½ years older than you, is tall and thin and has very narrow shoulders and narrow hips, and has already been told by doctors she's not going to get much taller. You, however, are poised for basketball stardom (as long as you don't get your mother's grace).
But to a sobbing tweener, that just doesn't compute. Or matter. So all I could do was hold her, and tell her I knew exactly what she was going through, and that it sucks. I told her about the time one of the boys in class told me the school had to build a support structure under my desk so I wouldn't crash through the floor. Kids can just be mean little shits to each other, and you just have to grow past it, and not let it get to you. Not that I've necessarily done it successfully, but you know, I'm an adult now who thinks that for a big chick, I'm pretty hot. Just not all that healthy. Which is all you really should be concerned about – being healthy.
Why can't kids just jump past the cruelty? Why does this have to be a rite of passage? My daughter is beautiful, inside and out. The girl has more love in her heart to pass to the world than anyone I've ever known. Why can't the mean-spirited little hellions back the NFBSK off?
And I swear, if my kid ends up being anorexic or bulimic or a binge-eater over this shit, there will be hell to pay.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Entry 6 - Evidence Stares Me in the Face
So, know how you can hear about something over and over, but until you experience it, it just doesn't seem real?
Law school for example. You can hear and hear and hear about the law for three full years, but until you're actually practicing, you don't actually know dick.
Apparently, eating is also like that for me. I can hear how a good diet can make you feel good, correct all kinds of health issues, etc., but hearing just ain't good enough.
Well, now I have a bit o' proof. Sure, I've had proof before, but I've been doing an unwilling experiment since last fall, and I really can't deny the results.
Since I have kinda/sorta Celiac (enough to make me sick as a dog when I eat gluten, but not enough to pick up in a biopsy, but whatevs), I've given up gluten. And since then, my migraines have big-time diminished. Oh, of course, there's other benefits obvious to Celiacs giving up gluten that I shan't go into here, for the sake of the squeamish. But that's actually tolerable stuff, as far as I'm concerned. What I find intolerable are the migraines.
So low and behold, I'm down to one or two migraines a month now. And if I accidentally stumble upon gluten (damn you, Cadbury, for changing your Caramelo recipe!!! /shaking fist at sky), I will be laid up with a migraine and severe exhaustion, amongst other things, for two full days. Undeniable proof, that. Food matters. How you fuel your body matters.
So I'm trying. I'm trying really hard. I've got solid proof of food's effects, proof that even I can't just throw an Immodium or Tums at and walk away from. I mean, we're kinda proving beyond a reasonable doubt at this point, aren't we? Criminal standards are tougher than civil "preponderance of the evidence" standards. All those articles proved something to me in a civil court, but I've finally proved it to myself in a criminal one.
Sorry about that analogy. Law school skews how you view the rest of the world. FOREVER. But that's another story.
So, another ancillary thought - If I'm able to cut back caffeine, will that potentially relieve the tention in my jaw that contributes to the TMJ pain, too? Not ready to go that far yet. Red Bull and I are fast friends.
Law school for example. You can hear and hear and hear about the law for three full years, but until you're actually practicing, you don't actually know dick.
Apparently, eating is also like that for me. I can hear how a good diet can make you feel good, correct all kinds of health issues, etc., but hearing just ain't good enough.
Well, now I have a bit o' proof. Sure, I've had proof before, but I've been doing an unwilling experiment since last fall, and I really can't deny the results.
Since I have kinda/sorta Celiac (enough to make me sick as a dog when I eat gluten, but not enough to pick up in a biopsy, but whatevs), I've given up gluten. And since then, my migraines have big-time diminished. Oh, of course, there's other benefits obvious to Celiacs giving up gluten that I shan't go into here, for the sake of the squeamish. But that's actually tolerable stuff, as far as I'm concerned. What I find intolerable are the migraines.
So low and behold, I'm down to one or two migraines a month now. And if I accidentally stumble upon gluten (damn you, Cadbury, for changing your Caramelo recipe!!! /shaking fist at sky), I will be laid up with a migraine and severe exhaustion, amongst other things, for two full days. Undeniable proof, that. Food matters. How you fuel your body matters.
So I'm trying. I'm trying really hard. I've got solid proof of food's effects, proof that even I can't just throw an Immodium or Tums at and walk away from. I mean, we're kinda proving beyond a reasonable doubt at this point, aren't we? Criminal standards are tougher than civil "preponderance of the evidence" standards. All those articles proved something to me in a civil court, but I've finally proved it to myself in a criminal one.
Sorry about that analogy. Law school skews how you view the rest of the world. FOREVER. But that's another story.
So, another ancillary thought - If I'm able to cut back caffeine, will that potentially relieve the tention in my jaw that contributes to the TMJ pain, too? Not ready to go that far yet. Red Bull and I are fast friends.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Entry 5 - ARGH!
Okay, I'm sitting here again fighting that M&M mojo. Ah, you chocolatey siren!
Of course, when the vending machine had Reese's Pieces, that was it.
Back when I could eat gluten, it was Watchamacallits.
So, my cravings are a fickle mistress.
I'm trying to hold off to eat anything, except maybe the celery I pre-packed. Trying not to cave to massive Mars totalitarianism.
Now, if I could just figure out why I want the damned M&Ms so bad. It's really illogical. I'm irritated today, but when aren't I? I had breakfast, but didn't get a mid-morning snack until five hours later. So at almost lunch, I had an apple with peanut butter, the quinoa tabouli, and a quarter cup of strawberries.
Really, there's no reason.
So why? There has to be a reason. I like reason.
Oh well. If nothing else, beginning to write all of this out has gotten me six pounds down in a week. So.... /shrug
Of course, when the vending machine had Reese's Pieces, that was it.
Back when I could eat gluten, it was Watchamacallits.
So, my cravings are a fickle mistress.
I'm trying to hold off to eat anything, except maybe the celery I pre-packed. Trying not to cave to massive Mars totalitarianism.
Now, if I could just figure out why I want the damned M&Ms so bad. It's really illogical. I'm irritated today, but when aren't I? I had breakfast, but didn't get a mid-morning snack until five hours later. So at almost lunch, I had an apple with peanut butter, the quinoa tabouli, and a quarter cup of strawberries.
Really, there's no reason.
So why? There has to be a reason. I like reason.
Oh well. If nothing else, beginning to write all of this out has gotten me six pounds down in a week. So.... /shrug
Monday, May 17, 2010
Entry 4 - M&M's Shall Be My Downfall
Okay, so right now I am sitting at my desk wanting desperately to go downstairs to the vending machines and get a packet of peanut M&Ms. I hurt, I want them so bad. I'm trying hard not to do it. Here's why.
I know for a fact that I am not hungry.
So, it should be no big deal to not eat them, right? Ah, but you're thinking like a normal human being!
I am sitting here, thinking that I've already had a hot quinoa breakfast cereal, an apple with peanut butter, ½ cup of strawberries, one serving of almonds with a tablespoon of raisins, and a serving of quinoa tabouli (quinoa's my new gluten-free thing of the moment), but none of that involved ravenous chocolate hoarding followed by sugar-shakes. So I feel unsatisfied.
Wassup with that?
Not fair. Harumph.
So I'm sipping a low-cal flavored flavored coffee mix, hoping that helps kill the craving. I've eaten quite enough today thus far as it is. I don't need more. I just want more. And that ain't right.
If I keep this up, maybe it will get easier.
I know for a fact that I am not hungry.
So, it should be no big deal to not eat them, right? Ah, but you're thinking like a normal human being!
I am sitting here, thinking that I've already had a hot quinoa breakfast cereal, an apple with peanut butter, ½ cup of strawberries, one serving of almonds with a tablespoon of raisins, and a serving of quinoa tabouli (quinoa's my new gluten-free thing of the moment), but none of that involved ravenous chocolate hoarding followed by sugar-shakes. So I feel unsatisfied.
Wassup with that?
Not fair. Harumph.
So I'm sipping a low-cal flavored flavored coffee mix, hoping that helps kill the craving. I've eaten quite enough today thus far as it is. I don't need more. I just want more. And that ain't right.
If I keep this up, maybe it will get easier.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Entry 3 - The Day I Grew Up
I'm the youngest by four kids. And by that I mean, I am the youngest of four kids. After three kids in five years, my parents thought they finally had things figured out. Nine years go by, and all is (relatively) peaceful. Mom wasn't pregnant for a change anyway. Then I happened. Mom calls me their "happy accident," although truth be told, all four of us were "happy accidents," but I digress. The point is, my siblings were 14, 12, and 9 when I was born.
I've had an odd life. More adventuresome than some, less adventuresome than others, but always strange. Through the harder parts of those strange times, there were three people in particular I knew could see me through. Mom, Dad, and my second oldest sister. I've had three particularly hard momentrs in my life, and they were there solid for me through two of them.* It was nice. I was spoiled.
[*I don't want it to sound like my brother wasn't there for me, too. He was. Just in a different way. My brother is an "action" man, and definitely showed his caring in those situations. Sometimes I just need hugs, though, and that's not my brother's area, which is just fine. I love him tremendously, and he loves me, we just show it differently.]
Then Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. Long story short, he progressed from Stage 1 with a good prognosis to Stage 4 with no hope within a matter of months. My aforementioned sister was Dad's "buddy" and would work from our parents' house, or from the hospital, whichever was applicable, so she could be there as much as possible. I had just moved five hours a way, but I came back on weekends as much as I could. To this day, I feel like I failed all of them by not being right there. But again, I digress. My point is, my mother's partner in every sense of the word was dying. My sister's father and fast friend was dying. And my indestructible dad who brought me through so many difficult times with a stoic presence and a strong mind was dying.
The weekend we found out we were going to lose him - Labor Day weekend, 2006 - I had brought my husband and daughter back to visit. We all sat in the viewing room to the second story hospital courtyard, and just looked at the flowers and reminisced. It was awesome. Dad and I spotted a gorgeous yellow butterfly out the window. We got quiet as we watched it lightly flutter from flower to flower, until it tired of the selection and went up and over the courtyard wall. Dad and I saw more than the butterfly. We didn't know it, but my brother saw it, too. To this day, my big tough bullriding brother swerves to miss yellow butterflies in the road. But again, I digress. I'm quite good at that.
The day Dad died is the day I finally grew up. I took my family back on the road, and called my boss to arrange time off so my sister and I could help bring Dad home for hospice care. Turned out, we didn't need to do that. When I got back the next day, I found out he had asked to be put on a respirator because without proper oxygen, he was not tracking mentally, and Dad hated that feeling. He was also pretty much comatose. He couldn't talk, couldn't really move more than the occasional hand squeeze, couldn't open his eyes, etc. Mom and my sister said he'd been like that since the night before. We knew it was close, probably that day, so we camped around him. My sister, bless her heart, gave up holding his right hand, his only good hand (carpal tunnel ravaged the left hand) for me. I can never thank her enough for that. Mom held his left hand. My sister went back and forth between rubbing his feet and stroking his forehead. My brother came in and out of the room, and comforted Dad the way he knew best - leaving to take care of the chores on Dad's farm as well as his own.
While a few relatives came over to say their goodbyes (most had taken care of this while Dad was still coherent), Mom, my sister and I just stayed there, talked to him, intended to see him off with dignity.
At some point, a grief counselor came in the room, and began talking to Mom. "Good," was my initial thought. "Mom needs this." Boy, was I wrong. The woman sat there and said, "Honey, it's time to take out the respirator." Mom didn't know what to do, because Dad had asked for the respirator. The woman went from saying it nicely to badgering her, telling her Dad was in pain and she was just prolonging it. My sister, my strong, sensible older sister, who had been with Mom and Dad through the whole process, finally couldn't take it and left the room. So there's just me and Mom. Mom's turning red, and I suddenly realized she was hyperventilating, and her face was covered in tears. I looked at Dad, and he had a tear running down the corner of his eye.
Only time in my life, I'd ever seen Dad cry. EVER.
As I'm processing what this woman is doing to my parents, she finally turns to me and says, "What do you think your dad would want?" I looked at her with a fire in my belly I never knew I had, and I said, "Listen, all I know is before you came in, we were all peaceful. Now Mom's hyperventilating, and Dad's crying. I think what Dad would want is for you to get the hell out."
It sounded so much like something my sister would say, my strong smart and amazing sister, that I was shocked. But it did the job, the woman got out of there. Mom calmed down. My sister came back in.
That was the moment I grew up. Sadly, it was also the moment Dad apparently decided he couldn't let them force Mom to make the decision. So it was also the moment Dad gave up. It was shortly after that when he officially passed, when the respirator was doing nothing but pumping air into an empty shell. It wasn't sudden, it was just he didn't fight to stay until my brother got there, he didn't fight until they came in to torment Mom again. He just mentally let go, after which his body let go, and it was shortly thereafter that we had the gathering awareness that the gift was gone, and we were just left with just the package.
I miss my dad.
And here's the point where I make it all about me. As part of growing up, I also realized I did not want my children to ever ever see me go the same way. Not that I regret what I saw, but I feel bad that, in my eyes, the world's strongest man had to pass from us with such weakness and vulnerability. It wasn't him. The dignity and the love at the end were completely him, but the weakness made him crazy. And, quite frankly, it was disturbing. My dad used to let me sit on his foot while he walked around the house without even breaking his stride. This frail man in a hospital bed was a shock to us all.
But no, I don't want my children to see me go this way, because I dont' want them to think of me in pain, to think of me weakened, and I don't want anyone - not my children or my husband - to have to pick me up to move me from the chair to a bed. Not because it embarrasses me, but because ... well I can't really describe it. I just don't want that for them.
Now, I realize I do have a cancer risk. It's not just hereditary, I have a precancerous condition. And if it's what takes me, it could be nasty. I'll be a shell of myself before the end. The possibility my children will see me go the way I saw my dad go is very real.
One way I can help prevent it? Lose weight, not overeat. Sounds so easy, doesn't it? But it's not. I think I understand why it took Dad so long to quit smoking. There's a comfort and a peace I get from eating that I haven't been able to let go of, regardless of the potential effects. It's addictive.
But I have to find some way to do it. For me, for my children, for my dad.
I love you, Dad. And I miss you like you wouldn't believe.
Love,
Little Brat
I've had an odd life. More adventuresome than some, less adventuresome than others, but always strange. Through the harder parts of those strange times, there were three people in particular I knew could see me through. Mom, Dad, and my second oldest sister. I've had three particularly hard momentrs in my life, and they were there solid for me through two of them.* It was nice. I was spoiled.
[*I don't want it to sound like my brother wasn't there for me, too. He was. Just in a different way. My brother is an "action" man, and definitely showed his caring in those situations. Sometimes I just need hugs, though, and that's not my brother's area, which is just fine. I love him tremendously, and he loves me, we just show it differently.]
Then Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. Long story short, he progressed from Stage 1 with a good prognosis to Stage 4 with no hope within a matter of months. My aforementioned sister was Dad's "buddy" and would work from our parents' house, or from the hospital, whichever was applicable, so she could be there as much as possible. I had just moved five hours a way, but I came back on weekends as much as I could. To this day, I feel like I failed all of them by not being right there. But again, I digress. My point is, my mother's partner in every sense of the word was dying. My sister's father and fast friend was dying. And my indestructible dad who brought me through so many difficult times with a stoic presence and a strong mind was dying.
The weekend we found out we were going to lose him - Labor Day weekend, 2006 - I had brought my husband and daughter back to visit. We all sat in the viewing room to the second story hospital courtyard, and just looked at the flowers and reminisced. It was awesome. Dad and I spotted a gorgeous yellow butterfly out the window. We got quiet as we watched it lightly flutter from flower to flower, until it tired of the selection and went up and over the courtyard wall. Dad and I saw more than the butterfly. We didn't know it, but my brother saw it, too. To this day, my big tough bullriding brother swerves to miss yellow butterflies in the road. But again, I digress. I'm quite good at that.
The day Dad died is the day I finally grew up. I took my family back on the road, and called my boss to arrange time off so my sister and I could help bring Dad home for hospice care. Turned out, we didn't need to do that. When I got back the next day, I found out he had asked to be put on a respirator because without proper oxygen, he was not tracking mentally, and Dad hated that feeling. He was also pretty much comatose. He couldn't talk, couldn't really move more than the occasional hand squeeze, couldn't open his eyes, etc. Mom and my sister said he'd been like that since the night before. We knew it was close, probably that day, so we camped around him. My sister, bless her heart, gave up holding his right hand, his only good hand (carpal tunnel ravaged the left hand) for me. I can never thank her enough for that. Mom held his left hand. My sister went back and forth between rubbing his feet and stroking his forehead. My brother came in and out of the room, and comforted Dad the way he knew best - leaving to take care of the chores on Dad's farm as well as his own.
While a few relatives came over to say their goodbyes (most had taken care of this while Dad was still coherent), Mom, my sister and I just stayed there, talked to him, intended to see him off with dignity.
At some point, a grief counselor came in the room, and began talking to Mom. "Good," was my initial thought. "Mom needs this." Boy, was I wrong. The woman sat there and said, "Honey, it's time to take out the respirator." Mom didn't know what to do, because Dad had asked for the respirator. The woman went from saying it nicely to badgering her, telling her Dad was in pain and she was just prolonging it. My sister, my strong, sensible older sister, who had been with Mom and Dad through the whole process, finally couldn't take it and left the room. So there's just me and Mom. Mom's turning red, and I suddenly realized she was hyperventilating, and her face was covered in tears. I looked at Dad, and he had a tear running down the corner of his eye.
Only time in my life, I'd ever seen Dad cry. EVER.
As I'm processing what this woman is doing to my parents, she finally turns to me and says, "What do you think your dad would want?" I looked at her with a fire in my belly I never knew I had, and I said, "Listen, all I know is before you came in, we were all peaceful. Now Mom's hyperventilating, and Dad's crying. I think what Dad would want is for you to get the hell out."
It sounded so much like something my sister would say, my strong smart and amazing sister, that I was shocked. But it did the job, the woman got out of there. Mom calmed down. My sister came back in.
That was the moment I grew up. Sadly, it was also the moment Dad apparently decided he couldn't let them force Mom to make the decision. So it was also the moment Dad gave up. It was shortly after that when he officially passed, when the respirator was doing nothing but pumping air into an empty shell. It wasn't sudden, it was just he didn't fight to stay until my brother got there, he didn't fight until they came in to torment Mom again. He just mentally let go, after which his body let go, and it was shortly thereafter that we had the gathering awareness that the gift was gone, and we were just left with just the package.
I miss my dad.
And here's the point where I make it all about me. As part of growing up, I also realized I did not want my children to ever ever see me go the same way. Not that I regret what I saw, but I feel bad that, in my eyes, the world's strongest man had to pass from us with such weakness and vulnerability. It wasn't him. The dignity and the love at the end were completely him, but the weakness made him crazy. And, quite frankly, it was disturbing. My dad used to let me sit on his foot while he walked around the house without even breaking his stride. This frail man in a hospital bed was a shock to us all.
But no, I don't want my children to see me go this way, because I dont' want them to think of me in pain, to think of me weakened, and I don't want anyone - not my children or my husband - to have to pick me up to move me from the chair to a bed. Not because it embarrasses me, but because ... well I can't really describe it. I just don't want that for them.
Now, I realize I do have a cancer risk. It's not just hereditary, I have a precancerous condition. And if it's what takes me, it could be nasty. I'll be a shell of myself before the end. The possibility my children will see me go the way I saw my dad go is very real.
One way I can help prevent it? Lose weight, not overeat. Sounds so easy, doesn't it? But it's not. I think I understand why it took Dad so long to quit smoking. There's a comfort and a peace I get from eating that I haven't been able to let go of, regardless of the potential effects. It's addictive.
But I have to find some way to do it. For me, for my children, for my dad.
I love you, Dad. And I miss you like you wouldn't believe.
Love,
Little Brat
Friday, May 7, 2010
Entry 2 - Kid Eats Brownies, Blames Brother.
So, last time I said that I stress eat. That's technically inaccurate. I don't stress eat so much as become a giant blackhole of food absorbtion when I'm stressed. Srsly. Not pretty.
So no wonder my fat pants are tight as hell right now. You know I once got so fat, I thought I'd developed a hunch on my back, but then I lost the weight and realized I had just been cultivating human bacon? True story. But I digress.
I've been working hard to figure out why I turn to food during stress. From a practical standpoint, food is a socially-acceptable way to drown your sorrows. I can't work drunk (although I've known - and been married to - folks who've tried!), but I can work hopped up on chocolate and Red Bull! Of course, then I become 24-hour socially unacceptable, since society does not favor the fatted. Pity, that. A couple hundred years ago, I woulda been hot stuff. But again, I digress.
When I feel bad, I turn to food. Bored, food. Stressed, food. Depressed, food. Happy, celebrate with food! I can tag food into any emotion whatsoever, and find it totally justifiable. Just watch me!
I've been this way since I was a kid. I wonder if Mom ever wondered why we went through sliced cheese so fast? I used to eat all Dad's brownies, and blame my brother (who once ate a four-pound roast by himself, so it wasn't a stretch to get him blamed). But even then, why did I? How many kids are stressed? Well, lots. Me for one.
As a toddler, I had some kind of weird kidney disease no one could ever diagnose. One kidney swelled so much, the doctor thought I had three. Sometime around grade school, I just kind of outgrew all of the bladder and kidney infections.
Also as a toddler, I apparently had arthritis in my knees. So running and playing wasn't always fun, it was often painful.
I had brains, though, so I clung to that to make my name. Of course, skipping gym glass for medical reasons, getting fat, and having awesome grades made me way popular.
By sixth grade, I wore about a size 18. How pathetic is that? My nearing-sixth-grade daughter wears a 4, and she's tall and broad-built like her mama. Sixth grade was also the year I grew six inches in nine months, nearly destroying my knees. They were wormholed, and brittle, and could have broken easily, because my bones just couldn't keep up. So that made me fat, smart, athletically challenged, and on crutches half the time. Oh, and I had a lisp. Extra awesome.
By my sophomore year in high school, I was 5'8" (I'd later grow another two inches), weighed 240 pounds, had a bad perm (yay 80s!), back trouble, knee trouble, developed TMJ and had to wear a mouth guard f0r nine months straight (at least it cured my lisp).
What was always my solution over time? Cookies make it all better! Velveeta covered potato chips! PIZZA!!!! And all the Watchamacallit bars I could get my hands on. Typical breakfast when I'd go to forensic and music meets (just adding to my geek cred) would be grape Nehi and a Suzi Q.
So what does this tell me about why I do it? Probably nothing, quite frankly. All I know is I do it, and it's been a lifelong habit. About my junior year of high school, for whatever reason, things broke and weight dropped off. I can't think of exactly what changed, though. So that doesn't really help.
Bleh. I'll get there. I'll figure it out.
So no wonder my fat pants are tight as hell right now. You know I once got so fat, I thought I'd developed a hunch on my back, but then I lost the weight and realized I had just been cultivating human bacon? True story. But I digress.
I've been working hard to figure out why I turn to food during stress. From a practical standpoint, food is a socially-acceptable way to drown your sorrows. I can't work drunk (although I've known - and been married to - folks who've tried!), but I can work hopped up on chocolate and Red Bull! Of course, then I become 24-hour socially unacceptable, since society does not favor the fatted. Pity, that. A couple hundred years ago, I woulda been hot stuff. But again, I digress.
When I feel bad, I turn to food. Bored, food. Stressed, food. Depressed, food. Happy, celebrate with food! I can tag food into any emotion whatsoever, and find it totally justifiable. Just watch me!
I've been this way since I was a kid. I wonder if Mom ever wondered why we went through sliced cheese so fast? I used to eat all Dad's brownies, and blame my brother (who once ate a four-pound roast by himself, so it wasn't a stretch to get him blamed). But even then, why did I? How many kids are stressed? Well, lots. Me for one.
As a toddler, I had some kind of weird kidney disease no one could ever diagnose. One kidney swelled so much, the doctor thought I had three. Sometime around grade school, I just kind of outgrew all of the bladder and kidney infections.
Also as a toddler, I apparently had arthritis in my knees. So running and playing wasn't always fun, it was often painful.
I had brains, though, so I clung to that to make my name. Of course, skipping gym glass for medical reasons, getting fat, and having awesome grades made me way popular.
By sixth grade, I wore about a size 18. How pathetic is that? My nearing-sixth-grade daughter wears a 4, and she's tall and broad-built like her mama. Sixth grade was also the year I grew six inches in nine months, nearly destroying my knees. They were wormholed, and brittle, and could have broken easily, because my bones just couldn't keep up. So that made me fat, smart, athletically challenged, and on crutches half the time. Oh, and I had a lisp. Extra awesome.
By my sophomore year in high school, I was 5'8" (I'd later grow another two inches), weighed 240 pounds, had a bad perm (yay 80s!), back trouble, knee trouble, developed TMJ and had to wear a mouth guard f0r nine months straight (at least it cured my lisp).
What was always my solution over time? Cookies make it all better! Velveeta covered potato chips! PIZZA!!!! And all the Watchamacallit bars I could get my hands on. Typical breakfast when I'd go to forensic and music meets (just adding to my geek cred) would be grape Nehi and a Suzi Q.
So what does this tell me about why I do it? Probably nothing, quite frankly. All I know is I do it, and it's been a lifelong habit. About my junior year of high school, for whatever reason, things broke and weight dropped off. I can't think of exactly what changed, though. So that doesn't really help.
Bleh. I'll get there. I'll figure it out.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Entry 1 - Why I am where I am (As opposed to "Wherever you go, there you are")
So, if you know me, it’s no secret I’ve struggled with my weight for quite some time (I'm almost 38, so I suppose I've struggled for ... 37 1/2 years? About that).
I’ve now got some real serious motivation for getting it under control, although that certaintly hasn't stopped me form stress-eating my way to an early death anyway.
I am an emotional eater. I get stressed, I eat. Which is probably why I lost nearly 140 pounds after my first marriage ended (or as I used to say, "I lost 250 pounds of useless fat. Then I lost 140 pounds.") And why I’ve put on about 50 pounds since Dad got sick then died, and then lost 15 pounds after I dealt with that a bit, only to put on 20 pounds recently because of the "punch-in-the-neck" factor at work. (Background - everyone who pisses me off, I say I'm going to "punch them in the neck." I owe one guy in particular about 75 socks in the adam's apple).
Things have come to a head, in my mind (I could have punned here, I chose not to), and I’m going to try very hard to get serious. See, I was having some intestinal issues for several months. I’m not gonna go into detail, but it wasn’t pretty. I finally went to the family doctor, and was initially diagnosed with Celiac, or gluten intolerance, but was sent to a gastroenterologist to confirm. The gastroenterologist scheduled me for an endoscopic biopsy to confirm the Celiac, and because of a family history of colon cancer, a fun little alien probe. Yippee! I was twirked, mostly because he instructed me to go back on gluten to re-damage my system so my biopsy results wouldn’t be skewed, but I went ahead and went through with it. The doc still couldn’t confirm the Celiac, but assumes I probably have it because I’ve had such a positive response to the gluten-free diet. I have probably just caught it so fast I haven’t damaged my system enough for a biopsy to appropriately pick it up. So that’s encouraging. Or something. But (notice the single t? Chose again not to pun)...
What totally and completely caught me off guard is I apparently have Barrett’s Esophagus. That came totally out of left field. Barrett’s Esophagus, at the stage I have it, is truly nothing more than a pre-pre-cancerous condition. Basically my stomach acid has been pushing up into my esophagus and changing the cells of my esophagus into stomach cells. Except these cells aren’t supposed to exist outside the stomach, so these are foreign objects, hence, a potential cancer risk. At this point, I have no dysplasia whatsoever, so my chances of actually developing esophageal cancer are .5%, very very low. But it’s still enough I’m going to be on GERD (essentially acid reflux, heartburn) medication for the rest of my life.
I have to control GERD I never knew I had, and I have to have regular endoscopies to make sure the condition doesn’t progress to dysplasia, which is when we’re dancing closer to actual cancer. While my chances of actually developing cancer are small, esophageal cancer can be very nasty and has some pretty limited treatment options – essentially, two of them involve forms of radiation to burn out part of the esophageal walls (after which the cancer can still come back), or have part of your esophagus actually removed. Fun fun! I think I’ll pass.
Part of controlling GERD involves weight loss, not eating three hours before bed, not overeating, yadda yadda yadda. So, it’s time for me to really stop relying on that ol’ “Oh, I’m an emotional eater!” crutch and get myself centered. Except I said that late last summer when I was diagnosed, and I haven't yet. Cause I procrastinate. Badly. Er, I procrastinate quite well actually, but you get my drift.
I don’t wanna play with this. I’ve seen firsthand what cancer can do to a person. I was there when my dad gave in to lung cancer. It's not so much that I'm afraid to die that way (not that it'd be my first choice), but I saw how it tore my mother apart, tore my siblings apart, and I felt how it tore me apart. I don't want my family to see it.
So, here goes. I need to find some way get myself under control. Given the way cancer doesn’t just run, it frickin’ gallops, through Dad’s side of the family, if I can remove even one little chance of my children seeing me go in any way even close to the manner in which I saw Dad (and so many other good, loving people) go, I’m going to do it. One of my best chances of removing this particular potential is to get my weight under control, so I need to finally suck it up. Of course "need to" and "going to" are separated by the grand canyon that also exists between my brain and my brownie-grabbin' hands, unfortunately.
When I had the throat poke/alien butt probe on Aug. 24, 2010, I weighed 234. I gave up gluten and budgeted my calories immediately afteward, and got down to 220. Then stress picked up again, and dammit, back to 234.
Ultimately, I want to get down to 180 or 175, somewhere in there. Below 175, I get really stupid looking, all pointy and angular. I hate looking like someone whose cheekbones you can cut cheese on (insert “cut the cheese” joke here - I'm laying the puns in your lap this time). Plus, below 175 and my shoulder blades feel like they’re poking through my skin when I try to lay down to sleep, and NO ONE GETS BETWEEN ME AND SLEEP, DAMMIT.
So there. So that’s my goal, and this is how I’m going to stupidly play this out.
On with the show. Or train wreck. We’ll see which.
I’ve now got some real serious motivation for getting it under control, although that certaintly hasn't stopped me form stress-eating my way to an early death anyway.
I am an emotional eater. I get stressed, I eat. Which is probably why I lost nearly 140 pounds after my first marriage ended (or as I used to say, "I lost 250 pounds of useless fat. Then I lost 140 pounds.") And why I’ve put on about 50 pounds since Dad got sick then died, and then lost 15 pounds after I dealt with that a bit, only to put on 20 pounds recently because of the "punch-in-the-neck" factor at work. (Background - everyone who pisses me off, I say I'm going to "punch them in the neck." I owe one guy in particular about 75 socks in the adam's apple).
Things have come to a head, in my mind (I could have punned here, I chose not to), and I’m going to try very hard to get serious. See, I was having some intestinal issues for several months. I’m not gonna go into detail, but it wasn’t pretty. I finally went to the family doctor, and was initially diagnosed with Celiac, or gluten intolerance, but was sent to a gastroenterologist to confirm. The gastroenterologist scheduled me for an endoscopic biopsy to confirm the Celiac, and because of a family history of colon cancer, a fun little alien probe. Yippee! I was twirked, mostly because he instructed me to go back on gluten to re-damage my system so my biopsy results wouldn’t be skewed, but I went ahead and went through with it. The doc still couldn’t confirm the Celiac, but assumes I probably have it because I’ve had such a positive response to the gluten-free diet. I have probably just caught it so fast I haven’t damaged my system enough for a biopsy to appropriately pick it up. So that’s encouraging. Or something. But (notice the single t? Chose again not to pun)...
What totally and completely caught me off guard is I apparently have Barrett’s Esophagus. That came totally out of left field. Barrett’s Esophagus, at the stage I have it, is truly nothing more than a pre-pre-cancerous condition. Basically my stomach acid has been pushing up into my esophagus and changing the cells of my esophagus into stomach cells. Except these cells aren’t supposed to exist outside the stomach, so these are foreign objects, hence, a potential cancer risk. At this point, I have no dysplasia whatsoever, so my chances of actually developing esophageal cancer are .5%, very very low. But it’s still enough I’m going to be on GERD (essentially acid reflux, heartburn) medication for the rest of my life.
I have to control GERD I never knew I had, and I have to have regular endoscopies to make sure the condition doesn’t progress to dysplasia, which is when we’re dancing closer to actual cancer. While my chances of actually developing cancer are small, esophageal cancer can be very nasty and has some pretty limited treatment options – essentially, two of them involve forms of radiation to burn out part of the esophageal walls (after which the cancer can still come back), or have part of your esophagus actually removed. Fun fun! I think I’ll pass.
Part of controlling GERD involves weight loss, not eating three hours before bed, not overeating, yadda yadda yadda. So, it’s time for me to really stop relying on that ol’ “Oh, I’m an emotional eater!” crutch and get myself centered. Except I said that late last summer when I was diagnosed, and I haven't yet. Cause I procrastinate. Badly. Er, I procrastinate quite well actually, but you get my drift.
I don’t wanna play with this. I’ve seen firsthand what cancer can do to a person. I was there when my dad gave in to lung cancer. It's not so much that I'm afraid to die that way (not that it'd be my first choice), but I saw how it tore my mother apart, tore my siblings apart, and I felt how it tore me apart. I don't want my family to see it.
So, here goes. I need to find some way get myself under control. Given the way cancer doesn’t just run, it frickin’ gallops, through Dad’s side of the family, if I can remove even one little chance of my children seeing me go in any way even close to the manner in which I saw Dad (and so many other good, loving people) go, I’m going to do it. One of my best chances of removing this particular potential is to get my weight under control, so I need to finally suck it up. Of course "need to" and "going to" are separated by the grand canyon that also exists between my brain and my brownie-grabbin' hands, unfortunately.
When I had the throat poke/alien butt probe on Aug. 24, 2010, I weighed 234. I gave up gluten and budgeted my calories immediately afteward, and got down to 220. Then stress picked up again, and dammit, back to 234.
Ultimately, I want to get down to 180 or 175, somewhere in there. Below 175, I get really stupid looking, all pointy and angular. I hate looking like someone whose cheekbones you can cut cheese on (insert “cut the cheese” joke here - I'm laying the puns in your lap this time). Plus, below 175 and my shoulder blades feel like they’re poking through my skin when I try to lay down to sleep, and NO ONE GETS BETWEEN ME AND SLEEP, DAMMIT.
So there. So that’s my goal, and this is how I’m going to stupidly play this out.
On with the show. Or train wreck. We’ll see which.
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