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

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.