Starting tomorrow I can get a discount at our local aquatic center and at Denny's. Luckily, for me, I'm at the swim center a lot more often than at the restaurant.
Self-blame and type 2 diabetes, let me count the ways. So yeah, the nurse practitioner where I go for my medical care said I have blood sugar levels that indicate borderline Type 2 diabetes, the kind where my body can't keep up with turning food into glucose because my pancreas is tired. Why is my pancreas tired? Well, there is a genetic component to getting this, and most of my female relatives have some variation on the sugar problem, at least on my mother's side. Other reasons, quite simply, are eating too much and moving too little. (And I can't help wondering how much of my attitude toward my body has been passed down the generations too, a kind of weariness, as well as a kind of wariness about doing things differently.)
Diabetes, of course, is a chronic illness much like asthma, which I've had since I was three. So why the big guilt trip for me with the sugar and not with the air? Maybe it has to do with those 7 deadly sins -- with ol' greed and gluttony raising their ugly heads, with sloth not far behind, although I can trace many asthma attacks to being to lazy to vacuum under the bed. Somehow though, wheezing doesn't trigger the guilt and self-flagellation that "bad labs" do. Maybe it's something like having the feeling that I've squandered something precious -- my health and energy -- just by eating too much. Whatever. I felt awful out of all proportion to the little physical discomfort I was experiencing.
When I got the news, I moved in with gusto -- followed the food plan (about 1400 calories a day), upped my activity by walking about 3/4 of a mile on both my daily breaks.
I also tested my blood sugar 4 times a day, on the blood glucose meter that the doctor's office gave me for free. The little test-strips cost though, and I had to argue with my insurance company to pay for more than 2 tests a day. (I figured that if I were to really get the hang of this, and figure out what makes my glucose rise and fall, I'd need all the data I could get. Eventually they came around.)
The "educational" emails I got from various players in what I call the diabetic industrial complex were contradictory and confusing, the majority promising that I really didn't have to give up much of anything, as long as I stuck with whatever product the given company was pushing. There are also social networking sites just for people with diabetes, and some members "friend" everyone who joins. Who needs 2700 "friends?" Pointless. And if, as I've come to believe, the food is trying to fill another kind of emptiness, utterly unhelpful and somewhat disappointing. I really don't want to define myself in terms of what my pancreas is or isn't doing.
Anyway, the process of eating differently and moving more was hard. I had to focus like never before, and I got to see just how much I relied on food for stress-relief. In 6 weeks I dropped 16 pounds, and when the same nurse practitioner looked at the stats that were stored in the brain of my little meter and said I wasn't really even borderline Type 2 yet, as long I ate less and moved more. Then she said she'd see me in 3 months.
Three months?! Might as well be a year. Too long. My determination wavered and I went back to solving problems with food. Canceled my next appointment. Started noticing things I'd rather not -- my feet have started bothering me more, painful after a day of standing and walking; I put 4 pounds back on, not too bad really, but still the feeling of failure; and when I eat chaotically I don't test my glucose with any meaningful regularity.
I intend to turn this stuff around. I will check in again around mid-March on this subject and let you know how I'm faring with changing habits in a positive direction.
Thanks to those of you who are reading silently, and those of you who've let me know you're there.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Cookies or a Camino? Pizza or a pilgrimage?
Last time I wrote about this, I had two weeks till I turn 55. Now I have less than one week. Hmm. Guess it's gonna happen whether or not I'm prepared, eh?
Writing this blog now seems more risky than I ever dreamed. When I traveled in Australia in 2001 and sent back email dispatches about my adventures, I got a lot of feedback, much of it immediate and much of it positive. Maybe it was because the stories came directly into people's inboxes? Perhaps now the idea of clicking on a link is like doing one more errand in a busy day? Perhaps, as I always dreaded, my words have become mediocre and dull. Maybe Blogger's comment function is too obscure. (Click on the link below a posting which says, mostly, "0 Comments" and let me know you're reading.)
Anyway, the beginning of my Thousand Things list is simple (and most difficult): To arrange my life and my habits to allow me to have a prayer of setting other goals and perhaps even reaching them.
Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue at BeliefNet inspired me with her post "My goal in life? To finish."
Her post refers to resisting suicidal thoughts and all the elements that she has to line up to make that happen. Her life is way more complex than mine, and, thanks be, my depression symptoms are much less severe (right now) than hers.
But the similarities are obvious to me. If I skip a meal, eat too much of the wrong foods or don't get enough exercise, the results are immediate and pervasive, and they don't go away for days. First there's the bitchy blood-sugar-out-of-kilter loss of temper and lack of perspective, and not so much later there's the food obsession, like how-about-a-trip-to-the-ice-cream-shop -- on the coldest day of the year -- after which the cycle repeats. Which results in being unable to relate civilly to people around me (much less with the warmth I would like), get any meaningful tasks completed (computer Scrabble for hours? No problem!) or set any goals at all.
But let's say one of my Thousand Things list items is to walk on the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage route in France and Spain. Diabetes screws up your feet. So the short-hand is I can either have the first scoop of raw cookie dough and the first cream puff at the office holiday party -- which lead pretty reliably to the above cycle -- or I can go on the Camino. Stark choices. (Thanks to Ernie N. in our Ukiah office for this image. He said, of his own blood sugar challenges, "I can either have dessert, or I can have feet." He's dropped about 60 pounds.)
I refuse to let this become one of the plethora of navel-gazing blogs, however much they help the writers and the readers. I won't be listing my caloric intake and exercise logs or recording my night-time dreams. But I will post once more about this before my Big 55, then I plan to revisit these issues about once a quarter. I hope someone is reading.
Writing this blog now seems more risky than I ever dreamed. When I traveled in Australia in 2001 and sent back email dispatches about my adventures, I got a lot of feedback, much of it immediate and much of it positive. Maybe it was because the stories came directly into people's inboxes? Perhaps now the idea of clicking on a link is like doing one more errand in a busy day? Perhaps, as I always dreaded, my words have become mediocre and dull. Maybe Blogger's comment function is too obscure. (Click on the link below a posting which says, mostly, "0 Comments" and let me know you're reading.)
Anyway, the beginning of my Thousand Things list is simple (and most difficult): To arrange my life and my habits to allow me to have a prayer of setting other goals and perhaps even reaching them.
Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue at BeliefNet inspired me with her post "My goal in life? To finish."
Her post refers to resisting suicidal thoughts and all the elements that she has to line up to make that happen. Her life is way more complex than mine, and, thanks be, my depression symptoms are much less severe (right now) than hers.
But the similarities are obvious to me. If I skip a meal, eat too much of the wrong foods or don't get enough exercise, the results are immediate and pervasive, and they don't go away for days. First there's the bitchy blood-sugar-out-of-kilter loss of temper and lack of perspective, and not so much later there's the food obsession, like how-about-a-trip-to-the-ice-cream-shop -- on the coldest day of the year -- after which the cycle repeats. Which results in being unable to relate civilly to people around me (much less with the warmth I would like), get any meaningful tasks completed (computer Scrabble for hours? No problem!) or set any goals at all.But let's say one of my Thousand Things list items is to walk on the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage route in France and Spain. Diabetes screws up your feet. So the short-hand is I can either have the first scoop of raw cookie dough and the first cream puff at the office holiday party -- which lead pretty reliably to the above cycle -- or I can go on the Camino. Stark choices. (Thanks to Ernie N. in our Ukiah office for this image. He said, of his own blood sugar challenges, "I can either have dessert, or I can have feet." He's dropped about 60 pounds.)
I refuse to let this become one of the plethora of navel-gazing blogs, however much they help the writers and the readers. I won't be listing my caloric intake and exercise logs or recording my night-time dreams. But I will post once more about this before my Big 55, then I plan to revisit these issues about once a quarter. I hope someone is reading.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Susan and Frank's excellent Thanksgiving adventure
Today, a guest column of sorts. Frank shares his take on What Happened at Thanksgiving, from an email to his family. Thanks, hon.
We had a Thanksgiving that was wild, not by Jack's job interview stories (delayed flight, personal note from Donald Trump), but a good one nonetheless. We drove 3 hours to Susan's sister Korie's home on the Russian River, where Sturmz, I and a macho little dog named Max were the only males among 16. Korie was seen with a knife. (Turkey may have been male too!)
Max peed on the floor when he arrived, Sturmz stole hostess Bella's bed, but then Sturmz waited until the peak of post-dinner poetry reading to begin howling for leftovers while farting out the other end. Naturally, this ruined the mood and cleared the room. I offered to take Sturmz to the car (along with Aspen, who as usual didn't quite realize she is too big to be under the table).
When I got to the car, I discovered we couldn't get in. This began a 3.5 hour search for Susan's car keys. Channeling great Dad searches for glasses or keys, we even laid out the garbage and sorted through it. Korie had converted her garage with some very cool wall hangings into the dinner space. We took the place APART! No keys.
So we stayed over. Highly amped AAA tow truck driver next door helped look for the keys. He is Korie's next door neighbor. We decided he might tow us home the next morning. But AAA sent him to Oakland (thank heaven!) and we got a former Napa-kin who now lives on an ocean bluff a half- hour south of Korie. He loaded the car onto the flatbed for 3 hour ride on winding blufftop road to Fort Bragg. Susan has AAA Plus, so 100 miles of the 107 were covered. He gave us the final 7 for free.
Seemed beyond ridiculous to me, but Dan, the driver said he does this all the time, towing people with perfectly good cars when only the keys are missing, Keyless cars get towed all the time and he recommends avoiding them. As we pulled out in the tow truck, the horn began honking on the car up on the flatbed, occupied by Sturmz and Aspen. Dan said, "I think they want us to go faster!"
I looked in the side rear-view mirror and could see Sturmz standing up on the driver's seat, paws on the steering wheel, barking and barking. After three sessions of horn-honking in about 5 minutes, the beeping ceased.
When we got to the gas station in Jenner, Dan discovered he had forgotten his wallet at home. He left the four of us for an hour while he went to get it.
We got coffee and Susan went off somewhere. The other three of us met a husky youngsta. She was bowing to Sturmz, but Aspen doesn't quite have the art of dealing with overly energetic puppies. She wants to herd them but then chaos ensues.
So on we went, past the most incredible scenery anywhere, cliffs are even higher than in FB.
Dan and I swapped Napa stories, even got to debate the veracity of valley rumors about a secret military base in the Macyacamas. Story is true -- there were tridents there at one time, and there were black helicopters there in 1990s, for whatever that is worse. Susan would have drifted off mid-conspiracy, but she was working too hard in the middle seat to keep from getting the gearshift slammed into her knee. Anyway, we got home.
Thanks to Korie for dinner and the fun and for giving up her bed! Gracie the cat may have been most impacted by having two more dogs overnight.
PS from Susan: Got a voice mail when cell reception came back: the keys were found in Korie's car, which I had entered only for a second to turn off the dome light, and which two guests had then borrowed as theirs had died.
We had a Thanksgiving that was wild, not by Jack's job interview stories (delayed flight, personal note from Donald Trump), but a good one nonetheless. We drove 3 hours to Susan's sister Korie's home on the Russian River, where Sturmz, I and a macho little dog named Max were the only males among 16. Korie was seen with a knife. (Turkey may have been male too!)
Max peed on the floor when he arrived, Sturmz stole hostess Bella's bed, but then Sturmz waited until the peak of post-dinner poetry reading to begin howling for leftovers while farting out the other end. Naturally, this ruined the mood and cleared the room. I offered to take Sturmz to the car (along with Aspen, who as usual didn't quite realize she is too big to be under the table).
When I got to the car, I discovered we couldn't get in. This began a 3.5 hour search for Susan's car keys. Channeling great Dad searches for glasses or keys, we even laid out the garbage and sorted through it. Korie had converted her garage with some very cool wall hangings into the dinner space. We took the place APART! No keys.
So we stayed over. Highly amped AAA tow truck driver next door helped look for the keys. He is Korie's next door neighbor. We decided he might tow us home the next morning. But AAA sent him to Oakland (thank heaven!) and we got a former Napa-kin who now lives on an ocean bluff a half- hour south of Korie. He loaded the car onto the flatbed for 3 hour ride on winding blufftop road to Fort Bragg. Susan has AAA Plus, so 100 miles of the 107 were covered. He gave us the final 7 for free.
Seemed beyond ridiculous to me, but Dan, the driver said he does this all the time, towing people with perfectly good cars when only the keys are missing, Keyless cars get towed all the time and he recommends avoiding them. As we pulled out in the tow truck, the horn began honking on the car up on the flatbed, occupied by Sturmz and Aspen. Dan said, "I think they want us to go faster!"
I looked in the side rear-view mirror and could see Sturmz standing up on the driver's seat, paws on the steering wheel, barking and barking. After three sessions of horn-honking in about 5 minutes, the beeping ceased.
When we got to the gas station in Jenner, Dan discovered he had forgotten his wallet at home. He left the four of us for an hour while he went to get it.
We got coffee and Susan went off somewhere. The other three of us met a husky youngsta. She was bowing to Sturmz, but Aspen doesn't quite have the art of dealing with overly energetic puppies. She wants to herd them but then chaos ensues.
So on we went, past the most incredible scenery anywhere, cliffs are even higher than in FB.
Dan and I swapped Napa stories, even got to debate the veracity of valley rumors about a secret military base in the Macyacamas. Story is true -- there were tridents there at one time, and there were black helicopters there in 1990s, for whatever that is worse. Susan would have drifted off mid-conspiracy, but she was working too hard in the middle seat to keep from getting the gearshift slammed into her knee. Anyway, we got home.
Thanks to Korie for dinner and the fun and for giving up her bed! Gracie the cat may have been most impacted by having two more dogs overnight.
PS from Susan: Got a voice mail when cell reception came back: the keys were found in Korie's car, which I had entered only for a second to turn off the dome light, and which two guests had then borrowed as theirs had died.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The "thousand things" delusion
We've all seen them, the books like "One Thousand Places to See Before You Die," with variations "One Thousand Books to Read," "Pieces of Music," "Works of Art," etc, all before you shuffle off this mortal coil and theoretically miss your chance. Cool. At first glance it looks like folks might be giving a nod in the direction of their own mortality.
But first let's do the math. One thousand places. Unless you're independently wealthy, you have a day job, and you get the American average of 13 days paid vacation per year. So, at the outside you might get to 2, 3, or 4 of the must-see locations in a year, what with home repairs, the cost of gasoline and plane tickets, and taking the dog to the vet. One-thousand divided by 4 is 250. Anyone you know living to 250 years these days?
Far from actually coming up against the fact that this life and its opportunities are temporary, the Thousand Things genre feeds the illusion that we are immortal. It's definitely a young person's gig. No real choices necessary, it's all possible.
On the cusp of five and a half decades, I have been feeling strongly that the concepts of "choice" and "priority" are looming large. At the same time, thanks to the wonders of menopause, I've never felt more scattered. Goals have always given me trouble, with no faster way to wipe every thought from my mind than the dreaded questions "What's your five-year plan?" "Where would you like to be in 10 years?"
So here in the next month I will be working on my own version of a Thousand Things list, suitably modified to fit my station in life -- by that I mean, I'll be thinking hard about what's important to me, what's doable, and what I want to put my time, energy and passion into.
Thanks for reading. If you have some experience with setting and accomplishing goals, including what inner obstacles, if any, you overcame to do so, I'd be grateful to hear from you.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The dog who knew Santa
Aspen, the dog who's full of surprises, surprised us again this weekend. Frank happened to catch some of it on film.
A fundraiser, pet photos with Santa, held at a feed store to benefit the beleaguered county animal shelter on the coast. I'm paying for the photos, and Frank, Sturmz (his 15-year-old shepherd/husky mix), Beth (my 11-year-old "little" in the Big Sister program) and Aspen head back toward the Santa mash-up.
As Frank describes it, Aspen leaves Beth's side and dashes up to where Santa's sitting, waiting for the next visitor. She jumps up next to the jolly old elf and snuggles right in close. The photographer, who seemed ill-suited to the task and the chaos associated with it, stands with hand on hip, exuding impatience, wondering where her next real customer is.
Then I get there with the receipt and we descend on Santa en masse. For the first paid pic, Frank and I are snuggled next to Santa, Aspen sitting proudly in front of me, and Sturmz decides to show his butt to the camera -- no matter what. Sturmz' feet drop into the cracks between the straw bales, panicking him -- which he shows by wide-mouthed "heh-heh-heh" panting. Frank hauls him around several times, and each time Sturmz' tail is prominently featured. Santa, presumably having a bit of experience with the situation, finally grabs both dogs with a ho-ho-ho and a hug, and finally the flash goes off.
The second paid pic features Beth and me with Santa and Aspen, and it goes off without a hitch. But then it's time for Aspen to say goodbye to Santa, and she just can't. Her immensely strong tail is wagging in circles, and it doesn't help that Santa knows exactly where to scratch her.
I imagine the initial recognition that Aspen showed for Santa as a variation on "It's a Wonderful Life," two incarnate angels comparing notes on their work here on earth. "How many bells have rung on your watch? Have trouble bringing anyone down off the railing?"
On the way out we meet James, an elegant retired greyhound, and Aspen is impressed.
A fundraiser, pet photos with Santa, held at a feed store to benefit the beleaguered county animal shelter on the coast. I'm paying for the photos, and Frank, Sturmz (his 15-year-old shepherd/husky mix), Beth (my 11-year-old "little" in the Big Sister program) and Aspen head back toward the Santa mash-up.
As Frank describes it, Aspen leaves Beth's side and dashes up to where Santa's sitting, waiting for the next visitor. She jumps up next to the jolly old elf and snuggles right in close. The photographer, who seemed ill-suited to the task and the chaos associated with it, stands with hand on hip, exuding impatience, wondering where her next real customer is.
Then I get there with the receipt and we descend on Santa en masse. For the first paid pic, Frank and I are snuggled next to Santa, Aspen sitting proudly in front of me, and Sturmz decides to show his butt to the camera -- no matter what. Sturmz' feet drop into the cracks between the straw bales, panicking him -- which he shows by wide-mouthed "heh-heh-heh" panting. Frank hauls him around several times, and each time Sturmz' tail is prominently featured. Santa, presumably having a bit of experience with the situation, finally grabs both dogs with a ho-ho-ho and a hug, and finally the flash goes off.
The second paid pic features Beth and me with Santa and Aspen, and it goes off without a hitch. But then it's time for Aspen to say goodbye to Santa, and she just can't. Her immensely strong tail is wagging in circles, and it doesn't help that Santa knows exactly where to scratch her.I imagine the initial recognition that Aspen showed for Santa as a variation on "It's a Wonderful Life," two incarnate angels comparing notes on their work here on earth. "How many bells have rung on your watch? Have trouble bringing anyone down off the railing?"
On the way out we meet James, an elegant retired greyhound, and Aspen is impressed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)