Battle of the Bulge

I would never call anyone fat.  Of course neither would anyone reading this, so it seems like an odd statement, but it comes up because I was accused of that by a friend who was angry with me and choosing to misinterpret everything I said.  And it really stung, because, I know how it feels to be called fat.

I had two nicknames in elementary school:  Battleship Becky and Ten Ton Talbot.  I wasn’t huge, but I was far bigger than my peers.  I liked to read, I didn’t like to run.  And, sue me, I’ve always like food. Since we moved every year, it was the one constant in my life, though ceiling cat knows, my mother’s cooking wouldn’t win prizes.  (She tried to eat healthy, but we were poor, and she was addicted to convenience foods, like Minute Rice, also, didn’t she season anything.)  Church potlucks in the South, on the other hand, could send a Kindergartner into cardiac arrest.  I still want to figure out how to make Mrs. Joyner’s fried chicken!  I went on my first diet in 7^th grade, one I invented myself, where I ate nothing but Jell-O all day, and had dinner with the family.  Mom said I could do it as long as I had my Tang at breakfast and ate a decent dinner.  I lost 25 lbs, and haven’t eaten Jell-O since, but I did make the gymnastics team, which was my goal.  

This was when I received my next nickname, Chuckie.  It was bestowed on me by Cheryl, whose kindness I will never forget.  Despite the weight loss, I was still not really gymnast sized (have you seen my shoulders?) and, as the new kid, the butt of teasing.  Cheryl faced down my tormentors, and very firmly said, “She’s not fat.  She’s just a little Chuckie in places.”   That seemed to work.  We made one of those leather ID bracelets in Art Class, and I wore it proudly for the rest of Jr. High.  Make the negative a positive, right?

I’ve fought with weight ever since, battling between 10 and 50 lbs too many.  The 50 lb loss was a present to myself for my 40^th birthday.  It was weight I gained mostly in a desk job, and in trying to get pregnant.  It took 10 months and lot of life changes, and I hope never to have to do that again.  If my husband hadn’t done it with me, I’m sure it wouldn’t have worked, because I had to change the way we cooked and ate.  I’ve tried every diet imaginable, from the silly fads in college (7 bananas one day, 7 eggs the next, anyone?) to torturous things with no protein, no fat, or no carb, or whatever.  My personal take is that the Weight Watchers way: sensible portions, increasing exercise, and reasonable food choices, is the one that works every time.  

January is that lovely time of intentions and resolutions, when gyms make the bulk of their money for the year, when everyone promises themselves that this time, this time, they will lose that X number of pounds FOR REAL.  It’s a time of hope and despair.  They are running a Biggest Loser contest at work, because public weigh-ins and group motivation can be really helpful.  Typically, some guy will win, who managed to eat only egg whites for the last two weeks, and he’ll gain it all back in a month, which irritates all the people (women) who really tried to change their lifestyles.  Hopefully, their reward will be keeping the weight off, and being healthier.

I watch overweight people gimp by on their overworked joints, and I know how easily that could be me.  I’ve watched the growth of my clients in the OR to the point where we seem to always need a table that will support 300+ lbs at least once a day.  Weight increases morbidity.  I get it.  I know someone who couldn’t manage a diet, but finally got a gastric bypass, and made it work (it doesn’t always: you can fill that pouch with wine, chocolate and fries).  I have a good friend who is really making it happen, with hours in the gym, long walks with the family, and an eye on the prize:  better health.  She looks fantastic and I couldn’t be prouder of her.  

The news natters on endlessly about obesity, to the point where the word has almost lost its meaning, or become divisive.   Look around the pictures on FB.  Not all of the folks on there look like models, and I sure don’t.  We are all in the same battle together.  It’s not just a problem with corn syrup, or desk jobs, or white flour.  Once we become people of a certain age, metabolism shifts, and the pounds just volunteer to stay.  We need to stop being angry about who pays for whose health care and try to make changes that will benefit us all.  By all means, incentivize weight loss.  And if you really need two airline seats, perhaps you should buy them.  I’m not sure how to measure that, because pounds and inches are different on everyone.  The thing is, it really is a “there but for the grace of God go I” in a lot of ways.  Yes.  I put down the doughnut.  I walked past the chip ‘n dip tray.  But if our income changed, and we couldn’t afford fresh produce or a gym membership,  if I got depressed, and sought solace in oral gratification, if I weren’t skeptical of all TV shows and the ads shown thereon, if we were less educated or determined….

I want to be like Cheryl.  .   I don’t think I’ll ever have the opportunity to rescue someone from being called fat, and I doubt that our age being called Chuckie would be endearing.  But I think we can all help to build each other’s self esteem, and recognize the little victories we win the big fight we face.

I want to try to always tell people they look great, and ask if they’ve lost weight.  It’s amazingly motivating to be asked that, and wonderfully cheering.  I don’t think to do that often enough, and it’s one of my intentions for this year

Dirty Little Secret

I adore my kids to pieces, but there comes a time when I am simply…done.  I am done with the whining, the arguing, the bedtime routines,  the early morning school rush.  It takes about a week.  Then?  The kids go to their other parents’  houses!  I have a quiet house.  I can leave chocolate on the counter without being dive-bombed with pleas for “just one taste”.  I can sleep in- or if I have to get up, there is no one to make breakfast for except…me.  I can play loud, inappropriate music. (I can say "fuck" or any other goddamn word I want!) I can make food that includes such disgusting things as mushrooms, onions, and *gasp* quinoa! without having to deal with the gagging and looks that accuse me of adding these ingredients simply to be evil.

A week goes by….and just when I start to go through some serious cuddle withdrawals, they come back!  With smiles and hugs and mom-I-missed-you-so-much-es.   I have rejuvenated, retrieved my zen, and I am ready to listen to violin practices, and the vroom-vrooms of toy cars echoing down the hallway.  I am happy to give kisses to owies, I have the patience to remind- for the 5^th time- that homework is due tomorrow, and yes, you have to do it all, because you have had three days to do it all and you’ve knowingly put it off until now, so do it all already!

During my week with the kids, I can handle the constant jumble of papers and markers on the coffee table.  I can, with dancer-like agility, navigate the vehicle-and-action-figure-strewn hallway.  I can do 3+ loads of laundry every goddamn day.  I can drive 4 kids to 3 different schools in 2 different towns (by 8:30am!)  I can serve toast-eggs-vitamins-glassesofmilk-sandwiches-soup-mangohedghogs-burritos-avocodoslices-chipsandpeanutbutter-almonds-supplements-glassesofwater-banana-moretoast-roastedchicken-broccoli-saladwithnodressing-saladwithdressing-ricemadewithchickenbroth-butteredbread-yogurt-and do it again, because yes, that was ONE DAY of feeding my kids! Homework is monitored and checked.  I can help remember to brush multiple sets of teeth (and possibly, on a good day, my own), give baths/supervise showers to 1, 2, 3, or 4 kids, depending on the night, read the bedtime book (and the second one for the kid who diiiiiiidn’t-waaaaant-thaaaat-oooonnnnee!!!), place kisses on faces, necks, palms of hands, and blow another one – just for luck! – to 1, 2, 3, or 4 kids, (depending on the night and desire on their part for kisses)

Because? During the week without them?  I can clean my house to spotless and sparkling- and it will stay that way even after I leave the room!  I can kick the cars and toys into the bedrooms to be dealt with…eh, later.  I have only one load of laundry per day (and that’s only because I am washing  5 beds worth of sheets!) If I am getting up in the morning, it’s to go to work, or simply to move to the couch to drink my coffee and peruse Facebook.  I can eat when I’m hungry, and cook what I want.  I always remember to not only brush my teeth, but I get a chance to shave my legs, too!  If any books are read, they are strictly for MY entertainment, and the kisses are of an entirely different sort. ;-) and what follows the kisses?  Can even be with the door open!!

Just goes to prove the old saying: when life gives you lemons--make lemon drops!

-Lemon Drop, M.D.

Grandpa meets Carmen Electra

A lot of things happen in life that you don’t expect.  Most of child rearing is that way, right?  I mean, my husband and I are always turning to each other and saying, “I don’t recall that from the baby class”, or “well, that is exactly what I was expecting when I decided to be a parent,” as we stand knee deep in vomit, or try to figure out what to say to a distraught kid who just “broke up” with someone he never actually spoke to…

Turns out elder care is a lot the same way.  We have been blessed with 3 intact sets of grandparents, which mean lots of adoring eyes on babies, and extra birthday presents, more potential soccer victims, and all of that.  It seems that as they age, it also means more trips to the doctor, more surgeries to keep track of, and more ailments to learn about.  These past two years have been spent with one particular set of elders, who have managed to both acquire dementia as well as the usual physical deterioration.  I don’t mean to make fun of them.  I know it isn’t any easier for them than it is for us.  

But when you go to safety proof a house, it’s a lot like having big toddlers, only instead of putting locks on everything; you’re trying to make things easier to open, easier to grab onto, easier to pull up on…  We have handrails everywhere in their house, lining the stairs, beside the toilets, in the tub/shower units.  There are shower chairs, and anywhere we could put one.  But you can’t put a rail in the middle of the room.  Well, just as when we had little ones, you find yourself talking to total strangers in areas where your charges congregate.  At the senior yoga class at the Y, or in this case, at the dentist, where apparently, half the clients have been going for the 30 years that Grandpa and Grandma have been clients…  And a woman was exclaiming in the waiting room over a pole that had made her mother’s last years so much easier.  She called it a physical therapy pole, and talked about setting up in her mother’s bedroom, but moving it to the living room as things progressed.  It was a terrific help for standing to dress, for getting from the bed to the bath, etc, etc.  It sounded like just the thing for Grandpa’s nighttime excursions to the loo! 

 Only it turns out, that there aren’t any physical therapy poles advertised on the web.  There are lots of poles.  Some of them are lighted, some are pink, some spin.  Some are “portable”, and some screw into the ceiling.  Many have recommended weight limits, and come with starter DVDs… Yeah.  I did my research, and bought one of the better, but less expensive ones.  And I took it over to the house.  The caretaker was taken aback, but we got to joking about it.  My brother in law, when I gave him the receipt, said, Does this say what I think it says?  Yeah.  Carmen Electra Stripper Pole.  Grandpa has a new hobby he wants to show Grandma….

These two were both exceptionally smart professional people, with a public face, and a huge value on appearance and intelligence.  It’s heartbreaking to watch the world fade behind their eyes, and see the frustration when even the mnemonics they’ve hidden behind for so long fail them.   

 I’ve sat and had the same conversation over and over with Grandma, wondering if it will stick, or if I might just as well be on tape.  I challenge myself to use synonyms, and change it up, not because it makes things more comprehensible, but because it keeps me from getting bored and angry.   She has an Alzheimer’s type dementia, so it gets worse with her all the time.  We have spent an afternoon talking about the sky and the traffic in LA where she lived as a young adult, and others trying to understand a letter that just came in the mail. You just never know.  She angers easily right now, because she knows she isn’t getting it.  The hardest thing is when she goes with me to Grandpa’s doctor appointments and tries to give the answers to the questions.  If she’s wrong about how much he sleeps at night, or exercises, for instance, and I have to gainsay her, she gets very offended.  “Who’s been married to him for 30 years?” she demands, even though she’s giving an answer that would have been accurate 3 years ago.  She has a schedule book for all her events, but she can no longer find today in it, and doesn’t understand what the appointments are that she has written down.  Yesterday, she asked me to explain Grandpa’s blood pressure issues to her, so we went over systolic, and diastolic, then pulse, and what normal was, and what Grandpa’s was.  She didn’t even blink, she just said, “isn’t that terrific?,” as if I’d just told her one of the boys had won a trophy.  

Grandpa is aphasic, so he doesn’t converse much at all, but he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.  There’s always a big smile, and a laugh at even the slightest joke.  He has vascular dementia, which means he has mini strokes.  It didn’t take his comprehension, but it got nearly everything else.  He’s frail and tipsy when he walks.  He’s had too many falls, but he seems to heal marvelously from all the cuts and bruises he gets.  We have 24/7 caregivers with them finally, but nothing is a guarantee.  It’s amazing how much space there is between a walker and a chair when you are sleight and unstable.  And now that his heart is really slowing down, it seems to cost a huge effort just to breathe and do the little things in life.  He still works on jigsaw puzzles, but where we used to try to find the 1500 piece 3D monochromatic masterpieces to challenge him, now we look for 300 large piece puzzles with happy pictures.   He goes through the paper every morning, like always, but I haven’t seen him wear his glasses in ages, and he has cataracts, so I’m not sure how much he’s really reading.  Today, I registered him for a DNAR medic alert account.  The bracelet will be here in a week.  

It started with a visit to the ER last weekend.  He slumped in the shower, and his caregiver called 911.  He was more responsive by the time the medics arrived, but they took him to the hospital anyway, just to check.  I met him there.  His heart has decided not to beat in a normal sinus rhythm any longer, but to beat in A-Fib, which means that the upper half of his heart isn’t really working properly any more.  They tried to switch him back, with Cardioversion, but he wasn’t having it, so there we are.  

All of the sudden, the papers he had signed, the discussions we had had, those things seemed a lot more important.  What do you do, at the end of the road?  How do you make things happen the way you planned?  We asked him again, because we know he is in there, if he wanted CPR if his heart stopped.  The “no” was clear as a bell.  So we filed the form with the local Medic Station, spread the word to the extended family, and the care providers.  We practically papered the house with copies.  But the real nightmare starts when his heart actually stops beating.  Because then someone has to not call 911, or stop a helpful bystander from doing chest compressions in a restaurant.  Someone has to have the guts to hold his hand and kiss him goodbye.  All the rest is just words on paper.  

This aging thing is a lot harder than it looks. 

Sipping something properly aged, like Scotch, is probably in order.