I've been thinking a lot lately about transitions, probably because my life seems to be fraught with them right now. For a start, there was the shift from Hawaiian Standard Time to Eastern Daylight Time, which has been brutal. But that's not the only one; it seems as though every other area of my life, except my family, is currently in a state of flux.
In the work realm, KlezKamp is moving from Living Traditions, Inc. to the Mayrent Insittute for Yiddish Culture at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. My other major professional involvement, as a board member of the Mohala Hou Foundation, is also changing, as we take over the administration of Aloha Music Camp in the aftermath of some major personnel upheaval.
In the physical world, diffiicult transitions abound. Moving from wakefulness to sleep, and from sleep to wakefulness, continues to be difficult for me much of the time. And lately, the transition from lying down or sitting to standing has been painful as well. There is also the sometimes elusive transition between hunger and fullness to deal with.
Psychically, things are no better -- I continue to struggle with the transition between the hope I have of accomplishment on any given day to the reality of what I am able to do.
Transitions are difficult. Energetically, the law of inertia applies: it is way easier to keep doing what we have always done than to do something different. Specifically, I seem to need to know where I am and what I am about in order to feel comfortable in the world, and clearly, that is not always possible. Learning to tolerate the ambiguity of flux has been one of the challenges I've been working on as part of my journey towards health and inner peace.
Tonight Passover begins, and at the first seder we sing a hauntingly beautiful song called Karev Yom,which is about the coming of a day which is neither day nor night. I've always loved that song, partly because it is so beautiful, partly because you only get to sing it one night in the whole year, and partly because the imagery is as haunting as the melody. But even beyond the beauty and mystery of the lyric is the psychological rightness of the metaphor. At this hour on this day, our kitchens are turned over from every day to Passover use; the khometz (products made with the five prohibited grains: wheat, rye, oats, barley and spelt) has been either thrown out or segregated for our last non-Passover breakfast, and the special passover foods are waiting for the holiday to begin. We are in the moment which is neither Passover nor not-Passover.
The discomfort of such a moment is both practical and spiritual. In practical terms, there is the huge question of what do we eat for breakfast and lunch. Traditionally, since khometz is allowed until 10am, we always leave out one non-Passover place-setting to be washed and packed away after a normal breakfast, whatever that might be. It is also traditional not to eat matzo until the seder, so we have usually lunched on a bit of chicken from the soup I make for the seder, maybe with some kosher for Passover potato chips and carrots, washed down with a side of Dr. Brown's black cherry soda. But spiritually, it is not a comfortable day, and that is not only or even primarily due to the pre-seder frenzy. The sigh of relief and peace that for me always accompanies the moment we sit down at our seder table is partly because all the work is done but also, I think, because at that moment I once again know where I am and what I am about.
May all of us, whatever we celebrate, find those moments of certainty and learn to live more comfortably with the times of transition.
I wish all my Jewish friends and family a zisn, koshern pesakh (a sweet, kosher Passover).
A hui hou.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Ghrelin and Leptin and Sleep, Oh My!
One of the most interesting classes I have taken at Green Mountain at Fox Run was one that discussed the "hunger hormones" and how they intereact with insulin and what we eat to regulate hunger, satiety and, ultimately, body weight. I had naturally heard a great deal about insulin over the years, with the threat of diabetes always hovering in my background, but leptin and ghrelin, the two primary hormones that govern hunger and satiety, were totally new to me.
Basically,ghrelin is produced in the stomach and tells the brain that more food is needed, while leptin, which is produced in fat cells, sends the signal that we are full and all is well. When you have too many fat cells, you have too much leptin, which seems to make the receptors insensitive to the signal to stop eating, especially if you have too much insulin floating around and the whole system gets out of balance. (Apologies for gross oversimplification!)
The simplest and most obvious way to regulate this important hormone system is by making sure to eat regularly and include a good balance of foods, especially fiber, fat and protein, at every meal. But quite a lot of recent research has suggested that getting adequate sleep is a huge factor in maintaining hormonal equilibrium. This may be the mechanism by which sleep disorders contribute to obesity.
This week, I experienced strong anecdotal evidence in support of that theory.
A couple of months ago, I started feeling as though the quality of my sleep was getting worse; I was feeling tired again despite spending adequate hours in bed, and felt sluggish and sleepy throughout the day. I wondered whether my CPAP mask was leaking, but I didn't notice anything, at least when I was awake and checking. Yet I had a feeling that the seal of the nasal pillows in my nostrils wasn't as good as it had been and suspected that that might be the source of the problem. I tried using the second set of slightly larger nasal pillows that had come with my mask, and that seemed to help with the sleepiness, but they were too big for my face and I was waking up with a very sore nose. So I contacted my sleep center and asked them to send me a new set of nasal pillows (evidently insurance will pay for a new one every three months, even though my respiratory therapist had assured me that every six months should be fine).
The new mask arrived on Friday, and when I went to swap out the old parts, I noticed that indeed, the slightest pressure against the side of the nasal pillows pushed it out of the tubing, thus creating a huge leak. This was actually very exciting to me, as it gave me evidence that I hadn't been imagining the change in sleep status and offered the promise of good sleep again. And for the past three nights I have indeed enjoyed much better sleep, waking earlier and feeling ready to get moving right away.
One of the other problems I've been experiencing this winter has been an evident inability to eat mindfully. While I have managed very well at continuing to eat only those foods that sit well with my body, I've been unable to stop eating, most of the time, at the moment when I first feel satisfied, which is usually also the moment when the food stops actually tasting good. I thought I was just facing another instance of a previously established "corner of the blanket" flapping up as another was dealt with, and wondered what was going on. Was it emotional eating? Was I stuffing down some other deep-seated emotional morass? It was perplexing.
Then, on Saturday, I noticed that I didn't eat everything on my dinner plate, for the first time in a very long time. I thought that was strange, but figured maybe the additional meditating I was doing was having a calming effect. Sunday, the same thing happened, twice. Moreover, when I couldn't fall asleep that night (due to physical discomfort), I felt hunger, ate a small snack, and then stopped eating, which is exactly what I had not been able to do during the previous couple of months.
Suddenly, a light bulb went off -- surely it was no coincidence that the return of my ability to respond to internal signals about hunger and fullness came at exactly the same time as the return of undisrupted sleep.
This realization felt huge. First, it gave me incredibly convincing evidence that I am, in fact, very much in tune with my body and its signals to me. If I wasn't getting the message to stop eating, that was because it wasn't being sent. Second, it meant that my difficulty with eating was not due to some sort of moral failure -- it was simply my body being out of whack. Once the balance was reestablished, I could (and can) make sensible and healthy choices without even thinking about it.
If I hadn't been a total believer in CPAP before, I would surely be now.
A hui hou.
Basically,ghrelin is produced in the stomach and tells the brain that more food is needed, while leptin, which is produced in fat cells, sends the signal that we are full and all is well. When you have too many fat cells, you have too much leptin, which seems to make the receptors insensitive to the signal to stop eating, especially if you have too much insulin floating around and the whole system gets out of balance. (Apologies for gross oversimplification!)
The simplest and most obvious way to regulate this important hormone system is by making sure to eat regularly and include a good balance of foods, especially fiber, fat and protein, at every meal. But quite a lot of recent research has suggested that getting adequate sleep is a huge factor in maintaining hormonal equilibrium. This may be the mechanism by which sleep disorders contribute to obesity.
This week, I experienced strong anecdotal evidence in support of that theory.
A couple of months ago, I started feeling as though the quality of my sleep was getting worse; I was feeling tired again despite spending adequate hours in bed, and felt sluggish and sleepy throughout the day. I wondered whether my CPAP mask was leaking, but I didn't notice anything, at least when I was awake and checking. Yet I had a feeling that the seal of the nasal pillows in my nostrils wasn't as good as it had been and suspected that that might be the source of the problem. I tried using the second set of slightly larger nasal pillows that had come with my mask, and that seemed to help with the sleepiness, but they were too big for my face and I was waking up with a very sore nose. So I contacted my sleep center and asked them to send me a new set of nasal pillows (evidently insurance will pay for a new one every three months, even though my respiratory therapist had assured me that every six months should be fine).
The new mask arrived on Friday, and when I went to swap out the old parts, I noticed that indeed, the slightest pressure against the side of the nasal pillows pushed it out of the tubing, thus creating a huge leak. This was actually very exciting to me, as it gave me evidence that I hadn't been imagining the change in sleep status and offered the promise of good sleep again. And for the past three nights I have indeed enjoyed much better sleep, waking earlier and feeling ready to get moving right away.
One of the other problems I've been experiencing this winter has been an evident inability to eat mindfully. While I have managed very well at continuing to eat only those foods that sit well with my body, I've been unable to stop eating, most of the time, at the moment when I first feel satisfied, which is usually also the moment when the food stops actually tasting good. I thought I was just facing another instance of a previously established "corner of the blanket" flapping up as another was dealt with, and wondered what was going on. Was it emotional eating? Was I stuffing down some other deep-seated emotional morass? It was perplexing.
Then, on Saturday, I noticed that I didn't eat everything on my dinner plate, for the first time in a very long time. I thought that was strange, but figured maybe the additional meditating I was doing was having a calming effect. Sunday, the same thing happened, twice. Moreover, when I couldn't fall asleep that night (due to physical discomfort), I felt hunger, ate a small snack, and then stopped eating, which is exactly what I had not been able to do during the previous couple of months.
Suddenly, a light bulb went off -- surely it was no coincidence that the return of my ability to respond to internal signals about hunger and fullness came at exactly the same time as the return of undisrupted sleep.
This realization felt huge. First, it gave me incredibly convincing evidence that I am, in fact, very much in tune with my body and its signals to me. If I wasn't getting the message to stop eating, that was because it wasn't being sent. Second, it meant that my difficulty with eating was not due to some sort of moral failure -- it was simply my body being out of whack. Once the balance was reestablished, I could (and can) make sensible and healthy choices without even thinking about it.
If I hadn't been a total believer in CPAP before, I would surely be now.
A hui hou.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Get Thee Behind Me, Strength Training!
So there I was yesterday morning, up bright and early and having given myself permission not to worry about strength training till I get home so that I could concentrate on meditating and getting done all that I need to do, and I had a huge urge to lie right back down on the bed and do my lower body routine. And so I did it.
I think I can safely say that I have never felt that kind of intrinsic motivation to do lower body before. Never.
When I first went to Green Mountain at Fox Run, practically the first piece of information I internalized was that strength training is one of the secrets of the universe -- it's the only means of improving our metabolic rate as well as perhaps the most effective way to stave off osteoporosis. And for several years, I kept up a religious routine of alternating upper and lower body, six days a week. Often, that was the only thing I could manage to do in a day. Upper body wasn't so bad, because I could control the amount of weight I used. But lower body, which used my own body weight for resistance, was a killer.
It never seemed fair -- with upper body, when you are least fit, you use the lowest weights. But with lower body, when you are least fit you have the most to move. For a long time, doing lower body was aerobic exercise for me -- it would regularly get my heart rate into target range, despite assurances from the fitness staff that that would not happen. Eventually I learned to limit my range of motion to make the exercises more doable. Yet still I dreaded it, every single day.
At some point, a couple of years ago, I broke my routine because of illness, and I was never able to get back to it again. The demons of lower body, especially, loomed large, and my energies were focused elsewhere. Every so often I would start up again, either because I revisited Green Mountain or because I had a rush of external motivation (ie, a feeling that I ought to be doing strength training because it was good for me), but in a few days or weeks I'd be making excuses again. Even after my long bout with H1N1 and pneumonia, when i knew that strength training was the best way to get back the core strength I had lost (and was sorely missing, "sorely" being the operative word), I couldn't make myself stick to the program.
Then, after all my improvements of this past summer and fall -- the thyroid supplements, elimination diet and CPAP -- I was feeling pretty healthy in a lot of ways that I hadn't felt for a long time, and I decided to make strength training my top priority for this winter. As I had been taught at Green Mountain, I carefully considered the possible obstacles to successfully implementing a regular regimen and strategies I might use to overcome them, and i was able to figure out that the first thing I needed to do was lower the threshold for beginning. When I visualized myself doing alternating upper and lower body, as I had done for all those other years, I was getting stuck in dread and discomfort. That did not bode well.
I had a sudden flash of insight that proved to be the key to getting back on track. I remembered that a couple of summers ago, I had dragged myself to two classes a week of whole body resistance training, and that had been enough to make me feel significantly better. Which meant that I could divide the whole routine into three parts, rather than two, and hit each muscle group twice per week. When I thought about doing upper body one day (six exercises), abs plus glutes, calves and shins the next (six exercises) and the rest of lower body the third (five exercises), it suddenly all seemed possible. I was actually able to start up after only a few days of settling in.
There was still one problem facing me, though. When I did that first session of lower body, trying for the two sets of 15 reps we do at Green Mountain, it was so hard that I burst into tears when I finished. Carol, ever my staunch support, wisely reminded me that there was nothing sacred about the number 15, and that in fact, the guidelines say that you should do 2-3 sets of 10-15 reps with the goal of keeping good form and feeling the burn for the last few reps of the second and third sets. By those standards, I was actually overtraining, so it was no wonder that I hated doing the exercises. I spent my next sessions figuring out exactly the right number of reps for each muscle group, which varied from 2 sets of 8 for quad lifts to 3 sets of 11 for hamstrings, and all of a sudden, I wasn't dreading strength training any more. And imagine my excitement when after a couple of weeks I was able to increase from 8 to 9 quad lifts -- by trying to do more than my body could handle, all those years, I had totally deprived myself of that type of small, yet invaluable, success.
And so, for two months, I kept up my routine, doing it right on the bed most of the time because my knee issues made getting up and down off the floor difficult and painful. Then we had some company that got in the way followed by a painful medical condition that made strength training impossible for a couple of weeks, and I started to get that sinking feeling of dread again. Only to my surprise, when I became able to get going, I did, without much fuss, till last week when my nieces' visit took precedence. And, as I discussed in my last post, I pretty much decided that I wouldn't worry about getting back to that routine for these last two weeks, knowing that packing is a very physically demanding process and that we had a lot to get done.
And then the miracle happened, and I heard my body crying out to do strength training. And it was lower body specifically that it was requesting.
Wow.
So yesterday morning, I gave my body what it needed. And today I did it again.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know if this state of awareness and ease will continue. But I'm a firm believer that if you can achieve something once, however fleetingly, you can achieve it again. And again.
A hui hou.
I think I can safely say that I have never felt that kind of intrinsic motivation to do lower body before. Never.
When I first went to Green Mountain at Fox Run, practically the first piece of information I internalized was that strength training is one of the secrets of the universe -- it's the only means of improving our metabolic rate as well as perhaps the most effective way to stave off osteoporosis. And for several years, I kept up a religious routine of alternating upper and lower body, six days a week. Often, that was the only thing I could manage to do in a day. Upper body wasn't so bad, because I could control the amount of weight I used. But lower body, which used my own body weight for resistance, was a killer.
It never seemed fair -- with upper body, when you are least fit, you use the lowest weights. But with lower body, when you are least fit you have the most to move. For a long time, doing lower body was aerobic exercise for me -- it would regularly get my heart rate into target range, despite assurances from the fitness staff that that would not happen. Eventually I learned to limit my range of motion to make the exercises more doable. Yet still I dreaded it, every single day.
At some point, a couple of years ago, I broke my routine because of illness, and I was never able to get back to it again. The demons of lower body, especially, loomed large, and my energies were focused elsewhere. Every so often I would start up again, either because I revisited Green Mountain or because I had a rush of external motivation (ie, a feeling that I ought to be doing strength training because it was good for me), but in a few days or weeks I'd be making excuses again. Even after my long bout with H1N1 and pneumonia, when i knew that strength training was the best way to get back the core strength I had lost (and was sorely missing, "sorely" being the operative word), I couldn't make myself stick to the program.
Then, after all my improvements of this past summer and fall -- the thyroid supplements, elimination diet and CPAP -- I was feeling pretty healthy in a lot of ways that I hadn't felt for a long time, and I decided to make strength training my top priority for this winter. As I had been taught at Green Mountain, I carefully considered the possible obstacles to successfully implementing a regular regimen and strategies I might use to overcome them, and i was able to figure out that the first thing I needed to do was lower the threshold for beginning. When I visualized myself doing alternating upper and lower body, as I had done for all those other years, I was getting stuck in dread and discomfort. That did not bode well.
I had a sudden flash of insight that proved to be the key to getting back on track. I remembered that a couple of summers ago, I had dragged myself to two classes a week of whole body resistance training, and that had been enough to make me feel significantly better. Which meant that I could divide the whole routine into three parts, rather than two, and hit each muscle group twice per week. When I thought about doing upper body one day (six exercises), abs plus glutes, calves and shins the next (six exercises) and the rest of lower body the third (five exercises), it suddenly all seemed possible. I was actually able to start up after only a few days of settling in.
There was still one problem facing me, though. When I did that first session of lower body, trying for the two sets of 15 reps we do at Green Mountain, it was so hard that I burst into tears when I finished. Carol, ever my staunch support, wisely reminded me that there was nothing sacred about the number 15, and that in fact, the guidelines say that you should do 2-3 sets of 10-15 reps with the goal of keeping good form and feeling the burn for the last few reps of the second and third sets. By those standards, I was actually overtraining, so it was no wonder that I hated doing the exercises. I spent my next sessions figuring out exactly the right number of reps for each muscle group, which varied from 2 sets of 8 for quad lifts to 3 sets of 11 for hamstrings, and all of a sudden, I wasn't dreading strength training any more. And imagine my excitement when after a couple of weeks I was able to increase from 8 to 9 quad lifts -- by trying to do more than my body could handle, all those years, I had totally deprived myself of that type of small, yet invaluable, success.
And so, for two months, I kept up my routine, doing it right on the bed most of the time because my knee issues made getting up and down off the floor difficult and painful. Then we had some company that got in the way followed by a painful medical condition that made strength training impossible for a couple of weeks, and I started to get that sinking feeling of dread again. Only to my surprise, when I became able to get going, I did, without much fuss, till last week when my nieces' visit took precedence. And, as I discussed in my last post, I pretty much decided that I wouldn't worry about getting back to that routine for these last two weeks, knowing that packing is a very physically demanding process and that we had a lot to get done.
And then the miracle happened, and I heard my body crying out to do strength training. And it was lower body specifically that it was requesting.
Wow.
So yesterday morning, I gave my body what it needed. And today I did it again.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know if this state of awareness and ease will continue. But I'm a firm believer that if you can achieve something once, however fleetingly, you can achieve it again. And again.
A hui hou.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Next Steps
My break was a bit longer than I expected when last I wrote, and involved spending a glorious week introducing my nieces to Hawaii. We had a wonderful time, and it was fun being pretty much totally on vacation, something that I rarely allow myself to do -- most of the time, even if I'm not actively doing responsible things, I'm worrying about not doing them! And one of the additional benefits of that recreational time was that I realized I may be entering a new phase, particularly with respect to eating and gut health. And that got me thinking about what that might mean and what I need to do to move ahead towards my goal of getting healthy.
As we traveled around the island, we ate out at restaurants more than I have since I began the LEAP protocol last July, and I did fine. I was fairly careful in my choices and definitely felt the limitations caused by the still fairly long list of foods on my reactive list, or those that were not yet tested. But in fact, the only thing I needed to ask about was soy, which made the whole process feel kind of normal. It felt really good to be able to be fairly spontaneous (though I did check menus online for places I did not know well), and clearly no one suffered because of my limitations (including me!). I also learned that I can tolerate small amounts of challenging foods (wheat, asparagus, corn) pretty well, while still needing to avoid them in quantity.
Apart from that realization, I've also been feeling, these past few weeks, as though my intestinal tract has become healthier. Call it a gut feeling (backed by physiologic details I REALLY don't need to go into here), but I'm getting a sense that the huge imbalances that plagued me may be resolving. I also have become aware of feeling much stronger in my core -- it no longer kills my back if I stand while cooking a meal or looking at a museum exhibit. My ankle still limits my mobility, big time, but at least I'm back to where I was before I got H1N1 and lost the ability to stand upright.
On the down side, I don't feel as though I'm sleeping as well as I was a couple of months ago, and that's significantly affecting my ability to be active and feel energetic and good. Could be that my CPAP needs adjusting, or possibly my thyroid dose; fortunately, I have appointments to have both of those things checked right after I get back to Massachusetts. Having experienced the return of energy, I'm not willing to stand its absence again.
So, what next? We have entered our final two weeks here, and I'm a little overwhelmed by all that needs to happen before we leave, as usual, and by all the things I didn't manage to do while we were here -- also as usual. This is perhaps not the best time to spend my energy trying to reestablish a routine that will almost immediately be broken.
The key is mindfulness. I've gotten away from intentional meditation, which was the main tool that got me started on this journey, and I need to take it up again. I need to give myself the time to be focused and grounded, the time to be quiet, and the time to notice where I am, not where I ought to be or where I was. I want to let go of worrying and fretting in favor of appreciating. If I can do all of that, I hope I'll be able to take joy in a little movement and get the most enjoyment I can of these last days (for now) in my beautiful home here.
Excuse me while I go out to sit on the lanai and listen, mindfully, to the ocean and feel the cool breeze on my face.
A hui hou.
As we traveled around the island, we ate out at restaurants more than I have since I began the LEAP protocol last July, and I did fine. I was fairly careful in my choices and definitely felt the limitations caused by the still fairly long list of foods on my reactive list, or those that were not yet tested. But in fact, the only thing I needed to ask about was soy, which made the whole process feel kind of normal. It felt really good to be able to be fairly spontaneous (though I did check menus online for places I did not know well), and clearly no one suffered because of my limitations (including me!). I also learned that I can tolerate small amounts of challenging foods (wheat, asparagus, corn) pretty well, while still needing to avoid them in quantity.
Apart from that realization, I've also been feeling, these past few weeks, as though my intestinal tract has become healthier. Call it a gut feeling (backed by physiologic details I REALLY don't need to go into here), but I'm getting a sense that the huge imbalances that plagued me may be resolving. I also have become aware of feeling much stronger in my core -- it no longer kills my back if I stand while cooking a meal or looking at a museum exhibit. My ankle still limits my mobility, big time, but at least I'm back to where I was before I got H1N1 and lost the ability to stand upright.
On the down side, I don't feel as though I'm sleeping as well as I was a couple of months ago, and that's significantly affecting my ability to be active and feel energetic and good. Could be that my CPAP needs adjusting, or possibly my thyroid dose; fortunately, I have appointments to have both of those things checked right after I get back to Massachusetts. Having experienced the return of energy, I'm not willing to stand its absence again.
So, what next? We have entered our final two weeks here, and I'm a little overwhelmed by all that needs to happen before we leave, as usual, and by all the things I didn't manage to do while we were here -- also as usual. This is perhaps not the best time to spend my energy trying to reestablish a routine that will almost immediately be broken.
The key is mindfulness. I've gotten away from intentional meditation, which was the main tool that got me started on this journey, and I need to take it up again. I need to give myself the time to be focused and grounded, the time to be quiet, and the time to notice where I am, not where I ought to be or where I was. I want to let go of worrying and fretting in favor of appreciating. If I can do all of that, I hope I'll be able to take joy in a little movement and get the most enjoyment I can of these last days (for now) in my beautiful home here.
Excuse me while I go out to sit on the lanai and listen, mindfully, to the ocean and feel the cool breeze on my face.
A hui hou.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
T/Making a Break
When I was last heard from, I was feeling kind of low, mired in feelings of guilt and unsure how to move forward. Then came the tsunami, and somehow, in the aftermath of the fear and confusion of evacuation and a lost night of sleep, I became unmired. Not that anything substantive has changed, or that I now know how to move ahead on my journey. But the tsunami gave me the chance to break the cycle of negative thoughts that I was in, and when we drove back down the slope of Mauna Kea on Friday morning to our beautiful (and, thankfully, untouched) home, I was filled with a great sense of well-being and happiness. and I've been feeling pretty cheerful ever since.
Perhaps it was the threat of natural disaster putting things into perspective for me. Perhaps it was just the break in time and energy. But there was definitely something about inserting a pause into what was going on inside me that changed things for the better.
It's all too easy to get trapped inside an endless cycle of misery. Carol calls it mental highjacking, and I think we all do it. And it's always negative -- nobody ever seems to get caught up in an endless round of happy thoughts! Unfortunately, though it may feel as though dwelling on the bad stuff is useful, it never is. Never. Not that I advocate denial -- been there and done that, and it isn't helpful either. But beating yourself over the head with your alleged shortcomings is likely only to give you a headache.
This is all related to the importance of self-love and self-care. If you've ever been to Marineland or Sea World or the like, you've heard the presenters at the dolphin and whale shows say that the reason they put on those shows is to get people to care about the whales and dolphins, because humans are only likely to try to take care of things (and people) they care about personally. We care about our family and friends, which is why we can be kind to them and supportive of their efforts to change, even when they slip and slide and lose their way. But we are not so forgiving of our own slips and slides, suggesting that perhaps we don't truly love and value our selves as much as we value those close to us.
This lesson is so simple, but so hard. I am not the enemy. My body is not the enemy. Maybe there isn't even an enemy, only challenges to figure out, one at a time.
When we left Puako, in the wee hours of Thursday night, we left the windows open in our house. Our thinking was that if the tsunami generated really big waves, it would be better to allow them to wash through the house than to give them no place to go, since that resistance could end up with our house washed away rather than simply flooded. It strikes me now that that's a really good image to keep in my mind about the futility of resistance and negativity and the value of being open to what washes through.
A hui hou.
Perhaps it was the threat of natural disaster putting things into perspective for me. Perhaps it was just the break in time and energy. But there was definitely something about inserting a pause into what was going on inside me that changed things for the better.
It's all too easy to get trapped inside an endless cycle of misery. Carol calls it mental highjacking, and I think we all do it. And it's always negative -- nobody ever seems to get caught up in an endless round of happy thoughts! Unfortunately, though it may feel as though dwelling on the bad stuff is useful, it never is. Never. Not that I advocate denial -- been there and done that, and it isn't helpful either. But beating yourself over the head with your alleged shortcomings is likely only to give you a headache.
This is all related to the importance of self-love and self-care. If you've ever been to Marineland or Sea World or the like, you've heard the presenters at the dolphin and whale shows say that the reason they put on those shows is to get people to care about the whales and dolphins, because humans are only likely to try to take care of things (and people) they care about personally. We care about our family and friends, which is why we can be kind to them and supportive of their efforts to change, even when they slip and slide and lose their way. But we are not so forgiving of our own slips and slides, suggesting that perhaps we don't truly love and value our selves as much as we value those close to us.
This lesson is so simple, but so hard. I am not the enemy. My body is not the enemy. Maybe there isn't even an enemy, only challenges to figure out, one at a time.
When we left Puako, in the wee hours of Thursday night, we left the windows open in our house. Our thinking was that if the tsunami generated really big waves, it would be better to allow them to wash through the house than to give them no place to go, since that resistance could end up with our house washed away rather than simply flooded. It strikes me now that that's a really good image to keep in my mind about the futility of resistance and negativity and the value of being open to what washes through.
A hui hou.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Guilt
I've been trying for over a year to write a letter to my little self, the self before my mother died, the self before psychic and physical pain conspired to slow me down, and I just can't do it. I know how important it is that I write it, as part of the therapy arc first suggested by my reading of Toxic Parents. I know how much my physical and emotional health depend on being able to let go and stop judging myself, and blaming myself for surviving horrible circumstances in the best way I knew how.
Somehow, knowing all of that isn't really helping.
How could I have let things get to this state? How could I have done this to myself? How can I try to take good care of myself when I know that I've spent years making things worse?
I feel paralyzed by guilt and unable to get passed it. I know that I have to rip through the guilt to get out more anger and sadness and who knows what else, in order to heal, but I just can't move right now.
I know that if I were talking to any other friend or family member -- or even a perfect stranger -- I would urge forgiveness and kindness, but I can't muster it up for myself. I know that by being so judgmental I am almost compelling the type of bad decision that I feel guilty about, but I can't seem to stop. I sit quietly with my feelings and sense the space around me grow dark and agitated and can't find my way back to the light. One of my friends, responding to my previous blog post, reminded me that there are a lot worse coping mechanisms I could have chosen, alcohol, painkillers or street drugs, and she's right; any of those things would have hurt the people I love as much or more than they hurt me, and I wouldn't have the years of productivity and good relationships behind me that I do have, and for which I am very grateful.
I know all that, and yet my heart knows nothing.
So what do I say to my little self? How do I apologize? How do I move on? I don't know yet, but I'll keep trying to figure it out. I do trust that if I keep true to my process, I'll get there eventually.
A hui hou.
Somehow, knowing all of that isn't really helping.
How could I have let things get to this state? How could I have done this to myself? How can I try to take good care of myself when I know that I've spent years making things worse?
I feel paralyzed by guilt and unable to get passed it. I know that I have to rip through the guilt to get out more anger and sadness and who knows what else, in order to heal, but I just can't move right now.
I know that if I were talking to any other friend or family member -- or even a perfect stranger -- I would urge forgiveness and kindness, but I can't muster it up for myself. I know that by being so judgmental I am almost compelling the type of bad decision that I feel guilty about, but I can't seem to stop. I sit quietly with my feelings and sense the space around me grow dark and agitated and can't find my way back to the light. One of my friends, responding to my previous blog post, reminded me that there are a lot worse coping mechanisms I could have chosen, alcohol, painkillers or street drugs, and she's right; any of those things would have hurt the people I love as much or more than they hurt me, and I wouldn't have the years of productivity and good relationships behind me that I do have, and for which I am very grateful.
I know all that, and yet my heart knows nothing.
So what do I say to my little self? How do I apologize? How do I move on? I don't know yet, but I'll keep trying to figure it out. I do trust that if I keep true to my process, I'll get there eventually.
A hui hou.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
In the Dark of Night
In my telephone counseling session last week, it became clear that the feelings of constriction about my current dietary requirements and the sense I have that all the corners of my blanket are flapping in my face indicated a lot of frustration. It also became clear that the frustration seemed to be related to very deep, very old feelings from childhood, though I couldn't quite figure out what those were. So my assignment for this week was to give myself the space and the stillness to let those feelings come up, and to pay attention when they do.
Unfortunately, I'm also dealing with some major pain at the moment -- nothing serious, but bad enough to impinge on both my activities and my joie de vivre. Though I can manage to stay somewhat comfortable during the day, the minute I get into bed, it feels like all hell breaks loose, which means that sleep has been somewhat elusive these past few nights. Last night was particularly difficult.
So there I was, attempting for the third time to fall asleep, lying in the dark listening to myself breathing into my CPAP machine, and I suddenly felt an onrush of incredibly strong emotion. The feelings were so intense that I could barely hold myself still, though at first I didn't even know what I was feeling, only that I was feeling something powerful. I fought the urge to get up (and the associated urge to stuff something into my mouth to try to regain equilibrium) and let myself be there with whatever it was, and after a few moments the usually still, small voice inside me started to yell (silently), "Why can't you take care of ME for a change?" and "I'm tired of always having to take care of myself and everybody else!"
I don't know who I was addressing, but it's pretty clear that my recent awareness of how burdensome it feels to have to be so continuously vigilant about my food choices etc. is related. And then there was the dream I had the night after my session -- a classic frustration dream involving my stepmother, KlezKamp, and my not running through fields, unable to find the place where I was supposed to be teaching until long after class was over. Nobody ever accused my subconscious of being subtle!
What have I learned from all of this? One is that I think I'm making less than optimal food choices from among the "safe" foods perhaps to kick against the fact that I do have to be so vigilant. I have, in the past, also stopped taking my asthma steroids on occasion when I felt overburdened by the need to take medicine for the rest of my life (an obstinacy which, thank goodness, does not seem to have affected my compliance with any of the medicine I'm currently taking for blood pressure, thyroid or gout).
The second thing I've learned is that I seem to have a deep-seated sense of neglect, in some way. I know that I've always been a pretty strong and self-sufficient person (I'm an oldest child), and people have always assumed that I can take care of myself just fine. The one time I ever had a melt-down during my young years was a few weeks before I left home (for good, as it turned out) to go to England. Everybody in my family was very busy with other issues, and no one was paying any attention to the fact that I was about to travel 3,000 miles away to an entirely different continent. When I got hysterical, the response was that it had never occurred to anybody that I might be having a problem with that.
Well, here it is, 35 years later, and I no longer have any trouble admitting that I need help, which is good. But I believe that much of my current angst revolves around feelings that I didn't take very good care of my young self, and yes, perhaps guilt about being the cause of my current health problems.
I don't know how to get through that, right now. But I'm sure I'll learn.
A hui hou.
Unfortunately, I'm also dealing with some major pain at the moment -- nothing serious, but bad enough to impinge on both my activities and my joie de vivre. Though I can manage to stay somewhat comfortable during the day, the minute I get into bed, it feels like all hell breaks loose, which means that sleep has been somewhat elusive these past few nights. Last night was particularly difficult.
So there I was, attempting for the third time to fall asleep, lying in the dark listening to myself breathing into my CPAP machine, and I suddenly felt an onrush of incredibly strong emotion. The feelings were so intense that I could barely hold myself still, though at first I didn't even know what I was feeling, only that I was feeling something powerful. I fought the urge to get up (and the associated urge to stuff something into my mouth to try to regain equilibrium) and let myself be there with whatever it was, and after a few moments the usually still, small voice inside me started to yell (silently), "Why can't you take care of ME for a change?" and "I'm tired of always having to take care of myself and everybody else!"
I don't know who I was addressing, but it's pretty clear that my recent awareness of how burdensome it feels to have to be so continuously vigilant about my food choices etc. is related. And then there was the dream I had the night after my session -- a classic frustration dream involving my stepmother, KlezKamp, and my not running through fields, unable to find the place where I was supposed to be teaching until long after class was over. Nobody ever accused my subconscious of being subtle!
What have I learned from all of this? One is that I think I'm making less than optimal food choices from among the "safe" foods perhaps to kick against the fact that I do have to be so vigilant. I have, in the past, also stopped taking my asthma steroids on occasion when I felt overburdened by the need to take medicine for the rest of my life (an obstinacy which, thank goodness, does not seem to have affected my compliance with any of the medicine I'm currently taking for blood pressure, thyroid or gout).
The second thing I've learned is that I seem to have a deep-seated sense of neglect, in some way. I know that I've always been a pretty strong and self-sufficient person (I'm an oldest child), and people have always assumed that I can take care of myself just fine. The one time I ever had a melt-down during my young years was a few weeks before I left home (for good, as it turned out) to go to England. Everybody in my family was very busy with other issues, and no one was paying any attention to the fact that I was about to travel 3,000 miles away to an entirely different continent. When I got hysterical, the response was that it had never occurred to anybody that I might be having a problem with that.
Well, here it is, 35 years later, and I no longer have any trouble admitting that I need help, which is good. But I believe that much of my current angst revolves around feelings that I didn't take very good care of my young self, and yes, perhaps guilt about being the cause of my current health problems.
I don't know how to get through that, right now. But I'm sure I'll learn.
A hui hou.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Living on Borrowed Time
Living with someone ten years older than I am has caused me to spend more time than I like contemplating mortality in recent years, as have my own increasing health issues. But even contemplating mortality feels distant and abstract in the face of the sudden death of a contemporary.
One of our co-grandmas, our daugher-in-law's mother, failed to wake up the other morning. She was a lively woman, with a big personality and a lot of energy, and about my own age. It was deeply shocking to hear the news, and very sad. But it also intensified the feeling I've had lately that I am living on borrowed time.
I am an extremely patient person. I can read a book to my grandkids five times in a row without more than a token protest, and I listened to my grandpa's stories over and over and over again his whole life. Since I began this journey towards fitness, I embraced Green Mountain's teaching that if you do the things you need to take care of yourself -- eat mindfully, move your body joyfully and safely, replace inner judgment with compassion -- weight loss will come as a welcome side effect. And most of the time, I am content to keep working at those goals, trusting that weight loss will, indeed, come along in time.
But then the sound of the mortality clock ticking becomes louder and louder, and I start to feel afraid that my body is going to weigh down my spirit before I ever get the chance to experience all the benefits of true fitness and health. It's ticking pretty loudly today.
One of the wisest things anyone ever said to me, spoken by one of the behavioral specialists at Green Mountain, was that anxiety is the future (or the past) intruding into the present. Her point was that if you can truly stay in the moment, you can reduce a lot of stress in your life. In this particular moment, I can truly feel the value of that advice, as it also eliminates that looming sense of fear that I'll run out of time. If this moment is all that really concerns me, then all I can do is make the best choice I can, and continue to make the best choices I can in each subsequent moment. Some of those choices will inevitably be less than optimal, and I will have to live with those as I live with the better ones. Certainly, I am much better off and much healthier (though no lighter) today than I was a few years ago. And that is the best that I can do.
I feel especially sad when I think of my grandson, Jake, who will now have such a huge hole in his life without Grandma Andrea. I need to do what I can to try to make sure that he has his Grandma Sherry for a few more years.
A hui hou.
One of our co-grandmas, our daugher-in-law's mother, failed to wake up the other morning. She was a lively woman, with a big personality and a lot of energy, and about my own age. It was deeply shocking to hear the news, and very sad. But it also intensified the feeling I've had lately that I am living on borrowed time.
I am an extremely patient person. I can read a book to my grandkids five times in a row without more than a token protest, and I listened to my grandpa's stories over and over and over again his whole life. Since I began this journey towards fitness, I embraced Green Mountain's teaching that if you do the things you need to take care of yourself -- eat mindfully, move your body joyfully and safely, replace inner judgment with compassion -- weight loss will come as a welcome side effect. And most of the time, I am content to keep working at those goals, trusting that weight loss will, indeed, come along in time.
But then the sound of the mortality clock ticking becomes louder and louder, and I start to feel afraid that my body is going to weigh down my spirit before I ever get the chance to experience all the benefits of true fitness and health. It's ticking pretty loudly today.
One of the wisest things anyone ever said to me, spoken by one of the behavioral specialists at Green Mountain, was that anxiety is the future (or the past) intruding into the present. Her point was that if you can truly stay in the moment, you can reduce a lot of stress in your life. In this particular moment, I can truly feel the value of that advice, as it also eliminates that looming sense of fear that I'll run out of time. If this moment is all that really concerns me, then all I can do is make the best choice I can, and continue to make the best choices I can in each subsequent moment. Some of those choices will inevitably be less than optimal, and I will have to live with those as I live with the better ones. Certainly, I am much better off and much healthier (though no lighter) today than I was a few years ago. And that is the best that I can do.
I feel especially sad when I think of my grandson, Jake, who will now have such a huge hole in his life without Grandma Andrea. I need to do what I can to try to make sure that he has his Grandma Sherry for a few more years.
A hui hou.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Deprivation ReDux Again
Back in September, when I was a couple of months into following the LEAP protocol for dealing with food sensitivities, I wrote a post called Deprivation Redux, in which I talked about how I was feeling pretty fine about eating only those foods that don't hurt me. It felt at that moment as though the deprivation corner of my blanket was firmly pegged into the ground.
Since I've been in Hawaii, though, I've been hit in the face more than a few times, but in a slightly different way. It's not that I'm feeling hard done by because I can't eat whole wheat bread, chocolate, cheddar cheese or popcorn -- in fact, I'm generally finding very reasonable substitutes for all of those flavors. And I've been able to add some of my very most favorite Hawaiian foods, without incident: breadfruit, macadamia nuts, taro, opakapaka (pink snapper) and sweet potatoes. Though I did feel sad on my first trips to the grocery store or Costco, seeing all the usual foods that cannot at this time be part of my fare, there have been plenty of other things to provide variety and interest (the Asian snack isle is a wonder of corn- and gluten free choices).
Still, I've been having more and more trouble being really mindful about my food, making poor choices among those that I can eat, eating when I'm not particularly hungry, and not stopping when my palate becomes jaded or my belly is full. In contemplating why that might be, I've considered the very real possibility that I am subconsciously resenting the limitations on my choices (after spending several years learning to give myself permission to choose freely from among all foods and thus depriving them of their power over me); I could be eating more of what I can have to make up for not being able to have some other foods that I really love. And while I do acknowledge that possibility, it doesn't resonate right now. I really don't think that's the answer. The only food I had been seriously longing for was bread (so I could eat a simple tuna sandwich), and a couple of weeks ago I found spelt hamburger buns in the local health food store that taste just like real whole wheat bread, and I tolerate them just fine. On the other hand, that tuna sandwich was probably the single most mindfully consumed food item in my recent past, so maybe there is more at play behind the scenes than I know.
The other possible explanation that has occurred to me is that I am living in a culture here where not only am I faced every day with the limitations governing my food choices, but where those limitations make it next to impossible to be normally "sociable." Hawaiian contemporary cuisine is very much Asian, and Asian food is dominated by soy, which is one of the few foods that make me frankly ill. This means that we can't eat out (except in one restaurant that neither of us finds terribly appealing), that we can't go to the many day-long festivals without a lot of prior planning, and that if we have guests, I have to cook three meals a day, every day.
In the great scheme of life, none of that is a horrible hardship. I've been enjoying all the cooking I've done, especially when we've had guests, and I can't say I've particularly missed going out to eat. I do miss being able to use soy sauce and ginger in my stir frying, but I can live with that. Still, handcuffs are not particularly enjoyable or comfortable, even if they are lined with fleece. I suspect that the chafing is getting to me, and I don't know what to do about that.
As I write all of this, I realize that none of what I'm talking about is rational. Put me on the rational plane and I can do anything. It's the emotional netherworld that trips me up, every time. I don't know exactly what the lesson is here, only that I clearly haven't learned it yet.
A hui hou.
Since I've been in Hawaii, though, I've been hit in the face more than a few times, but in a slightly different way. It's not that I'm feeling hard done by because I can't eat whole wheat bread, chocolate, cheddar cheese or popcorn -- in fact, I'm generally finding very reasonable substitutes for all of those flavors. And I've been able to add some of my very most favorite Hawaiian foods, without incident: breadfruit, macadamia nuts, taro, opakapaka (pink snapper) and sweet potatoes. Though I did feel sad on my first trips to the grocery store or Costco, seeing all the usual foods that cannot at this time be part of my fare, there have been plenty of other things to provide variety and interest (the Asian snack isle is a wonder of corn- and gluten free choices).
Still, I've been having more and more trouble being really mindful about my food, making poor choices among those that I can eat, eating when I'm not particularly hungry, and not stopping when my palate becomes jaded or my belly is full. In contemplating why that might be, I've considered the very real possibility that I am subconsciously resenting the limitations on my choices (after spending several years learning to give myself permission to choose freely from among all foods and thus depriving them of their power over me); I could be eating more of what I can have to make up for not being able to have some other foods that I really love. And while I do acknowledge that possibility, it doesn't resonate right now. I really don't think that's the answer. The only food I had been seriously longing for was bread (so I could eat a simple tuna sandwich), and a couple of weeks ago I found spelt hamburger buns in the local health food store that taste just like real whole wheat bread, and I tolerate them just fine. On the other hand, that tuna sandwich was probably the single most mindfully consumed food item in my recent past, so maybe there is more at play behind the scenes than I know.
The other possible explanation that has occurred to me is that I am living in a culture here where not only am I faced every day with the limitations governing my food choices, but where those limitations make it next to impossible to be normally "sociable." Hawaiian contemporary cuisine is very much Asian, and Asian food is dominated by soy, which is one of the few foods that make me frankly ill. This means that we can't eat out (except in one restaurant that neither of us finds terribly appealing), that we can't go to the many day-long festivals without a lot of prior planning, and that if we have guests, I have to cook three meals a day, every day.
In the great scheme of life, none of that is a horrible hardship. I've been enjoying all the cooking I've done, especially when we've had guests, and I can't say I've particularly missed going out to eat. I do miss being able to use soy sauce and ginger in my stir frying, but I can live with that. Still, handcuffs are not particularly enjoyable or comfortable, even if they are lined with fleece. I suspect that the chafing is getting to me, and I don't know what to do about that.
As I write all of this, I realize that none of what I'm talking about is rational. Put me on the rational plane and I can do anything. It's the emotional netherworld that trips me up, every time. I don't know exactly what the lesson is here, only that I clearly haven't learned it yet.
A hui hou.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Blankets in the Wind
Have you ever had the experience of trying to spread out a picnic blanket or beach towel in a high wind? It's not a pretty sight. You manage to get one or two corners down and just as you go for the third the wind picks up and messes up the whole arrangement. So you patiently get that third or fourth corner set and go back to re-establish mastery over the first two. You may even find yourself spread-eagled across the whole blanket in a vain attempt to get all four corners down at once.
Sometimes, dealing with a blanket in the wind is a perfect metaphor for what it feels like when you try to change your life. You deal with one issue, then another, then another, and just when you think you're finally getting it all under control, the first issue pops up again and you are hit with a face full of blanket. Only with life changes, there seem to be many more than four corners, so that even the clumsy possibility of spread-eagling is not an option.
This has been my life over the past year -- actually, ever since I first went to Green Mountain. First, I put physical activity back into my life. Then came a couple of years of miserable respiratory health that finally got the better of me. Then I dealt with the ravages of deprivation. Then I learned to deal with the stress in my life. Then I dealt with the deep-seated feelings of anger towards my father. Then I faced the reality of the toll of my recent life on my body. Then I dealt with my feelings about my mother. All of that made the need to be active flap in the wind. Then I dealt with food sensitivities, which I think have gotten the deprivation issues all roused again. Then I got my CPAP machine. Then I started doing strength training again with great regularity, and the need to eat mindfully has flapped up again, rather violently.
Sigh. I really believe, perhaps naively, that if only I could all the corners of the blanket to stay put for even just a little while, I could actually lose some of my excess weight and experience the benefits that would bring. But the wind is gusty and the flapping is so loud it's sometimes hard to hear anything else.
Still, what can I do but keep on trying?
A hui hou.
Sometimes, dealing with a blanket in the wind is a perfect metaphor for what it feels like when you try to change your life. You deal with one issue, then another, then another, and just when you think you're finally getting it all under control, the first issue pops up again and you are hit with a face full of blanket. Only with life changes, there seem to be many more than four corners, so that even the clumsy possibility of spread-eagling is not an option.
This has been my life over the past year -- actually, ever since I first went to Green Mountain. First, I put physical activity back into my life. Then came a couple of years of miserable respiratory health that finally got the better of me. Then I dealt with the ravages of deprivation. Then I learned to deal with the stress in my life. Then I dealt with the deep-seated feelings of anger towards my father. Then I faced the reality of the toll of my recent life on my body. Then I dealt with my feelings about my mother. All of that made the need to be active flap in the wind. Then I dealt with food sensitivities, which I think have gotten the deprivation issues all roused again. Then I got my CPAP machine. Then I started doing strength training again with great regularity, and the need to eat mindfully has flapped up again, rather violently.
Sigh. I really believe, perhaps naively, that if only I could all the corners of the blanket to stay put for even just a little while, I could actually lose some of my excess weight and experience the benefits that would bring. But the wind is gusty and the flapping is so loud it's sometimes hard to hear anything else.
Still, what can I do but keep on trying?
A hui hou.
Another Day, Another Two Months Gone
Unbelievably, today is the first of March, and it has been another two months since I last posted. Gaps like that are potentially fatal for bloggers, but I am hopeful that those of you who read this will forgive me the lapse and continue to accompany me on my sometimes convoluted and difficult journey.
I have a tendency, when things get difficult, to withdraw into myself and neither seek help nor share my struggle. Since the whole point of starting this blog, just over a year ago, was to do both those things, it has been totally counterproductive of me to turn away from writing just at the time I need it most. But in the spirit of self-compassion, I am acknowledging that and letting it go. What was, was. What will be, I hope, will be regular posting again as I start moving forward once more.
Thanks to those of you who have told me that you've missed my posts, and that you value what I have to say. I appreciate that deeply.
Imua! (Forward!)
I have a tendency, when things get difficult, to withdraw into myself and neither seek help nor share my struggle. Since the whole point of starting this blog, just over a year ago, was to do both those things, it has been totally counterproductive of me to turn away from writing just at the time I need it most. But in the spirit of self-compassion, I am acknowledging that and letting it go. What was, was. What will be, I hope, will be regular posting again as I start moving forward once more.
Thanks to those of you who have told me that you've missed my posts, and that you value what I have to say. I appreciate that deeply.
Imua! (Forward!)
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Happy 2011!
Looking back, it is astonishing to me that I last posted here mid-October. I guess that these past two months, I have been more involved trying to live my life than even thinking about it. During that interval, I stepped carefully away from the LEAP food sensitivity protocol to begin to add additional foods back into my diet (with limited success: still can't eat wheat, though spelt is fine, and I can't quite tell about green beans), I made good friends with my CPAP machine and feel as though I've gotten my sense of self back, and my overall health is sufficiently improved that when I do get colds (such as the one I came home with from KlezKamp), they are just colds and not major illnesses. These are all wonderful signs of progress.
On the negative side of the balance sheet, my ankle, back and knees still hurt when I walk or stand too much, I have yet to get back into a strength training routine, and I still turn too quickly to food for comfort.
I'd say that the positives way outweigh the negatives. And that is a very good thing.
So here, on the cusp of this new year, I know what to work on next and have more energy to do so than I can remember in recent history.
I am grateful to all of you who have followed my story so far and expressed support and compassion.
May we all have much love, laughter, and interesting adventures in 2011.
A hui hou.
On the negative side of the balance sheet, my ankle, back and knees still hurt when I walk or stand too much, I have yet to get back into a strength training routine, and I still turn too quickly to food for comfort.
I'd say that the positives way outweigh the negatives. And that is a very good thing.
So here, on the cusp of this new year, I know what to work on next and have more energy to do so than I can remember in recent history.
I am grateful to all of you who have followed my story so far and expressed support and compassion.
May we all have much love, laughter, and interesting adventures in 2011.
A hui hou.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Taking It On the Road
I'm sitting at a hotel in Madison, Wisconsin, on the brink of several days of meetings, followed by a weekend family visit, contemplating with much curiosity and a little trepidation what it means to have taken my current array of medical concerns on the road.
It started this morning, at the TSA checkpoint, where I didn't know that I was supposed to take the CPAP machine out of its case so it could be specially screened. Actually, it started before that, when I had to shlep the additional carry-on with the machine, mask, hoses and cords. I try to travel really light with respect to what I carry on, so this was a major shift, and one that I felt, literally, as I trudged around the airport. Maybe this means that in future I can't bring my computer backpack, but should go with a wheeled carry-on. Sigh.
I stuffed a little cooler into my backpack with lunch, since I was traveling at noon, and that was fine. When I got to Madison, I immediately went to Whole Foods Market to get some supplies, and was dismayed to find that they don't sell a couple of key items that I'd been counting on, like the American cheese that has been a mainstay for me since day one. Sigh.
Then I got to the Doubletree and was handed the famous warm chocolate-chip cookie of welcome. Sigh.
No question, it's going to be a challenge. I've never been a particularly demanding diner; in fact, I've always thought that people who demand changes and substitutions are kind of a pain in the neck, or elsewhere. But meet me, newly minted pain in the neck, or elsewhere. It's not going to be easy for me to be so assertive about food; as a life-long fat person, I've generally tried to disappear into the woodwork when it comes to making food choices in public. I've also taken for granted that I can pretty much go anywhere and eat anything. Not any more. I'm hoping for steak houses and salad bars, places where I know I can get plain foods on my permitted list. Goodbye to the Afghani and Nepalese restaurants, the Jewish deli, and the cheese curds and fish fries of previous trips. Sigh.
On the positive side, I have a fridge in my room, which now contains some wonderful organic Fuji apples, some organic cottage cheese, some baby cucumbers, sourdough rye bread that I plan to bring down to breakfast, and the rest of the American cheese I brought from home. On the shelf above the fridge are my Wasa Rye crackers, my Brown Rice Snaps, and a jar of almond butter. In my suitcase are the peanuts and cashews I brought with me. I won't starve, a thought that is incredibly comforting.
And tonight, when I get ready for bed, I can fill my CPAP humidifier with the distilled water I bought, put on my nasal pillows, and feel as cozy and comfortable as I do at home.
Enough of sighing. Enough of trepidation. I'm looking forward to my dinner.
A hui hou.
It started this morning, at the TSA checkpoint, where I didn't know that I was supposed to take the CPAP machine out of its case so it could be specially screened. Actually, it started before that, when I had to shlep the additional carry-on with the machine, mask, hoses and cords. I try to travel really light with respect to what I carry on, so this was a major shift, and one that I felt, literally, as I trudged around the airport. Maybe this means that in future I can't bring my computer backpack, but should go with a wheeled carry-on. Sigh.
I stuffed a little cooler into my backpack with lunch, since I was traveling at noon, and that was fine. When I got to Madison, I immediately went to Whole Foods Market to get some supplies, and was dismayed to find that they don't sell a couple of key items that I'd been counting on, like the American cheese that has been a mainstay for me since day one. Sigh.
Then I got to the Doubletree and was handed the famous warm chocolate-chip cookie of welcome. Sigh.
No question, it's going to be a challenge. I've never been a particularly demanding diner; in fact, I've always thought that people who demand changes and substitutions are kind of a pain in the neck, or elsewhere. But meet me, newly minted pain in the neck, or elsewhere. It's not going to be easy for me to be so assertive about food; as a life-long fat person, I've generally tried to disappear into the woodwork when it comes to making food choices in public. I've also taken for granted that I can pretty much go anywhere and eat anything. Not any more. I'm hoping for steak houses and salad bars, places where I know I can get plain foods on my permitted list. Goodbye to the Afghani and Nepalese restaurants, the Jewish deli, and the cheese curds and fish fries of previous trips. Sigh.
On the positive side, I have a fridge in my room, which now contains some wonderful organic Fuji apples, some organic cottage cheese, some baby cucumbers, sourdough rye bread that I plan to bring down to breakfast, and the rest of the American cheese I brought from home. On the shelf above the fridge are my Wasa Rye crackers, my Brown Rice Snaps, and a jar of almond butter. In my suitcase are the peanuts and cashews I brought with me. I won't starve, a thought that is incredibly comforting.
And tonight, when I get ready for bed, I can fill my CPAP humidifier with the distilled water I bought, put on my nasal pillows, and feel as cozy and comfortable as I do at home.
Enough of sighing. Enough of trepidation. I'm looking forward to my dinner.
A hui hou.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Ups and Downs
Sunday I went with a friend to an aqua fitness class at the Newton Boston Sports Club (thanks, Alesia!). The class was fun, and a good workout, but I mention it because of the amazing pool in which class was held. There is a moveable wall that can create a class space, while leaving lanes for lap swimming (though much shorter than usual), and there is a movable floor to that class space, so that it can adjust for the heights of the students or be raised level with the sides so that people with mobility issues can get in and out comfortably.
When I first heard about that floor, I couldn't quite get my mind around the concept. Where did the water go? What would it feel like? Now that I've experienced it, I still don't understand quite how the water gets around the floor, but I do know that feeling the bottom adjust, gradually feeling on firmer footing, is a perfect metaphor for so much about my life now.
Ups and downs: it's all about ups and downs, treading in deep water and sometimes feeling the bottom solidify beneath my feet. And occasionally swallowing water and sputtering when I can't quite find my footing or slip a little on the tiles.
In the food department, I've had my moments of less than supportive choices (see Oops, my last post), but the other evening, when I was scheduled to add mint via some Haagen Dazs Five ice cream, when the moment came, what I really wanted was an apple. So that's what I had, and I enjoyed it enormously. I ended up having the ice cream in the wee hours when I couldn't sleep and was actually hungry, and enjoyed it enormously then. Both of those decisions were definitely an "up" moment.
In the sleep realm, my ups are that I find the CPAP mask generally comfortable and the machine incredibly quiet, and I don't have any trouble wearing it all night. But the downs are that I still have significant trouble falling asleep, and that I am not really sleeping very restfully -- lots more moments of conscious wakefulness, probably due to not being used to being tethered, than I had with the apnea. I assume that the bottom of that particular pool will slowly, slowly rise until one day in the near future I will be waking refreshed and restored from a good night's sleep.
In the area of physical activity, the up is that I am starting to be more active. The downs are that I am feeling more joint pain and am usually exhausted after I exercise. I know that both of those things will get better as I keep going, but sometimes the feeling of treading water in an uncomfortable pool makes it hard to stay in the water, let alone move ahead. Still, I know that persisting through the discomfort is the only way to lessen it, and so I continue to agitate hands and feet, metaphorically speaking, to keep my head above the water.
May we all feel the reassuring solidity of the floor under our feet.
A hui hou.
When I first heard about that floor, I couldn't quite get my mind around the concept. Where did the water go? What would it feel like? Now that I've experienced it, I still don't understand quite how the water gets around the floor, but I do know that feeling the bottom adjust, gradually feeling on firmer footing, is a perfect metaphor for so much about my life now.
Ups and downs: it's all about ups and downs, treading in deep water and sometimes feeling the bottom solidify beneath my feet. And occasionally swallowing water and sputtering when I can't quite find my footing or slip a little on the tiles.
In the food department, I've had my moments of less than supportive choices (see Oops, my last post), but the other evening, when I was scheduled to add mint via some Haagen Dazs Five ice cream, when the moment came, what I really wanted was an apple. So that's what I had, and I enjoyed it enormously. I ended up having the ice cream in the wee hours when I couldn't sleep and was actually hungry, and enjoyed it enormously then. Both of those decisions were definitely an "up" moment.
In the sleep realm, my ups are that I find the CPAP mask generally comfortable and the machine incredibly quiet, and I don't have any trouble wearing it all night. But the downs are that I still have significant trouble falling asleep, and that I am not really sleeping very restfully -- lots more moments of conscious wakefulness, probably due to not being used to being tethered, than I had with the apnea. I assume that the bottom of that particular pool will slowly, slowly rise until one day in the near future I will be waking refreshed and restored from a good night's sleep.
In the area of physical activity, the up is that I am starting to be more active. The downs are that I am feeling more joint pain and am usually exhausted after I exercise. I know that both of those things will get better as I keep going, but sometimes the feeling of treading water in an uncomfortable pool makes it hard to stay in the water, let alone move ahead. Still, I know that persisting through the discomfort is the only way to lessen it, and so I continue to agitate hands and feet, metaphorically speaking, to keep my head above the water.
May we all feel the reassuring solidity of the floor under our feet.
A hui hou.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Oops
In the interests of honesty and full disclosure, I want to write about last night, which was not my finest hour. After so much positiveness, I suppose a small step back was inevitable. That doesn't make it any easier to experience, unfortunately.
I was ravenous yesterday. I got up late and had to rush out of the house to meet a friend for a physical activity date, so all I had time for was a banana on the way down to the garage. When I got home at noon, I had exactly an hour to eat breakfast/lunch and get ready to go get my hair cut, so I shoveled in some cottage cheese with pineapple (one of my favorites) and a couple of WASA crackers with some butter. I enjoyed that, but didn't have the time to fully appreciate my meal. When I got home a couple of hours later, hungry again, I hurriedly ate lunch. I enjoyed that, too -- especially the lettuce -- but even when I was finished, I didn't feel particularly satisfied, which was odd, because I had had more than enough food by any standard. Dinner was a hurried affair during "Grandma Thursday" -- never an occasion for eating particularly mindfully, with various grandchildren clamoring for attention, and when we got home at 9:30, I was hungry again.
Being hungry is not bad. Eating when hungry is not bad. If I had only eaten a snack or small meal in response to that hunger, I would not be writing this post.
But I was tired, I was aching (both my sore ankle and my arthritic knees have been causing me much pain the past few days), and I was, I think, feeling the cumulative effects of rushing around mindlessly most of the day. So I had one snack. And then another. And a little later another.
Any one of them would have been a fine choice. Any one of them would have left me feeling comfortable, both physically and emotionally. Instead, by the time I'd finished the last spoonful of cereal (the third and final snack), I was feeling incredibly stuffed and a little nauseated. That was interesting in itself, because the fact is that the total quantity of food I consumed was way less than I might have in the bad old days; I think I have finally gotten used to eating the smaller amounts that are more appropriate for my current age and activity level. But feeling that uncomfortable also made it very clear why overeating was not a very useful technique for managing whatever it was that I was trying to manage.
The bottom line was that I was still tired and still aching, only now I was also feeling sick. Bleah. So I finally did what I should have done in the first place and put myself to bed.
I write this not as a public mea culpa. I don't feel guilty, only a little sorry that I didn't make a healthier choice. Mostly, I found the experience extremely interesting and perhaps indicative of how far I have come. And possibly of how far I have left to go.
Onward!
A hui hou.
I was ravenous yesterday. I got up late and had to rush out of the house to meet a friend for a physical activity date, so all I had time for was a banana on the way down to the garage. When I got home at noon, I had exactly an hour to eat breakfast/lunch and get ready to go get my hair cut, so I shoveled in some cottage cheese with pineapple (one of my favorites) and a couple of WASA crackers with some butter. I enjoyed that, but didn't have the time to fully appreciate my meal. When I got home a couple of hours later, hungry again, I hurriedly ate lunch. I enjoyed that, too -- especially the lettuce -- but even when I was finished, I didn't feel particularly satisfied, which was odd, because I had had more than enough food by any standard. Dinner was a hurried affair during "Grandma Thursday" -- never an occasion for eating particularly mindfully, with various grandchildren clamoring for attention, and when we got home at 9:30, I was hungry again.
Being hungry is not bad. Eating when hungry is not bad. If I had only eaten a snack or small meal in response to that hunger, I would not be writing this post.
But I was tired, I was aching (both my sore ankle and my arthritic knees have been causing me much pain the past few days), and I was, I think, feeling the cumulative effects of rushing around mindlessly most of the day. So I had one snack. And then another. And a little later another.
Any one of them would have been a fine choice. Any one of them would have left me feeling comfortable, both physically and emotionally. Instead, by the time I'd finished the last spoonful of cereal (the third and final snack), I was feeling incredibly stuffed and a little nauseated. That was interesting in itself, because the fact is that the total quantity of food I consumed was way less than I might have in the bad old days; I think I have finally gotten used to eating the smaller amounts that are more appropriate for my current age and activity level. But feeling that uncomfortable also made it very clear why overeating was not a very useful technique for managing whatever it was that I was trying to manage.
The bottom line was that I was still tired and still aching, only now I was also feeling sick. Bleah. So I finally did what I should have done in the first place and put myself to bed.
I write this not as a public mea culpa. I don't feel guilty, only a little sorry that I didn't make a healthier choice. Mostly, I found the experience extremely interesting and perhaps indicative of how far I have come. And possibly of how far I have left to go.
Onward!
A hui hou.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Lettuce Rejoice!
So far, my fears about sugar seem to have been unfounded, and I am happy to report that yesterday's new food, which was lettuce, led to one of my more astonishing experiences.
I decided to add lettuce, even before some of the more interesting vegetables that I love, like zucchini and eggplant and cabbage, because I figured that when I go out of town in a couple of weeks and have to eat in restaurants, lettuce would give me access to a whole bunch of choices that will make my life much easier. It's a rare restaurant that doesn't offer a Caesar salad with grilled chicken, fish or steak -- I never eat the croutons anyway, don't need the parmesan and usually prefer to have it without dressing, so if they can give me the protein without seasoning, I'll be fine.
Now, like most perennial dieters, I have long had a love-hate (sometimes even a hate-hate) relationship with salad. For the 4-5 years I followed the Carb Addict's Diet, a hefty salad was a required prelude to each "reward meal" -- the one where you could actually have carbs. When I did low-calorie programs or old-style Weight Watchers, salads were the "free" food, the one you almost didn't have to count, unless you used a lot of dressing, which I never did, by choice. Even at Green Mountain, where the program emphasizes the joys of eating rather than restriction and deprivation, salad is an ever-present entity, usually a planned part of every lunch and always a choice if you are still hungry after finishing lunch or dinner. Though Carol thinks of salad (and also raw fish!) as comfort food, salad never did it for me. Ever.
But yesterday, I can't tell you how excited I was as I picked out some succulent hearts of Romaine to have as the new food of the day, the accompaniment to grilled salmon and boiled Yukon Gold potatoes. The excitement built as I assembled my salad -- tearing up the romaine, slicing some cucumber, washing a handful of super sweet grape tomatoes, and cutting some black olives in half to add a salty contrast. And when I ate the first bite, I felt as though I had never tasted anything so delicious.
Salad.
I'd have to say that I enjoyed that salad significantly more than the long-awaited almond horns I added on Sunday evening. And I enjoyed the lettuce again an hour ago as I munched my way through the remaining leaves with my lunch.
Is this a simple case of absence making the taste buds grow fonder? Or have I really changed in some very fundamental way in my relationship with food?
Only time will tell.
A hui hou.
I decided to add lettuce, even before some of the more interesting vegetables that I love, like zucchini and eggplant and cabbage, because I figured that when I go out of town in a couple of weeks and have to eat in restaurants, lettuce would give me access to a whole bunch of choices that will make my life much easier. It's a rare restaurant that doesn't offer a Caesar salad with grilled chicken, fish or steak -- I never eat the croutons anyway, don't need the parmesan and usually prefer to have it without dressing, so if they can give me the protein without seasoning, I'll be fine.
Now, like most perennial dieters, I have long had a love-hate (sometimes even a hate-hate) relationship with salad. For the 4-5 years I followed the Carb Addict's Diet, a hefty salad was a required prelude to each "reward meal" -- the one where you could actually have carbs. When I did low-calorie programs or old-style Weight Watchers, salads were the "free" food, the one you almost didn't have to count, unless you used a lot of dressing, which I never did, by choice. Even at Green Mountain, where the program emphasizes the joys of eating rather than restriction and deprivation, salad is an ever-present entity, usually a planned part of every lunch and always a choice if you are still hungry after finishing lunch or dinner. Though Carol thinks of salad (and also raw fish!) as comfort food, salad never did it for me. Ever.
But yesterday, I can't tell you how excited I was as I picked out some succulent hearts of Romaine to have as the new food of the day, the accompaniment to grilled salmon and boiled Yukon Gold potatoes. The excitement built as I assembled my salad -- tearing up the romaine, slicing some cucumber, washing a handful of super sweet grape tomatoes, and cutting some black olives in half to add a salty contrast. And when I ate the first bite, I felt as though I had never tasted anything so delicious.
Salad.
I'd have to say that I enjoyed that salad significantly more than the long-awaited almond horns I added on Sunday evening. And I enjoyed the lettuce again an hour ago as I munched my way through the remaining leaves with my lunch.
Is this a simple case of absence making the taste buds grow fonder? Or have I really changed in some very fundamental way in my relationship with food?
Only time will tell.
A hui hou.
Monday, October 4, 2010
SUGAR!!
I've been quiet this past week as dealing with a new physical pain drove out the psychic pain of waiting for my CPAP. But I have not stopped my progress with the LEAP protocol, continuing to add a new food from my non-reactive list every other day. Though I have mostly been going in order, according to the phases provided by the LEAP lab, I decided (with dietitian support) to jump ahead a little bit with certain foods that will enable me to eat out with a bit more ease when I travel on business in a couple of weeks. So I skipped a bunch of fruit and cabbage in order to get to eggs, beef and lettuce. But last night, as an extra special treat, my added food of choice was cane sugar.
It felt kind of dangerous and scary. Adding sugar, after the addition of eggs, means that the world of baked goods is opening up, albeit gluten free. Specifically, I ate two little gluten-free almond horns (courtesy of Aleia's), and I thoroughly enjoyed them. As I opened the bag to share with my dining companions, I wondered whether I was actually opening a dietary Pandora's box.
So far my experience with the LEAP protocol has been nothing short of amazing. I have simply had no desire to eat any of the foods to which I tested as sensitive, and also have had no desire to jump the gun on any late-stage foods before their time. Though I've occasionally had urges to eat salty/crunchy (usually satisfied by organic American cheese on sesame-rice crackers) or sweet (cashew butter with a little honey or maple syrup mixed in or some freeze-dried fruit), they have been momentary urges only and easily satisfied. There was no "bag of cookies" option. And while it has felt as though those particular cravings departed when I finally dealt with the buried feelings about my mother and her death (see my blog posts from June), being without emotional impetuses to eat is still an extremely new experience for me, and one that I'm having a little trouble trusting.
On the one hand, those almond horns sat on the counter for four days, waiting for me to pack them up for our trip to Vermont, without once calling out to me seductively.
On the other hand, sugar was not yet a permissible food. Now it is.
Will things change now? I don't think so, and I certainly hope not, but only time will tell.
A hui hou.
It felt kind of dangerous and scary. Adding sugar, after the addition of eggs, means that the world of baked goods is opening up, albeit gluten free. Specifically, I ate two little gluten-free almond horns (courtesy of Aleia's), and I thoroughly enjoyed them. As I opened the bag to share with my dining companions, I wondered whether I was actually opening a dietary Pandora's box.
So far my experience with the LEAP protocol has been nothing short of amazing. I have simply had no desire to eat any of the foods to which I tested as sensitive, and also have had no desire to jump the gun on any late-stage foods before their time. Though I've occasionally had urges to eat salty/crunchy (usually satisfied by organic American cheese on sesame-rice crackers) or sweet (cashew butter with a little honey or maple syrup mixed in or some freeze-dried fruit), they have been momentary urges only and easily satisfied. There was no "bag of cookies" option. And while it has felt as though those particular cravings departed when I finally dealt with the buried feelings about my mother and her death (see my blog posts from June), being without emotional impetuses to eat is still an extremely new experience for me, and one that I'm having a little trouble trusting.
On the one hand, those almond horns sat on the counter for four days, waiting for me to pack them up for our trip to Vermont, without once calling out to me seductively.
On the other hand, sugar was not yet a permissible food. Now it is.
Will things change now? I don't think so, and I certainly hope not, but only time will tell.
A hui hou.
Monday, September 27, 2010
What if.....?
The problem with not living mindfully in the moment is that there are no limits to where your imagination can take you. If you are truly mindful, accepting each moment as the only reality, there is structure; the only things or people or forces or problems that you have to deal with are what is right there in the moment with you. The issues are concrete, in a way -- they are what is present and only what is present.
Take away the time boundary and all hell breaks loose. You can worry about what might happen. You can worry about what happened last time you were in a similar situation. You can worry about the things that you don't even know enough to worry about specifically. There is no end.
I've always occupied a funny sort of middle ground. I almost never worry or get nervous about things that I understand and have experienced before. When I first joined the Wholesale Klezmer Band, my first public performance was a free dance workshop at a local folk festival, and I was so nervous I nearly threw up, because while I had played many a classical concert, I had never played a klezmer gig before. A year later, when we had the privilege of playing at the 100th birthday of Carnegie Hall with all the famous folk performers I had grown up with, everyone else in the group was throwing up, but I was calm as a cucumber; I knew how to do klezmer concerts.
Similarly, most of the time when I'm facing a difficult situation, I have been able to defer worrying until I knew there was actually something to worry about. Carol, on the other hand, practices what has been called "defensive pessimism" -- going to the worst possible eventuality beforehand so as to work through all the possibilities and get comfortable with them before actually having to face them. Though that isn't my way, I have, to an extent, learned to appreciate it as a valid coping mechanism.
But right now, in the limbo between my apnea diagnosis and the appointment that will give me access to treatment, I am inhabiting the vast vortex of uncertainty and it is driving me crazy.
What if the mask hurts my nose? What if breathing through nasal tubes every night exacerbates the dryness and swelling of my mucus membranes that always plague me in the New England winter? What if they don't offer me a really quiet machine? And the kicker: what if the CPAP doesn't help and I'm still tired all the time?
About once a day, when I am on my computer doing something actually useful, I find myself drifting over to Google to look up something else about CPAP use. Engaging with information seems to calm me down, if only for the minutes I spend reading. I've learned that there are lots of potential solutions to most of the problems CPAP newbies seem to experience, and I do trust my health care providers, who have a good track record of staying on top of issues until they get resolved. There really isn't anything objective to be worried about.
So what's the problem?
I think it's more about the waiting than about the specifics. I feel as though I am simply marking time, that my "real" life and routine cannot start until I can wake up in the morning with some energy and focus. And that feeling of being in limbo is driving me crazy. Before I knew about the apnea, I figured the fatigue was simply one of the factors I have to deal with right now, like ankle pain or asthma. Knowing that there is a good chance that it will disappear in a couple of weeks makes dealing with it now almost intolerable.
And so I sit back, take a deep breath, and try to center myself in the current moment. And the next one. And the next one. October 8th can't come soon enough.
A hui hou.
Take away the time boundary and all hell breaks loose. You can worry about what might happen. You can worry about what happened last time you were in a similar situation. You can worry about the things that you don't even know enough to worry about specifically. There is no end.
I've always occupied a funny sort of middle ground. I almost never worry or get nervous about things that I understand and have experienced before. When I first joined the Wholesale Klezmer Band, my first public performance was a free dance workshop at a local folk festival, and I was so nervous I nearly threw up, because while I had played many a classical concert, I had never played a klezmer gig before. A year later, when we had the privilege of playing at the 100th birthday of Carnegie Hall with all the famous folk performers I had grown up with, everyone else in the group was throwing up, but I was calm as a cucumber; I knew how to do klezmer concerts.
Similarly, most of the time when I'm facing a difficult situation, I have been able to defer worrying until I knew there was actually something to worry about. Carol, on the other hand, practices what has been called "defensive pessimism" -- going to the worst possible eventuality beforehand so as to work through all the possibilities and get comfortable with them before actually having to face them. Though that isn't my way, I have, to an extent, learned to appreciate it as a valid coping mechanism.
But right now, in the limbo between my apnea diagnosis and the appointment that will give me access to treatment, I am inhabiting the vast vortex of uncertainty and it is driving me crazy.
What if the mask hurts my nose? What if breathing through nasal tubes every night exacerbates the dryness and swelling of my mucus membranes that always plague me in the New England winter? What if they don't offer me a really quiet machine? And the kicker: what if the CPAP doesn't help and I'm still tired all the time?
About once a day, when I am on my computer doing something actually useful, I find myself drifting over to Google to look up something else about CPAP use. Engaging with information seems to calm me down, if only for the minutes I spend reading. I've learned that there are lots of potential solutions to most of the problems CPAP newbies seem to experience, and I do trust my health care providers, who have a good track record of staying on top of issues until they get resolved. There really isn't anything objective to be worried about.
So what's the problem?
I think it's more about the waiting than about the specifics. I feel as though I am simply marking time, that my "real" life and routine cannot start until I can wake up in the morning with some energy and focus. And that feeling of being in limbo is driving me crazy. Before I knew about the apnea, I figured the fatigue was simply one of the factors I have to deal with right now, like ankle pain or asthma. Knowing that there is a good chance that it will disappear in a couple of weeks makes dealing with it now almost intolerable.
And so I sit back, take a deep breath, and try to center myself in the current moment. And the next one. And the next one. October 8th can't come soon enough.
A hui hou.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Remembering My Biking Triumph
Today, thousands of bicyclists are riding the annual Hub On Wheels event, an annual ride around Boston's neighborhoods to raise money for computers in the classrooms of Boston Public Schools. Three years ago, for the first and only time, I rode in the 26-mile version of that event; in fact, the picture that heads this blog is from that momentous day. I was training to do it again last summer, but a major respiratory infection that began last Labor Day weekend put an end to that dream, and this year, my continuing health problems similarly made participation impossible, so I am left staring out the window, remembering.
Here's what I wrote to family and friends a few days after the event:
So, there I was, last Sunday morning at 7:15, feeling extremely excited and kind of sick, watching my fellow bicyclists lining up for the 8am start of the Hub on Wheels ride around Boston. Supposedly there were 4000 riders registered for the event; 3800 lean, sleek cyclists, 197 regular people, and 3 really large people, of which I might have been the largest. I had a moment of wondering what on earth I was doing there, but then the still, small voice I've been learning to listen to during the past couple of months of coaching sessions with Teri from Green Mountain took over and said I am what I am and I'm doing the ride anyway.
It finally got to be 8am, and off we went. It was a perfect day to be out on a bike, and absolutely awesome to be riding down the middle of several of Boston's main streets with a police escort and no traffic! Riding up the ramp to Storrow Drive was amazing and exhilarating, only I almost immediately slipped my chain off the derailleur. But even that was amazing, since one of the riding marshalls rode up with his little bag of tools and not only helped me get it back on, but adjusted something so it wouldn't happen again. When else in life does that happen?
The first 7 miles or so were pure joy, though riding home afterwards I realized I hadn't taken in a lot of specifics about where we were riding, at least then. But then we got to the Jamaicaway, which had a fairly narrow bike path that was really neat until I realized that it was a steady uphill pull.
Let me stop a second and explain the physical difficulties I was facing. For starters, the day before the ride had been Yom Kippur, when, among other things, Jews are supposed to abstain from food and drink from sundown to sundown. I had actually had to break my fast in the afternoon because of really bad asthma, which can happen if I use my inhaler in the absence of liquids. So, I was starting out with something of a deficit. Then on Sunday morning, I was so excited/nervous/agitated I couldn't eat. I knew I needed to and I tried, several times, but I just couldn't do it. I knew I'd pay the price, but there really was nothing I could do.
Back to the Jamaicaway, in the absence of glycogen stores. I was tired, but Carol was waiting along this part of the route, and so were Dan and Nathan, to cheer me on, which I much appreciated. After I got to the top of that incline, slowly but surely, there was an exhilarating downhill dash into the Arnold Arboretum, and that's when things got tough. There was a hill. I pedaled and pedaled, and finally I had to get off and walk the bike up to the top. People were very encouraging, as they rode by, which was nice, but let me tell, you, pushing a bike up hill isn't so very much easier than riding it! But finally I got to the top, and then there was a rest area but I wanted to push on. I was drinking from my personal hydration system and eating my Sports Beans (jelly beans specially formulated with electrolytes, etc.), and didn't want to stop if I didn't have to.
And then there was Forest Hills Cemetery. Another long uphill. It was very hot at this point, and no shade, and I stopped and called Carol for an encouraging word. I told her my dilemma and that I had no energy and that at least if I died it would be convenient because I was already in the cemetery. She laughed and said I could do it, so I did hung up and did it. And just before the gate out of the cemetery, I did stop at the rest area and sucked on some oranges -- I still couldn't stomach the idea of eating anything more substantial than the Sports Beans, even though they had all kinds of things there. I did take a mini Cliff Bar in case I needed it later, and I tried to find out if there were more hills coming up, but nobody really knew. So I flung myself back into the fray.
Fortunately, there weren't any really bad hills, but I was so exhausted (this was about 11 miles in) that quite a few of the inclines along the route got the better of me, even though they might not have under normal circumstances. I really enjoyed pedaling along through Franklin Park, where my family was again waiting to cheer me on, and through Roxbury and Dorchester. It was especially fun to suddenly recognize an intersection that I had driven through, seeing it from a totally different perspective. It was hard, though, and I was getting more and more tired, but I just kept pedaling. Most of the time there were other riders around, especially at the major intersections (where there were marshals and occasionally police or rangers to stop traffic for us), but quite regularly I was chugging along on my own. It made me feel a little better to see other folks occasionally stopping or walking uphill, and I was leap-frogging with a whole group who were faster than I but stopping more often.
Finally, at about 16 miles or so, I reached the waterfront and knew that the rest of the route was along the shore, which meant no more hills. But I was horrified to realize that I was only able to get up about 7mph on a totally flat path! This was NOT GOOD, so I stopped on a bench overlooking a gorgeous harbor view and choked down that mini Cliff Bar I had snagged from the rest stop. It tasted like sawdust, but I knew I needed some fuel. I have no idea how long I actually sat there trying to finish that lump of food; I intended to stop for only a few minutes, as I was planning to take a longer break at the next rest area, which was coming up, but I actually sat there for about 45. It was, at least, a beautiful place to sit and contemplate the water.
Eventually, I got back on the bike and slogged along the mile or so to the rest area at Carson Beach. I sucked down some oranges again (I had always wondered why they always gave out orange wedges at the Boston Marathon, since they didn't seem like they'd give you enough of either liquid or calories to do you much good, but now I GET IT), took a banana (which I absolutely did NOT want to eat) and refilled my water reservoir (I'd just finished the half gallon I'd started with), collapsed on the curb of the parking lot and called Carol to see if they were nearby. She was, though they were just getting ready to leave, thinking they had missed me (due to my unanticipated stop); so they came over and Nathan came running up the wonderful way he has and flung himself at me -- all the other bikers in the parking lot said "aaaawwwwwwwwww" as if on cue -- and Carol got me more water and made me eat the banana. I stayed there for about half an hour -- Holly, who had just been swimming with the girls, drove over, too, and gave me a much needed pep talk. Nathan also kept finding interesting rocks to give me; after the first two, which I put in my back pack for luck, I had him give them to Carol to hold. Left to himself, I think he would have emptied the parking lot for me!
The best moment of my rest stop was when Nathan looked at my bike, furrowed his brow and asked, "But where does the gas go?"
So, it was now 12pm and I'd completed 20 miles, with six miles to go. I didn't think I could do it, but with encouragement from my wonderful family and a promise to myself that I'd stop every mile if I needed to, I got back on the bike and started off. To my amazement, the next four miles were totally enjoyable (must have been those calories!). Then, all of a sudden, with just under two miles to go, my butt went numb and my feet went numb on the pedals and I had to get off the bike that very minute. So I found a congenial bench on Fan Pier and stretched a bit and got back on the bike for the final push home.
The last mile or so was the scariest of the whole ride -- on Atlantic Avenue with all the traffic, and having to turn left across all those lanes with only one marshal to show us the way, but no one to make it safe. Then, on State Street, with the end in sight, I was making my way between a bus on one side and parked cars on the other, and feeling a bit apprehensive about that, but then all of a sudden the road opened out and there were Hub on Wheels volunteers yelling and ringing cow bells and making me smile so I rode across the finish grinning as widely as when I started. I called Carol, who was just parking the car, and told her where to meet me, and then found a place to sit and collapsed, barely containing the emotions welling up inside until she and Nathan got there. Poor Nathan; when I was done sobbing I tried to explain to him how grown-ups were kind of strange sometimes and cried when they were really happy. He was looking really distressed, since in his world you only cry when you're sad or you have a boo-boo.
We parked my bike at the bike valet and I collected my free lunch from Redbones (the best barbecue place in Boston and a great supporter of biking), which I actually managed to eat about half of, with some enjoyment. About every 10 minutes, Nathan asked me if I had won, and I would patiently explain to him that everyone who had done the ride won, that there were lots of ways of winning, that it wasn't a race, etc. etc. And 10 minutes later he would ask me again, "Sherry, did you win?" Finally, I just said "YES", and that was the truth, too.
I still can't believe I did it.
And I can't believe how much I've been learning from the experience. New ways of looking at food. How my body reacts to extreme physical stress (I didn't actually feel hunger until Tuesday lunchtime, then went through two days of getting ravenous every few hours all night long, and I kept falling asleep Monday and Wednesday, and even today (Friday) I'm feeling totally unenergetic.) How it feels to set a goal and train for it -- something I've done in other areas of my life, but not in terms of physical activity. How much I love riding my bike -- I rode for an hour yesterday and enjoyed it enormously, though I realized I have no reserves still, and couldn't push myself to reach my normal riding speeds. How much I want to do this again next year, and how I might train for the hills.
It was an amazing journey. 26.3 miles, in 3.5 hours of riding time (not quite 5 hours by the clock). I'm grateful that I was able to do it, and even more grateful for everyone's support and good wishes.
Looking back on that event now, the lessons that I've taken from that whole experience are a little bit different than what I reported at the time. For one thing, the post-ride week was really the first time in my adult life when I really paid close attention to what my body was signaling about its physiologic needs, and that I gave myself complete permission to satisfy them. During the first 48 hours after I got home, while I was mostly sleeping, all I could stomach was a little bit of sharp cheddar with a challah roll -- I think the contrasting sweet and salt tastes were what made that palatable. On Tuesday, when I experienced actual hunger, I got a message as clear as a neon sign that what I needed was protein, so I downed a can of tuna fish, nothing else. Then for the 48 hours after that, when I was ravenous every couple of hours, all I wanted was carbs -- crackers, pretzels, cereal, bread. After that I went back to normal. It all made sense, and it all felt fine.
The second important lesson was the nature of the training I did. I was basically following two of the programs set out in a wonderful little book called How To Get Wheely Fit. The first four week plan took me from first mount-up to riding 60 minutes straight, and the second from one hour at a time to two hours. Each plan called for specific length rides on four days per week. So each week I would figure put in the ideal schedule -- in pencil -- and then figure out what I could actually manage that would be close to that ideal. Sometimes I did exactly what the book said, but often I couldn't. But if I couldn't ride enough to advance to the next week's level, I made sure to do enough to maintain where I was, with the result that the Tuesday before the ride, I made a glorious 18-mile circuit on the bike paths along both sides of the Charles River, passing through four different towns in the process. Somehow, I've never managed yet to be that flexible with myself in any of my other endeavors, though I've consciously looked to that as a model for how it can be done.
I still love riding my bike more than any other physical activity I do, and I don't doubt that I will sign up for Hub on Wheels again. Maybe even next year. I look forward to seeing what I will learn from that experience.
A hui hou.
Here's what I wrote to family and friends a few days after the event:
So, there I was, last Sunday morning at 7:15, feeling extremely excited and kind of sick, watching my fellow bicyclists lining up for the 8am start of the Hub on Wheels ride around Boston. Supposedly there were 4000 riders registered for the event; 3800 lean, sleek cyclists, 197 regular people, and 3 really large people, of which I might have been the largest. I had a moment of wondering what on earth I was doing there, but then the still, small voice I've been learning to listen to during the past couple of months of coaching sessions with Teri from Green Mountain took over and said I am what I am and I'm doing the ride anyway.
It finally got to be 8am, and off we went. It was a perfect day to be out on a bike, and absolutely awesome to be riding down the middle of several of Boston's main streets with a police escort and no traffic! Riding up the ramp to Storrow Drive was amazing and exhilarating, only I almost immediately slipped my chain off the derailleur. But even that was amazing, since one of the riding marshalls rode up with his little bag of tools and not only helped me get it back on, but adjusted something so it wouldn't happen again. When else in life does that happen?
The first 7 miles or so were pure joy, though riding home afterwards I realized I hadn't taken in a lot of specifics about where we were riding, at least then. But then we got to the Jamaicaway, which had a fairly narrow bike path that was really neat until I realized that it was a steady uphill pull.
Let me stop a second and explain the physical difficulties I was facing. For starters, the day before the ride had been Yom Kippur, when, among other things, Jews are supposed to abstain from food and drink from sundown to sundown. I had actually had to break my fast in the afternoon because of really bad asthma, which can happen if I use my inhaler in the absence of liquids. So, I was starting out with something of a deficit. Then on Sunday morning, I was so excited/nervous/agitated I couldn't eat. I knew I needed to and I tried, several times, but I just couldn't do it. I knew I'd pay the price, but there really was nothing I could do.
Back to the Jamaicaway, in the absence of glycogen stores. I was tired, but Carol was waiting along this part of the route, and so were Dan and Nathan, to cheer me on, which I much appreciated. After I got to the top of that incline, slowly but surely, there was an exhilarating downhill dash into the Arnold Arboretum, and that's when things got tough. There was a hill. I pedaled and pedaled, and finally I had to get off and walk the bike up to the top. People were very encouraging, as they rode by, which was nice, but let me tell, you, pushing a bike up hill isn't so very much easier than riding it! But finally I got to the top, and then there was a rest area but I wanted to push on. I was drinking from my personal hydration system and eating my Sports Beans (jelly beans specially formulated with electrolytes, etc.), and didn't want to stop if I didn't have to.
And then there was Forest Hills Cemetery. Another long uphill. It was very hot at this point, and no shade, and I stopped and called Carol for an encouraging word. I told her my dilemma and that I had no energy and that at least if I died it would be convenient because I was already in the cemetery. She laughed and said I could do it, so I did hung up and did it. And just before the gate out of the cemetery, I did stop at the rest area and sucked on some oranges -- I still couldn't stomach the idea of eating anything more substantial than the Sports Beans, even though they had all kinds of things there. I did take a mini Cliff Bar in case I needed it later, and I tried to find out if there were more hills coming up, but nobody really knew. So I flung myself back into the fray.
Fortunately, there weren't any really bad hills, but I was so exhausted (this was about 11 miles in) that quite a few of the inclines along the route got the better of me, even though they might not have under normal circumstances. I really enjoyed pedaling along through Franklin Park, where my family was again waiting to cheer me on, and through Roxbury and Dorchester. It was especially fun to suddenly recognize an intersection that I had driven through, seeing it from a totally different perspective. It was hard, though, and I was getting more and more tired, but I just kept pedaling. Most of the time there were other riders around, especially at the major intersections (where there were marshals and occasionally police or rangers to stop traffic for us), but quite regularly I was chugging along on my own. It made me feel a little better to see other folks occasionally stopping or walking uphill, and I was leap-frogging with a whole group who were faster than I but stopping more often.
Finally, at about 16 miles or so, I reached the waterfront and knew that the rest of the route was along the shore, which meant no more hills. But I was horrified to realize that I was only able to get up about 7mph on a totally flat path! This was NOT GOOD, so I stopped on a bench overlooking a gorgeous harbor view and choked down that mini Cliff Bar I had snagged from the rest stop. It tasted like sawdust, but I knew I needed some fuel. I have no idea how long I actually sat there trying to finish that lump of food; I intended to stop for only a few minutes, as I was planning to take a longer break at the next rest area, which was coming up, but I actually sat there for about 45. It was, at least, a beautiful place to sit and contemplate the water.
Eventually, I got back on the bike and slogged along the mile or so to the rest area at Carson Beach. I sucked down some oranges again (I had always wondered why they always gave out orange wedges at the Boston Marathon, since they didn't seem like they'd give you enough of either liquid or calories to do you much good, but now I GET IT), took a banana (which I absolutely did NOT want to eat) and refilled my water reservoir (I'd just finished the half gallon I'd started with), collapsed on the curb of the parking lot and called Carol to see if they were nearby. She was, though they were just getting ready to leave, thinking they had missed me (due to my unanticipated stop); so they came over and Nathan came running up the wonderful way he has and flung himself at me -- all the other bikers in the parking lot said "aaaawwwwwwwwww" as if on cue -- and Carol got me more water and made me eat the banana. I stayed there for about half an hour -- Holly, who had just been swimming with the girls, drove over, too, and gave me a much needed pep talk. Nathan also kept finding interesting rocks to give me; after the first two, which I put in my back pack for luck, I had him give them to Carol to hold. Left to himself, I think he would have emptied the parking lot for me!
The best moment of my rest stop was when Nathan looked at my bike, furrowed his brow and asked, "But where does the gas go?"
So, it was now 12pm and I'd completed 20 miles, with six miles to go. I didn't think I could do it, but with encouragement from my wonderful family and a promise to myself that I'd stop every mile if I needed to, I got back on the bike and started off. To my amazement, the next four miles were totally enjoyable (must have been those calories!). Then, all of a sudden, with just under two miles to go, my butt went numb and my feet went numb on the pedals and I had to get off the bike that very minute. So I found a congenial bench on Fan Pier and stretched a bit and got back on the bike for the final push home.
The last mile or so was the scariest of the whole ride -- on Atlantic Avenue with all the traffic, and having to turn left across all those lanes with only one marshal to show us the way, but no one to make it safe. Then, on State Street, with the end in sight, I was making my way between a bus on one side and parked cars on the other, and feeling a bit apprehensive about that, but then all of a sudden the road opened out and there were Hub on Wheels volunteers yelling and ringing cow bells and making me smile so I rode across the finish grinning as widely as when I started. I called Carol, who was just parking the car, and told her where to meet me, and then found a place to sit and collapsed, barely containing the emotions welling up inside until she and Nathan got there. Poor Nathan; when I was done sobbing I tried to explain to him how grown-ups were kind of strange sometimes and cried when they were really happy. He was looking really distressed, since in his world you only cry when you're sad or you have a boo-boo.
We parked my bike at the bike valet and I collected my free lunch from Redbones (the best barbecue place in Boston and a great supporter of biking), which I actually managed to eat about half of, with some enjoyment. About every 10 minutes, Nathan asked me if I had won, and I would patiently explain to him that everyone who had done the ride won, that there were lots of ways of winning, that it wasn't a race, etc. etc. And 10 minutes later he would ask me again, "Sherry, did you win?" Finally, I just said "YES", and that was the truth, too.
I still can't believe I did it.
And I can't believe how much I've been learning from the experience. New ways of looking at food. How my body reacts to extreme physical stress (I didn't actually feel hunger until Tuesday lunchtime, then went through two days of getting ravenous every few hours all night long, and I kept falling asleep Monday and Wednesday, and even today (Friday) I'm feeling totally unenergetic.) How it feels to set a goal and train for it -- something I've done in other areas of my life, but not in terms of physical activity. How much I love riding my bike -- I rode for an hour yesterday and enjoyed it enormously, though I realized I have no reserves still, and couldn't push myself to reach my normal riding speeds. How much I want to do this again next year, and how I might train for the hills.
It was an amazing journey. 26.3 miles, in 3.5 hours of riding time (not quite 5 hours by the clock). I'm grateful that I was able to do it, and even more grateful for everyone's support and good wishes.
Looking back on that event now, the lessons that I've taken from that whole experience are a little bit different than what I reported at the time. For one thing, the post-ride week was really the first time in my adult life when I really paid close attention to what my body was signaling about its physiologic needs, and that I gave myself complete permission to satisfy them. During the first 48 hours after I got home, while I was mostly sleeping, all I could stomach was a little bit of sharp cheddar with a challah roll -- I think the contrasting sweet and salt tastes were what made that palatable. On Tuesday, when I experienced actual hunger, I got a message as clear as a neon sign that what I needed was protein, so I downed a can of tuna fish, nothing else. Then for the 48 hours after that, when I was ravenous every couple of hours, all I wanted was carbs -- crackers, pretzels, cereal, bread. After that I went back to normal. It all made sense, and it all felt fine.
The second important lesson was the nature of the training I did. I was basically following two of the programs set out in a wonderful little book called How To Get Wheely Fit. The first four week plan took me from first mount-up to riding 60 minutes straight, and the second from one hour at a time to two hours. Each plan called for specific length rides on four days per week. So each week I would figure put in the ideal schedule -- in pencil -- and then figure out what I could actually manage that would be close to that ideal. Sometimes I did exactly what the book said, but often I couldn't. But if I couldn't ride enough to advance to the next week's level, I made sure to do enough to maintain where I was, with the result that the Tuesday before the ride, I made a glorious 18-mile circuit on the bike paths along both sides of the Charles River, passing through four different towns in the process. Somehow, I've never managed yet to be that flexible with myself in any of my other endeavors, though I've consciously looked to that as a model for how it can be done.
I still love riding my bike more than any other physical activity I do, and I don't doubt that I will sign up for Hub on Wheels again. Maybe even next year. I look forward to seeing what I will learn from that experience.
A hui hou.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Waiting....
I am generally a patient woman. Ask anyone. I am content to read the same story to my grandchildren six times in a row; listening to my grandparents tell the same stories over and over again was actually a pleasure. As my fifth year anniversary post attests, most of the time, I am content to sit back and see what unfolds.
Not now.
I still have two weeks to wait until I go for my follow-up appointment and get outfitted for CPAP, and the waiting is driving me crazy.
Every morning, I wake up in a fog of fatigue, and every afternoon I have to struggle to keep awake and alert. The effort I'm expending to stay moderately functional is more than I can spare, and I can't seem to find the inner resources to get myself on a better schedule. Knowing that help is in sight, but still at a distance, is torturing me.
Apart from the physical discomfort of being tired all the time and moping along through days that might otherwise be envigorating, the major dilemma I face is this: Do I spend time and energy now on trying to deal with adapting to a less than optimal schedule, or do I simply wait to see if the difficulties I face go away once I am (I hope!) getting more restful sleep?
I am, despite my current apnea issues, basically a morning person. Morning is the only time I can work effectively. Morning is also the only time I can comfortably and effectively exercise. Obviously, this makes the morning hours prime temporal real estate for me. And now, with my horrible sleep patterns and the constant exhaustion I feel upon waking, those hours have been whittled away till I'm lucky if I get moving by noon, leaving me with, at most three useful hours before my brain fuzzes over completely.
If I could only wake at 6am, ready to hit the floor moving, I'd be able to enjoy the best part of the day and probably find it much easier to get myself to do the strength training that is so important. There is simply no way that that is realistic right now. Maybe that will be possible once I'm sleeping better; I hope so. But for the moment, what do I do? I need to impose some structure on my life, but can I do it now? Should I? Or do I just muddle through until I know what I am finally dealing with.
Any suggestions would be much appreciated.
October 8th can't get here soon enough.
Not now.
I still have two weeks to wait until I go for my follow-up appointment and get outfitted for CPAP, and the waiting is driving me crazy.
Every morning, I wake up in a fog of fatigue, and every afternoon I have to struggle to keep awake and alert. The effort I'm expending to stay moderately functional is more than I can spare, and I can't seem to find the inner resources to get myself on a better schedule. Knowing that help is in sight, but still at a distance, is torturing me.
Apart from the physical discomfort of being tired all the time and moping along through days that might otherwise be envigorating, the major dilemma I face is this: Do I spend time and energy now on trying to deal with adapting to a less than optimal schedule, or do I simply wait to see if the difficulties I face go away once I am (I hope!) getting more restful sleep?
I am, despite my current apnea issues, basically a morning person. Morning is the only time I can work effectively. Morning is also the only time I can comfortably and effectively exercise. Obviously, this makes the morning hours prime temporal real estate for me. And now, with my horrible sleep patterns and the constant exhaustion I feel upon waking, those hours have been whittled away till I'm lucky if I get moving by noon, leaving me with, at most three useful hours before my brain fuzzes over completely.
If I could only wake at 6am, ready to hit the floor moving, I'd be able to enjoy the best part of the day and probably find it much easier to get myself to do the strength training that is so important. There is simply no way that that is realistic right now. Maybe that will be possible once I'm sleeping better; I hope so. But for the moment, what do I do? I need to impose some structure on my life, but can I do it now? Should I? Or do I just muddle through until I know what I am finally dealing with.
Any suggestions would be much appreciated.
October 8th can't get here soon enough.
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