The Beginning Stages of Mourning

 

I’m in the beginning stages of mourning. I’ve been there before with my Mama, that place where you know time spent together is coming to an end and you try to be prepared, but you never are. Knowing something and actually moving through the happening are two different things. For me, the beginning stage is like Limbo. I’m unsure of how I feel, unsure of how to act, what to do, or what to say. Strike that. It’s not Limbo, in some ways it’s a little bit of Hell on earth.

My Mama passed away 14 years ago, and with her, the family gatherings that were a way of life passed away too. Our family is scattered geographically and the years between us siblings isn’t the standard of two to three years apart. My brother is 16 years older than I, and my two sisters are 12 and 7 years older than I am. The ages of my two eldest siblings place them almost a generation apart from me. When Mama died, it was almost as if we scattered to the winds, making our own places with our own families. My Christmas gatherings became my own, with my own little family and my husband’s beautiful parents. It was not the home of my youth, but a new one with new joys and memories to make. Still, I missed my Mama’s kitchen and the gathering of sisters around the table.

Mama died of COPD from too many damn cigarettes, a lifetime of them. She still made it to 78, but unable to breathe, in her last days, she was in and out of reality, calling me Kathy (one of her older sisters). She talked to people in the room who I couldn’t see and sometimes seemed to look through me. The doctors told all of us the time was fast in coming, but you don’t get it, not until the last breath is drawn and you know you can’t call, hold their hand, relive a memory, check in, lean on their shoulder or just look into their eyes, ever again. It bites, and the sorrow never leaves, it lives somewhere under the surface, not quite as biting, but none-the-less there. Now I’ve learned one of my sisters has severe COPD.

It’s a progressive disease, it won’t get better, and it won’t be stopped. It can be treated and eased to an extent, but my sister won’t get well, and she will die from it. When I first got the news, I was angry, my sister is only 59. I had always hoped that the four of us would be able to gather around a table someday, for all the right reasons. But, that kind of someday won’t come. Several days later, on the phone with my lovely niece (my sister’s only daughter), I broke down and sobbed. I should have been giving words of comfort to her, some kind of guidance for this woman-child that I love, but I was shattered and my voice was broken. 

My Mama used to say, “Don’t tell Mary,” where bad news was involved, “she’ll just start crying.” It’s true, I cry at commercials and almost all of Emma Thompson’s movies, but I’ve only ever broken down and sobbed four times in my life. The sobs are a kind of gut wrenching, pitiful-broken-soul-sounding, keening, uncontrollable vocal. I sobbed on my Mama’s shoulder when I lost my baby, I sobbed after my mother died, and twice now, over my sister. I’m wandering, lost in a limbo of knowledge and the knowing of what will come, and there is nothing I can do about it.

Well, Hello Stretchy Pants!

Well, it’s started, and all I want to do is run away until it’s all over. The lead in to the holiday seasons has already begun. Let’s start with homecoming parades that fill small town streets during October. In our little town of Clayton, NC (which I love beyond sanity), the homecoming parade for the local high school is a big deal. They block off Main Street and small armadas of floats sail down with kids throwing candy to those who gather to watch the parade. Halloween isn’t here yet, and already I’m being pelted by candy. Granted, I had my four-year-old son with me at the parade, but seriously, how can I expect to lose weight when we collected a shoe box full of candy? It’s staring at me now from atop the refrigerator, taunting me and telling me that I won’t be losing much of Mary in the month of October.

Sure, I know the logic. Halloween is only one day; Thanksgiving is only one day, and Christmas? Plueeeeze! There are fall parties, Christmas parties, cookie exchanges and more. The next eleven weeks might as well come with a sieve. Just shove the food in. I know the tricks, eat before you go, or make sensible choices when you go to the parties and gatherings. In my case, it’s best not to show up. As much as I love decorating, the crisp chill of the autumn air, the bon fires and the family gatherings, the food is my downfall. It trips me up as it spreads itself on table tops, beckoning. Somebody throw me a life line please!

As I’ve matured (I refuse to say as I’ve aged, it’s bad enough I can’t say as I’ve slimmed down), I’ve come to understand that will power does not exist in my vocabulary, let alone where weight loss is concerned. I try to use diversionary tactics. I’ll decorate, but stay away from baking until the last possible moment. I’ll go to a party but try to stay on the porch and chat my way around the crowd, away from the food and the delicious aromas that try to pull me to the table. After the third or fourth party, all bets are off. Who can resist? I want to taste the new recipes, gobble the turkey and stuffing, and bite into the creamy goodness of the mocha cheese cake. I swear, by the time Christmas gets here my Spanx won’t even make it over my thighs. They might as well be a big sling shot because they’ll fly off me and wing around the room the minute I try to pull them up. Even Lycra has its limits.

So, I am begging my friends to change their venues. Could we have a “Rake the Leaves” party, or “I’ll help you hang your Christmas garlands and you help me hang mine” gathering, instead of progressive dinners? How about a Christmas ornament exchange with veggie platters and, okay, a little brie? Oh please help me help myself to something other than cookies! My stretchy pants are calling, and I really, really want to ignore them.

Middle Age is a Wicked Thing

If I am considered middle-aged at 52, then I should expect to live to 104. That scares me to pieces, and quite frankly, things are changing faster than I can keep up with now without adding longevity into the mix. I can’t figure out the warped sense of humor in certain things, like why my eye sight is going now that I have more chin hairs to pluck than a chinchilla in mid-winter? Along with that, whose great idea was it that my daughter would be in the throes of puberty while I’m in peri-menopause? It’s like the wild kingdom in our house between the hair growth and the alpha female syndrome.

I keep expecting our house to blow up, up, up, over the neighborhood in some kind of hormonal explosion. Yep, news at 11, menopausal mom and teen lock horns, details will follow. The fuse can be lit by the simplest of topics. Never, evah ask your teen daughter, “Are you wearing that?” especially just before she walks out the door to go to school. These things seem to happen when I’m in the middle of a hot flash (really Mama, you could have told me), and all I want to do is run and hide. To top all of that off, we’ve lost our lives to the high school band, four-year-old soccer games and homework which makes it seem impossible on some days to have a remotely normal schedule. Dinner, we found, became one of the first casualties of the “new” schedule. They say you should eat all of your meals sitting down, and I do…in my car. It’s the only place where I have time to sit these days, except for the sidelines at the football and soccer games.

That’s a real gourmand’s nightmare too. You can get your hot dog with, or WITH OUT chili and your choice of beverage is soda, or soda. Yum. No wonder my hips are taking up more and more space on the bleachers. I had hoped that at this point, Losing Mary would be losing more pounds. My intentions are always stellar, but the follow through gets muddled with everyday life, hormones and chin plucking. I’ve heard the “you should plan your day better,” and “carry a meal with you to the games,” and while that advice is sound, it’s hard to carry a meal when the high school won’t allow “external food.”

Now, just what the dickens is external food? They’re talking about my love handles, I just know it. And who named them love handles anyway? It used to be that I could zip up a pair of jeans and rush out the door, but now, these, these, things! They just pop over the top of my jeans and flop over like whale blubber hanging off a ship. And who invented these hipster jeans? I don’t know if the blubber is popping over or getting ready to slide off into the sea. So here I am, caught in a tizzy, middle-aged, menopausal with a teen, a four-year-old and a hubby. If you see me coming, run. I’m armed with tweezers and a magnifying mirror, fanning the flames of hot flashes while following the band, and whimpering in the face of middle age. I tell ya, if that don’t scare you, nothing will. Full story at 11. Amen.

I’ll Take My Scars and Wear Them Too.

Oh heaven help me. I’m beginning to sound like the quintessential, stereotypical elderly person who, when asked “How are you doing?” comes back with a litany of all medical things wrong. Let me explain. I’ve had stitches on the left side of my nose (from a Dachshund bite, the silly little doggy actually jumped up, bit my nose and hung on while I stood), I had a large mole removed on the top of my left cheek (facial), and last year I had a tumor removed from the parotid gland on the left side of my face. The scar from the previous surgery went from the top of my ear to the middle of my neck. I’m tired of it, but it seems I’m not yet done. Two weeks ago I had a small basal cell (a common form of cancer) removed from under the right side of my nose. If you’re going to have a form of skin cancer, that’s the one to have, but on the other hand, can we leave my face alone already?  Seriously, I’d rather have the scar and know I took care of business than face (pun unintended) something worse down the line.

There are several types of skin cancer; Basal cell carcinoma is one of the most common and the least serious kinds of skin cancer. It grows slowly and very rarely spreads. This is what I had, and treatment is usually done by a dermatologist. Some very small skin cancers can be completely removed during the biopsy, but if not, further treatment is needed. In my case they did surgery, taking out the cell. It’s also important to understand that this type of surgery usually does leave a visible scar. The doctors are, after all, taking something out, leaving a gap that can’t be “refilled” and then sewing it all back together again.

Honestly, the reason I’m letting you know is that if you have ANY spots, moles or blotches you question, get them checked NOW. It’s so worth it. If I had gone when I first noticed what I thought was an irritated little spot, I wouldn’t have needed 18 (tiny) stitches on my upper lip to the side of my nose. Being fair, blonde and blue-eyed, I still tan, but as much caution as I use in the sun with sun screen and such, stuff still happens. The earlier you act on it, the better it is for you. It’s been two weeks and my stitches are out, and the scar is starting to fade. Eventually, I’ll be able to cover the area up with make-up. I’m lucky and I know it. There are other forms of skin cancer that are much more serious and can shut you down, but with early intervention, odds of recovery are better and in my case, the scars smaller. I’ve included photos of basal cell carcinoma and photos of the excised area from my surgery. If you’re squeamish, you can pass by it, but please, don’t pass off an exam. It’s not about vanity, it’s about good health.

Basal Cell Carcinoma                                                                                                        

Excised area, lines drawn in help show where natural facial lines are and help the doctor to determine where the stitches will be least likely to change the facial line.

Stitches one week later. Some swelling still apparent.

Remember, we’re born with the skin we live in and taking care of it is well worth a copay.

Opening Doors

Being a mom sometimes makes it hard to stay the course when it comes to dieting. Case in point: my daughter just had braces put on and now I am surrounded by mashed potatoes, milkshakes, mac and cheese, and smoothies of the unhealthy variety. Guess who has to make these soft, creamy, mashable foods? Mama’s hips are once again on the verge of a widening project. I used to have will power, but then I had children, bless them.

It’s not just the new diet-due-to-braces situation. Honestly it’s been the entire month of August. The entire get-ready-for-school, hit the doctor’s office for physicals and eye exams, get the new glasses, buy the new clothes, get the band supplies, and alter your family’s entire life for the one child’s band experience that has me wishing for a dietician to move into my home. I have no idea where August has gone or what I may have had to eat. I do know I have had food and in more quantities than I thought. The scales told me that somehow two pounds have crept back on my thighs, my hips and my waistline. I bent over the other day and just knew I was going to turn red, huff, and then whizz all over the room like a renegade balloon squealing out air. Luckily that didn’t happen, but the sensation, nonetheless, was there.

I knew there would be good days and bad days going into my commitment to a healthier me, but I didn’t expect an entire month! The stress alone from the money spent has me in a tailspin and my daughter’s birthday is at the end of the month to boot. She wants to take her friends to the local Italian restaurant for supper. Oh joy. Nothing low carb there. On top of all the get ready for school and birthday hoopla, it’s been a month full of bad news, and that always leads me to the pantry.

I thought about that long and hard a few days ago while in the company of my friend Dawn. It was one of those little epiphanies, or ah-ha moments. Before my Dad passed away, I was always a little on the bigger girl size, but I was never overweight. I can earnestly remember the scads of food brought into our home when the news got out that my Father had passed away. The kitchen table alone was at groaning capacity. In the middle of the night, I woke out of a lousy sleep to hear the refrigerator door opening up. I swear this is true. My bedroom was upstairs and yet I could hear the refrigerator open. After throwing on a robe, I tiptoed down to the kitchen where my big brother was loading a plate with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. When he saw me, he reached into the silverware drawer and grabbed another fork. This was how we soothed the heartache for a few minutes in a heartbreaking time. I believe that since that moment I’ve always looked to food for comfort. The ah-ha moment came when I realized that I should have been looking at the fact that I spent those moments, not with food, but with my brother. It’s not the food that will heal me, but the moments I share with those who love me. I have to learn not to let food get in the way.

So while I careen around the highway taking my daughter to and from marching band rehearsals and my son to soccer, weaving in and out of the mine fields of mushy foods and milkshakes and bad news, I need to be mindful of the moments I share and who I am lucky enough to share them with. Maybe, just maybe I can close the pantry door and instead of hearing the refrigerator open while I sleep, I’ll remember that the door to those important to me is the one to open.

People…People Who Need People…

There are times when you just can’t believe who you are thankful for. Yesterday, during my workout at the gym, I didn’t think I was going to make it through. Then my iPod, set on shuffle, starting playing “On The Floor” sung by Jennifer Lopez with Pitbull (the rapper, not the dog) going on about “that badonka donk is like a trunk full of bass on an old school Chevy.” Being 51, I can appreciate my, uh, badonka donk being compared to a Chevy trunk. Yep, that’s me, the 1959 classic model, a little care worn but she runs like hell! Still, if the heavy driving beat of that song hadn’t come on when it did, I know I would have just melted away into a puddle of sweat “on the floor.” I have to remember to send Jennifer a thank you note.

While I really am thankful for fast paced music that gets me motivated, I’m not feeling the love for People magazine. They kind of got on my last nerve last week. I was talking with my girlfriend about my last blog and how all the stars have physical trainers and she told me that People had an article on “How to Get Summer’s Rockin’ Bodies.”  The article went on to tell how Taylor Swift, age 21, Katy Perry -26, Rihanna -23, Britney – 29 and Beyoncé – 29, had achieved such “rockin’ bodies.”  Four out of the five had their TRAINERS explaining what they did. Well shut my mouth. (Go ahead; I assure you many have tried.) Think about it for a moment. Who usually buys People magazine? I really can’t see Angelina and Brad going over it and saying “Oh yeah, we simply must get Katy’s trainer over for tips.”  People is a wonderfully entertaining ESCAPE from most of our realities, but I can’t take it realistically.  Sure, I go to a gym where trainers are available and I do what I can, but I don’t have the luxury of a daily two hour workout with my own hunka-hunka trainer.

Like I said last week, I wish I had people, not the magazine, but people like trainers, cooks, meal planners, maids, social assistant, nanny and a chauffeur. Geez, the problem is, if I could have just one, which one would I choose? The trainer is tempting, especially if he looked like George Clooney. I could work with that. Still, the cook and meal planner are more up my alley. I wouldn’t have to cook, and therefore I wouldn’t be tasting the food while I’m cooking. Less in, less on the old Chevy trunk. That would free up so many hours in a day. Plus, I wouldn’t be going into the ole grocery store and making those “emotional” purchases. “Mommy, please, we haven’t had Ho-Hos in ages!” The maid? I really need to just nix that one. With a two-story home the stairs are my own personal elliptical. Now the nanny is tempting, think of all the things I could get done! I could even find the time to actually make my playlist for my time at the gym! Seriously, I don’t begrudge celebrities the people they have to help them out. Besides, if I could have the trainer, the cook, etc., you can bet I’d at least try my hand at all of them.

The honest to goodness truth is that yesterday worked out just fine with only the assistance of my iPod and my husband. He went to the gym with me and he motivates me every day, whether I like it or not. He’s been on a really strict workout schedule for the past three months and it’s nothing short of inspiring. He’s up at 5am; he hits the gym, comes home, showers and helps me get the kids out the door to Band practice and Mother’s Morning Out for the little one. Yesterday he took the day off just to hang out with me and help me get back on track. Ya know what? It was fun. There we were, two red-faced, sweaty, middle-aged, regular people, and we were having fun trying to get fit. So Britney and the others can have their trainers, I think I already have the best people, and, uh, J.Lo! 

If you could pick your “people,” who would it be? The trainer vs. the cook? Why?

Getting Where I Want To Be

It’s been one of those weeks where motivation has been low; news has been bad, and the run to and from Band Camp has started. In the middle of all my usual activities I received a phone call that left me hurt and puzzled. The caller was well intended and before I hung up, I had the opportunity to get my point across, but the call left me chafed to say the least. “How can you do a blog about losing weight when you had lap-band surgery two years ago? Just because it failed you, doesn’t mean you haven’t tried to take the easy way out.” Well, the expletives that came to mind when I heard that wouldn’t have done anyone any good and my daughter was too close by for me to be, uh, as ticked as I would have liked to have been.

Two years ago I opted for the lap-band surgery after twenty-five years of living with the ups and downs of weight loss, the constant struggle, and the snarky comments. I wasn’t a heavy child, or a heavy teen. The weight came on after my father had passed away; I used food to pacify emptiness, to celebrate, and at times to ease boredom. When I was getting ready to turn fifty, I looked at my two young children and made a decision to try and be the best I could be health-wise. (Mainly so I could mess my children up for a longer length of time, causing them endless hours of therapy by living longer, but that’s another story.) The decision to have the lap-band surgery was fraught with controversy. I was told it was the easy way out, that I was lazy and just didn’t want to put in the discipline that was needed into losing weight, and that it would fail anyway. I was surprised, not so much by the comments, but where they came from. Still there were those who were supportive and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. For a year the weight came off, slowly and steady. My energy level was up and I felt good about myself for the first time in many years. Then I had a second surgery.

Six months after the lap-band, I went for a round of tests after discovering a lump on the side of my neck. I had a tumor in the parotid gland, the size of a grade a large egg. Usually cancer is not an issue with this type of tumor, but the large size and location had my doctor cautiously concerned. Two biopsies were done and, with a breath that can only be described as heavenly, I was told there was no cancer. The surgery was a four-hour plus ordeal due to the location of the tumor, and the need for care to avoid paralysis of the facial muscles. I got lucky all the way around. I can wink, blink, grin and whistle, and the scar, while noticeable, is faint. It runs from the top of my left ear down into the middle of my neck. The only side effect came from the anesthesiology.

I am now more susceptible to infection and in the past seven months I’ve been in the emergency room twice and have spent four of those seven months on steroids and antibiotics. Anybody know what steroids do to a diet? I can tell you what they’ve done for me; I want to eat…constantly. I’ve had to be careful or I’ll gain back all of the weight that I initially lost. Prior to the lap-band surgery, I was 248 pounds. I lost 46 and have gained back 15. The lap-band helps with portion control, but you still have to eat right and exercise, and as you lose weight, the band has to be filled with saline to tighten around the stomach. This is in order for the portion control to remain correct. I haven’t been able to have a fill in several months, and my doctor recommends that I don’t until we’re over this hurdle. The main reason is because when you have the lap-band, you can’t, how do I put this politely, be effectively nauseous. One does not wish to choke when coughing up part of their lung.

Currently I’m on week two of another round of steroids. I’m hoping this will finally do the trick and that I can get a fill on the lap-band. If not, I’ll continue to do what I have been doing, eat well, exercise and work it like a big girl. (No pun intended) There is NOTHING easy about having surgery, and there is no easy way to lose weight. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m saying. I’ve made a commitment to myself to do this, for me and honestly for my children. I’m healthy in spite of the pounds I carry and I want to be healthier still. When I started this blog, I did it for me and for all of the rest of us who understand how difficult being overweight, and losing weight is. So no matter your decision or the path you go down to lose weight, here’s to you. May your choices be healthy and may we all get where we want to be!