Today was 9 Health-Fair day. Steve and I go every year. For very little money we get comprehensive blood work. So, this morning we followed our usual routine of going to the health-fair and then, after 12 hours of fasting, going out for a big, fattening, unhealthy breakfast.
The health-fair routine is pretty predictable. Wait in line for your turn to get blood drawn. Sit down at the table and have the nurse or paramedic or whomever, wrap a tourniquet around your upper arm. Here is where the story develops a tiny little bit of plot. To me they say, “You’ll feel a little pinch.” Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. A few minutes later they slap a Band-Aid on my arm and I’m done. Meanwhile, Steve’s arm is being examined by multiple people who mutter things like, “Oh dear.” Sometimes they just hum ominously while shaking their heads.
I leave the blood draw room for what follows. Typically, one person attempts to draw Steve’s blood by poking his arm several times. Then another person takes over and they poke around for a while. Then Steve turns white and they start asking if he’s okay or needs to lie down. He declines the lying down part. More poking ensues and eventually they manage to find a vein and draw out enough blood to test.
I’ve usually covered the entire health-fair in the time it takes him to give a vial of blood. Today was no exception. Each health related exhibit at the fair has literature to give away and I always decline taking it because I know I’ll just throw it away after I’ve read it. As I was passing the Breast Cancer booth I was captivated by the macabre little models of breast tumors compared with various fruits. While looking at the tumor vs. raspberry model, a woman came up from another booth and thrust a pamphlet toward me. She asked me if I was aware of Overeaters Anonymous.
Um. I guess I have heard of it. Yes. She proceeded to shake the pamphlet in front of my hands and insisted I take it. I politely said, “Thank you but, I don’t have a problem with compulsive eating.” At this point she and another woman gave each other knowing glances, smiled and one of them said, “Oh that’s what I used to say, too!” The other one chimed in, “I was still saying that sixty pounds ago!”
I felt confused. Were they talking to me!?
I actually looked down my body at my abdomen and my thighs assessing their size. I thought for a minute I might have ballooned out or something. I began to get concerned that I was overweight and had only been fooling myself about being average. Like maybe I have reverse anorexia where I think I’m of average weight when I’m really obese.
Against my better judgment, I took the quaking brochure while the women explained that there were support groups available every day of the week. I nodded numbly and I managed to slip through a few people to escape further condemnation of the Overeaters Anonymous women.
They didn’t seem so anonymous to me!
I felt a bit shaken by the whole thing and went to have my bone density tested. I’d been reading about bone density lately and thought I’d see what that was all about. I felt somewhat relieved at getting a borderline low density assessment since women with low bone density are typically smaller framed and not overweight.
And then I got a grip on myself.
Why is it so easy, in this culture, to make a woman feel inadequate about her weight? What is wrong with this situation that I would actually, if only for a moment, entertain the idea that having a borderline low bone density is a GOOD thing because it meant I wasn’t large?
When I finally met up with Steve and his battered, bruised, arm I told him the story. Of course, he laughed, and reminded me that in this culture we all have to have some ‘problem.’
I reminded him that I do have a problem. She’s elderly and calls me several times a day.
I was able to enjoy my pancakes with syrup and several cups of coffee as we visited and watched Steve’s arm swell and turn blue. I’m sure there are people out there for whom Overeaters Anonymous is a life-saver. I have no doubt that the organization is valid and helpful and much needed. What bothered me was how much it bothered me that they singled me out as someone who needed their organization!
Who I am is not defined by how much I weigh. No woman should feel that her value and worth are defined by her size and shape. And yet…all it took was one pushy, not-so-anonymous, overeater to make me question myself. I overcame my insecurity fairly quickly. How many other women wouldn't be able to?
What I couldn’t,overcome, however, was how unappealing my breakfast raspberries looked.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
These are Medicinal Herbs. Honest!
I am working on dissertation revisions again. Dissertation writing is arduous and has a way of depleting my energy, so it seems that when I reach the height of dissertation work I naturally gravitate toward something else that has a more creative quality to it. Then both sides of my brain are happy and my energy is restored. A happy brain and restored energy make me a nicer person.
I think that’s called balance.
The current diversion: making and consuming herbal infusions. Yes, my time and attention when I’m not working on my dissertation (or when I supposed to be working on my dissertation but choosing not to) has turned to researching the medicinal effects of taking certain dried herbs, putting them in a jar, covering the herbs with boiling water, capping it, letting it set overnight and consuming it the next day.
So far I’ve made infusions out of oatstraw and stinging nettles and while I understand that the effects of herbal remedies are realized over the long haul, I’m not sure I’m really going to be committed to drinking this stuff for the rest of my life. We’ll see. Somehow these concoctions lack what you might call, ‘curb appeal.’ Stems and leaves floating in green water isn’t all that appetizing, I must admit. I’m willing to give it some time and it is interesting to try new herbs but I’m pretty sure without some recognizable physical changes this might be a short lived experiment.
Most of what I’ve learned about herbal infusions comes from the website of a woman named Susun Weed. So, for starters, her name is a little suspect. I mean, from what I can tell, she knows her herbs and while she might not fit cultural norms of beauty, she has a certain beauty in her countenance and convivial manner. I’m skeptical, however, of her name. Really? Weed? And, I’m willing to bet when she was born her parents named her Susan, along with half the other parents in the US. I’m pretty sure she altered the spelling. ‘Weed’ might be just a bit too convenient of a name for an herbalist.
Regardless, I go along with Susun’s recommendations and claims of great health and energy by concocting jars of steeping straw in my kitchen. I’ve asked myself why I am doing this. Certainly others have asked me why I’m doing this!
According to Susun some of these herbs can enhance lactation. That’s fine. Except, I’ve no need for lactating at this stage of my life. Some of the herbs are supposed to be able to remedy health issues. But I don’t have any real health issues. I was hoping the outcome would be a renewed zeal for finishing my dissertation or some terrific insight into my research that makes all of the loose ends tie up neatly. So far the only outcome I’ve found is the laughter and joking that comes from my children finding the stash of little plastic bags of dried green leaves.
Perhaps their laughter is the best reason of all.
I’m not looking for some magic elixir to make me live forever because I am not all that concerned about how long I live. But while I’m alive; I want to live. I want to learn interesting things and have new experiences. I want relationships that are meaningful and I want laughter to fill my home and my life. I want to balance hard work with frivolity, sorrow with happiness, and quiet with noise.
As long as I’m alive, I want it all.
So while oatstraw may be a passing fancy, I intend to keep love and laughter around for as long as I can. And by way of balance, I think I’ll make some oatstraw infusion, and a rich chocolate cake.
I think that’s called balance.
The current diversion: making and consuming herbal infusions. Yes, my time and attention when I’m not working on my dissertation (or when I supposed to be working on my dissertation but choosing not to) has turned to researching the medicinal effects of taking certain dried herbs, putting them in a jar, covering the herbs with boiling water, capping it, letting it set overnight and consuming it the next day.
So far I’ve made infusions out of oatstraw and stinging nettles and while I understand that the effects of herbal remedies are realized over the long haul, I’m not sure I’m really going to be committed to drinking this stuff for the rest of my life. We’ll see. Somehow these concoctions lack what you might call, ‘curb appeal.’ Stems and leaves floating in green water isn’t all that appetizing, I must admit. I’m willing to give it some time and it is interesting to try new herbs but I’m pretty sure without some recognizable physical changes this might be a short lived experiment.
Most of what I’ve learned about herbal infusions comes from the website of a woman named Susun Weed. So, for starters, her name is a little suspect. I mean, from what I can tell, she knows her herbs and while she might not fit cultural norms of beauty, she has a certain beauty in her countenance and convivial manner. I’m skeptical, however, of her name. Really? Weed? And, I’m willing to bet when she was born her parents named her Susan, along with half the other parents in the US. I’m pretty sure she altered the spelling. ‘Weed’ might be just a bit too convenient of a name for an herbalist.
Regardless, I go along with Susun’s recommendations and claims of great health and energy by concocting jars of steeping straw in my kitchen. I’ve asked myself why I am doing this. Certainly others have asked me why I’m doing this!
According to Susun some of these herbs can enhance lactation. That’s fine. Except, I’ve no need for lactating at this stage of my life. Some of the herbs are supposed to be able to remedy health issues. But I don’t have any real health issues. I was hoping the outcome would be a renewed zeal for finishing my dissertation or some terrific insight into my research that makes all of the loose ends tie up neatly. So far the only outcome I’ve found is the laughter and joking that comes from my children finding the stash of little plastic bags of dried green leaves.
Perhaps their laughter is the best reason of all.
I’m not looking for some magic elixir to make me live forever because I am not all that concerned about how long I live. But while I’m alive; I want to live. I want to learn interesting things and have new experiences. I want relationships that are meaningful and I want laughter to fill my home and my life. I want to balance hard work with frivolity, sorrow with happiness, and quiet with noise.
As long as I’m alive, I want it all.
So while oatstraw may be a passing fancy, I intend to keep love and laughter around for as long as I can. And by way of balance, I think I’ll make some oatstraw infusion, and a rich chocolate cake.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sad Reality
I recognize that being a woman with ‘mom issues’ is cliché. I also recognize that being a woman over 40 who bleaches her hair blond is cliché. But that doesn’t stop me. It is no secret that I was born to people who had no business having children. But, they did. And, I’m glad. They had their problems but, hey, without them as parents I might have had some boring, vanilla upbringing. Or, come to think of it, I wouldn't have had any upbringing at all!
My mother likes to talk about our family as if we were right off the set of Leave it to Beaver. Truthfully, we were a bit more As The World Turns and it still confuses me when she recalls my childhood. I’m fairly certain we lived in different homes. Perhaps her memories are skewed in one direction, mine in another, and somewhere in between is reality. Although, when my siblings and I get together and reminisce, it seems clear that we all grew up in the same environment. Not sure where my mom was. But, therein might lay the problem.
Reality has always been elusive to my mother. Even when she was much younger. Somewhere she picked up the idea that if she just said things were okay, the really would be. I believe in the power of positive thinking but, when the house and cars were being repossessed because my father forgot to stop drinking and go to work, it was a little disconcerting to have my mother saying things were just dandy in our secure, happy world.
I don’t feel the need to rehash childhood memories with my mother. Occasionally she says something so absurd I can’t help but laugh and remind her that what she is saying is complete fantasy. When I do, she sheepishly chuckles and says she guesses I’m right. She follows up with a question that isn’t really a question. She asks if my childhood was really that bad and I say no. What is the point? She can’t change the past. She asks for reassurance and I give it to her.
Being dysfunctional works for us.
These days, though, it is harder to know how to deal with my mother’s lapses in reality. These days the lapses seem less about just not wanting reality to be reality and more about truly not knowing. And that changes my own reality about how to deal with her.
Recently, I had to make a decision about my mother’s care and it ended up being much more difficult than I anticipated. For the past year I have been delivering her prescriptions on a weekly basis but, about once a week she forgets to open the pill box and take the medications I’ve prepared for her. When she forgets, it sets up a cycle that happens quickly and severely. She becomes physically ill, can’t eat, can’t think straight, gets too weak and fatigued to walk and her pulse drops frighteningly low.
I then have to go to her apartment, coax her into taking her pills, persuade her to eat and try and get her back on track. She has trouble thinking and communicating for a few days and just about the time she is back to ‘normal,’ the cycle starts up again. Her physician, the nurse at her retirement community, and my sister have all been encouraging me to set her up on a program to have a nurse deliver her medications throughout the day, every day. I’ve been resisting the decision because I was hoping my mother would make the decision herself.
I was hoping my mother would see how frequently her life is disrupted by not taking her medication. I kept thinking she’d decide on her own to start the program, ensuring that she takes the medications regularly, feels better and ends the cycle.
Maybe lack of reality is hereditary.
She didn’t make the decision on her own and last week I started the process of putting her on the program. She is upset with me about it. This is one more thing to take her independence away. It makes me sad. She’s always been crazy, but that was a crazy of choice. This is different. This is someone who desperately doesn’t want to let go of reality. Even though her reality has always been sketchy, this loss of reality is organic. And she can’t control it. And it scares her.
So, I sadly walk though this phase with her. Her normal lack of reality is annoying. This lack of reality is much harder to watch. Sometimes I can’t tell which is which and then I don’t know how to respond. I have times when it feels like I’m walking through a house of mirrors; not sure what is real and what isn’t.
She’ll get over being angry at me for this decision. She probably won’t stop telling me she is angry about it, but I hope, eventually, she realizes it is for the best. This decision might even slow down some of her movement toward losing touch with reality. The organic kind. Not the fantasy kind.
For years my siblings and I have wished that my mother would stop living in her ridiculous fantasy world and deal with reality. Now though, as I watch her slow decent into dementia, the silly world that she’s always chosen doesn’t seem so bad.
My mother likes to talk about our family as if we were right off the set of Leave it to Beaver. Truthfully, we were a bit more As The World Turns and it still confuses me when she recalls my childhood. I’m fairly certain we lived in different homes. Perhaps her memories are skewed in one direction, mine in another, and somewhere in between is reality. Although, when my siblings and I get together and reminisce, it seems clear that we all grew up in the same environment. Not sure where my mom was. But, therein might lay the problem.
Reality has always been elusive to my mother. Even when she was much younger. Somewhere she picked up the idea that if she just said things were okay, the really would be. I believe in the power of positive thinking but, when the house and cars were being repossessed because my father forgot to stop drinking and go to work, it was a little disconcerting to have my mother saying things were just dandy in our secure, happy world.
I don’t feel the need to rehash childhood memories with my mother. Occasionally she says something so absurd I can’t help but laugh and remind her that what she is saying is complete fantasy. When I do, she sheepishly chuckles and says she guesses I’m right. She follows up with a question that isn’t really a question. She asks if my childhood was really that bad and I say no. What is the point? She can’t change the past. She asks for reassurance and I give it to her.
Being dysfunctional works for us.
These days, though, it is harder to know how to deal with my mother’s lapses in reality. These days the lapses seem less about just not wanting reality to be reality and more about truly not knowing. And that changes my own reality about how to deal with her.
Recently, I had to make a decision about my mother’s care and it ended up being much more difficult than I anticipated. For the past year I have been delivering her prescriptions on a weekly basis but, about once a week she forgets to open the pill box and take the medications I’ve prepared for her. When she forgets, it sets up a cycle that happens quickly and severely. She becomes physically ill, can’t eat, can’t think straight, gets too weak and fatigued to walk and her pulse drops frighteningly low.
I then have to go to her apartment, coax her into taking her pills, persuade her to eat and try and get her back on track. She has trouble thinking and communicating for a few days and just about the time she is back to ‘normal,’ the cycle starts up again. Her physician, the nurse at her retirement community, and my sister have all been encouraging me to set her up on a program to have a nurse deliver her medications throughout the day, every day. I’ve been resisting the decision because I was hoping my mother would make the decision herself.
I was hoping my mother would see how frequently her life is disrupted by not taking her medication. I kept thinking she’d decide on her own to start the program, ensuring that she takes the medications regularly, feels better and ends the cycle.
Maybe lack of reality is hereditary.
She didn’t make the decision on her own and last week I started the process of putting her on the program. She is upset with me about it. This is one more thing to take her independence away. It makes me sad. She’s always been crazy, but that was a crazy of choice. This is different. This is someone who desperately doesn’t want to let go of reality. Even though her reality has always been sketchy, this loss of reality is organic. And she can’t control it. And it scares her.
So, I sadly walk though this phase with her. Her normal lack of reality is annoying. This lack of reality is much harder to watch. Sometimes I can’t tell which is which and then I don’t know how to respond. I have times when it feels like I’m walking through a house of mirrors; not sure what is real and what isn’t.
She’ll get over being angry at me for this decision. She probably won’t stop telling me she is angry about it, but I hope, eventually, she realizes it is for the best. This decision might even slow down some of her movement toward losing touch with reality. The organic kind. Not the fantasy kind.
For years my siblings and I have wished that my mother would stop living in her ridiculous fantasy world and deal with reality. Now though, as I watch her slow decent into dementia, the silly world that she’s always chosen doesn’t seem so bad.
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