Category Archives: Health

November 9, 2010 · 6:18 am

Desperate times

I just activated my emergency Snickers bar.

You might be saying to yourself, I thought she was forced to give up chocolate. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I made it through Halloween without a single piece of chocolate, which took great will power; but I was committed to good health and respectful of my dietary restrictions. However, I did stash one Snickers bar, perhaps as a measure of security, where I could get to it in an emergency.

Recently, some minor yet frustrating annoyances have graced our doorstep, which have called for generous amounts of patience and flexibility. The first was October’s fender bender and the various inconveniences that ensued.

I fully appreciate that the flies in my ointment are mere gnats compared to what the world’s poor, sick and homeless face every day. All the more reason to face one’s irritations with proper perspective.

So, as my gnats began to reproduce and mutate, I consulted my handy new manual, How to Say It, to be sure I addressed each inconvenience—and the person behind it—appropriately. Chapter 13 on Complaints offered a wealth of tips and techniques for airing one’s grievances, firmly but politely. I drew upon the insights offered in Chapter 13 to respond to statements like, We’re sorry, Mrs. Welch, but the rug you ordered in August, that was to be delivered in September, might (but we cannot offer any guarantee) be delivered in mid-January, and We’re sorry, Mrs. Welch, but the home project that was to be done in October is delayed indefinitely. We hope to start before Christmas (but we cannot offer any guarantee).

Chapter 13 gave me the right words but it provided no guarantee. Or result. I was on the edge.

With the ointment now full of horse flies, the only weapon I had left was an illegal, fun-sized Snickers bar.

Now, following a Snickers breakfast and paying the piper for it, I will leave  to catch an early flight with an impossibly tight connection. I will be optimistic about not hearing your flight is delayed, your flight has been cancelled or you missed your connection. (Heaven knows, the airlines offer no guarantee.)

Either way, I know the newsstand sells grown-up sized Snickers bars. And extra strength Tums.

Optimism aside, is it an omen that an enormous fly is buzzing overhead as I write this?

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November 5, 2010 · 8:31 am

The meal deal

This past couple of weeks have been a time of major purging at my house. In preparation for a major home improvement project—installation of central air conditioning—my husband and I have been going through 20 years’ worth of attic accumulation and carrying clutter and memories out the door.

This week we donated our son’s baby furniture, equipment and worn stuffed animals to charity. Yesterday, we said good bye to six window unit air conditioners. Serious purging.

Still, there remains a large bin in our basement that has gone untouched for 20 years. We were never quite sure what to do with its contents. Until now.

I have an idea for turning clutter into cash—by selling Happy Meal toys on street corners in San Francisco. Once the Board of Supervisors’ ban on offering free toys with junk food takes effect, I’ll hit up parents leaving McDonald’s with their kids in mid-meltdown, revealing plastic characters, from Aladdin to Zazu, nestled in the lining of my trench coat.

Will the ban make a difference, you wonder? I don’t know. I think kids get hooked on McDonald’s because it tastes better than Mom’s meatloaf and brussels sprouts. The Happy Meal wasn’t introduced until I was in college, after I’d been already been hooked on McDonald’s fries and chocolate shakes for more than 10 years. And hot apple pie before they banned frying it in lard. It never took a plastic Disney character to lure me over to the dark side.

 Psst, need to score a Nemo? I can hook you up.

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November 3, 2010 · 8:35 am

Autumnal agida

I gather that, regardless of our individual political leanings, most of us are glad to have Election Day behind us.  

This has been a stressful time for our nation and its citizens as we’ve nearly wrestled each other to the ground for power. Personally, the raw nerves and ugly behavior displayed in past months have had me gobbling Tums like movie popcorn.

I have close friends and family members at both extremes of the political spectrum and in every gradation in between. Nowhere is this more evident than on Facebook. While I have personal connection to—and fondness for—each one of my 147 Facebook friends, the reality is that there are as many flaming liberals as there are arch conservatives, each living true to his or her values. I like having a rich diversity of friendships. After all, life would be painfully boring if we surrounded ourselves only with those who look, sound and think as we do.

It is for this reason that, while I do disclose my political orientation in my Facebook profile, I deliberately refrain from spilling forth my political views from the Facebook platform. This takes a good deal of restraint on my part. The reason for the restraint is that I do not wish to upset or offend my friends the way some do me when they post politically and emotionally charged judgments from their Status boxes. Thankfully, we live in a free country, and we are fortunate to have the right to express ourselves as we choose. But, as someone who abhors conflict, especially among friends, I prefer to avoid it. And gobble antacids.

However, I do wish to list the top reasons I am glad Decision 2010, or whatever your network calls it, is behind us.

  1. No more robo-calls at inopportune times
  2. No more mudslinging political ads souring my evening television comedy or morning news
  3. No more bulky flyers in the mailbox
  4. No more need for conflict avoidance on Facebook
  5. No more, or at least, I hope, fewer, mispronunciations of the word “pundit” by smart, well-paid broadcasters.

It’s pundit, folks, not pundint. One n.

Now let’s move on. Kumbaya.

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October 29, 2010 · 8:12 am

Bah! Humbug!

Alas, Halloween weekend is upon us. At the risk of solidifying your impression of me as a grouch, I must confess this is not my favorite holiday. I did endure in good humor a week of Halloween episodes of my favorite TV shows, but am relieved to have that over with.

Those who know me well know there aren’t many holidays I do like, mostly because of their power to impose unrealistic demands on us. But, as the next two months unfold, you will learn this about me soon enough.

So, what’s my beef with Halloween? I’ll hit the couch and tell you that much of it goes back to childhood. For some reason, I frequently got sick on Halloween night. Not from too much candy; I didn’t even make it out the door for trick-or-treating. Whether I spiked a high fever or spouted a projectile nosebleed right there in my Mary Poppins costume, something tended to strike me.

When I was seven, we moved to Cleveland on Halloween day, so I would have missed trick-or-treating altogether. I was heart-broken. My parents suggested I go out the night before to score some candy. So out I went, on October 30th, without my friends, in my Japanese kimono, ringing doorbells around the neighborhood. What did I find? That most people didn’t buy candy until Halloween day, so I caught many neighbors off guard. But don’t worry, I got over that and I trust they did too.

In those days, kids were cut off from trick-or-treating around age 12, which I think is an appropriate age. Nowadays, trick-or-treaters come in all ages, many without costumes, and this bugs me.

Believe it or not, up to 500 trick-or-treaters come to our door every Halloween. They begin before dinner and ring the doorbell well past 10 p.m. There’s a large Halloween attraction on the street behind our house, which draws people from all over. So, after enjoying the haunted houses, pirate ships and mazes, kids, teens and adults go around the block to trick-or-treat. What the news stories always capture is the cheery neighborliness of this gathering. So how can we not open our door enthusiastically?

Perhaps the most difficult part of Halloween is new to me this year. This is the year I had to give up chocolate.

So, if you happen to be at “Scary Perry” on Sunday night, stop by. I’ll be the one shot-gunning Pixy Stix.

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October 27, 2010 · 8:18 am

Beg your pardon?

If you are looking for cheap amusement, plant yourself in the waiting room of any veterinary office and eavesdrop.

Of course, one person’s amusement is another one’s pet crisis, so it isn’t my intention to be insensitive.

Last Saturday afternoon, as my husband and I were waiting for our twin tuxedo cats to be seen for their annual physicals, we couldn’t help but overhear the receptionist’s conversations.

“So you say Lila needs more Prozac?”

“What kind of breathing problems is Little Bit having?” Let’s just leave it that Little Bit was neither a cat nor a dog.

I suppose I giggled too soon. The next thing I know we were being told, “Lucy is obese. She needs to go on a low carbohydrate diet so she doesn’t develop diabetes.” I guess that’s better than last year’s words from the vet,” Lucy needs dental surgery.” Perhaps if we hadn’t fixed her teeth she wouldn’t have tipped the scale at almost 17 pounds, blessherheart.

After we got instructions for getting Lucy off the Fancy Feast, the veterinary tech consoled us with heaping helpings of Halloween candy and sent us on our way. That is, after we forked over more money than at my last doctor visit. Of course, conversations at the human doctor aren’t as fun to overhear.

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October 25, 2010 · 8:00 am

Slamming into Monday

Greetings from beside the imaginary water cooler. Or, if you’re under 50, the coffee pod brewer (I wish! As you know, I gave up coffee, 46 days ago, to be exact).

I work from home, and one of many things I miss about working in an office is gathering in the break room and hearing about everyone’s weekend.

In offices everywhere, Monday begins with, “What did you do this weekend?”

I sit here amazed at what I fit into mine and there’s no one here to share it with.

Between Friday and Sunday, I took a train home from a business meeting, ran errands, attended a photography exhibit downtown, served on our church’s altar guild (preparing altar candles, linens, silver and brass, both Saturday and Sunday), took two cats to the vet, went to a dinner party, went to church, did some work for hospice, worked the Sunday crossword puzzle, did several loads of laundry and prepped for a colonoscopy. (Hey, if Katie Couric can show it, I can say it.)

Bottom line: I slid into Monday in a daze. And now I am off again to, well, you know.

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October 12, 2010 · 7:57 am

Gitchy gitchy goo

I have never heard of the University of Glamorgan, but apparently the Welsh researchers who work there have just completed a study on grumpiness.

Is this a joke?

It must be real because I saw it on my local television news over the weekend. These Welsh researchers found that people, at least Welsh people, become grumpy at the average age of 52. They laugh less, they gripe more and it only gets worse as they age, according to the so-called Lifetime of Laughter Scale.

This study, which I cannot locate anywhere, says that people in their fifties laugh half as much as teenagers. The study further contrasts the 300-some times a day an infant laughs out loud with the pitiful three times a day of the average quinquagenarian.

Could this be because the fifty-somethings are the parents of these teenagers? Could it be because infants have their bellies tickled all day long by grown-ups making funny faces and animal noises at them?

Assuming this isn’t a phenomenon uniquely affecting the Welsh, and even if it is, something must be done. This trend must be reversed.

As someone who, at times, can be quite the grump, I also laugh out loud plenty throughout the day. My minimum daily allowance of comedy is just a foundation on which I pile giggling at my cats, chuckling at my own foibles, even laughing to keep from crying when circumstances dictate. I often laugh out loud at the movies when no one else does. We already know that I laugh inappropriately on planes.

If grumpiness peaks at 52, I’ve got 14 months to beat back the trend. Even though statistically that puts me smack dab in mid-menopause, I’m up for the challenge.

Starting today, I am striving for 300. Who’s with me?

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September 4, 2010 · 10:34 am

Difficult breakup

Today is my first day without coffee since 1975.

After a beautiful 35-year friendship, I am going to try and break it off.

Without dwelling too much on my health issues of late, let’s just leave it that I’ve come to terms with the reality that the painfully strict diet my doctor has prescribed may actually help me. The flip side of this reality is that I can no longer have any of the beverages I like—including coffee, orange juice, milk, sparkling water, beer or wine. I also can’t have 90 percent of the foods I enjoy, which amount to about 95 percent of the foods in existence on the planet. Basically, if it’s acidic, or acid-producing, I can’t have it.

I am on Day 11 of almost total compliance. The final step is the coffee. Luckily, I don’t need to give up caffeine altogether, and I can have limited kinds of tea.

Even so, people battling addictions often say the substance itself is only part of the challenge. It’s the ritual that’s difficult to give up.

I’ve always said I could give up wine before I could give up coffee.

But it’s not about the caffeine. Coffee is my morning companion. I awake to its aroma. A mug of the warm elixir helps me greet the day with hope and enthusiasm. It goes so well with the newspaper.

I ask for your patience. If you see a mistake in the blog, or sense a more subdued tone than normal, please be kind. Remember I’ve just lost my best friend.

Remember there’s no blog tomorrow. I’ll be curled up with the Sunday paper and a steaming mug of hot water. I can’t even have lemon.

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August 28, 2010 · 7:45 am

Amnesia

The last 10 days or so have been a blur, almost literally.

In retrospect, Enhance Your Vocabulary Week, and the minimal effort it required, must have been divinely inspired. Otherwise, there might have been no blog updates.

I had just been whining to you about a sinus infection which, by the way, has turned into bronchitis. But this isn’t about me.

Last Friday, something very strange and frightening happened.

My husband lost all memory for six hours.

That morning, he got up, showered, shaved, dressed for work and then, as if a switch had flipped, so did he.

His retention was lasting no more than about 30 seconds. He didn’t know what day it was or what it meant that our calendar said “Beach” on the following day. He couldn’t tell me whether or not he had eaten breakfast and he didn’t remember dinner the night before or our son having just visited. Every 30 seconds the questions started over again, “what day is it?” and so on.

I took him to the emergency room where they saw him immediately. Actually there’s not much going on in the ER at 9 in the morning. They asked him a series of questions, none of which he could answer, except my birthday. When they asked him my name, he used my maiden name.

When asked who the president is, pausing a long time and synapses sizzling, he replied, “Obama, I hope.”

His EKG, CT scan and MRI came back completely normal, as did all the other routine tests. Within six hours, his memory returned, bit by bit, except the hours of the memory lapse—and he still doesn’t remember that.

They admitted him and kept him an additional 24 hours for observation, releasing him Saturday night. I then drove us to Rehoboth Beach, where we meet out-of-town friends every year.

Two hospital physicians and, as of Thursday, another doctor, agreed on one thing: it’s a mystery. One said it was a transient ischemic attack, often called a mini-stroke. Others said it was amnesia, which occurs suddenly, without warning, and typically never returns. Amnesia wins, two to one, until we learn otherwise.

Until now, amnesia has been a distant concept. All I knew was what I had seen in the movies, usually involving a helpless waif bumping her head and whispering, “Who am I, where am I?”

Now that we know it’s nothing serious, perhaps it’s best we forget it ever happened.

But before we do, I’d like to thank the special soul who stayed in touch with me throughout the trauma via dozens of text messages and by phone, the loyal friend who sat with my husband in the hospital all day Saturday and bought me dinner in the cafeteria, our dear friends who pampered us at the beach and the angels who left homemade chicken soup at our front door, as well as all those who’ve sent prayers and best wishes our way, including my cousins who are living their own nightmare.

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August 20, 2010 · 7:59 am

Mother knows best

Good news:  Your mother was wrong. If you cross your eyes and hold them, they won’t get stuck that way, according to a recent article by Discovery Health. You might experience some eye strain or discomfort, but they will bounce back. So there.

This makes me wonder what else Mom was wrong about. Or not.

When I was expecting, my brother gave me two paperback books to help me prepare for motherhood, Momilies and More Momilies. 

What’s a momily, you ask? The official Momilies website defines it as 1. a sermon made by a mother or 2. an admonitory or moralizing discourse from mother to child.

I can guarantee if you go to the website you will get lost for at least half an hour. But it will be time well spent. In fact, I am laughing out loud as I write this—mostly because, 22 years after I received those two books as a gift, I now know how well I have absorbed the content.

“Always check the chute again after you’ve put something in the mailbox.”

Some momilies I may have picked up from the books, while others may have been handed down from my own mother. Or is it possible that these are gifts with which Mother Nature endows us?

I do wonder what it is about amassing wisdom over the years that compels us to impart it to our children in pithy yet trite ways. My son just snorts when I tell him to “always dress up for an airplane ride” (there’ll be a whole separate post on that topic one day), “clean up the kitchen as you go along” or, my own, “use your finger as a shoehorn.”

I can’t say my mother ever told me that if I crossed my eyes they’d stay that way, but she did have a few classics of her own, the most memorable (and valuable) of which was, “The tip of the iron is your best friend.”

I am betting you have a few of your own.

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