Saturday, July 31, 2010

Don't Call It a Diet

Ahhh...the "meal plan."  

Minimal. Spartan.

Sadistic.

I have been wanting to shrink for the purposes of health for quite some time.  I have been struggling as of late, due in part to a seriously backwards work and life schedule.  I get home late, hungry, eat, and then go to bed.  Not the best for keeping the weight down.

Now, I have additional motivation.  As matron of honor for my BFF Heidi's wedding in October,  I was charged with choosing the dress.  Here it is:














It is one of the very few dresses that actually has any sort of strap; all of the others being spaghetti or strapless altogether.   The downside?  Well, that's fairly obvious.  If it doesn't have sleeves, then I am in trouble.  The other problem is that it was ordered over 12 weeks ago, before this schedule began to take its toll on my eating habits (and conversely, my waistline).

So yesterday, I went for my yearly checkup with a new doctor.  In the past, doctors have skirted around the weight issue.  I would assume in an effort to be as politically correct and not lose patients.  To date, this method has not really served to motivate. All it has done is given me the ability to think: "Why should I worry? The doctor didn't seem that concerned about it?"

Enter Dr. B.

Of all the adjectives that could be used to describe Dr. B, neither warm nor fuzzy even enter my mind.  She is brash and tells it just like it is.  She told me we need to stop BS'ing ourselves and realize that losing weight means less food, more movement.  She managed to do this over the course of a conversation that took 40 minutes, never once making me feel berated or belittled. She never once made it seem like I was wasting her time or rushing me along.   She counted herself among those who try to delude themselves (even though she is probably a very respectable size 10).

While her method might not be what I am used to, it certainly is refreshing.  In that same conversation, she also asserted she would do whatever she could to support me.  I just needed to understand that at the end of the day, it was MY responsibility, not hers, to do something about the weight.  For all her stern words, they were tempered with an earnest desire to help me help myself.

And in comes the "meal plan."  Apparently, calling it that as opposed to a "diet" is supposed to make me feel better about the very few items I am allowed to consume.  Essentially, it's some egg whites, all the green veggies I can eat (UNLIMITED green beans, apparently), and lean meat, chicken, and fish.  I do get a soy protein shake each day, and as a treat, one whole (small) piece of fruit. And, thankfully, I can have two cans of diet soda per day, so long as I drink enough water to fill a kiddie pool each day as well.

But, it is for the greater good.  I will have weekly check ins, just to see how I am doing and get a pep talk if I need it.  It will go something like this: "if you fall off the wagon, just hop back on when it slows down.  All that matters is you don't let it run you over" (words that have already been provided by Dr. B).

So, here we are, day 2 of the "meal plan."  I'm hungry.  That's all I can say.  If I can make it through the first couple of weeks, I have been assured that it will get easier.  I am going to operate on faith on this one.

Because I sure won't be operating on food.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Five

Today, Aidan turns five.  He is hopping, skipping, and jumping.  He knows his colors, the alphabet, and can recite his address.  He is getting ready to start kindergarten.

All of which he is doing in Heaven.

Five years ago today, I said goodbye to my son.  I said goodbye to all of those dreams of watching him grow, of walking him to class on his first day of school, of blinking back tears as I wondered at how he had managed to grow up so quickly.

I still remember waking up on July 25, 2005 and wishing that it wasn't real.  I remember thinking that God wouldn't hand me a dream just to snatch it away.  I was so...angry.  I wanted to lash out.  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.  And at the end, I wanted to crawl up in a hole and disappear.

But I couldn't.  As much as I wanted time to stand still, it wouldn't.  As much as I wanted life to stop, it didn't.

Life and time are funny that way.  No matter how much you think you need time to stand still, however briefly, it doesn't.  And now, five years later, I look back with amazement.  I am amazed that I survived, when I didn't think I would.  I am amazed that I write this without a resurgence of resentment towards the Almighty.  And I am amazed that God would give me a second chance when I spent a great deal of time lashing out at Him for taking away my first.

And I am amazed that I can breathe.

The pain is still there.  I know it will always be there.  I will never fully recover from losing Aidan.  Five years later, I cannot look at his first pictures.  They are stored away; a box of memories that I will one day be able to open.

When Z is old enough, I will share that box of memories of his big brother with him.   I will tell him how sad I was to lose Aidan, but that it was in that loss that I found the strength to move forward.  In that loss, I found compassion and understanding, and in the end, hope.  

So today, five years later, I think back on my son and realize that he IS hopping, skipping, and jumping.  He knows his colors, the alphabet, and can recite his address.  He is getting ready to start kindergarten.

He is just doing it in Heaven.