Earning My Stripes

photo: mine

No matter how old I get, I'll always love fun socks.  I have rainbow colored toe socks, socks with holiday themes, and among others, the striped socks to the left.

Other than their fun stripes, they might seem pretty innocuous to most people.  After all, they're just socks.  Given their source, there are probably thousands upon thousands of pairs just like them.

But not to me.

Since 2011, I had been completing at least two 5K races per year.  One of those races was in March of 2014.

I had convinced my mother and two friends to do the race with me.  A fun 5K where they threw powered paint at you?  A gorgeous path through downtown Nashville and lots of photo ops with these three amazing women?  ABSOLUTELY!

As the day broke, it was bitterly cold and raining.  We stopped for coffee on our way to the starting line and the debate about if we really wanted to do it raged. After much deliberation, we decided it wouldn't be that bad, it'll be fun, the race will be done before we know it!

Yeah, right.  We got there early, meaning we had to stand out in the driving rain, near freezing temperature, and blustery wind as the race start approached.

Thankfully, there was a booth set up for the purchasing of extra items.  As my legs were really the coldest part of me, I was seeking something to layer to get some of the feeling back in them.  I saw the socks, and I desired them at once!

I unrolled them and tried to pull them on.  The top of my socks are woven with the race name, making the top of the sock tighter than normal.  I wore them through the race, nearly cringing because of how tight they were.  By the time the race was over, I had deep grooves in my calves from the top of the socks.

After the race, the socks were washed and put away.  They were seriously uncomfortable.  Beyond that, they made me sad.  My mom had bought them for me at the race, and it was hard for me to feel like I wasn't putting her gift to good use.

A few days ago, I noticed that the socks were on my bedside table.  I don't remember putting them there.  I'm not sure if the little one pulled them out from some hidden hidey hole in my room...but they looked like a challenge.  I decided to take the challenge.

photo: mine

As I slid them up, I was just shocked.  No hesitation, no difficulty, no groovy calves (at least not due to the socks).

My brain hasn't yet caught up with my physical changes.  Like my trip to Universal, I'm still waiting for someone to tell me I don't fit, I can't do it, I'm still too large.

The only one telling me that?  Me.

But only sometimes.  Little by little, my brain is catching up with my body.  It's not longer the thing that holds me back.  It's not longer the thing that keeps me from playing, running, cuddling...

Living.

They might be a pair of socks to anyone else, but they're a badge for me.  They're a symbol of success.  They're a badge of honor.

They're my stripes.  And I earned Every. Single. One. 

Perception

"Don't be afraid of the X in front of that L, honey."

-Angelina Santiago

I detest shopping.  I always have.  When your clothes are twice as expensive as the rest, clearance means you're paying a smaller person's full price, and your selection is limited, there's not much joy to be had in shopping.  Add in that I am tall with an above average shoe size and shopping for myself is a miserable experience.

Or rather, was a miserable experience. 

At my heaviest, there were 5 or 6 X's in front of that L.  My selection was limited to items with glitter splayed across the chest amid motifs of flowers not found in nature.  Why yes, please, I'd love to look like a sparkly couch.  That's been my desire:  to have my girth not hidden but designed to catch attention as far as the eye can see. 

Since the surgery, I haven't really noticed my clothes changing.  It almost always has to be pointed out to me.  It's not until I bend over and nearly lose my pants that I think maybe these ARE a little big now.

You see, I'm still that lady.  Mentally, I am still the owner of those X's.  They follow me around like a prison sentence.  My perception is that I need them.  They are comforting.  They cover my shape, they keep attention at bay, and no one laughs if I think I'm invisible.

The reality is that I WASN'T invisible at 380 pounds.  The extra weight didn't protect me or provide a barrier, it made me more visible.  It drew attention like a magnet:  nearly all of it negative.  Stares, smirks, whispers, full out demeaning comments from those brave enough to just berate me out loud; I've been subjected to it all.

I was fully prepared for it to happen again.

You see, we just recently returned from vacation.  I had to walk into one of my biggest fears:  a theme park.  About three years ago (in the midst of my first round of weight loss), I got stuck.  I thought I'd lost enough to ride a ride at a fair.  Not so much.  I had to wiggle myself out of a swinging seat in front of what felt like a million people. 

As I stood in line with my rollercoaster buddy (AKA, my son), I could feel that anxiety welling up.  What if I don't fit?  What if I have to get right back up in front of all these people? What if I disappoint him?

With a 45 minute wait to the front of the line and plenty of people smaller than me to look at, I just KNEW there was no way I was going to be able to ride.  At the end of the wait, I sat down.  Pulled the lap bar across me...and heard the buzz that indicated it was locked.

It. Was. Locked.

I. Fit.

No stares.  No smirks.  No whispers.  Just me, my son, 167 feet, and 65 MPH of pure triumph.  I was able to ride on everything I wanted.  It was amazing.

On the way back, we stopped for a little shopping.  I know I need new work clothes, and I'm trying to space out purchases as much as possible to not have to buy repeatedly.  I held an XXL up to me, thinking it might be a little snug.  My mom's response?

"That's too big."

And she was right. All the tops I purchased now only have one X in front of that L.   Another top, with a more formed style, was purchased for when I could fit it later. 

It. Fits.

So that's the current focus:  working to change my perception of what fits.  Not just in clothing, but in size.  I'm not the scared girl who needs to hide behind food to be comfortable.  I no longer have to fear that I won't fit, because I fit me.  I fit my family.  I fit in this world exactly as I'm meant to fit. 

Yes, it's going to continue to change.  I know (sort of) that I'm going to eventually lose the X in front of that L. 

But for now:

It. Fits.

A Step Back

pic via www.ccvend-usa.com

I felt it was important, before I get into the current journey, to step back and look at how I got to the point of exploring bariatric surgery in the first place.  I own it.  It's mine. 

But that wasn't always the case.

While I'm not big on most reality shows, I've been watching My 600 Pound Life for many years.  I was always curious to see how people managed to get that size, because I wasn't yet willing to acknowledge how I'd gotten myself to 379.6 pounds. 

In previous seasons, Dr. Now has only made his patients prove they could lose weight before he agreed to perform the procedures.  That has led some of the patients to struggle to own the underlying causes of their obesity.  

I say that to mean that if you watch the show, most of the patients have abandonment issues, have dealt with physical, mental, or emotional abuse, and/or have depression or anxiety.   Without addressing those underlying issues, it's difficult to be able to create a new reality.

In the most recent season, nearly every patient has undergone some type of therapy.  Dr. Now might have done this with other patients before, but this is the first season where it was very clearly shown. 

Early on, I only owned that the fact that I have PCOS was keeping me from losing weight.  With the condition, it's very easy to put weight on.  But each pound you put on becomes a beast to take off again.  So, that's what I used.  I couldn't lose weight because the PCOS didn't let me.  I'd take some off, put some back, take less off, put more back on.   

Finally, just after I turned 30, I realized that I'd have to do something different to have something different.  I had to own the fact that while PCOS might have been the biological cause, there was at least another reason:  I LOVE FOOD. 

I love to eat all those wonderful things that aren't good for me:  egg rolls, chow mein noodles, fried rice, French fries, hamburgers...augmented by the occasional sweet or cake. 

I worked to change my relationship with food.  I knew eliminating them all and saying "I can't have this" only led to guilt and binging when I slipped.  So, I started by refusing to feel guilty for eating the "bad" foods.  I really tried to see that those foods are made every day, so I didn't need to eat as much of them as possible.    I subbed a small order of fries for a supersized one.  I subbed a salad for the side with my cheeseburger. 

And it worked for a while.  I was able to lose, in total, about 115 pounds.   And then some of it crept back.  I struggled to get any more of the weight off, and I began restricting even more of what I was eating.  That still didn't bring the scale down any more.

I started the sleeve process in February of 2014.  Two weeks in, I learned E was coming.  So, I delayed (obviously).  I hadn't gained any weight during my pregnancy, but I started my pregnancy about 30 pounds lighter than my lowest in the last few years.   After she was born, I focused on my eating and worked to slowly drop the weight again.  No matter what I did, it seemed like it wasn't going anywhere. 

Because I was struggling with postpartum anxiety, I had already started on medicine.  I also decided before I'd take any other steps, I was going to really address the underlying cause of my obesity.

Protection.  My fat was comfortable.  I understood that life.  Trauma of my childhood led me to keep my weight on as a shield.  It was also one of the driving forces of my anxiety.  I feared for my child, my children really.  I struggled with how I might make their lives different.

I knew that before I could venture back into the sleeve process, I HAD to release myself from that prison.  I needed to make sure that I could handle being the person without the physical protection I'd carried for so many years.

I went looking for a psychiatrist who specialized in helping bariatric patients.  I found another Dr. R.  I met with her for several weeks, talking through my struggles, my stresses, my triggers.  I didn't have to be brave; I didn't have to be strong; I didn't have to keep it together.  I was able to be vulnerable, something I'd always avoided because I have to be the strong one.

After several weeks, I decided that I was ready to move forward.  I still have moments where I battle those fears, but now I can recognize them for what they are, talk myself through them, and move forward.

It was only when I could do that: own the eating, understand the cause, manage them, that I knew I could have the surgery.



********
Again, my journey.  You have to do what you do for you, meaning talk to your own physicians and make your own choices.  This is not a substitute for medical advice.  :)

 

In For A Penny, To Lose A Few Pounds

photo via livescience.com

Over a year ago, I started down this path.  My journey was derailed for the best and cutest reason.  As my daughter hit six months old, the continued concern of how long I'd have my health reared its ugly head.

Would I be able to keep up with two children?  How do I find the energy to meet both their needs?

The answer brought me back to the need to lose weight.  I had tried to capitalize on the weight lost after E's birth, only to find that my hormone changes had made losing weight a struggle.  I tracked my eating, reduced my carbs, began walking.

In four weeks time, I'd taken off a whopping three pounds.  Not exactly setting the world on fire.

So, A and I revisited the idea of bariatric surgery.  Since I'd taken precautions to prevent another surprise bundle (ahem), I was confident that we could just pick up where we left off.

There were a few steps to complete that were the same:  psych eval, support group, pre-op class, revisit with nutritionist and surgeon.  I had decided to switch to the other doctor in the office who performs the surgery, based on word of mouth.  It was a good choice.  Dr. R is a Christian man, married, who has struggled with infertility.   He is kind and compassionate, and he has a clear desire to help his patients.

There was one change I wasn't anticipating.

In the year since I had surgery, my insurance company changed requirements.  Where they previously required a letter of medical necessity, they now wanted six consecutive months of documented attempts at controlling weight.    I completely get why.  This is NOT a decision to be taken lightly.

Knowing that is one thing.  Realizing you could be so close and yet possibly so far was another.  

My stomach sank with that news.  I had been working on it for over six months, but I wasn't sure it was documented. Here's where my postpartum anxiety actually came in handy.  Due to medicine changes, I had checked in with my OBGYN almost every month since E was born...the exception was April.

My surgeon set a goal of a 20 pound weight loss and a follow up appointment.  I was given "the book" for how to eat and sent on my way to wait and see if I could get the approval for surgery.

As I was leaving, I asked if I could move my appointment up if I lost the 20 pounds faster than 6 weeks.

The nurse simply smiled and handed me the appointment card.


*******************************************************************************

Disclaimer:  this is MY journey and is in no was a substitution for advise from your own physician.  I definitely recommend research and discussing options with your doctor.   Don't just take it from a lady on the internet :)

Still Not Normal

Photo copyright Wisconsin Kelly

A few weeks ago, I gave one side of my postpartum experience.  I thought I'd take another chance to give the other.

After what seemed like futile attempts to have another child, we had accepted that our son would be one and only.  We changed life direction...and then I learned I was pregnant.

Having experienced what I did after my pregnancy with Z, I immediately knew I couldn't do that again.  My first prenatal appointment with my very awesome doctor was a conversation about the impact of my son's birth.  With a husband, son, new baby, job, and LIFE, I refused to check out again.   I anticipated having moments where I had no desire to leave my bed and the same disconnect I had with him.

What I didn't anticpate is what REALLY happened.  My love and desire to protect E was there from the minute I was born.  In the hospital, I had that same initial guilt for failing to feel that way about Z. I acknowledged it, and remembered I'd more than made up for it in the 8 years that had passed.    My doctor had prescribed Zoloft to ward off any of those postpartum issues.  I initially didn't take it, but after a conversation where I learned it can take 2 weeks to be effective, I gave in to a small dose.

Smart girl, listening to the man who actually WENT to medical school.

About 3 weeks after E's birth, I noticed some things.  I didn't want to go out, I didn't want her around others, and I was only comfortable if she was with one of four people.   I tried to rationalize it as simply being the fact that she was born in the winter, and there was the potential for her new immune system to be weak.   In reality, I had the beginnings of what would become full blown Postpartum Anxiety and OCD.

Again, from Postpartum Progress, the symptoms of Postpartum Anxiety:

You may have postpartum anxiety or postpartum OCD if you have had a baby within the last 12 months and are experiencing some of these symptoms:

• Your thoughts are racing. You can’t quiet your mind. You can’t settle down. You can’t relax.
• You feel like you have to be doing something at all times. Cleaning bottles. Cleaning baby clothes. Cleaning the house. Doing work. Entertaining the baby. Checking on the baby.
• You are worried. Really worried. All. The. Time. Am I doing this right? Will my husband come home from his trip? Will the baby wake up? Is the baby eating enough? Is there something wrong with my baby that I’m missing? No matter what anyone says to reassure you it doesn’t help.
• You may be having disturbing thoughts. Thoughts that you’ve never had before. Scary thoughts that make you wonder whether you aren’t the person you thought you were. They fly into your head unwanted and you know they aren’t right, that this isn’t the real you, but they terrify you and they won’t go away. These thoughts may start with the words “What if …”
• You are afraid to be alone with your baby because of scary thoughts or worries. You are also afraid of things in your house that could potentially cause harm, like kitchen knives or stairs, and you avoid them like the plague.
• You may feel the need to check things constantly. Did I lock the door? Did I lock the car? Did I turn off the oven? Is the baby breathing?
• You may be having physical symptoms like stomach cramps or headaches, shakiness or nausea. You might even have panic attacks.
• You feel like a captive animal, pacing back and forth in a cage. Restless. On edge.
• You can’t eat. You have no appetite.
• You’re having trouble sleeping. You are so, so tired, but you can’t sleep.
• You feel a sense of dread, like something terrible is going to happen.
• You know something is wrong. You may not know you have a perinatal mood or anxiety disorder, but you know the way you are feeling is NOT right. You think you’ve “gone crazy”.
• You are afraid that this is your new reality and that you’ve lost the “old you” forever.
• You are afraid that if you reach out for help people will judge you. Or that your baby will be taken away.

I had many of those.  If someone jokingly commented about "stealing" my baby away, I immediately began to imagine graphic, unpleasant ways to prevent that from happening.    I had fears about what if I couldn't protect my children.  What if someone tried to really take them?  What if I couldn't teach them to guard themselves?  What if that same thing happened to them?    It began to impact my every day life.  My husband wanted to get out; I had near panic attacks at the thought.  We went to church on Christmas Eve.  I still can't tell you the content of the sermon. I was too busy watching other people to make sure they weren't watching us.   

I knew I needed more help.

First, we increased my dosage again.  It helped a little but not enough.  Next, I did something I hadn't done before:  I looked for help.  Z had seen a psychologist due to ADD symptoms, so I made an appointment to be assessed.  That led to a referral to a counselor.  I was worried about what others might think about my need for therapy.  I hoped my husband and mom and friends wouldn't think it meant I didn't trust them.  I was just worried that they might not be able to effectively help me out of my own head, given that they love me too much.

When I started therapy, I think I initially expected her to help me figure it out.  After a few sessions, I realized her job was to help me figure it out for myself.  Her job wasn't to fix me, it was to help me fix myself. 

With one more med dosage change and more therapy sessions, I began to feel mostly like myself again.  I've always had OCD tendancies, but I was finally able to control them. Getting upset didn't lead to baseboard cleaning on my hands and kneew. And while I still get up to check my children some nights, it's not every night and it's not over and over again.   I'm able to leave the house, go to church, be in public, and simply say thanks when someone gets close enough to tell me E is adorable.  My nightly bouts with insomnia are getting fewer and further apart.

My experience this time has been so much healthier.  In addition to the meds and therapy, I've met three wonderful women who also have varied degrees of PPD/PPA.  Our shared experiences make for a safe haven.  Nothing we can admit thinking is met with judgement or scorn.  We all know it's not normal, and we are able to help one another through those moments and make it over to the other side.

Find a doctor, a support group, a friend.  Talk to SOMEONE.  Doctors and Nurses: again I implore you to not let "I'm okay" be the reason you don't dig a little further.   If she doesn't look okay, odds are she isn't.

If you are the friend, check in often.  Don't be afraid to suggest your new mom friend get help if you recognize the signs above in her. She might get offended at first.  Keep supporting and suggesting.  When you visit, offer to do laundry, a meal, bathtime for other children in addition to getting new squish snuggles.

As before, I'll say it again: IT'S OKAY TO ADMIT YOU NEED HELP!


Because, in the end, normal is overrated anyway.








 

No, It's Not Normal

photo via flickr: copyright Jim Mead

Wow. A year. It's interesting how life and time speed by us.  My year has certainly been eventful.  My family of three is now four, my brother's five are now six, our kids have an amazing new Gramps, and Nana is fantastic as always.  It's been unexpected and surreal, but it's been such a wonderful journey.

While watching my children grow and thrive has been the greatest experience of my life, parts of this journey were marred.  There were dark times. Struggle times. Times when I wasn't sure I could do it. Both times were tied to two of the most significant events in my life.

The birth of each of my children.

I get it; hormone changes can lead to the "baby blues." The state of being overwhelmed and wondering who got your blissful feelings of love for this new being.   I'm not in any way minimalizing these feelings.  If you have them or know a mom who is, get help or reach out to help.  New moms need all the support they can get, be it baby number one or baby number ten.

For this post, I'm referring to Postpartum Depression.  One of two mental health conditions that followed the birth of my children. PPD came with my son.   I'll explore the second in another post.

From Postpartum Progress, here are PPD symptoms:

Okay.  Here we go. You may have postpartum depression if you have had a baby within the last 12 months and are experiencing some of these symptoms:

• You feel overwhelmed.  Not like “hey, this new mom thing is hard.”  More like “I can’t do this and I’m never going to be able to do this.”  You feel like you just can’t handle being a mother.  In fact, you may be wondering whether you should have become a mother in the first place.
• You feel guilty because you believe you should be handling new motherhood better than this.  You feel like your baby deserves better.  You worry whether your baby can tell that you feel so bad, or that you are crying so much, or that you don’t feel the happiness or connection that you thought you would.  You may wonder whether your baby would be better off without you.
• You don’t feel bonded to your baby.  You’re not having that mythical mommy bliss that you see on TV or read about in magazines. Not everyone with PPD feels this way, but many do.
• You can’t understand why this is happening.  You are very confused and scared.
• You feel irritated or angry. You have no patience. Everything annoys you.  You feel resentment toward your baby, or your partner, or your friends who don’t have babies. You feel out-of-control rage.
• You feel nothing. Emptiness and numbness. You are just going through the motions.
• You feel sadness to the depths of your soul. You can’t stop crying, even when there’s no real reason to be crying.
• You feel hopeless, like this situation will never ever get better. You feel weak and defective, like a failure.
• You can’t bring yourself to eat, or perhaps the only thing that makes you feel better is eating.
• You can’t sleep when the baby sleeps, nor can you sleep at any other time. Or maybe you can fall asleep, but you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep no matter how tired you are.  Or maybe all you can do is sleep and you can’t seem to stay awake to get the most basic things done.  Whichever it is, your sleeping is completely screwed up and it’s not just because you have a newborn.
• You can’t concentrate. You can’t focus. You can’t think of the words you want to say. You can’t remember what you were supposed to do. You can’t make a decision. You feel like you’re in a fog.
• You feel disconnected. You feel strangely apart from everyone for some reason, like there’s an invisible wall between you and the rest of the world.
• Maybe you’re doing everything right. You are exercising. You are taking your vitamins. You have a healthy spirituality.  You do yoga. You’re thinking “Why can’t I just get over this?”  You feel like you should be able to snap out of it, but you can’t.
• You might be having thoughts of running away and leaving your family behind. Or you’ve thought of driving off the road, or taking too many pills, or finding some other way to end this misery.
• You know something is wrong. You may not know you have a perinatal mood or anxiety disorder, but you know the way you are feeling is NOT right. You think you’ve “gone crazy”.
• You are afraid that this is your new reality and that you’ve lost the “old you” forever.
• You are afraid that if you reach out for help people will judge you. Or that your baby will be taken away.

That last one is critical.  I didn't ask for help. I thought it was normal to feel the way I did. I bought into the lie that everyone goes through this.

No, they don't. And no, it's NOT normal.

I went through the motions. I took care of my son. He was fed, kept clean and dry, and was healthy. And while I loved the child I had struggled to have, I didn't like him very much.  I just didn't understand why.

I joke that my husband must have thought he brought someone else home from the hospital.  The reality is he did.  I didn't ask for help, and I should have.

I'm forever changed by the PPD.  I'm now an advocate for new moms.  I had to work to let go of my guilt.  And now, I work to be open and honest and let other moms know that their feelings might not be normal either and it's okay.  I reach out to those I know with new little ones to ask how Mom is doing.  REALLY doing.  I offer help. I urge you to do the same:  take a meal, do some laundry, occupy older children.

And I ask if they've talked to their doctors. If you are a doctor or nurse, I IMPLORE you to not ignore what you see in your patients.  I know you're on a time crunch, and there are many, many more to be seen behind the mother in for her six week checkup.   Please don't let that time crunch keep you from digging a little more and letting that mom know that you're there to help.

If you are that Mom:    YOU ARE NOT ALONE!!  There are specialists, local groups, and online support.  It's okay to get help.  It's okay to admit you need it.


And it's okay if you aren't normal.

Left Field

photo from iacmusic.com

I pride myself on my planning skills.  My OCD is very satisfied with lists, planning, scheduling, and completion.  Checking items off lists is the highlight of my day.  There are many things I can be called, spontaneous is not one of them.

In the last year, I have really tried to focus on my prayer life and on letting go of some of that control.   My goal in life is to put His goals first, allowing God to show me direction and guide me to be the best wife, mother, and person I can be.  For someone as controlled as I am, this is my continued struggle.

However, the past year has been a series of eye-opening lessons for me.  I watched my Pop succumb to the most evil disease on the planet.  Through it, I prayed.  I prayed for peace for my mother, my son, my family, myself. I prayed for comfort for him and delivery from the cancer that robbed him of who he was.   He knew that I wanted to go back to school to make some life changes, and he pushed me to do that.  When the first path back to school ended in a closed door due to schedule flexibility, I simply prayed.  I prayed that if that was my new path, then I prayed that another door would be opened.   And it was.

I learned that I had missed the application date for the program I wanted, but that was okay.  I had been out of school so long that I had to take some prerequisite classes anyway before I could apply, and that has worked out well.    I passed my placement test with no worries, and I am currently taking the last required class before I apply.   I had a plan, going according to plan, to start the program in January 2015.   This would give me enough time to have the gastric sleeve surgery that was planned, heal from the surgery, and get started on the program.

Best laid plans of Mice and Men and all that...

Because now the plans have to change again, but for the best possible reason.

When I wrote this post about a year and a half ago, I expected that to be my reality.  Part of the reason for working on my prayer life was to be able to reconcile the idea that Z would be an only child.  A few months after that was written, I decided to pass along Z's baby clothes to a friend who was having twin boys.  I passed my maternity clothes to Goodwill, so I could move forward and focus on my family as it was.  The trip to Disney that was going to be delayed for a few more years was taken (and will be taken again).  I settled into my reality.

And now:  this is my new reality ---------------------->

Needless to say, my first reaction was shock.  Most everyone's has been.

My mom has had the BEST reaction so far:  pure joy.  Her faith and trust and strength have always been an inspiration for me, and this time it's no different.

So far, most of this pregnancy has gone okay.  I definitely don't remember being quite this sick with my son, but I will take every ache, pain, and bit of nausea and ickiness for opportunity.  I know I'm VERY blessed to have another child.  I don't, however, think that negates my right to complain a little (or a lot) about how I'm feeling.   Having endured 13 and a half years of infertility treatment and testing, I think I've earned a little whining about not being able to eat...ANYTHING.

Right now, everything is going well.  I still plan on going to school, just a year later than expected.  Since our children will celebrate their birthdays very close together (possible within a day of each other, since I will have a scheduled c-section), I'm not comfortable heading to a full time program with a new baby.

The plan is to continue what I've been doing:  pray for the best, follow HIS plan and not mine, and work through each moment, step by step.

Clean Eating

photo mine

For the last six months, I've really been focused on changing the way my family eats.  It started with working to remove any item with high fructose corn syrup.  I also began reducing the number of overly processed items in our home.  When some other family health issues arose, I made some other major changes.  Much more fresh foods, more green leafy vegetables, fewer chemicals.  

Add in the removal of soda from my diet and a move to one cup of coffee per day, with more water thrown in for balance, and I've really been working at the way I eat.  That makes this next step a little easier.

Part of the process for surgery approval requires meeting with a nutritionist to work through current eating habits and changes that have to happen prior to surgery.   Heather, the nutritionist, is a very nice vegetarian with genuine concern for the patients she serves.  You can tell that our best interests are at the forefront of what she does.

photo mine

The meal plan she assigned was very similar to my meal plan with Dr. B. There is one LARGE change.  With Dr. B, I was able to have a solid, warm breakfast.  With Heather, I get this: 

One cold, chunky strawberry protein shake (which is actually not that bad) and 1/4 cup of almonds (not pictured).   I tried vanilla first, but since I'm a snob about the taste of vanilla and refuse to drink or ingest any kind of imitation vanilla flavor, it didn't work out so well. 

Since I've gotten used to being able to eat a warm breakfast to start my day, this has taken a bit of adjustment.   It was also a challenge when we were travelling this week in trying to both deal with my family getting real breakfast (mmm, gravy and biscuits) and trying to find milk (note to self:  find non-dairy milk, no matter where you are. There was a real reason I gave up dairy).  

Another rule is the 30/30:  no drinking 30 minutes before and until 30 minutes after a meal.  Which means no drinking during the meal.  This is rather problematic for me, since I tend to get the hiccups if I don't drink anything.  I am now the last member of my family to finish eating, since I have to stop after each bite to make sure I don't choke.  There are still some items that have me clock watching after I eat them.  

Last big one is P&P:  with each meal, I can have meat, veggies, and a complex carb (there's a list).  I have to eat the P&P (protein and produce) first to ensure the pressure receptors around my stomach get triggered, then I can finish with the carb if there's space.  A lot of times, I'm finding I'm not able to finish eating all of the allotted carb because I'm too full.  

photo; my camera, taken by an obliging stranger

Thankfully, through all of this, I have a really great support system.   My family and friends understand my dietary limitations and exercise needs.  During our trip, we went to restaurants with menu items that fit what I needed.  They helped me meet my 5000 step per day minimum goal (even trekking up the hill of our resort when I was short after a day of driving).  And they even trudged through the cold rain to become the most colorful bunch of awesome ever to finish the Happiest 5K on Earth.

I've been mostly successful with the plan (minus a snafu with the understanding of milk needs in my house).  It will help me to create the habits that are critical to develop now, as they will carry over into post-surgery necessity.  It will also help me meet the pre-surgery weight loss goal set for me by the surgeon.

**Disclaimer: this is informational only and not to be used as a substitute for medical advice.   Talk to YOUR doctors about the best option for you.  Find a nutritionist who'll create the best plan for you: with or without surgery.  

Steps

photo from greatbigcanvas.com

I am nothing if not meticulous.  I rarely act spontaneously, which can be a blessing and a curse.  In this case, I'm counting it as a blessing.    I like to research.  So, with our decision to move forward with bariatric surgery, I went searching for information.

The bariatric center here does three types of bariatric surgery:  gastric band, gastric sleeve, or roux-en-gastric bypass.  They are a bariatric center of excellence, which is very impressive since Vanderbilt was previously the only hospital to hold that distinction.  Step one is to attend a seminar and fill out a mountain of paperwork.  During the seminar, you get information on all three procedures and are left with making that decision.

So, me being me, I went in search of I found tons of info: medical journals, patient blogs, good experiences, bad experiences, and tons of YouTube videos.    I did this while waiting for step two, which was for my doctor to write a letter supporting my decision to look into surgery.

I have to preface that I'm not grossed out by much. Actually, I find the tool used that cuts and staples the stomach at the same time rather fascinating.  I've watched surgery videos, looked at complications, and weighed the pros and cons of each option.  I've also watched a large number of food documentaries (understanding that you have to take some of those with a grain of salt).

On Thursday of last week, I met with steps three and four: nutrition and surgeon. I'll talk about each of those in turn in other posts.   As an aside:  all of the steps must be completed before insurance approval can be submitted.

For anyone looking at surgery as the "miracle" cure to obesity, I'll be the first to tell you it's not.  For me, I feel like I HAVE changed the way that I look at food.  I don't stress eat, eat out of boredom, and save one REALLY bad experiment, I've not eaten anything fried since last year.  I had one soda on Fat Tuesday in preparation for Lent, and that was the first soda I'd had since mid-January.  My plan is not to go back to them, even once Lent ends.

Yet, even with cleaning up my eating, focusing on getting moving, and getting my habits in check, I've experienced little in the way of true weight loss.  This brings me to my current plan of surgery exploration.  I supposed that's my why:  I don't feel like there is another option.  The weight comes off slowly, if at all, and once I try to go back to any kind of normal eating, some of it comes back.  It's a one step forward, two steps back process.  In order to protect my long term health, I've decided to take one really large step forward.



***Disclaimer:  again, this is my journey with my doctors.  This is informational only, not intended to be a substitute for seeking your own medical assistance.

Cutting the Fat

As I look back on what I've written, I continue to see a recurring theme:  weight.  Or more specifically for me, weight loss.  No matter the attempts made, the struggles seem to be never ceasing.  I feel like I've been dieting for the majority of my life.  And in reality, I have.

The issue for me isn't how unhealthy I am now.  While I am classified as morbidly obese with a BMI of just over 44, I have no co-morbidities.  My total cholesterol (as of last week) was 161, blood pressure was 100/60, and all my other levels were within normal range.  With the exception of the orthopedic issues I have, I don't fall into the normal problems most obese people have.  At least, I don't right now.

The question lately has been:  how long will that last?  I am, ummm, slightly over 30, and I do suffer from PCOS.  Without proper weight management, PCOS can lead to Type 2 Diabetes and Heart Disease: the number one killer of women.   Time to manage the weight, before it manages me.

It just so happened that a friend of mine mentioned he was getting ready to have gastric sleeve surgery.  I know others who've made the same decision, so I went seeking more information.

Our local hospital, a bariatric surgery center of excellence, has seminars several times a month for potential patients to learn the plus and minuses of the different surgery options.  Hubs and I attended the seminar, and after some debate, have decided together to move forward with reviewing the options.

I have thought a couple of times about if I wanted to share this or not.  I'm sure I'm going to get lots of "why's" and "well, can't you just DIET's."  I have also decided I'm not going to answer those questions.  I might get around to the "why" part of it, just as I detail the journey.

This is my family's journey.  I can't make a decision for anyone else, and I don't at ALL claim to be a healthcare professional.

We'll see how this turns out.


***Disclaimer:  this is not meant to be a substitute for medical advice from your medical professional.  This is for informational purposes only.  PLEASE make your own decisions, with your own doctors, and with your own needs in mind. 

One More Hug

photo from myptsd.com

Every November, as I look back on another year of my son's life, I continue to be amazed by this wonderful gift I've been given.  Cliched as it is, I cannot even begin to thank God for blessing me with his life.

In the last year, my family has faced battles that I couldn't imagine.  I've done what I can to shelter him from the worst of what we've endured.  While I know we cannot shelter him forever, I also know that a seven year old should only have to shoulder so much burden, and he certainly shouldn't have to shoulder the burdens of adults.

In the midst of our pain, our sorrow, and our trials, my son continues to be a shining light.  His sweet innocence breaks through all of those heavy worries to provide a breath of fresh air and peace in the midst of our storms.  The best part?

He doesn't even realize he does it.

There have been days when I think the soul-crushing weight of the world has become more than I can handle.  I'm trying to tie the knot in the end of my rope but hanging on still seems impossible.  And then I pick up my son from his nana's house, drive home, and carry him to bed (an increasingly difficult request, to be sure).

As I lay him in bed and say goodnight, I am struck silent with prayer.  Prayer for his protection. Prayer for his comfort.  Prayer that I will continue to be the mom he needs.

And each night, as I get to his door, he lifts his head and asks the same question:

"One more hug?"

And each night, the response is the same:

"Of course Mouse.  You know you can always have as many 'one more hugs' as you want."

On Black Friday, Mouse turns 7.

7 years of fun.

7 years of laughs.

7 years of cries.

7 years of hugs.

And, as I will turn to walk out his door, it'll be my turn to ask for just one more.

On The First Day of The First Grade

photo via zazzle.com

Unlike Billy Joe McGuffey, Z isn't normally particularly clumsy.   He did, however, have his first day of first grade today. 
Yes, I know, your Facebook news feeds and Twitter timeline are inundated with "first day of school" pictures, comments, and posts.  And yes, I'm writing this anyway.

Where a great deal of those posts are telling you how EXCITED those parents are for the start of school, I cannot join in the merriment.  It honestly makes me sad.  Even with my hideous work schedule, I've enjoyed starting my mornings with Z.  We've gotten up, had breakfast, hung out, and possibly moved on to his current Lego Xbox game obsession (sometimes Batman, sometimes Star Wars, always Lego).

On Wednesdays, my day off, we had fun.  We've gone shopping, played outside, and just spent time being together.  He is getting couponing lessons early, being taught how we'll save for his college education.

This morning, as I walked him to class, it struck me how fast this is all going.  I know that every parent says that at some point, but it genuinely has caught me by surprise.  I wonder how much longer he'll continue to allow me to dote on him and hug him in front of his friends.  How many more times will he let me walk him to his class at the start of the year?

And then I pause. 

Why spend time worrying about all of that?  It's wasted time.  I could lament all the time that's passed, or I could focus on all the time that (I pray) I have left.  I can worry about the day that he'll stop hugging me in public, or I can relish the fact that he often reaches out to hug me first.  I can fret that he'll soon stop turning back to wave goodbye, or I can make sure he sees my smile and wave back. 

Tomorrow is the last day that I can walk him to class.  I foster his independence, wanting him to make the choice.  So, I asked.  And his response? 

"I want you to walk with me."

And so tomorrow, we walk.  We'll go to class, hug goodbye, and I'll let him go. 

And watch him fly.

Breakthrough

photo via efhcenter.com

"My breakthrough came when I stopped feeling sorry for myself and took responsibility for every part of my life.  No more pity parties. I've gotta love me more than anybody else loves me."

~Mary J Blige

In July 2010, I made the decision to take control of my life.  I was tired of being sick, tired, and generally exhausted.

A year later, I wrote this post about my progress to that point.   I was feeling pretty good about where I was at that time.  Full of hope and plans to move forward.

At the end of that year, I turned 33.  The hubs and I had been working for two years to be able to get ready for our IVF attempts.  82 pounds down, and I knew time was not on our side.

So, we took that leap and learned what we did.  And hope failed me.

I took a break.  I took a break from my blog, knowing that I needed to learn to deal with my own realities in private before I could begin to put things on "paper."  I took a break from reading and reviewing.  I took a break from nearly everything except going through the motions to get through the day.

I had my introspection (heck, I'm still having it), and I realized I had two choices:  continue to wallow or accept life as it is and move forward.

I may be sarcastic and cynical at times, but at heart I'm an optimist.  I know that things will get better.  There might be more hills and valleys before it does (and there have been), but I trust God to get me through those things that I cannot even begin to process.

Part of moving forward for me means getting back on track.  In the nearly two years that have passed, I have lost two more pounds.  The idea exists that if you go a year without gaining weight back, then you've been successful.  Since I actually lost more weight, I'm counting that as success.

I decided to stop my excuses and, taking Mary's suggestion, to take responsibility for every part of my life.  The first two?  Exercising and eating.

1.  "My knee hurts too much, so I can't exercise like I want to."

Whatever.  While I did enjoy running, the reality remains that ANY kind of exercise is work to me. Add to this that while I really don't have some of the common side effects of obesity (Thankfully, I have somehow managed to avoid high blood pressure, diabetes, or high cholesterol), the orthopaedic concerns were fully driven by my weight.  My knee issues are partly hereditary   However, my healthy weight mother has managed to hold off the knee surgeries at age 50+. Me?  The first one came at age 29.  Had I addressed my weight sooner, maybe I would have been able to hold off the corrections for longer.  Even if I couldn't run/walk/cardio load my bottom half, the fact still remained that I have arms and a midsection that needed work.   Getting some of that weight off might have helped me to ease the load on my knees.  My responsibility...my fault.


So, six weeks ago, I got rid of the excuse.  I decided to have my right knee corrected the same way I had my left one done five years ago.   While it's healing, I am working on my arms with dumbbells and working on my midsection.  I'm following my physical therapy like clockwork, ensuring the knee will be able to take the workload I'm throwing at it come June when we take a family trip to Disney.


The result? I have managed to get stronger than expected faster than anticipated.  Walking in Disney?  Piece of cake.

2. "I don't have time to cook, so I have to grab what I can." 

Again, whatever.  I was doing what was easy, not what was good for me. It was easy to blame work, child, or life schedule on an inability to plan for what I needed to be eating,  In truth?  I was choosing to not plan.

It just so happened that a couple of weeks before my surgery, I was introduced to a wonderful woman who had lost a great deal of weight on Medifast (over 100 pounds since August last year, to be exact).  An unexpected financial offering allowed me to be able to make the investment. That wonderful woman is now my Health Coach, helping me on this journey.  With Medifast, I only have to worry about one meal a day.  The other five are Medifast provided.   So, the food excuse?  Gone. I check menus if I'm going to eat out, so I know where and what I can eat.  And thanks to the tutelage of Tom and Rachel when I first started this journey, I have been able to make many recipes that I love Medifast friendly.  It ensures that I don't get bored with the meal I'm making for myself.

On Friday March 8, I officially hit 100 pounds lost.  And not just close to 100 pounds:  I was EXACTLY 100 pounds smaller, to the 1/10 of a pound.  There is something so completely empowering in taking back control of my life and my health.

I'm not going to say that I don't find myself trying to make excuses again.  It's a habit that was long cultivated, and it's a habit that will take a long time to break.

But that hope?  It's there. With each step that I take, I'm getting stronger and stronger.  I know that it's completely in MY hands to change.

My Responsibility.

No More Pity Parties.

Love For Me, By Me.


My Breakthrough.

Speaking Truth

Thanks to Holli for letting me share :)

When Holli posted that tweet about a week ago, I was struck.  The day before, I had finally worked up the nerve to write my last post.  It took so much for me to break the silence in the limited way that I did to begin to address what I have spent the last two and a half weeks trying to ignore.

What has resulted from that suppression is anxiety levels that have my OCD so out of control I am on the verge of panic attacks. Insomnia is rampant because all I can think about is the laundry list of things that need to be done in my house and at work.  I have been able to eat very little because my nerves are on edge.  I am focused on everything else that is around me to not have to focus on what is going on inside me.  My lack of control over what's going on has only served to create a circular problem:  the more control I try to exert, the less handle I have on it, the more anxiety I have, the more control I try to exert....and around and around it goes.

And so, this post is meant to take a page out of Holli's book and speak my truth out loud.  I have been testing it a little with people around me.  I can't say that it has been easy for me, because I am engaged in an internal war.  Okay, I realize that sounds a bit melodramatic, but I'm going with it anyway.

When Z was two years old, our attempts to use Clomid (which had previously resulted in two successful pregnancies) failed.   We decided to take a break and reassess what we wanted to do.  Last year, hubs and I decided to take our infertility treatments to the next level and visited a fertility clinic.  We wanted to see what our options would be.

After some fairly invasive tests for me and some very embarrassing ones for him, the road ahead for us was paved with three letters:  IVF:  in-vitro fertilization.   Since this post is about my truth and not IVF details, I will save that one for another post.  I think those dealing with it need to hear about it, but for now, I need to finish what I started.

On 9/6, after completing our second IVF round (the first one obviously failed, or this would be a COMPLETELY different post), I waited for THE call.  I had gone to Nashville to once again donate to the vampires (I mean, really, do they need THAT much blood all the time??)  I kept checking my phone, making sure I hadn't missed the call while the phone was on vibrate during my meetings.   

And then the call came. 

Hope, so dangerous.  So scary.

While I had the smallest glimmer of hope, I kept trying to prepare myself for what could be my reality.

What BECAME my new reality:  I cannot have any other children.

The IVF failed.  The science failed.  And I feel like I failed.

I feel like I failed my husband and my son.  I know I did everything I could: followed the protocol to the letter, stuck myself so many times that a pincushion had nothing on me, dealt with all the side effects, and dropped trou so many times I was ready to ask for dinner first.   I also know that I am blessed to have the child that I do, as so many others never have that joy.

And knowing all that logically isn't helping me one bit.

My husband is the oldest of nine children and has wanted more (just a couple more, even just one more), and my son has asked so many times about when he is going to get a baby brother that I am out of vague responses.    And I don't know how you tell a five year old "never."

So now, I am trying to deal with the hand I have been dealt.  I am struggling with wanting more than God has given me.  I feel guilty for being selfish, and I never want my son to think that he isn't enough. 

He is MORE than enough.  He is a bright, beautiful, amazing child, and I am lucky that God has entrusted me with his care. Every day, he follows so many of our traditions.  He asks me "Do you know what I need now?"  Then he falls into my lap for cuddles.   At bedtime, he asks me to give one of his stuffed animals extra hugs and kisses to get him through the night, and I become Mommy whatever-he-chose. The sound of "Night, Night Mommy Kangaroo" is ringing in my ears as I write this, and it will carry me through the night.

And I still want more.  I want more for him, more for his dad, more for me.  I see my mom and her siblings band together to do what is best for my papa, and I am pained by the thought that he might have to deal with any of our health issues in old age by himself.

I know the only way to move past this moment and to focus on our future is to own all my feelings and "to stay out of my own way."

And, at the top of it all, speak the truth and "let the truth speak through me."







 

A Dangerous Thing

image via http://www.bradleygauthier.com

I am starting to believe that Frank Darabont might have been right:

"Hope is a dangerous thing.  Hope can drive a man insane."

Being a natural planner (read: control freak), I like to be prepared.  This creates an ongoing struggle between me, hope, and faith.  Focusing on hope and faith do not allow me to focus on control.  It means I can't have control of my own agenda.   

I will grant you, it is nice to consider that I could make my own choices in all things.  I could choose to make my family healthy.  I could choose to make the struggles in my life and in the lives of those that I love go away with a simple wish.  And that might work if I remain altruistic through my entire life.  And if that was available to everyone, what if altruism went out the window and greed and retribution were allowed to seep in?  Yeah, not so nice to think about it that way.

As of late, hope has failed me. There are new aspects of my life where I can no longer cling to the hope that things might be different. What I want to happen will not, and I must accept my new reality and move forward.

After suffering both a heart attack and stroke, my grandfather is vastly different than he was just over a week ago.  The strong, independent, outspoken man I have always known is now in need of help and patience.   While I could hope that one day he will heal and be exactly like the man I have known my whole life, reality says that while he may get better, he will be changed.  We all will be.

A few days prior, I was forced to face another new reality.   That wound is still gaping and raw around the edges.  The pain of that reality is so fresh for me that it is hard for me to speak of it outside of my close circle.  Even then, I struggle with the words.  Each time I try to reassure those who love me that "I'm going to be fine,"  I wonder if I really am.  I know that I will have to be eventually.  I will have to accept what is and move on and make adjustments.  I know it will take time and patience, and patience has never been one of my strengths.

And this leads me to why hope has been and could continue to be dangerous.

I want to cling to what was, to a time when I didn't have answers and hope was still feasible. Hope allowed me to imagine a different reality. It allowed me to envision a different future for myself and my family.  And while that hope allowed me to function at that time, it didn't prepare me for the reality that was to come. 

So now, when I would normally be moving solidly into Plan B (or C or D or...you get the idea), I'm not able to do anything.   There are no plans that I can make or lists I can check off that will change the reality for my Papa, my family, or myself. 

And I feel lost.  

I know that in time I will take the lessons learned and be stronger for them.  My brain can logically tell you all the steps, all the motions, and the eventual outcome.  Because, for all my realism, I am still an optimist.  I still count on God and those I love to get me through and to provide me strength when I am at my weakest. 

And some day soon I will have the audacity to hope again.

Just not today.



 

In Limbo

photo via gamerant.com

By nature, I am a planner.  I have a lot of difficulty with watching and waiting.  I have never been one to sit back and see how life turns out.  I prefer to have much more control over my direction than that.

Lately, however, I am working through something that requires my patience.  No matter how much I would like to rush through the planning, create new actions for what isn't going according to plan, and rewrite my agenda, I am being forced to wait and see.  The difficulty for me in this is harder than I anticipated.  At present, being caught in limbo is stifiling. 

Before we started the "project," I knew I would need some kind of stability in the uncertainty that was to come.  It happened to work out timing that my parents had asked us to attend their church.  I will leave the bulk of the discussion of that journey for another time.  Suffice it to say, I have recently found myself floundering. 

With the recent return to worship and the impending process we were undertaking, I did what has always worked in the past.  In addition to clinging to my family and my amazing husband, I turned back to the one source of strength that has sustained me. 

I turned to God. 

I haven't spent much time discussing faith, mainly because I have grown weary of trying to justify why I believe what I do. I love who I love.  I trust who I trust.  I have faith where I have faith.  I worship in the way that brings me peace, hope, and balance. 

And so, I have been praying.  Praying for strength.  Praying for direction.

Praying for patience. 

Through the first part of this journey, I have clung to the promise that I would never go alone.  While I wait for His plan to unfold, I find myself seeking His face in my moments of frustration and weakness.   I strive to accept the fact that, as a control freak, I have absolutely NO control over the outcome.

I think John Waller has said it better than I ever could.  Destinychurchmedia posted the below video on YouTube, aptly reminding me that it all happens in HIS time.  Not mine.

And so, I wait. 

I wait.

I serve. 

I worship.

And I pray.



Sans Gluten: The Food: Part One

photo via bzzagent.com

***Disclaimer's the same: this is MY plan, worked in conjunction with MY doctor.  Not to be substituted for real medical advice to fit YOUR needs with YOUR doctor.**


For this post to make sense, you might want to check out this post first.  I will also be making an additional split to this series: food will be broken into a couple of posts.

With the blessings of my doctor, and some ideas from my mom, I went in search of a diet change.

I quickly learned one of the biggest problems with trying to eat GF:  there are SO many forms of gluten hidden by different names.  Finding Wheat as an ingredient?  That's the easy part.  What about blugar, semolina, spelt, frumento, durum, kamut, graham, einkorn, farina, couscous, seitan, matzoh, malt, barley, and triticale?  All those wonderful premixed seasoning packets (a staple for novice cooks like myself)?  They use flour to bind the seasonings together...so, gluten. 

Before I headed to the store, I decided to check out my cabinets to see what I had that might fit the bill. Since I  had already been working to cook more of my own food and watching out for prepackaged, processed stuff, as well as reducing my carb intake due to the PCOS, it turned out that I had a great amount of spices and seasonings that could be used for cooking.  

It just so happened that the weekend I started my GF eating, I was craving chili.  I was heartbroken to learn that the chili seasoning I normally used was riddled with wheat, again to bind the other seasonings.  Not to be discouraged, I just went searching for a chili seasoning I could create myself.  Chili powder, garlic powder, onion powder, cumin, salt, and pepper.  As I ate the first bites, I was so delighted to find that mixing the seasonings myself gave the chili new life for me.  It tasted so much better without the premixed, prepackaged seasonings.  

via deboles.com

The next week, I went in search of pasta.  What is it about the idea that you aren't going to ever eat something again that makes you crave it?  It's obviously a psychological response that I could pay someone to dissect for me, but eh, why not go with it?

So, De Boles was the first I tried.  Made with a mix of multiple grains, I figured that this would be a great starting place.  Yeah, not so much. I followed the cooking instructions to the letter.  What happened was not so yummy.  The penne broke apart after only a couple of minutes cooking, and the texture was beyond me.

via tinkyada.com

Not to be deterred, I went in search of another brand.  It was then that I discovered Tinkyada.  It's primary base is brown rice flour.  Gluten free and only containing one type of grain, I figured this might work better.  The package touts the ability to NOT overcook it.  Their recommended way of cooking (energy efficient as well) is to boil for two minutes and then let the pasta sit in a covered pot for another 20 minutes.  The result?  Perfect al dente spiral noodles...and a fix for my pasta craving.

via bobsredmill.com

Since I'm not a short order cook, and  I try not to have to cook several different meals for everyone, I thought I'd test out a GF pizza crust on my five year old. A GF eating coworker of mine mentioned Bob's Red Mill GF products, specifically their pizza crust.  It takes some time to prepare, as it contains yeast that has to sit for a couple of minutes and then, once the dough is mixed, it must be left to rise.  My only complaint is the lack of instruction.  The package literally states "a few minutes" when timing the yeast.  Since I am not a gourmet, a little more instruction would be nice.   In any event, the resulting crust is thin and chewy, which I love.  It was very, very good.  The five year old didn't care for the texture.  You win some...

Food is still a work in progress.  At the moment, I have been substituting GF items for some of my previously non-GF ones.  I know there is SO much more that could be uncovered.  I do have to start slow on the changes, as I want them to stick.

Even when I wasn't suffering from cluster migraines, I did still have a nagging pain at the back of my head. This pain has lasted for months, even after daily maintenance medication.   After less than a week, that pain was gone.  That would have been enough to make me never go back.  But, there was more:  two weeks into GF eating, my PCOS meds had stopped making me sick to my stomach, and I was waking up feeling more rested than ever (and requiring less sleep).

I can only imagine that other new GF eaters fall into the same trap I did about a week into it: failure to read the labels.  One fateful morning, another coworker mentioned beef jerky:  hello craving.  So, I ate some.  Within 20 minutes of eating it, the pain in my head was back.  At that point, I flipped the package over.  I know it could have been the preservatives, but there it was:  Product Contains Wheat.  Wheat?  In beef jerky?  Really?  And then I remembered:  seasonings = binding agent.  Well crap.

My other challenge has been eating out.  I don't know what has been used to cook the items I eat, so it has been a tough adjustment there.  I obviously avoid any bread items.   Sometimes, it comes by trial and error.  I don't know until I eat it, because ingredient information isn't always readily available.  

On the up side, this has led to a lot more at home eating.   At home eating means less money spent.  

Coming up:  more good eats...and more results.