Eating in the raw and other diet fiascos

Someone recently gave me the book Wheat Belly. The book says that wheat is a malicious food and is behind America becoming obese. Lose the wheat, the front cover claims, and you'll lose the weight.

Wheat Belly may have a grain of truth (pun purely intended). If you cut wheat from your diet you'll be cutting out most processed foods and you'll probably lose weight. Great. But I don't think it's a sustainable diet. Eventually a birthday cake is placed in front of you, and you take a bite. And, another and another. The problem is still there.

The author of Wheat Belly gives these soothing words, "It's not your fault." That's what we all want to hear. Sorry, I'm not buying it. I've been down this road before.

Beach babe in heels


http://ankleadventure.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html

I tried my first diet when I was 11.  I discovered my mom's pocket calorie counter. On the back of the booklet was a picture of this very tan, very thin woman walking away from the camera. She was wearing a black cut-out swimsuit, a floppy hat, and three-inch heels.  Kind of funny she was wearing heels on the beach, but the image left an impression. She looked so cool with her long, thin Coppertone legs.  I wanted to be that woman, sashaying along the boardwalk.

I made an attempt to follow the book's seven-day menu plan. A sample breakfast was a boiled egg, dry toast, and black coffee or tea. Lunch was one apple, 1/2 cup tuna, and carrot sticks. I tried the diet several times that summer, but I never lasted past day two and never lost any weight.  But I did learn how to count calories. I can still tell you how many are in a medium-size orange (80), a hot dog bun (110), or a fist-size broiled 90-percent lean hamburger (230).

Weighing and measuring

So, set the course for future diets. My friend, Joy, and I signed up at a diet clinic after we gained the freshman fifteen in college. We weighed all of our food and ate Melba toast. By living on approximately 800 calories a day, I lost the fifteen pounds and some of my hair as well. Of course, I gained the pounds back quickly when I returned to school that fall. But I kept the little food and weight diary that my $230 sign-up fee bought me and would refer to it every time I tried to lose weight.

Counting points

I discovered Weight Watchers when I gained happy pounds after Dave and I got married. Instead of calories, Weight Watchers had you count points. This made it so simple. Except I'd use up all my points by lunch time. And was left with eating vegetables and drinking diet sodas for the rest of the day, both which were point free.

Counting and planning for every bite you put in your mouth makes you think about food every single minute of the day. And when you quit "working the program," as Weight Watchers calls it, you gain the weight back because you've become so focused on your next two-hour feeding.

Nursing it

With my third pregnancy, I failed the seven-month glucose test, more than likely because of the Christmas fudge I had just eaten. I was sent to a nutritionist and put on a diabetic diet. I didn't gain a single pound for the rest of the pregnancy. But I was craving--no, lusting--for coconut cream pie the entire time.

When Paige--all perfect nine pounds, five ounces of her--came into the world, I cradled her briefly in my arms, then handed her to Dave and asked, "When's lunch?" Lo and behold the hospital's dining menu offered coconut cream pie. I ordered a piece and one of everything else on the menu.  When Dietary came to the door, I heard her say to the nurse, "This one's going to need two trays."

Someone had told me you can eat anything you want when you're nursing and still lose weight. Great! Paige was a voracious eater. So was I. I heeded the advice and stayed the same weight that I was when I was nine months pregnant.

Stop the Insanity! Fat's to blame!

I thought I found the solution to losing weight while still feeding my hunger when I heard about the new book Stop the Insanity. On her infomercial, the author (the bald and somewhat scary Susan Powter) screamed at the top of her lungs, "STOP THE INSANITY!! IT'S FAT THAT MAKES YOU FAT!"  She claimed you can eat as much as you want as long as it wasn't fat.

Oh, boy. This totally appealed to me. I never lost the baby weight, but I learned to scarf down whole loaves of bread without butter and entire pizzas without cheese.

No, it's carbs, you dummy

I really don't know what happened to Susan Powter after Atkins came out. You never heard of her again. Atkins claimed just the opposite. Carbs are the culprit.

This diet didn't even make sense to me, but of course I had to try it. After eating nothing but fried eggs, bacon, and pork rinds for three days, my mouth felt like it was coated with butter and I could have slapped someone silly for an apple.
 
South Beach was another low carb diet that I tried. Similar to Atkins, it was a bit more relaxed with the amount of carbs allowed. It was impressive that after two weeks of following the plan I had lost 10 pounds. It was even more more impressive that in two days I had gained it all back after someone left a pan of bars at our house.


http://www.hotforwords.com/wp-content/uploads/avocado.jpg

Eating in the raw--an avocado saved my life
 
The raw cleanse was quite possibly the stupidest diet I ever tried. A friend who was losing on the cleanse convinced me to do it. The idea was to cleanse your body of all toxins by eating only raw organic vegetables for a week. I was skeptical but desperate.

Day one of the cleanse wasn't too bad. I felt a little jumpy and had the start of a headache, but these were symptoms to be expected as the toxins left my body. I started to get irritable on day two. By day three I was lightheaded, had a hollowed out feeling, and my hands were shaking. By day four, I was weak and seeing little pricks of light. To get through the day at work, I got a Naked Juice at Starbucks. And then went home and cheated by eating an avacado, which I'm pretty sure saved my life. That night I figured I had been cleansed enough and wolfed down three bowls of cereal for dinner.

No end to hunger

I joined a woman's group at church that was following the Weigh Down Diet written by Gwen Shamblin. Gwen came at the weight problem as a spiritual problem. We are trying to use food to fill a void that only God can fill.  I never lost weight by reading her book, but something she said stayed with me: diets are an effort to make food behave instead of making ourselves behave.

Calling it quits

My problem was I ate too much. I knew it. We all know it. But we try to circumvent that fact by controlling the food instead of getting a grip on our appetites.

So, I tried to think of a way I could eat for the rest of my life, without having to count calories and points or computing the total amount of carbs, protein or fat I consumed daily.

It took awhile and it wasn't easy at first, but I finally learned to eat like a normal person who has never had a weight problem (i.e., not like a seasoned dieter). I eat real food, just a lot less of it. I stay away from most processed foods, especially ones with a long list of ingredients you can't pronounce. Even though I eat healthy, I'm not rigid about it. I still eat dessert, just not the whole pan. And, I'll never give up Ripple Potato Chips. I eat a handful of them every single day. I also try to break a sweat at least three days of the week.

I'm done with the dieting thing.

He ain't heavy, he's my brother

Had a little more hair in the 70s

Pushing my luck with the free 30-minute parking, I stayed an hour visiting with Lars at the hospital today. Tomorrow he is going home.

We talked about his journey, shedding some tears--the norm now with every visit. Lars said he's bawled more in the hospital these last months than he has in his entire life. I guess that's what happens when you know your life has been spared.

I asked Lars if he remembered that night in the ICU when his condition was so critical. He did. He remembers all of our faces by his bedside. And he remembers envisioning himself hanging onto the outside of an aircraft, struggling not to fall, praying "Lord, I just can't hold on anymore."  Lars feels it was people praying that kept him alive that night.

The road to complete recovery is going to take time, but it's amazing that he's here and getting better.

There's been and will continue to be much celebrating. But I imagine there are also going to be some hard days ahead at home. That seems to be the case when the worst of a crisis is over. The reality of returning to life hits. But I know God is going to continue to work in and through Lars. So many people have already been touched by his story.

We have been telling Lars how everyone speaks so highly of him. We've all kind of put him on a pedestal. That is not what he wants. So I told him I could write a post about him not being perfect. He said to please do that.

I can do this. I'm his younger sister, and I got the dirt. He terrorized me growing up--like only a brother can. Won't go into details here, but let's just say there are reasons I'm so claustrophobic.

But here's the thing. Lars is just an ordinary guy. Likeable, yeah. But flawed, just like the rest of us. In other words, a sinner. But a sinner saved by grace.

Ephesians 2:8-10 says: God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.

1 Corinthians says: "Anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!" 

Lars is a testimony of  a life made new in Christ. All credit and praise go to the God Lars loves and serves.

Bikini summer and the last hurrah

My last posts have been of a more serious nature. I think it's time for a little levity and comic relief. Pulled from my Losing It blog, this was written two years ago.  Before I was wearing comfortable shoes and plucking chin hairs. Enjoy...

There's an expiration date on a woman's age for wearing a bikini. I was certain I was near it or had surpassed it. I didn't set out to wear a bikini. Hardly. I was just hoping to drop a size so I could retire the jeans with the blown-out knee (see post, Diving for Pie).

I was now down 40 pounds and had gotten rid of those jeans and everything else in my closet. But I had kept the swimsuit. Like all women I know, I hated swimsuit shopping. That's probably why my swimsuit had the same number of years on it as my last teen-aged child. It was the tent variety--the kind that has a generous amount of material with steel-case under-wire support and a skirt down to just above the knees.

But our family was going to California in July, and I could no longer avoid buying a suit. I took my daughter along to give honest critique. I was going for a smaller tent, but Amber said I should at least try a tankini. I put one on. Surprisingly, it didn't look too bad.

Amber said I looked great and could even upgrade to a bikini. What? No. Did she know what a gray-haired middle-aged mom looked like in a bikini? It was wrong, unnatural even. But Amber said that it would give me something to work towards. I just needed to work on my abs.

I wouldn't have done it except a friend challenged me that summer to wearing one. She'd do it too. The challenge was to post bikini pictures of ourselves on Facebook by summer's end. I know, it sounds immature, let alone immodest. But I had a lapse of judgment. I was in midlife crisis mode. This would be the last hurrah before I entered old age, wearing sensible shoes and trimming hairs off my chin.

I was coming to the game late in life, but if I was ever going to do a bikini it had to be now or never.

Yeesh. My hands began to sweat just thinking about posting a picture for all the world to see. I envisioned being at the grocery check-out line and seeing a tabloid picture of a woman's thighs circled, the title reading: "Can you guess whose cellulite this is?"

I'd only wear the suit at Huntington Beach where no one would know me. I hoped. It would be a one-time event.

I bought a purple one. I practiced posing in front of the mirror. Unfortunately, bikinis don't come with under-wire support. But if I tied the straps really tight and put my hands on each side of my waist and pulled back, I could make it work. I briefly thought about using duct tape.

I started to work out hard core. I did strength training, upping the abs. On days I didn't work out, I ran or rode my granny bike. I did push-ups and sit-ups before bed. I was getting extreme and annoying my family. I wasn't the mom they knew, the one who had always said it was never too late for dessert.



Paige imitating the Mom Pose

I wore the bikini the first day at the beach. I was careful not to make any sudden movements. I got rope burn around my neck from the straps being pulled so tight.

The picture was taken with me standing between each of my daughters. They each put a hand at my waist and gently pulled.  I posted the picture when I got home. It wasn't bad for a gray-haired mom pushing 50.

Sorry you don't get to see the full picture. Like I said, it was a one-time event.

P.S. My friend never did post a picture, instead commented "gottcha" on my Facebook wall.

A time to dance

www.wmbartlettphoto.com/

Our daughter, Paige, got married last weekend to her best friend. During Matt and Paige's engagement, Dave had brain surgery and had just finished radiation. We were ready for a happy event.

I took two weeks off for the wedding. The first to get ready. And, the second to recover and spend some down time with my friend, LaDonna, who had come from Washington to help with the wedding.

The weeks weren't at all what I had expected. There was the typical frenzy in finalizing details for the wedding. But the days were layered with grief and crisis. The week before the wedding our daughter and son-in-law, Amber and Paul, lost their friend, Brian, in a car accident. Brian was Paul's best friend and best man in their wedding. Amber and Paul flew home early. Paul was pall bearer at the funeral.

My brother, Lars, was critically ill in the hospital. His condition worsened when he moved to the ICU. At several points we didn't think he'd make it and took turns saying our goodbyes.

I was so tremendously thankful that LaDonna was here. She held me together during intermittent meltdowns. She cooked, made cupcakes, ran errands, scanned pictures for the PowerPoint, and decorated at the reception.

The entire extended family resolved that the events leading up to the wedding would not diminish Matt and Paige's day. Their day came, and it was beautiful from beginning to end. And, contrary to our wedding nightmares, it went off without a hitch. The few things that went wrong were so minuscule they are hardly worth mentioning. (Wedding tip: if you're planning on using tea lights, don't buy the cheap ones from Walmart.)

By today's standards, Paige, at 20, is young to be married. Several people told Matt and Paige they should wait to get married until they were through college and established. At first, we thought that would be wise too, but then it was apparent they were more than ready.

Matt and Paige have survived losses in their lives that most people twice their age haven't experienced. In the last few years, Matt has lost two brothers and one of his closest friends. Paige has helped him through the grief as well as that of close friends who have lost a parent or a sibling.

Matt and Paige have learned to trust God in all circumstances. They have an eternal perspective.

I sat for a moment with Paige during the Friday night rehearsal. I told her I was happy and proud that she and Matt hadn't lived together and were getting married. Paige said, "Mom, none of us knows how long we're going to live. Why wait and lose the chance to marry the person you love?"

The next day, Lars' family came to the hospital dressed for the wedding before heading to the church. Lars said to let the good times roll. He'd be dancing at the wedding in his head.

As Paige came down the aisle on her father's arm, it felt triumphant. All the things that had transpired in the weeks and year before made the celebration all the more meaningful. It was time to celebrate God's goodness and grace. It was a time to laugh and a time to dance.

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance.

Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

Fairly 50

It's almost 11 o'clock. I am an hour away from turning 50.

I say it out loud. Fifty. I've been around for as long as I can remember. Yeesh, that's a long time.
 
My turning fifty marks the end of probably one of the most well-chronicled cases of midlife crisis there ever was. I've written this blog for the last two years. I've been embarrassingly self-focused and narcissistic as I've struggled to grow up in middle age.

I've joked about all the foibles of growing old in mind and body. But beneath all the humor, I've done a lot of searching too.

My journey through midlife has had all the five stages of grief, but not necessarily in this order: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. 

I'm to the last stage of acceptance. I know people say, "You're only as old as you feel." "Age is just a number." "You're only 50; that's not old." Yada, yada, yada. 

But truth is, I am getting old. So are you. No one's getting out of this alive. We're getting closer to eternity every day. It's foolish not to consider what comes after this life.


Lars, my big bear of a brother

As many of you know, my brother, Lars, was critically ill last week. He was within a few hours of dying. An emergency surgery saved his life.

I was alone with him just before he was taken to surgery. It was surreal. The doctor said there was a high rate of mortality for him. In plain words, he was saying, "You could die."

It was unthinkable of life without Lars. We all depend on him so much. He is one of the greatest men I know. He is a humble man of integrity, having a heart for the Lord and for people. His life exudes the character of Christ.

As they wheeled Lars out of the room, I told him that I loved him and that he had nothing to lose. He gave a little wave and said, "Well, see you here, there, or in the air."

God spared him. But, really, God spared us from the grief of losing him. Lars' faith has been in Jesus Christ. He has the assurance of knowing where he's going after he dies. He has lived his life in light of eternity. He truly has nothing to lose.

Walk on By

Dionne Warwick's Walk on By has been playing over and over in my head all day.

I sang it when I thought about getting a Twix Bar from the vending machine and when I was tempted to pilfer a Panera Bread cookie from the Blood Bank.  I told myself just walk on by tonight when I saw that I had all the ingredients to make a lemonade pie.  (If you haven't had lemonade pie, best not ask for the recipe. If you're anything like me, you'll whip it up in five minutes and be burying your face in it ten minutes later.)

Time to quit fooling around. Four and a half weeks before the wedding, and I don't have a dress. Well, I did have one. I bought it a few months ago at Macy's. First dress that I liked and which fit, even though it was a wee snug on top. I figured it would be just fine if I bought the right undergarment.

Yesterday I took the dress into Soma Intimates to find something that would work its magic. I squirmed into the dress, and with considerable huffing and circling around backwards in the dressing room, I got it zipped.  I took a look in the mirror. Oh my. Not the look I was going for. Everything squished up the back of the dress into my shoulder blades, while my front side was smashed flat like I had taken to binding my chest.

I now have three options. One, get the dress altered, which will probably cost me more than what I paid for it. Two, hit the mall in search of another one, the idea of which makes me want to curl up in a ball, sucking my thumb. Or, three, keep singing Walk on By and hope the dress fits by November 3rd.

Mama Big Hoof



I went to the foot doctor yesterday. I had a painful protrusion on the right side of my foot. I quit running because of it and had promptly gained ten pounds.  After thoroughly giving me a foot exam, the foot doc said that I was most likely wearing too small of shoes.

There are some nasty little secrets about getting old that no one tells you until you're already there. Like that as you get shorter, your appendages get longer.

When I was in college, my shoes were a size eight. Can't say my feet were small, but they did match my body size. I'm on the tallish side, so eights weren't unreasonable.

But then I started having kids. I thought that with the first pregnancy it was the extra fluid that was causing my shoes to be tight. But after I gave birth and eventually lost the baby weight, I had to go out and buy all new shoes.

After each subsequent pregnancy, I continued to go up half a size. Finally I topped out at nine and a half. I wasn't happy. But since I was done having babies, my feet were done growing. Or so I thought.

A couple years ago I had a really bad case of plantar fasciitis. If you've never experienced this fun little malady, it's when the ligaments in your arches are inflamed and tear. It feels like you're walking around on bloody stumps.

I went to Lair's to get custom-made orthotics.  The shoe guy who was doing the casts of my feet asked me what size I wore. I told him a nine. Sometimes a nine and a half.

"You know, wearing too tight of shoes can bring on plantar fasciitis. I think you're at least a size 10."  He had to be mistaken.

He made the supports and put them in a pair of New Balances. I tried them on. They fit. I looked at the tag. Size 10-1/2. Aww, come on. Are you kidding me?

He tried to make me feel better by telling me that New Balances tend to run small and the supports took up extra room. But still. How could my feet have grown two and a half sizes, for crying out loud? I could understand feet getting wider. But longer?  Yep, they can. Everything spreads and lengthens as we age. Noses. Ears. Even feet.

I was seriously depressed.  If my feet kept growing at this rate, I'd be wearing a size 15 by the time I was 70.

I guess things could be worse. My nose is still the same size, unless I'm in denial about that too.

I'm now looking for something to fit my big hoofs for the wedding. On principle, I've decided I'm not buying anything bigger than a nine and a half. I'm sure I'll be in pain, but I figure I can go barefoot at the reception.

Picture of feet: http://feet.thefuntimesguide.com/2009/06/big_feet_shoes.php

Too tight shoes; http://www.diabeteshealth.com/read/2008/01/01/5592/like-cinderellas-sisters-many-people-with-diabetes-squeeze-big-feet-into-small-shoes/

What's going on with Dave

Dave's been quiet the last few days. He won't say, but I know he's nervous.

Radiation starts tomorrow on the two small tumors that are located near the brain stem and nerve which controls hearing.  The radiologist will be treating the tumors aggressively every day, Monday through Friday, for six weeks. There are risks, some unpleasant to catastrophic. Which we don't like thinking or talking about. The catastrophic risks are low. But he is likely to have hearing loss in his (unfortunately) good ear.

But we forge on. What can you do?

There are a lot of positives, not the least of which is being at Mayo Clinic. I counted up a total of eleven separate areas that have seen him: Neurology; Neurosurgery; Neuropsychology; Radiology; the Brain Clinic; the Rehabilitation Clinic; Employee Health and therapy with Occupational, Physical, Recreational, Vocational, and Speech. And in the way that sets Mayo apart, all the areas have collaborated together to give seamless care as one team.

Maybe it sounds like I'm sucking up to my employer, but I am honored to work at Mayo.

Our hope and prayer is that Dave sails through radiation as he did with surgery. That's what we're planning on. If Dave is tolerating radiation well, he'll be going back to work in a few weeks, starting part-time. His manager and co-workers have been incredibly supportive. We are grateful to them as well.

Paige and Matt's wedding is right around the corner. We have a lot to do yet, but the process is fun and we're excited for the big day to come. And, Dave's looking forward to walking his little girl down the aisle.

Cry baby

I'm not a cry baby all the time. Just the times I don't want to be. It's the one thing I don't like about being female.

People say crying is cathartic. Maybe. But I think it's more exhausting than anything. If I tear up for just five minutes, I'm drained and pretty much useless for the rest of the day.

Why couldn't I save up my crying for right before bed? Stuff a pillow over my face and let it go. But, no.

I have yet to make it through one of Dave's appointments without losing it. I start getting this little niggle, an ache, in the back of my throat.

And then my eyes well up. I try to keep it at bay. I look away, inconspicuously wiping at the corner of my eye. But inevitably I start leaking. The doctor or therapist or nurse leans over and hands me a tissue. And, then it's over. I take the whole box, using up tissue after tissue, stuffing the used, soggy ones into my purse for later.

Dave doesn't cry. Hasn't cried, moaned, groaned, complained once since his brain surgery. He's a rock. Not that he isn't struggling on the inside. He has to be. But for guys, hurt comes out in different ways.

I've heard that guys don't cry because society has told them not to. I don't think that's it. I think it's just that they're wired differently. Thank God. If He made us all girls, it would get way too mushy.

Thank you all for your encouragement and prayers during Dave's surgery and recovery. It means more than you can know.

The next step will be six weeks of radiation treatments on tumor tissue that wasn't able to be removed during surgery. It's tricky. The tumors are close to the brain stem and the nerve that controls hearing. There is risk, but Dave is getting the best care in the world by the radiologist specializing in treating these types of brain tumors.

We are unspeakably grateful to be at Mayo--both as employees and on the receiving end of patient care. We wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

None of this easy. In fact, you can get scared spitless dwelling on the what if's. You have to shelf the fear. But sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between having peace or being in denial.

Scripture helps. It comes to me in the middle of the night. I hold onto that. And roll over and give Dave a hug. Because I can.

Helmet head

I bought my first bike helmet last weekend. I've never worn one.

Thing is, there weren't bike helmets when we were kids doing wheelies and riding around without holding onto the handle bars. We wiped out, sure. Got scraped up, bled a little, maybe even broke an arm. But I guess we were lucky; no one I knew sustained a head injury.

But I knew I probably should wear one. I had been pushing the envelope whizzing down the area bluffs on my granny bike. I don't know if a bike helmet is really going to help much if I catapult over a guard rail and slide down an embankment, but at least my head might not crack open. That is, if I have the helmet on right. Which I found out isn't all that easy.

So last weekend I went to Walmart to buy a helmet. I picked out the cheapest one I could find in my favorite color, periwinkle. As soon as I got home, I decided I'd test it out and go for a spin on granny bike. I cut the tags off and looked at the directions.

The first line read: PROPER FIT IS CRITICAL TO HELMET PERFORMANCE. Boy, I better do this right. I read on.

1. Put the helmet on. I got that part.

2. Adjust the side straps.  The directions said you could adjust each strap in front and behind the ear for a more custom fit. This stumped me. The front strap pulled my eyebrows to the side so that I looked like I had a bad face lift.  And the back straps were so loose they'd flap in the wind. I fiddled with the straps until I was ready to throw the helmet across the room. Finally, I enlisted Dave's help. He easily moved the straps into the right position. I moved on to the next step.

3. Adjust the chin strap. I was to make sure the strap fit snugly against the throat. Make sure the buckle is flush against the skin under the chin and that when you open your mouth, it is snug on the chin and hugging your head. Okay, this really presents a problem to those of us who are older and have loosey goosey skin under the chin.

I was afraid I was going to get the stretchy neck skin pinched in the buckle. I looked in the mirror. I tried to pull the skin back with one hand while I fastened the lock in place with the other hand. Problem here too. I couldn't see and had to get my cheaters.  I was starting to get a really bad headache.

Finally, I got the helmet fastened. The helmet was loose. It easily moved back and forth when I turned my head. I had a vision of myself taking a spill down the Norwegian Hill, the helmet jerking my head back, and me being strangled in the straps.

I started over with step 1.

After 45 minutes, bad words, and a full-blown headache, I had the thing in place. I think I had the PROPER FIT.

I sighed, took the helmet off, and went to taste test wedding cakes in the kitchen with Matt and Paige. I really didn't want to go for a bike ride anyway.

P.S. Maybe I should go for this kind of helmet. No kidding. It's for real. Inflates on impact. Might be the solution, if I can figure out how to put it on.

Read more: http://thegloss.com/fashion/helmet-scarf-could-save-life-221/#ixzz22uiahln7