WEIGHT LOSS MIRACLE!!! LOSE WEIGHT LIKE MAGIC!!!

So I came across a post on Facebook today, and I just couldn’t help myself. The post read, “I lost 2 pounds in three days using HCG! It really works!” My response?

“I’ve lost over 150 pounds in 12 months, and I didn’t have to shell out for pills, go under the knife, break the bank on prepackaged meals or liquid diets, starvation plans, or any urine from any sort of pregnant creature. In fact, I didn’t have to buy anything at all. It’s called ‘diet and exercise,’ and it really works!”

No, I’m not a bitch. What I am is someone who is sick to death of having people approach me with, “What are you using? How are you doing that?” only to walk away shaking their heads in dejection when I tell them the truth. I am sick of hearing, “Oh, you’re just stronger than I am” or “I could never do that.” There IS NO MAGIC PILL, KIDDIES. There is no wand to be waved, no surgery to do it for you. There is work.

Now, it would be a lie if I said I had no “miracle” to aid me. I do. It’s called “keeping track of everything.” I use a free website called “My Fitness Pal.” There are others. The site also has an android and an Apple app, so I also run it on my phone, my iPad, and my Galaxy Tab. With this program, I keep track of every scrap of food that passes my lips and every bit of exercise I do. I plan out my meals, usually a day or so in advance. It’s a numbers game, and sometimes I don’t get to have that freshly grated parmesan and asiago with my pasta because I just don’t have the calories for it. Sometimes I decide to pop on the exercise bike or go walking in order to earn those calories. Sometimes I trade off and decide that I’ll skip the smoothie for dessert so I can have the sausage with dinner. It works, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out how to maximize those calories.

Maximize them? You bet—instead of a heaping pile of 2-3 servings of spaghetti, I have ONE two ounce serving plus julienned carrots and squash. Bulks up the serving size, gives me a nice serving of veggies, and makes that meal filling without being gluttonous. I used to have two pieces of butter and garlic-slathered bread with pasta. Now? I have a salad with spring mix, dark green leafies, zesty sprouts, tomatoes, cucumbers, and black olives, topped with a serving (carefully measured) of light dressing. If I want chicken strips, my husband breads the boneless, skinless breast strips with homemade breading and we bake them rather than fry. Same with fish. Cuts the calories in LESS than half, nukes the fat, and our son calls them “Epic.” Not bad for “health food.” Other favorites? Toasted ham and gruyere, toasted roast beef and fontina, rotisserie chicken with veggies, homemade 3 bean chili, grilled steaks with onions, mushrooms, and cheese, tuna roll-ups in lavash bread, homemade tyropita and sambusa, and good, old-fashioned hot dogs. And hot chocolate with melted peppermint and dark chocolate. Yummmmmy.

Now, I do have another inspiration, something that helps keep me in line. My diabetes. See, I ate myself into Type 2 diabetes. Yes, there’s a hell of a family history (mom, grandpa, uncle, sister, etc.), but fact is, it likely never would have appeared in me, had I not been morbidly obese. But watching that blood sugar and those carbs has made all the difference. I’m unmedicated, and in just a few months managed to pull my A1c down into normal range. Hey, I’m still heavy—I could lose another 75 pounds and still be called “fat.” Another hundred, and folks might refer to me as “the chubby one.” But that’s not my goal anymore—this isn’t about fitting into “skinny” jeans or hitting a particular size. No, this is about not ever needing to be on insulin. It’s about no taking medication for blood pressure. It’s about living to see as much of my son’s life as I possibly can. My “pretty” days are long over, and that’s fine—when did our society forget that people get old, and that old has a place, too? Who wants a silicone grandma with rock hard abs and plunging necklines?

Not me.

Am I “not diabetic” now? Of course not—if I eat a half a loaf of bread (or forget and pair stuffed clam shells with potatoes), my blood sugar shoots up into the 180s and 190s. That’s not cured. But it’s controlled. And before you think, “Oh, God, she never gets to have anything goooooood,” hush. Yes I do. Tonight, I’m having a cheeseburger (5 ounces of beef) on toasted oat bread (it’s not dry, it’s moist) with two slices of 2% cheese, ketchup, mustard, and dill chips, with a salad (see above), spinach, and slow-braised carrots with caramelized onions. Oh, and a strawberry-banana smoothie for after. My blood sugar will come in around 120, and all will be well with the world.

Don’t fall for the fads. Don’t buy into the gimmicks. And do NOT tell yourself that, short of a miracle, it’s “too late” for you to lose weight, that you’re “too fat” to get healthier. It’s not true—I could barely walk from car to apartment door, I could only do museums in wheelchairs and shopping in electric carts, and now I’m walking miles and spending hours on my feet. In just a year. So don’t—don’t look back a year from now and wonder sadly what you might have done. Do what I did—just DO it, then look back a year into it and say, “Wow, look what I did!” You can, you know. Promise.

Doctors, redux

So I had my appointment up in Rockville, Maryland. We weren't sure how long the drive would take, so we left early. TOO early. Wound up arriving an hour before my appointment. The Doctor? Agreed to see me an hour early. Boy, that's one way to score points with me. I like her--she's very personable, chatty, calm, and very, very liberal, politically-speaking. She did a great job of putting me at ease. My blood pressure was shockingly normal for a doctor's office visit--I usually "white coat" pretty severely. Maybe I'm just happier here, huh?

The only problem with my new doctor? She says she cannot feel the bump in question. She insists it's not there, it must have been a cyst that drained. Except that's not the case, because it is still there--the moment we got home, I had Tommy check. It's still there, same size, same spot. I have a follow-up appointment end of this month for a cystoscopy, and I'll ask her again then.

This means one of two things--either the thing that Tommy's feeling is supposed to be there and isn't the thing my old doc's office found OR my new doc is a dipshit. Obviously, I'm hoping for the former.

So I'm not sure what to feel here. Relief? Deeper concern because I didn't really get an answer and time is ticking on by?

Blah.

I'm still losing weight, though the pace has slowed. I ONLY weigh 60 lbs more than my husband. I know, most women would be horrified, but not me--see, I've ALWAYS weighed more than my husband, even when we first met and I was in size 7 jeans. But I used to weigh a good 200+ lbs more, so only 60? That's positively slim!

We walked the Occoquan Bay Wildlife Refuge on New Year's day--it's so amazing, being able to put in 4 miles or so without feeling like I'm dying. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Last year this time, walking to the CAR from the APARTMENT left me winded and in agony. Like I keep saying, I'm not going to ever do that looking back over a year and wondering where I might have been, had I only started a year ago. This time, I'm going to look back and see 180 lbs GONE. I'm going to KNOW what I could have done because, gawdammit, I DID it.

You can, too. Get on it.

A Buffalo Springfield Kind of Day, For What it's Worth . . .

Tommy and I were talking the other day, and he mentioned a meeting where his then-boss said something about positions opening in D.C., and how he remembered thinking, “This is important. This is where it starts.” I knew exactly what he meant because, back on August 28th of 2011, I experienced the very same sensation. But not in a good way.

You see, I was flat on my back on an examining table, legs up in the stirrups, with someone’s hand inside me when it happened. It went from a happy “let’s get all these routine exams out of the way so we’re going into our insurance-less stretch with a clean bill of health” to “oh, shit, I’m in trouble and I won’t have insurance!” That quick—from all-clear to formerly-comforting voice saying “Hello—hang on. What’s this? Has this always been here?”

“This” is a 7 mm “mass” in the anterior vaginal wall. 7 mm. The size of a pencil eraser, give or take. But that was four months ago, almost to the day. Four months with no follow-up, no further care because we were caught in the limbo of “between insurance” and the new insurance, which took almost three months to kick in, only has one urogynecology office (the other plans had NONE), and that office couldn’t see me until tomorrow. Four months, and I can only hope that it’s still “only” a 7 mm lump. Yes, yes, I did try to see a run-of-the-mill gyno at the mid-way point. You saw how that turned out. Money talks. Broke gets shuffled out of the office sans care in a haze of shame and sadness.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm a step closer to finding out if this is a urethral diverticulum, cancer, or both. Yes, it can be both—a malignancy could be found within a diverticulum, it’s not uncommon. And up there, where the vaginal wall and the urethra are in such close quarters? Even a small cancer can be a disaster. A life-altering, piss-into-a-bag-for-whatever-time-you-have-left kind of disaster. Could it be something totally benign in the truest sense of the word? It could, but I have urinary symptoms. A feeling of pressure, a sensation of something impinging. And that, my friends, takes “oh, it’s nothing” right off the table. It’s absolutely something.

In addition to the terror of what they might find (and it is terror, no matter how cool I might play it), there’s the competing horror of what they’re going to do to me to find out what this is. This is going to be beyond humiliating. Devastating is a more accurate term.

And then there’s the money. Copays, deductibles, the mad scrambling, trying to figure out what labs are covered and what procedures require prior approval in order to protect us from a massive, "we won't cover that" hit from the insurance. Stuff I never had to worry about with the old insurance. And we are so broke, this is not what we need right now. We need for this to be nothing. As stupid as this sounds, I find myself wishing that my old doc’s office had missed this “mass.” Because then I would have written the symptoms off to a touch of cystitis. Then I wouldn’t be worried until my next exam, which wouldn’t have been until next fall. Next fall, when the money starts flowing a little easier and we can better afford for me to be a disaster.

I’m 46 years old. I’ve pretty much lost hope that some Secret Santa-type is going to drop ten grand on our heads and save us. Even the 500 dollar pet deposit isn’t happening, and that breaks my heart. I want Sean to have a puppy. And more, I want to see Sean with a puppy. And I am very afraid of what’s going on with me, afraid that maybe I’m not going to get to see that. I’m fat, diabetic, and on heart meds for an arrhythmia—the almost certain surgery I’m facing is a terrifying prospect with potential to go very wrong for me.

That sensation that something small actually signifies the beginning of something very big, that a certain moment will prove to be the start of something life-altering? Yeah, I know that sensation. Too well.

Doctors, Doctors Everywhere . . .

So the move to Virginia has been colored a bit by two things-the fact that we almost bankrupted ourselves to do it and the fact that I had a routine exam go south on me just days before we moved. The money thing, which is scary on so many fronts (including the "if this is cancer, will we have any money at all for any sort of copays or scripts?" angle) is proving difficult to solve because my desire for a year of frugality in order to bail us isn't going over well. It seems to me that, when you're only barely making the bills, it's time to live like you're as poor as you are until things are paid down rather than spend through the last dime, then hope nothing else goes wrong. Better short-term impulse control than long-term poverty.

And the medical thing?

Well, by the time I'll see a doc about it, 16 weeks will have passed since it was discovered. Four months. Have you heard the one about Steve Jobs lately? Decided to sit on his pancreatic cancer for 9 months, trying alternative therapies? Yeah. So I decided to take our fancy letter from the feds that states that, while we have no insurance cards, we are, in fact, insured, and visit a gynecological oncologist early, before my December appointment with the urogynocologist. So I shave my legs and arm pits, gird my trembling loins, and head into the office of a Dr. E. P., a local physician. First, of course, I speak with his billing department to ensure that my letter from FEHB is adequate. I was assured it was.

At the doctor's office? The front desk staff was ridiculing and ugly. You know, with the sidelong glances at each other and repeating back what you've said in sing-songy, disdainful voices. A lot of raised eyebrows and snickering. You know the types--they were the popular, gossipy-girls in high school and never moved beyond that. And then came the wait. An hour and a half, almost, I waited. And watched, as woman after woman limped gingerly through the waiting area and out the doors. Not good. When they called me back, the (much nicer) young lady asked if I needed to go to the bathroom. I said that I had actually intentionally made sure I did, just in case they needed a sample. She smiled, said they wouldn't need a sample from me today, and then led me to the bathroom. I should have known then we had a problem.

When I was led into the amazing Dr. P's office, he shook my hand, and then made a show of shuffling through my records. Then he said that they couldn't accept the FEHB letter and asked if I could fork over cash. Which, of course, would be refunded, should my insurance come through at a later date. I was mortified. Devastated. I asked how much cash. He said that his time was worth 300 dollars for an initial exam/consult. I goggled. He backpedaled and said that $150 was what insurance would usually pay, and he would accept that. He actually told me that, with the economy ruined by President Obama, things are "rough all over." I wonder, are things really as rough from behind the wheel of a brand new Mercedes as they are from a piece of junk, near-10 year old Sonata? As you've read the bit above about the money, you know we don't have $150. Viciously humiliated (and on the verge of tears), I told this doctor so. His response? Maybe I should ask my husband! Yeah, because I wouldn't know if we had the money, silly, scatterbrained female that I am. And hey, maybe hubby's holding out, right? I told him I was certain of our financial situation, but then asked to use his phone to call my husband.

He refused. He refused to let me use his phone. Like I'm some 12 year old in the principal's office or some boulevard rat at Village Inn. Bastard. As I stood to leave, he shuffled my file again and said he was very concerned about my heavy periods. I was taken aback, said, "My periods aren't even in the top ten of gynecological concerns I have right now--besides, they've lightened considerably since I began losing weight." He said, "That may be (?), but they're still a concern." I considered him for a moment, and then said, "Not of yours." He tried to hand me a business card so I could "come back with money or when my insurance problems were worked out." I looked at the card, looked at him, and said, "I won't be needing that."

Understand, I wasn't asking this man for charity. I wasn't asking him for payments. I was asking him to accept a letter from the federal government stating that I do, indeed, have medical benefits through my husband's employer, and that any treatment I receive will be paid for. How tough is that?

I didn't cry until I got to the car. Not so much because of humiliation (though I was humiliated). No, I cried because I am scared to death about this thing, and I had worked up the guts to walk into the office of someone who might well give me devastating news or propose a horrifying and potentially maiming or life-altering solution, and I was turned away. All that courage screwed up and nothing.

It's no surprise that I've got almost constant stomach pain now. Since that day, in fact. I am stressed beyond my ability to communicate it. I am so tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of worrying and considering the possibilities. I wish I could express my feelings fully, but I can't. But I am not unreasonable. I am not paranoid. I am not obsessing any more than any reasonable person in my position would be. Fact is, I get through most days without crying. I get through most days without freaking or lapsing into depressed states. I am sad, though. And I am scared. Think about it--two doctor's appointment co-pays and two more scripts and there goes our "disposable" income. For a month. If that possibility isn't something to fear, I don't know what is.

A small note--I found this asshat physician on Facebook. Turns out he's a deep-sea fishing, yacht loving TEA BAGGER. Suddenly it ALL makes sense.

Half Life

It's been a while since I've written, and things have changed.

Drastically.

The dream of escaping that dinky-assed dustbowl slum? Has come true in a big way. We left Utah on September 3rd, arriving in Prince William County, Virginia September 7th. Just in time for Tropical Storm Lee to kick the east coast's ass. I wish I could say without doubt that it wasn't my fault. But I can't--disaster seems to follow me, precede me, and otherwise all-around associate itself with me. Just a short time before we moved, I was talking to my Utah insurance agent about moving here. She said, "But you've got a hurricane coming!" I laughed and said, "Sure, we may have to dodge the occasional hurricane, but at least we won't have to worry about EARTHQUAKES anymore." Ten minutes later, a major quake hit Virginia.

Me and my big mouth.

So here we are, finally on the east coast. We have cardinals partaking of the feeders out back. We have a flowering dogwood, which I've wanted since I was a girl, right out our front door. It'll spend its fall blazing scarlet, its winter covered with bright berries, and its spring awash in riotous bloom. We have a brilliantly magenta fall-blooming Crepe Myrtle right outside the back gate. We have mourning doves, jays (REAL jays!), sparrows, finches, a squirrel or two, and a SKUNK!

I have a flower garden, already laden with mums and a profusion of tulip, daffodil, and alium bulbs (some a gift from the lovely lady next door).

It's amazing. Been here a month, and we've already taken Sean to the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space in Chantilly, the National Museum of the American Indian, the Air and Space Museum in DC, and to an airshow and the beach in Virginia Beach. What an amazing place, how much happier I am!

There are people I miss in Utah, but I don't long to be there with them. I long for them to be here. Because here?

It's better.

Cheech Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Back in the bad ol' days, before my name was ever on a lease or my feet had ever walked a college campus, I was a bit of a stoner. A wastrel, you could say. Not someone who indulged daily or who lazed about on a stained sofa, giggling stupidly at the TV screen while cramming munchies into my slacker mouth, but someone who was known to partake when the occasion arose.

Those days are so far gone. My stoner life ended 27 years ago, and, while it was certainly fun (or at least funny), I don't miss it a bit. Chemically-induced stupidity is only entertaining for a while before it either becomes second nature or lands your ass in jail. Neither of those were on my top ten list, you know?

So, imagine my surprise when, yesterday afternoon, I find an envelope tucked in my door. From our apartment complex property manager, no less. The letter enclosed came exactly one nut hair shy of openly accusing us of smoking pot in our apartment.

Us. Smoking pot. If you knew us, even a little, you'd know just how utterly ridiculous the idea is. Our faces positively ache with how clean our noses are, and not only do we not smoke weed, we don't hang out with people who smoke weed. The strongest substance in this house, since the Vicodin for my back poofed without a trace last month (and wasn't replaced--I haven't taken anything stronger than Advil for the back in a year) is--well, Advil. Oh, and Nyquil. That pretty much covers our cache of "hard-core drugs" in the place. I know, how boringly domestic of us.

Anyway, letter. I call the office, no one home. I leave a scathing message that I delete before "making permanent." Glad I did. Brushed my teeth, changed out of the super-baggy sweats, and headed to the office. No one there. Wound up waiting a half-hour for the manager to return. I was sure the report had come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us, but no. It turns out it was a general "I smelled pot smoke in my bathroom" complaint that, according to the manager, did not come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us. In fact, it turns out she handed out multiple copies of the letter--one to each unit that in any way shares a border/wall/floor with the bathroom in question. It was a friendly meeting, throughout which I stressed that we do not smoke pot, we do not entertain folks who smoke pot, and that our goal in apartment life is to be invisible. We want to be the folks known as "The nice, friendly, quiet folks in 101 who don't make trouble and always pay their rent on time."

While I can laugh now, I'd be lying if I said that the letter didn't initially knock the wind out of me. See, on the 3rd of July, those loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards had a heck of a party. One that became increasingly loud until, at quarter to midnight or so, it hit an unbearable pitch of angry shouting and wrenching sobs to accompany the blaring music. Understand, the town we live in has a 10 pm noise ordinance. Rather than call the landlord or call the police, I rapped on the wall. Not hard, not with plaster-cracking force, just a light rap. The noise stopped immediately. I hopped in the tub, and, about ten minutes later, was stunned when someone began banging and kicking on our front door. Know that this is a quiet complex, stuff like that doesn't happen. I crept to the bathroom door and opened it, and could hear the very same drunkards yelling and laughing ON MY DOORSTEP.

I was scared to death. But, being the peace-loving girl I am, I didn't call the cops. I thought, "Okay, fine, you got yours, we're even, now it stops." When the letter turned up, I felt certain it was the result of a "spite" tip. You know, your neighbors piss you off so you narc them out on a fabricated drug complaint? But the manager insists that's not the case.

I sure hope not. I don't need that kind of drama in my life. Somewhere along the line, I got old. I grew up and discovered that peace and quiet beats out drama any day.

If I die, blame the baggers

As the debt ceiling approaches and the idiot bagger Congress makes more and more "ride her over the cliff" noises, the more utterly and completely stressed I get. The more I fear what's to come for us. The more I fear that the mythic east coast job will never materialize because these assclowns are too busy with their political posturing and masturbatory self-satisfaction to do anything more than try to bring down the Presidency. Obama is holding "the elderly and soldiers hostage as human shields?" What do you bastards think you're doing with federal employees and the poor?

This isn't political for me--this is PERSONAL. If they decide to carry their agenda to its sickening climax, not only does the new job go away, but my husband also winds up working for free indefinitely in his current position. Oh, yeah, that's what that means--he still has to go to work every day (because he's non-bargaining), but he doesn't get paid until and unless these freaks get back on track. It would only take us five months to eat through every dime of savings and available credit, and that's if we lived beyond frugally.

Yeah, that's moving money.

I look back to the last days of President Clinton. Back to when Alan Greenspan was "concerned that the United States was paying its debt back too quickly." And I want to cry. Those hopeful, positive, constructive days of fiscal responsibility are gone. I remember when former President G.W. Bush offered "tax rebates." My husband and I goggled, said to each other, "Oh, NO--and people are going to fall for this, they're going to allow themselves to be bought for a measly 400 bucks!" Indeed. And he tanked our economy, gave us this spectacular debt we have, and, as predicted, most Americans have forgotten that, have magically transferred blame from President Bush to President Obama. Make no mistake--I'm far from happy with our current President. But let's be fair and realistic here--he inherited an economic and political cesspool from the clown who preceded him. I'm not sure what could have been done. While I supported the health care reform (and still do--"you're too poor to deserve treatment" sucks no matter where or who you are), perhaps addressing the economy first would have been a better approach. Or perhaps manning up, having some stones in the face of the baggers would have helped some.  Of course, a show of spine from the democratic majority in the early days might have been even more helpful.

And hey, teabaggers? Remember how it was all about "jobs, jobs, jobs?" Yeah, my husband has one of those jobs. Yes, he is actually an American and a human being, despite your sickeningly disingenuous attempts to paint federal employees as overpaid, corrupt thieves. Well, unless you count Congresspeople as federal employees. Then, I suppose, you might just have a point.