Posts Tagged accountability
Anyone who’s been in a long term- relationship can tell you that nothing’s perfect, and if they do admit that to you they are probably in a really good one. For some love is not enough to glue two people together for a lifetime. Then for others a lifetime would not be long enough. In spite of all the trials & tribulations that come with sticking to a commitment you once made when your heart was overflowing with love, and stars danced in your eyes. I like the quote that says a good marriage is just two people who have decided to love each other no matter what. I know that’s not exactly the wording, but you get the point.
Thirty-three years ago Mr G-uno, and I said I do in his grandmother’s little church in front of 200 guests. Only one family member was actually mine, but the truth is that to this very day all I remember is the way he looked at me as we said our I do’s. We were late getting to the church because we decided to wake up early, and go to the beach before the actual ceremony. We laughed, and played in the sand until we finally realized we only had an hour to get ready.
So with one quick shower together, no hair stylist, or makeup I marched down the aisle to begin a life I could never have anticipated. There have been moments when I could actually have floated above the ground with happiness. There have been moments when I could have gotten in my car, and drove away never looking back. It has never been perfection, unless you can appreciate the grandness of two people holding on to each other just to be able to wake up next to each other for one more morning. For me that is as close to perfection as a marriage can be.
Knowing that no matter how good, or how bad things may be you’ve built a life that would never mean as much to you if it had not been shared with the other. 😉
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly without complexities, or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”
There he stood on his tiny chair in the middle of his preschool cafeteria making his royal stance adamantly clear. My eyes surveyed the room. His poor teacher was completely unsure about what to do. The other children were entranced by his command of the room. “The Baby” otherwise know as “The King” was perched on his tiny little chair with his index finger pointing straight up in the air shouting at the top of his little lungs “Never I say, never!”
“The King” is not your average 4 year-old boy. He falls into several categories within the Autistic spectrum. Although his intellect borders on brilliant, his speech is severely delayed. The biggest problem with “The King” is that his mind is bursting with thoughts that his speech simply cannot relay. So he has learned to make his royal commands, and desires intensely clear in other ways. This king will be heard whether he is able to express his wishes with words or not.
He is intensely easy on the eyes. His large beautiful blue eyes draw you in then while you’re completely captivated he throws you a smile that lets you know you are probably going to give him whatever he wants. Adults, and children alike are often drawn into his kingdom with not so much as even a single word. He commands your attention while systematically getting you to relent to his every wish.
On the flip side of his charismatic charms there is a tyrant who loses his shit when his powers of persuasion are not being understood, or worse yet denied. Like all great rulers he knows that when his charms are not doing the trick you have to rule with an iron fist. He has a new teacher who is quite young, and clearly has not had the experience of dealing with a 2 -1/2 foot tall ruler. I have dealt with this mighty king since he was a year old. Over this period of time I’ve been extremely lucky to have found myself very much in “The King’s” favor.
I have the ability to understand him in a way that does not require so much energy output on his part, so he tolerates me much more easily than the rest of his subjects. I don’t deal with him in a verbal way because I know that when he realizes he is not able to converse back in the same way he becomes frustrated. I can see from the look on his face that he feels defeated by his inability to speak. Plus it’s good for him to see that I am as bilingual at getting what I want in the nonverbal sense as he is. He likes this about me. He knows I share the same admiration for him in this way.
However much to “The Kings” dismay I am equally as tenacious about fulfilling my job requirements as his personal assitant. So as he stood perched on his tiny chair I walked over to him, and looked down towards the ground signaling him that it was time to step down. He looks me straight in the eyes to let me know he is not ready to comply. So I look him back in the eye being ever so cautious not to be mesmerized by his charms, and I raise both of my eyebrows while smiling at him.
He is assured by my smile that I am not issuing a command so he climbs down off of the chair, and starts to walk away towards the door. I remain by the chair until he realizes I am not following him towards the door. He looks at me with slight disgust, then I smile again and stare down at the chair that has not been pushed back into the table, and the snack (of apples & raisins) that remained uncleared. He gives me a pronounced hesitation just to make sure I know he is making a choice, not following a command. Then he walks over pushes in his chair, and clears his uneaten snack from the table.
I smile at him again. He looks at me in a way that let’s me know he is only conceding to my wishes only because he wants to, but he knows that I will stand there like an immovable mountain until he relents. Then he looks at me again with his “Happy now look?,” and I beam back at him so he knows that I am. I hand him his royal nap blanket, his box of apple juice, and his bag of pretzels. As we walk down the hallway I look at him with my “What happened in there face?” He smiles at me then in four tiny words says ” I don’t like raisins.” 😉
I must admit to you all that with so much of my mind being preoccupied with thoughts of Sam the massacre in Orlando has taken a huge toll on me emotionally. I am dazed by the mass destruction one individual can cause in the lives of so many. I also have to believe that if one person is capable of so much change then if the rest of us band together we could be even more powerful, more impacting in a positive way. Acts of terror are designed to daze, and intimidate you. We are all being emotionally abused by those who have a clear understanding that fear is an effective way to try to control the masses.
The problem is that they think we are helpless, even worse that we are lazy. I love seeing the mass support for the law officers who risked their own lives for the sake of helping others. I love the massive show of love in the social medias for those who paid the ultimate price for simply being who they were. I know that those who choose to terrorize us use this outpouring of unity as a way of gaining publicity for their deplorable actions. I believe it is one of the most sinister acts of manipulation.
They believe that long after we have all moved on to the next crisis that they will have won because the horrific act will never be able to be erased from our history. They are counting on the fact that people will turn their heads because the people who share their bigotry against the gay community will mourn this atrocity, but then fade back to their lives where this may not affect them directly.
This is something that I have also been guilty of doing. I care deeply, but often feel powerless to make necessary changes. I think when we label abuses with the words that are adjectives describing the people who have been abused we unknowingly create a division amongst ourselves. Maybe it’s time to point out the biggest truth in this unforgivable act of terror. The truth is that innocent, tax paying, law abiding, loving, fellow AMERICANS were attacked in their own country.
I’m not sure what the solution is for this horrific loss, but I am sure that if one person can create such a negative impact then more than one person can make an even larger impact. We owe it to our fellow AMERICANS to carefully, and peacefully find a way to make sure their lives were not taken in vain. Monuments are beautiful expressions of honor, but we must go many steps farther. United we can make as much of a lasting impact in history as one person filled with misguided hatred did.
“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment
Before starting to improve the world.”
So the quest in gastric bypass came to an abrupt halt, at least for now. My doc was on board with idea and just said, “get with your insurance and find out what we need to do.”
My insurance said “Ha hahahah, Nope! Have a nice day!”
Not giving up, but I don’t exactly have 20k+ to spend. My insurance is through work and apparently the only justification they feel people would want this kind of surgery is because they lay around eating cheeseburgers all day.
They offer a discount for Jenny Craig, though! ….What bullshit. I’ve never understood why in hell people pay money to learn a different numbering system than the one you can do for free. Is it for the oddly colored pedometers or the gimmicky foodstuffs?
It was depressing. I wanted off the roller coaster, and this seemed the best way to make sure I would get off and stay off.
When I was diagnosed, I had an A1C of 8.5 and a sugar level of 235. It freaked me out. My normal blood sugar, since a child, usually lingered around 80. I had dizzy spells a lot because it would suddenly drop. Since the diagnoses, it was 7.3 in January and I’m still waiting for the latest now. I’m headed in the right direction, but it is sooooo sloooooooow.
So while I’m having the tete a tete with my insurance and/or considering supplemental insurance of some sort (or hey, a new job), I had the thought of… what if I ate what a post-op patient would eat, or something similar? I log my progress, and if things still aren’t where they should be, that would at least put some due diligence down on paper and through blood tests. If it actually kind of short-circuited my system into finally behaving normally, I wouldn’t have a problem with that either.
I hate the counting again, I hated it from the start, it took up so much of my time. But from what I can tell, I read up on one study that essentially put diabetes patients on a 800 calorie diet of 3 nutritional shakes (meh) at 600 calories and 200 calories of vegetables for 8 weeks and for many, it knocked out the diabetes.
Sure, its boring but who cares. It’s certainly easier to count than homemade recipes were and this is a start.
The only thing causing me stress is coffee. I like cream and sugar in my coffee, not a lot of options there. So it sounds like I will have nix that too. I’ve been drinking coffee since I was 10, it will be hard as a junkie. It may be decaf, but its always coffee.
Of course, some in the study went back to old and bad habits, but the majority managed to eliminate the diabetes and its baggage, for good by forcing the body to burn fat deposits in the pancreas. The study was limited to those who’d only been diagnosed in four years or less, but I remember Grand a lot when I think of old dogs and some new tricks.
It’s drastic as hell, but I’m there. I’m at drastic. I’m all over drastic. Hell, this is the first time I’ve been able to get my brain to even completely engage in any sort of real action or thought process to tackling this bitch. I’ve been in a mental fog so long, its jarring how much I’ve probably missed just from not being able to mentally process things as well as I used to. Does diabetes do this too? I don’t remember that in the list.
I even mentioned it to a diabetic buddy of mine to get their thoughts and they were onboard to trying it with me. Social eating problem solved!
They actually had been logging their food, put more salads on the menu, added a lot more veg, cut out a lot of starch, took it to their doc and their A1C had gone up since their last visit. Their doc just flat out didn’t believe them and came short of calling them a liar when they tried to show them their log. They had gone from hopeful to heartbroken in seconds. They have no interest in surgery but are definitely at the desperate and drastic stage too.
If by any change some of you are struggling, or know someone struggling and looking for drastic, here’s some links. They are just a drop in the bucket of what I’ve read, but they seemed to be the two most pointed with information that isn’t so “over the head” of us laymen. I have a limit of how much medicalese I can understand and this was all pretty digestible (pun intended):
I’m not sure anymore how much detail I’ve gone into, I’m too lazy to go look at any prior posts of mine about health. I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, just like Grand. Unlike Grand though, I don’t hide twinkies and say I bought them “for the kids” or a 10 lb bag of oranges and eat them over a few days because I’m too lazy to cook for one.
I do however, have an intense love of chocolate and had (my meds make me crave meat now, go figure) a sweet tooth so fierce I’d make myself sick. I could never understand why, but my doc said that since I’d always ran a low sugar until now, I would of course crave it. I used to have a blood sugar of about 74 shortly after eating. I know only because I had a type 1 boss who would stick you anytime you alluded to not feeling perfect.
I’m on a pill twice a day. I’m thankful I don’t have to use insulin, for now. I’m also glad I’m not having to stick myself, for now. My numbers have been getting better minisculely, not rapid enough for the instant gratification loving person than I am. I know that this is a process, but the process, to me should be faster than 10 lbs in three months.
Walking… hurts right now. But I do as much as I can. I would love to swim, but have no access to such in a reasonable time frame or distance. If I tried to do yoga, I’d fall and hurt myself. My body is not fully under my control right now.
I’ve always berated myself for being a food-addicted by-product of bad genes and a worse upbringing, but I don’t think that is the whole story.
I distinctly remember crying over a plate of food because I couldn’t eat anymore and I thought I would be in trouble. Grand always fixed our plates for a 300 lb grown man and then demanded that we eat everything. My mom tossed the plate I was crying over in the trash and spent the next hour trying to de-program a short lifetime of conditioning.
I was suicidal by age seven, depression came on pretty hard when the hormones did in my preteens, and so did about 10 or so extra pounds. At that point, I didn’t have any major body issues, I figured my next growth spurt would probably iron it all out, as I was still a kid.
That is, of course, until I sent to my Aunt from Hell’s house for the summer. She promptly slapped me on the Atkin’s diet, droned on about “ketosis” and fed me shitty unsweetened yogurt and unripe blueberries. It would be twenty years before I would ever willingly taste another blueberry.
I had one friend I made that summer and was thrilled when they invited me over for a sleepover. Anything to get out of that bitch’s house. Their dad made homemade vanilla ice cream, a treat I’d never had in my life. I ate one small scoop, since I was trying to keep to the Fuhrer’s strict rules.
I was subsequently screamed at for an hour when they found out.
Years later, when same aunt was giving me advice about the “delicate psyche” of children before Spawn was born, I brought up this small page in our history. I also told her I used to find her terrifying.
her:”…………….I’m….. I’m so sorry”
me:”kind of fucking late to regret now, isn’t it?”
I think that was the only time I ever heard that woman apologise for anything. She is Grand’s twin in many ways.
My twenties, I ended up with the marital fluff that comes from too much indifference and entirely too much meat and potato-based meals. When we split, I’d put on 30 or so lbs. I lost any taste for soft drinks and spent the first month or so gorging on as many raw vegetables as I could get my hands on. Not because I was dieting, but because I craved them. I didn’t count anything, didn’t weigh anything, I ate what I was in the mood for, including a 3 scoop variety bowl of ice cream with all the crap on it. I took up yoga, I loved it. I felt centered for the first time in my life.
I did weigh myself though. I had a mental number I wanted to reach and when I was within five pounds of it, I decided to take up a judo class. The first month, I instead gained five pounds but had dropped a pant size. It was my first epiphany in how little numbers mean.
The second was with a friend of mine who also had the desire to lean down, while we were at a pub crawl (I did mention I gave up nothing, right?). We were on bar three and moving to bar four. It was probably just a couple blocks to the next one and my friend and I were chatting and laughing and outpacing everyone. We passed two individuals who represented everything we were trying to achieve, size-wise. As we passed, we heard one complain about being exhausted and their feet hurting. The other responded in agreement. My friend and I looked at one another and I simply said “maybe we need to rethink our priorities…,” they simply responded “indeed.”
When Spawn was known but in the works, I ended up taking care of Grand, a noncompliant diabetic. I never understood what Grand thought they were accomplishing by not checking their sugar and lying about what they ate. They lost their eyesight and their independance, and its by sheer miracle they didn’t lose an appendage or have to go on dialysis.
While they were under my care, they dropped about 9 sizes. I cleaned out all the garbage and started cooking my normal jive. Grand was a shopping junkie, so I took them grocery shopping about three times a week. It seems excessive but I refused to keep any mass quantities of fruit (their main addiction) and Grand always had to walk down every aisle each visit.
Let me repeat that…. they had to walk down every aisle each and every time. Even if nothing had changed, nothing moved, nothing.
I played a game of trying to find the biggest grocery stores I could that still kept only within the food range. Wal-Mart was off-limits except for only special trips (moments I wouldn’t go postal spending days in a store). With Grand’s macular degeneration, they would obsessively grab shit and put it in their cart and I would pull it out of the other side and put it back. I tried to keep the splurge tab in the 10-15 range so the high could be obtained without the expenditure. Grand was a junkie when it came to shopping, folks. I would bribe anyone of you to do my shopping for me.
Grand:”I could have sworn I got more than this…”
Me:”hmmm, nope… you were a bit picky today.”
With Grand getting exercise on these trips, so I enforced the rule of only 2-3 pieces of fruit and each had to be a different color (probably the only thing they could see anyway) under the agreement we would come back when they ran out. When I refused to allow them the 10 lb bag of oranges, I got a call from one of her children about how I wasn’t feeding Grand. The 9 pant sizes and the elimination of two of their medications for sugar (there were four) seemed to support this. I did mention I was the evil black sheep of the family right? I fed Grand how I liked to eat, they had 3 squares and 2 snacks a day, and it worked.
My thirties, the weight crawled on while taking care of Spawn. Getting 2-3 hours of sleep a night with absolutely no break, full-time work and a kid who would scream if they had to consume anything besides chicken nuggets and french fries all summed up to a good 80 or more lbs. I responded the way I had in the past but with prepackaged salads, cooking mass quantities of meals and shoving them in the freezer (the first time around I had more than me to cook for with friends, roommates and my mom around all the time).
I tried to involve Spawn in my yoga. It didn’t go well and I wasn’t able to focus on it like I had when I could do it by myself, so I scheduled it when they were asleep. The weight also wasn’t budging either, even reviving the old habits. But this was a decade later.
I started counting calories for the first time. I hated it. I was hungry all the time and it felt like a full time job. I tried several calculations and set an amount that would hit a 2 lb weight loss a week, and it still didn’t budge much. I would knock off another 100 calories until I started losing again, but I was so damn hungry.
I started walking every other day. I found out one of my blocks was about 2 miles around, the other almost 3, so I walked both each time. BFG bought me some walking sticks because we had read it could help with strength training and your posture so you could walk faster. I didn’t even care if I looked stupid. I read so much material on nutrition and weight and exercise that, just like parental advice, it began to contradict each other.
I managed to knock off about half the weight. I’d had to give up caffeine due to an ulcer, and my last vice was smoking. When my cholesterol came back elevated, that went too. I was ok about it when I gained 12 lbs from quitting. I thought it’d be more. But I still had 30+ lbs left to go and it refused to budge.
Then I came home one day and my legs ached when I walked, my arms ached, I couldn’t get a full breathe, my brain ached. I was so mentally drained I felt like I’d been trying to do calculus without paper. I felt like I’d run a marathon and every bit of liquid I’d had in my body was focused completely around my legs like a pair of saline pants I couldn’t remove. I moved like Grand at 80, the 50 yards to the bed felt like Mount Saint Helen, so I crashed on the couch most of the time.
I slept at least a dozen hours every time I could, more on the weekend. It was insanely difficult to get up in the morning. I was always stiff, always tired, always hurting. I had donned a gorilla costume the Halloween before and chased Spawn for hours while they knocked on door after door and now I had no chance in hell of standing at a stove for thirty minutes to cook anything. I couldn’t stand five minutes without whimpering.
My doc tried upping my anti-depressants, my cholesterol problem magically disappeared but my blood pressure was elevated, no that’s no longer a problem but your triglycerides are weird, nope, now its your thyroid. No wait…. DIABETES!
It stayed like that for almost six years now, and over 100 lbs this time. On a scale of 1 to 10, I was sitting at 11 in misery. Of course, over those 6 years I felt like cooking very little, drive-throughs often providing our only major meals. This pleased Spawn, but not me. Crap makes you feel like crap, but I wanted hot meals and had no desire to make anything. I could stare at a full fridge and could not come up with a single thing to make. I felt like I was dead.
I still pretty much feel dead, maybe a zombie walker? My last visit we talked while I was getting checked out for a sinus infection (before the nurse told me to bend over). Cooking at home is now outweighing how much we grab. “Grabbing” dinner involves salads and lean meals at least half the time when I can find places that serve good food. I’m beginning to feel like I am at 8, sometimes 7 on good days. I’d lost 10 lbs… but in 3 months. It only took 6 months for that 100+ lbs to slam itself on and at that point, I was sleeping more than I was doing anything else. I even slowly weaned myself off the anti-depressant to see if maybe I wasn’t having some weird reaction to them.
So I’m at the point where I’m considering gastric bypass. I feel like I will continue to lose this battle with my own body unless I do something drastic. I have no intention of losing the war. I just need better artillery and the older I get, the harder this battle is getting.
I have read something about transfer addiction, and I used to think I had an addictive personality, but when I’ve set my mind to toss something out, I don’t go back. Chantix starts you out with 3 months, I quit in one, I kept another week of the pills to help with situations of temptation and donated the rest to a fellow smoker looking to quit. I’ve never looked back. I felt pretty smug sitting at an outdoor table with a pack of chain smokers with no desire to join them. I knew then I was done for good.
If I get my emotional brain to shut up, my logical brain tells me “remember that time you refused to drop the calculus class with the Russian professor you could never understand? It’s like that and it’s time to ask for help.”
Have you guys ever considered or done anything this drastic? I know I’m tired of just existing and now that Spawn is older, this is not at all the way I want them to remember me. I want to go on trips now, to experience now, to live NOW. Six years was too much already.