Thursday, December 19, 2013
Happy Holidays
Hello! I am as busy as one of Santa's helpers trying to prepare for Samantha's arrival. She is coming home this weekend and I will be soaking up every minute of our time together until she leaves on December 31. I wish you all an incredible holiday season and I look forward to blogging again once the New Year arrives.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Thinking about Sandy Hook
A few times in each generation, an event so shocks society to the core that nearly every person can instantly recall where he or she was when it occurs. Each of you can likely tell me where you were when the towers fell and each of you can likely tell me where you were one year ago when the unthinkable occurred in a small town in Connecticut.
I was sitting and writing in a small, comfortable lounge we have at my workplace. In addition to tables, booths and a room we refer to as the “Wii room” for obvious reasons, the lounge is always simultaneously playing ESPN and CNN. I was sitting with my dear friend Bridget when I saw a news alert color the screen projecting CNN. A gunman had opened fire at an elementary school. The screen did not reveal where the elementary school was located, so I did what any parent would do. I googled the developing tragedy in order to make sure that my daughter was nowhere near ground zero.
There is something primal that occurs when tragedy strikes. We begin to count any loved ones that could possibly be affected and set about accounting for them. When the shots rang out at Columbine, one of my best friends at the time was going to a private school in the same area. (If I remember correctly, she was in the exact same city.) I remember my debate partner and dear friend (who was always far more level-headed than I was) assuring me wild-eyed that the shooting was at the public high school… that our girl was safe.
This instinct, to make sure that our loved ones are beyond harm’s reach, only helps for a moment. Only brings peace for an instant. Because at the end of the day, 15 teens and teachers were shot to death at Columbine. And 26 innocent first-graders and teachers perished at Sandy Hook one year ago. Ultimately, I understand deeply that, to embrace a cliché that seems both poignant and maddening, there but for the grace of God go my daughter, my loved ones (most of whom have either been teachers or are teachers) and I.
When I think of Sandy Hook today, I think first about three things. First, I am overwhelmed by the speech given at the end of “The West Wing” episode “20 Hours in America,” in which President Bartlett insists that the streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight. I struggle with the photos of the fallen. Even with as much education I have had on human rights abuses, mass atrocity and the things that we humans can do to one another, I struggle to view photos of those that fell who were so young, so innocent and who perished for absolutely no reason.
Second, I think of Nicholas Kristof’s column in The New York Times entitled, “How Did We Blow This One?” (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/04/opinion/kristof-how-could-we-blow-this-one.html?_r=0) I will let you read the piece rather than rehash it. But it essentially questions how the U.S. could have failed to implement significant gun control reform in the wake of this tragedy.
And finally, I think about the hours after my daughter was born. The postpartum hormone cocktail had left me feeling more peaceful than I can remember being before or since. Family had come by to meet her and as they passed her around, they kept asking whether or not they should give her back to me. In those moments and hours, I felt no hesitancy or jealousy or possessiveness about having her passed around. I felt at that time like we had all the time in the world together. That there was no rush to return her to my arms because we had so much time ahead of us. I wonder now if those moments were the epitome of naivety or a gift of faith.
Tomorrow, my daughter turns 13. I will not be by her side as she blows out the candles. I will be here, in the Midwestern snow and she will be soaking up California sunshine. She comes home next weekend for nine days out of the entire ten-month school year. My daughter is healthy, happy and alive. I have no reason to complain. But when I think about Sandy Hook, I think about my own daughter’s absence and feel some small fraction of the weight that the parents of the fallen must bear. Because I truly believe that unless a mother is abusive, neglectful or otherwise unfit that she should not be separated from her child for months, years or a lifetime. And yet… heaven is too crowded with angels this evening as mothers feel the phantom weight of their children who have gone before them.
It has been a full year. And I am still no closer to reconciling what happened in those classrooms now than I was then.
I was sitting and writing in a small, comfortable lounge we have at my workplace. In addition to tables, booths and a room we refer to as the “Wii room” for obvious reasons, the lounge is always simultaneously playing ESPN and CNN. I was sitting with my dear friend Bridget when I saw a news alert color the screen projecting CNN. A gunman had opened fire at an elementary school. The screen did not reveal where the elementary school was located, so I did what any parent would do. I googled the developing tragedy in order to make sure that my daughter was nowhere near ground zero.
There is something primal that occurs when tragedy strikes. We begin to count any loved ones that could possibly be affected and set about accounting for them. When the shots rang out at Columbine, one of my best friends at the time was going to a private school in the same area. (If I remember correctly, she was in the exact same city.) I remember my debate partner and dear friend (who was always far more level-headed than I was) assuring me wild-eyed that the shooting was at the public high school… that our girl was safe.
This instinct, to make sure that our loved ones are beyond harm’s reach, only helps for a moment. Only brings peace for an instant. Because at the end of the day, 15 teens and teachers were shot to death at Columbine. And 26 innocent first-graders and teachers perished at Sandy Hook one year ago. Ultimately, I understand deeply that, to embrace a cliché that seems both poignant and maddening, there but for the grace of God go my daughter, my loved ones (most of whom have either been teachers or are teachers) and I.
When I think of Sandy Hook today, I think first about three things. First, I am overwhelmed by the speech given at the end of “The West Wing” episode “20 Hours in America,” in which President Bartlett insists that the streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight. I struggle with the photos of the fallen. Even with as much education I have had on human rights abuses, mass atrocity and the things that we humans can do to one another, I struggle to view photos of those that fell who were so young, so innocent and who perished for absolutely no reason.
Second, I think of Nicholas Kristof’s column in The New York Times entitled, “How Did We Blow This One?” (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/04/opinion/kristof-how-could-we-blow-this-one.html?_r=0) I will let you read the piece rather than rehash it. But it essentially questions how the U.S. could have failed to implement significant gun control reform in the wake of this tragedy.
And finally, I think about the hours after my daughter was born. The postpartum hormone cocktail had left me feeling more peaceful than I can remember being before or since. Family had come by to meet her and as they passed her around, they kept asking whether or not they should give her back to me. In those moments and hours, I felt no hesitancy or jealousy or possessiveness about having her passed around. I felt at that time like we had all the time in the world together. That there was no rush to return her to my arms because we had so much time ahead of us. I wonder now if those moments were the epitome of naivety or a gift of faith.
Tomorrow, my daughter turns 13. I will not be by her side as she blows out the candles. I will be here, in the Midwestern snow and she will be soaking up California sunshine. She comes home next weekend for nine days out of the entire ten-month school year. My daughter is healthy, happy and alive. I have no reason to complain. But when I think about Sandy Hook, I think about my own daughter’s absence and feel some small fraction of the weight that the parents of the fallen must bear. Because I truly believe that unless a mother is abusive, neglectful or otherwise unfit that she should not be separated from her child for months, years or a lifetime. And yet… heaven is too crowded with angels this evening as mothers feel the phantom weight of their children who have gone before them.
It has been a full year. And I am still no closer to reconciling what happened in those classrooms now than I was then.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Cue the Heart-Related Metaphors
***Important Note: My blog has been annoying me lately because I feel like I spend a lot of time discussing the impact my various ailments have upon my life. Though the following post does discuss new and challenging medical news, I promise that my blog will soon be much more dynamic, intriguing and FUN. Thank you truly for reading!***
For various reasons, the purple butterfly has become the symbol most associated with lupus patients. Though I have not run out and purchased anything with a purple butterfly on it, I smile inwardly whenever I see apparel, jewelry, art and any other items bearing the colorful symbol. In addition to the purple butterfly, it turns out that I am now compelled to embrace another common symbol of strength and hope.
The first shape I remember learning to draw and learning to cut out of paper is a heart shape. I have literally drawn or cut out thousands in my lifetime for a variety of reasons… including the fact that I have been a romantic ever since I was old enough to retain memories and possibly even before that time. So, it should probably come as no shock to me now that I need to embrace the heart symbol even though I am 30-years-old and not four-years-old anymore.
It turns out that on top of the heart trouble that the lupus has given me and that the steroids have given me, I also have an absurdly high total cholesterol level. Given my dietary choices and my approach to healthy living, my doctors are convinced that my high cholesterol is primarily genetic. However, something is clearly wrong whether it be as a result of genetics or not. Healthy total cholesterol levels are those below 200. Dangerous levels begin between 225 and 240, depending on a few other factors. When you hit 275 you are likely at a very serious risk of a heart attack. I am within spitting distance of that final red line.
What does this mean? It means more tests, more treatment and even more dramatic changes to ensuring that my lifestyle is as healthy as is humanly possible. I am not sure how much more I can cut out of my diet, but I suspect that there will be even more restrictions coming my way. And I do understand that even more exercise may help, though that may be difficult at the moment given that my labs just came back from the rheumatologist Monday and confirmed that my inflammation levels have climbed even higher. (I don’t know how that is possible. I really, honestly and truly do not.)
Last night was my work holiday party. Many of my fabulous team members and I gathered at the Minnesota Zoo for great food, even greater company and the Yankee Swap that I did all the shopping for. I had a blast. I had planned to eat my way through several tiny cheesecakes, because I am likely going to have to give up the last of the foods I like to eat once all my testing is complete (hence, the uncharacteristic and un-vegan cheesecake blitz/hurrah). However, I felt too ill to eat any so I substituted a chocolate mousse cupcake this morning. I ate celebration cake because there is going to be no complaining associated with this latest health-related hiccup.
I am grateful to have incredible doctors, wonderful loved ones and a body that is hella-crabby and uncooperative but is mine, all mine. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get my heart and my blood healthy, along with the rest of my inflamed, seemingly-angry organs and tissues. And that journey is going to start with embracing the heart shape in addition to purple butterflies.
For various reasons, the purple butterfly has become the symbol most associated with lupus patients. Though I have not run out and purchased anything with a purple butterfly on it, I smile inwardly whenever I see apparel, jewelry, art and any other items bearing the colorful symbol. In addition to the purple butterfly, it turns out that I am now compelled to embrace another common symbol of strength and hope.
The first shape I remember learning to draw and learning to cut out of paper is a heart shape. I have literally drawn or cut out thousands in my lifetime for a variety of reasons… including the fact that I have been a romantic ever since I was old enough to retain memories and possibly even before that time. So, it should probably come as no shock to me now that I need to embrace the heart symbol even though I am 30-years-old and not four-years-old anymore.
It turns out that on top of the heart trouble that the lupus has given me and that the steroids have given me, I also have an absurdly high total cholesterol level. Given my dietary choices and my approach to healthy living, my doctors are convinced that my high cholesterol is primarily genetic. However, something is clearly wrong whether it be as a result of genetics or not. Healthy total cholesterol levels are those below 200. Dangerous levels begin between 225 and 240, depending on a few other factors. When you hit 275 you are likely at a very serious risk of a heart attack. I am within spitting distance of that final red line.
What does this mean? It means more tests, more treatment and even more dramatic changes to ensuring that my lifestyle is as healthy as is humanly possible. I am not sure how much more I can cut out of my diet, but I suspect that there will be even more restrictions coming my way. And I do understand that even more exercise may help, though that may be difficult at the moment given that my labs just came back from the rheumatologist Monday and confirmed that my inflammation levels have climbed even higher. (I don’t know how that is possible. I really, honestly and truly do not.)
Last night was my work holiday party. Many of my fabulous team members and I gathered at the Minnesota Zoo for great food, even greater company and the Yankee Swap that I did all the shopping for. I had a blast. I had planned to eat my way through several tiny cheesecakes, because I am likely going to have to give up the last of the foods I like to eat once all my testing is complete (hence, the uncharacteristic and un-vegan cheesecake blitz/hurrah). However, I felt too ill to eat any so I substituted a chocolate mousse cupcake this morning. I ate celebration cake because there is going to be no complaining associated with this latest health-related hiccup.
I am grateful to have incredible doctors, wonderful loved ones and a body that is hella-crabby and uncooperative but is mine, all mine. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get my heart and my blood healthy, along with the rest of my inflamed, seemingly-angry organs and tissues. And that journey is going to start with embracing the heart shape in addition to purple butterflies.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
My Magical, Non-Vegan Cold and Flu Season Cure
During my final year of law school, I discovered that one thing never fails to make me feel better when I have a cold or the flu. Due to a variety of factors, my 3L year was the most physically taxing of my life. So it came as no surprise that I was laid out with the flu as soon as I had finished up first term finals. However, Santa had already purchased two-day Park Hopper tickets to Disneyland for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for Samantha, my significant other and me. So, I was determined to suck up being sick and to enjoy every moment of time at Disney with my daughter. (If you have never been to Disneyland at Christmas, put it on your to-do list.)
On the way to the Magic Kingdom and California Adventure, I insisted on stopping at Starbucks. My throat was so raw that I was sincerely hoping that some tea would help. On a whim, I decided to try some extra-hot steamed apple cider. Because I think that Starbucks loads up their standard caramel apple cider drink with too much stuff, I asked for just one pump of the caramel syrup and some whipped cream on top. I swear, that drink got me through the entire day. And when I ordered one the next morning, it got me through that day. And, when I came down with whooping cough second term (I know, only me…) it got me through classes without too many people glaring at me like I was a leper.
That drink… apple juice steamed to 180 degrees with one pump of caramel syrup and whipped cream… is magic. I know it is magic. But I also know that whipped cream is dairy, caramel syrup has processed sugar in it and I am a whole-foods vegan now. Also, I am too sick with the darn flu to get up and go get one even if I wasn’t conflicted about ordering it.
To all my readers, you who have been so kind and supportive of my struggle with lupus, it is my turn to send you wishes for good health and happiness at this time of year. Because while lupus is challenging on a daily basis, having the flu downright sucks. And my guess is that you will all battle some version of the flu or a nasty cold this season. So please, for your health and happiness, stock up on Starbucks gift cards this year and drink those suckers down like there is no tomorrow. (And if you can’t get to Starbucks, cranberry juice steamed on the stove with a cinnamon apple tea bag with whipped cream on top to cut the acid will do in a pinch). Because if I could go get one of those magical drinks I would. So, you should. And with that, the sum of my wisdom is exhausted. At least for now. (Wink.)
On the way to the Magic Kingdom and California Adventure, I insisted on stopping at Starbucks. My throat was so raw that I was sincerely hoping that some tea would help. On a whim, I decided to try some extra-hot steamed apple cider. Because I think that Starbucks loads up their standard caramel apple cider drink with too much stuff, I asked for just one pump of the caramel syrup and some whipped cream on top. I swear, that drink got me through the entire day. And when I ordered one the next morning, it got me through that day. And, when I came down with whooping cough second term (I know, only me…) it got me through classes without too many people glaring at me like I was a leper.
That drink… apple juice steamed to 180 degrees with one pump of caramel syrup and whipped cream… is magic. I know it is magic. But I also know that whipped cream is dairy, caramel syrup has processed sugar in it and I am a whole-foods vegan now. Also, I am too sick with the darn flu to get up and go get one even if I wasn’t conflicted about ordering it.
To all my readers, you who have been so kind and supportive of my struggle with lupus, it is my turn to send you wishes for good health and happiness at this time of year. Because while lupus is challenging on a daily basis, having the flu downright sucks. And my guess is that you will all battle some version of the flu or a nasty cold this season. So please, for your health and happiness, stock up on Starbucks gift cards this year and drink those suckers down like there is no tomorrow. (And if you can’t get to Starbucks, cranberry juice steamed on the stove with a cinnamon apple tea bag with whipped cream on top to cut the acid will do in a pinch). Because if I could go get one of those magical drinks I would. So, you should. And with that, the sum of my wisdom is exhausted. At least for now. (Wink.)
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Diving Back into the Deep End
Several days ago, I resumed marathon training. My lupus is under a bit more control than it has been in several months, which is promising. Also, I’m coming out of my skin living on this couch and if I want to have any shot at running in June, I need to ramp up back into racing shape.
Stephen Pressfield (who wrote “The War of Art”) has hypothesized that the more critical something is to a soul’s evolution, the more resistance one will experience when seeking to obtain it. This logic applies to love, relationships, work, creative work, health, wellness, spiritual growth and on and on. Basically, if a healthy and worthy task is the white of “yang,” resistance is the black of “yin.” Or, to put this another way, resistance is the equal and opposite reaction to the action of a healthy and worthy pursuit.
I have experienced this phenomenon repeatedly. Whenever I commit to something or someone, the forces around me seem to ask, “Really? Are you really sure you’ve committed? How about we test you just to make sure?” And test me they do. But because I’ve come to understand, respect and expect these tests of commitment, they phase me less than they once did.
For example, when I started out my training with a cardio and strength circuit that was once very easy for me and everything seemed to go wrong at once in response to my efforts, I simply said to myself, “Well, here comes the resistance.” I could have been a defiant smart-ass and said, “Bring it on!” but resistant forces do not tend to need my insistence in order to show up in full force. On Day One, my heart-rate monitor stopped working, my swollen lupus feet wouldn’t fit into my shoes and the easy workout I had planned left me with such a splitting headache that I vomited repeatedly from pain for the rest of the night. Okay, then…
Anyone who vomits in reaction to severe pain will not be surprised when I tell you that I woke up on Day Two feeling less than daisy-like. But, as a dancer, runner, yogi, writer, single-mom from way-back, I had no intention of letting a little pain get in my way. If I lived that way, I’d never get anything done! So, I returned to the same level cardio and strength circuit for Day Two. Cue the headache, the headache-induced repeated vomiting and eye pressure that made me think my face was going to explode, just for kicks.
If the definition of insanity really is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, then I am a sane woman. Because on the morning of Day Three, I revised my approach. Jumping back into training mode is a different animal when you have lupus. And even though I thought I was doing easy work, my body did not interpret my choice that way. I have a giant ego that is pretty frustrated with the slow-and-steady wins-the-race approach. So, I’m sidelining my giant ego for a bit. Since Day Two, I’ve imagined giving my giant ego fun band-aids, treats I’m no longer allowed to eat and trips to the beach. In exchange, it lets me train in the water and lets me train at a less intense level than usual. My ego is significantly happier due to these goofy meditations… whatever works, right?
So, I’m back in training. But many blogs for a few months will likely revolve around water exercise, barre training and yoga instead of distance and hill work. Because while my ego is ready to run and strength train like a bad-ass, my lupus is shy and full of resistance and needs a great deal of love, care and gentle coaxing before it will be ready to let me have any kind of physical strength and stamina.
In this sense, I truly am engaging in resistance training. Not with bands or body weight, but with the physical limitations that my lupus has inserted into my training. I’ve committed to my goal and my body is resisting me just enough to be really challenging. But yes, I am committed. And yes, I’m really sure I’m committed. The lupus and resistance in general can test me if they want to, but I aim to jump back in the deep end anyway while using smart and healthy boundaries along my way to reaching the marathon finish line.
Stephen Pressfield (who wrote “The War of Art”) has hypothesized that the more critical something is to a soul’s evolution, the more resistance one will experience when seeking to obtain it. This logic applies to love, relationships, work, creative work, health, wellness, spiritual growth and on and on. Basically, if a healthy and worthy task is the white of “yang,” resistance is the black of “yin.” Or, to put this another way, resistance is the equal and opposite reaction to the action of a healthy and worthy pursuit.
I have experienced this phenomenon repeatedly. Whenever I commit to something or someone, the forces around me seem to ask, “Really? Are you really sure you’ve committed? How about we test you just to make sure?” And test me they do. But because I’ve come to understand, respect and expect these tests of commitment, they phase me less than they once did.
For example, when I started out my training with a cardio and strength circuit that was once very easy for me and everything seemed to go wrong at once in response to my efforts, I simply said to myself, “Well, here comes the resistance.” I could have been a defiant smart-ass and said, “Bring it on!” but resistant forces do not tend to need my insistence in order to show up in full force. On Day One, my heart-rate monitor stopped working, my swollen lupus feet wouldn’t fit into my shoes and the easy workout I had planned left me with such a splitting headache that I vomited repeatedly from pain for the rest of the night. Okay, then…
Anyone who vomits in reaction to severe pain will not be surprised when I tell you that I woke up on Day Two feeling less than daisy-like. But, as a dancer, runner, yogi, writer, single-mom from way-back, I had no intention of letting a little pain get in my way. If I lived that way, I’d never get anything done! So, I returned to the same level cardio and strength circuit for Day Two. Cue the headache, the headache-induced repeated vomiting and eye pressure that made me think my face was going to explode, just for kicks.
If the definition of insanity really is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, then I am a sane woman. Because on the morning of Day Three, I revised my approach. Jumping back into training mode is a different animal when you have lupus. And even though I thought I was doing easy work, my body did not interpret my choice that way. I have a giant ego that is pretty frustrated with the slow-and-steady wins-the-race approach. So, I’m sidelining my giant ego for a bit. Since Day Two, I’ve imagined giving my giant ego fun band-aids, treats I’m no longer allowed to eat and trips to the beach. In exchange, it lets me train in the water and lets me train at a less intense level than usual. My ego is significantly happier due to these goofy meditations… whatever works, right?
So, I’m back in training. But many blogs for a few months will likely revolve around water exercise, barre training and yoga instead of distance and hill work. Because while my ego is ready to run and strength train like a bad-ass, my lupus is shy and full of resistance and needs a great deal of love, care and gentle coaxing before it will be ready to let me have any kind of physical strength and stamina.
In this sense, I truly am engaging in resistance training. Not with bands or body weight, but with the physical limitations that my lupus has inserted into my training. I’ve committed to my goal and my body is resisting me just enough to be really challenging. But yes, I am committed. And yes, I’m really sure I’m committed. The lupus and resistance in general can test me if they want to, but I aim to jump back in the deep end anyway while using smart and healthy boundaries along my way to reaching the marathon finish line.
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