Life is Healthy

Last week, the Centretown Buzz (an Ottawa community paper) asked me to write the article that "I wish I could have read when I was first diagnosed."



It's on the front page of this week's issue, and begins like this:

On December 1^st, 2005, I found a lump in my breast, as I was getting undressed. One month later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 38 years old, with two young kids and a very hectic life. I felt completely blind-sided.

Almost four years later, and with the benefit of hindsight, I share some advice for others who find themselves in my situation.

Bring someone with you to appointments, especially in the beginning.

Be your own advocate.

Be nice to the admin staff and nurses.

Don’t compare yourself to anyone else.

Let others help you.

Never give up hope.

A Stockholm subway station found a way to get more people to take the stairs rather than the escalator. See the video below.

I'm going to a conference next week, followed by a little vacation. I've written two posts that will publish automatically while I'm gone. I may or may not respond to comments for the next two weeks. I probably won't respond to e-mails. I'll resume the malocclusion series when I get back.

As many of you know, I have three big dogs, each with their own favorite spots in our house.

Jake is a 12-year-old, 95-pound Golden Retriever (or as we call the breed, Permanent Adolescent) who prefers to sleep at the bottom of the stairs or in front of the front door or in the master bedroom right in front of the toilet – three of our most high traffic areas. We’ve tried to make other areas of the house more appealing, but he’ll have none of that. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. At least not an old dog who’s taking a narcotic for hip dysplasia. He’s comfortable sleeping at the bottom of the stairs and in front of the door and in the bathroom, so whatever. We’re not going to argue with him.

Mathilda is a 9-year-old, 75-pound Beagle mix. Larry calls her “Butterball” because she’s 20 pounds overweight. Her diet has little to do with it, though. Mathilda has allergies, and every year for three or four months in the summer and fall, we give her steroids to control her itching. Without steroids (and believe me, we’ve tried everything), she cuts open her face and every other place her nails can reach. In the spring and early summer she sheds her weight…just in time to go back on steroids. It’s a nasty cycle, but she’s a happy girl nonetheless.

Mathilda’s favorite place to sleep is on my living room chair or the loveseat or the futon in Larry’s office. Rarely do we have to step over her, she’s considerate when we ask her to move (unlike Jake who just stares at us), and is low-maintenance in the area of demanding attention. She likes a good belly rub once in awhile, but prefers to be left alone most of the time.

Cooper is a 5-year-old, 70-pound Flat Coated Retriever (a breed developed many years ago as a mix between a Newfoundland and a Golden Retriever). Cooper sleeps anywhere Larry is and is always disappointed when I climb into bed at night. “Maybe tonight they’ll let me sleep here,” is what his eyes say just before we laugh and say, “Um…no.” We have a full-size bed and I’m a pillow pig. I tuck them all around my body. There’s no room for another being, especially not one that’s 75 pounds and sprawls out, not curls up, to sleep.

Each dog has their own idea of what constitutes the best seat in the house. We all have those favorite places, don’t we? Whether it’s in our homes or outside, there are those places that fit us like a glove. I thought about that that today as I sat on what is now my new best seat outside my home:

After switchbacking up the side of the mountain on a different section of the North Country Trail from last week, there was a bench. A lovely, sturdy wooden bench overlooking the forest. Not only did it lend itself as a place to rest and offered a spectacular view, it helped me appreciate, once again, my body and what it’s capable of. I never would have found or sat on that bench when I was 300 pounds. It physically could not have happened. And even though I have two bum knees, I got to the top of that mountain and, more importantly, down again. (As anyone with knee problems knows, climbing isn’t the hardest part. It’s going down that’s a killer.)

Knees willing (and I’ll do everything to ensure their viability), I’m going to visit that bench again next spring. I hope Jake will still be around, sleeping at the bottom of the stairs. I hope Mathilda will be in the process of shedding her weight. And I hope Cooper still thinks we won’t notice if he stays in bed with us. But I won’t count on any of those things. I’ll just sit down in the best seat in the forest, enjoy the view, and let life be what is.

More photos from the hike:

Me at the first switchback holding the trusty walking stick I found at the beginning of our hike. It was an incredibly difficult climb - partly because of the steep grade and partly because the fallen leaves made it hard to see the slippery slopes - but it was so physically and emotionally exhilarating.

Cooper went with us on the hike. How beautiful is he? And he has no clue.

My awesome hiking boots (Skechers!!)

The creek we crossed before our ascent.

Larry and Cooper on the bench...of course. Larry is Coop's BFF. I sometimes think Coop is Larry's BFF, too. Hmmm...

So I said to my gynecologist I said, “What’s up with these four pounds I’ve gained since May?”

“You’re 46,” she said.

“Oh. So it’s nothing I’ve done?”

“Nope. It’s just your metabolism slowing down.”

“But I had such a flat stomach four pounds ago! Now four pounds are just sitting right here!” I said, squishing my fingers into the center of my paper gown.

“You can still have it. Give up that wine and chocolate you like and bump up the exercise and you’ll be back down there in a few months. But ask yourself, do you really want to do that?”

Well, yeah, I kinda do. The chocolate part, anyway. I won’t add more exercise, and I’m not even going there with wine. Not yet, anyway.

I went on a chocolate hiatus for a year and survived so I know I can do it. Chocolate was the one food I stopped eating entirely when I first started losing weight. Not that I had to, per se. Weight Watchers put no restrictions on what foods I ate. But I had to if I was serious about food discipline. I told myself, “Learn portion control with potatoes first, then move on to the hard stuff.” So I gave up chocolate for a year. Funny thing was, when I ate it again, it was like, “Eh, yeah, so?” It was still tasty, certainly. But I’d already lost 100 pounds and nothing, not even chocolate, was going to take that away from me. I was a Jedi Knight of food discipline.

I’m still a Jedi, but I’m not Luke anymore. I’m Yoda. I’m staring down a slowing metabolism, and unless I want to look five months pregnant for the rest of my life and be beholden to Spanx every time I wear a dress, I’ll give up the chocolate once again.

It’s not the taste I’ll miss as much as the ritual and comfort. When I unwrap the foil and pop a bit in my mouth, the taste and texture and the way it gets into the grooves of my teeth before melting is like passing a flower shop and the scent follows you for a few yards and you have a vague and pleasant memory of prom or your wedding or a special garden.

So what could possibly replace chocolate in this ritual? I’m in the process of interviewing food. This week, it’s pickled beets. So far they’re holding their own in the comfort sector and may be called back for a second interview.

You might recall a few weekends ago I made pickled beets. Hard to believe growing up in the upper Midwest that I’d never eaten them until last month. Pickled pigs feet? Of course! Pickled herring? Absolutely! I grew up on both. But I’d not had pickled beets until I saw how much my friend Pam’s little boy loved them when we went out for lunch one day. I tried one and it was love at first bite.

I scoured the internet for recipes and found Alton Brown’s. I’m in love with Alton Brown. So is my husband, but not in that way. Larry’s a biochemist science geek and adores those chemical explanations Alton has for everything while he’s cooking. I just think he’s cute...and the way he's holding that mixer? Booyah! Anyway...

I chose this recipe because Alton roasts the beets in rosemary and uses tarragon vinegar rather than cider or regular vinegar. Sounded interesting, so I made them. I wouldn’t know how they turned out for a week because they have to ferment, but Alton promised, “Patience will be rewarded.” And he was right. The beets are, in a word, awesome.

I’m not suggesting pickled beets taste like chocolate, but they give me a similar level of comfort and satisfaction. Strange, I know, but keep in mind, I was raised on saltine crackers, gjetost cheese and lutefisk. I have eclectically weird taste buds.