Before meeting with my doctor the only “cleanse” I’d heard of was a juice cleanse, and I’d always assumed people who did those were a bit woo-woo because there is no universe in which I can survive on juice. You can jam pack that stuff with every super nutrient on the planet and it still won’t carry me through. I need actual food. Call me crazy.
So you can see why I was hesitant when my doctor said she wanted me to do a cleanse back in January. I’m all about getting some healthy going, but if that involves a liquid diet then we’ve got a serious flaw in the plan. Once she laid it all out, though, I was ready to give it a shot. On the plus side, the doc wasn’t saying juice would tide me over. On the other hand, my world was about to get really weird.
Oh my gosh, you guys. Are you completely sick of listening to me talk about food? This isn’t even a food blog – me, writing a food blog? snort! – yet here I am yammering on about what I can eat, what I can’t, and the bizarre life changes that have befallen me at forty-seven. My instagram feed now consists almost entirely of a) adorable photos of my dogs and b) pictures of food.
Because why wouldn’t my instagram followers be fascinated by my dietary adventures? Omelette with kale and mozzarella? Pecan crusted salmon? YUM.
“On paper it all looks okay — modest professional success, a clean house, bills that are paid. But if you look close enough, you can see it in cancelled plans or plans that are never made. In pictures never taken because I look so sick. In days alternating between anxious energy and waves of fatigue. In the panic that flashes through my eyes when anything changes that might affect my routine.
Oh, the routine.
It’s all about the routine.”
If I Can Talk To CNN, I Can Talk To You About High-Functioning Mental Illness – Abby Has Issues
Sometimes we don’t want the answer or the advice. You just need to be willing to listen. Quietly.
“One day, lamenting the fact that my hands were in so much pain I could not finish coloring a page in my snazzy new adult coloring book, I was met with this unsolicited advice:
My hands hurt, too, but I just take my time and if it takes me a week to color a page then it takes me a week. Remember, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.
Cool story, bro, but you’re going to have to take your candy coated zen master bullshit elsewhere because I’m telling you my hands hurt. I’m telling you that these hands used to wedge clay and spend hours at the pottery wheel without so much as a cramp or an ache. Now, there are days that I can’t open a pickle jar.”
I Need To Tell You – I’m Sick and So Are You
Sunday was no fun day. Well, technically neither was most of Saturday night, but the chickens really came home to roost yesterday.
We had this whole complicated plan worked out for church where BrightSide would take Bear to early service & I’d bring T-man for the late one…all I know is by 3:30am I was on the couch, trash can by my side, with a Post It reading “Up sick overnight. Someone tell dad.”
Sunday’s plans were shot. So this is what I’ve got – just enough to say I’m sick, boo…time for another nap.
Let’s get this out of the way right up front: I’m a big believer in herd immunity. Really big. Huge. A shout it from the mountaintops, hire a skywriter, put it on Broadway kind of believer.
I guess you could say I’m a fan.
I’ve been working with my doctor for about a year now on my breathing. To say it’s been a long, slow process would be a vast understatement. Vast in a “the Grand Canyon is a pretty valley” sort of way.
But I’m hanging in there ‘cuz, you know, that whole pesky breathing thing. It’s not like I can give it up for Lent.
So I have this friend…
** In a names have been changed to protect the innocent sort of way, we’ll call her Kay for the sake of this post.
Kay has what you might call a bit of (ahem) trouble with needles, if by “trouble” you mean “transforms from a sweet, sassy, competent woman to the Incredible Hulk at the sight of that pointed implement.” Shifting from reasonable adult to hazy minded fight-or-flight creature in five seconds flat is her specialty. Kay’s been known to actually warn medical professionals beforehand that she cannot be held responsible for her actions once the needle appears in the room, and woe to those who do not heed the warning.
Now, to be fair, I hear tell Kay’s gotten much better recently when it comes to her needle phobia. This is a relief because I’ve always harbored a secret fear that some nurse would freak out, tranquilize her, and call the police, and it’s kinda hard to come up with bail money on short notice.
All of this is my round about way of saying I’m (exceedingly) glad I don’t have a thing with needles. I get a lot of blood work done – have for years now – and that’s a whole lot easier when needles don’t send me into a massive panic. Some draws are easier than others, but none of them cause me to threaten the lives of sweet little nurses.
Ahem. Not that I’m saying that’s happened.
My post as part of Colline’s Gratitude Project.