Melvin & Me, Part 25: Food

Well, the new school year has hit at work, with all of the hair-pulling that implies, and it has also hit my personal life--folks I know are adjusting to new schedules, certain areas of town are a little more populated than they were a couple of weeks ago, and a slew of activities that took a break over the summer have started up again, too, such as Chancel Choir at church.  As part of this, I've started taking a nutrition course and had already read the first two chapter before the class officially started.  I mean, I've only learned about the scientific method a dozen times by this point in my life, what's one more?  ~sarcasm flag

But as we've started into the more specialized material, I have been stewing over the weird relationship I have with food.  I have a WEIRD relationship with food.  And I have every reason to.

I was diagnosed with Crohn's when I was twelve.  In a Crohn's flare-up, I have no appetite, and what food I do eat tends to hurt the entire way through and otherwise little nutrition is absorbed from it.  This means that I've had some specific coaching from my GI doc at different times about what food I should and should not eat.  Losing thirty pounds in a month due to malnutrition because your body won't cooperate, that's not an experience I would wish on anyone.  At these times, I was encouraged to eat fast food if that's what it took to get calories in me.  If ANYTHING sounded appealing, my family would find a way to supply it if at all possible, but there were times when I had to force myself to eat anyway.  Forcing oneself to eat when you're not hungry and you know it's just going to hurt like hell, well, suffice to say I have a hard time making myself eat when I'm not hungry still, even though that particular pain is gone--I remember the fear, fear coupled with despair.

When the flare-up is a little less severe, there were still some rules, like instead of eating the wheat bread that had fibrous chunks therein (the branded "healthier" choice), I was told to go toward the white bread because A) I needed the extra vitamins since I was not absorbing them well at the moment and B) I was going to have more difficulty digesting fibrous things.  Let's add to that the colostomy, where some resources say I should never eat cruciferous things again, that I should stay on the ostomy diet in perpetuity.  I have recieved unsolicited and/or uninformed advice from people working at various health stores, running the concession stand, or suggesitons over the internet insisting that everything that ails me can be cured by **insert miracle product of the week here**.  This has ranged from folks saying that I should stop taking ALL of my Crohn's medication and substitute it with essential oils to the seemingly innocent suggestion of "are you sure you don't want X option?  It's healthier."

"Healthier" is relative, folks.  "Healthier" is meaningless to me in some ways.  I use it as a metric for myself, that I am healthier now than I was three years ago, for example, but I don't apply it to things.  When I am weighing food options, "Healthier" feels strange in my mouth, and one of the larger reasons why I won't like a food is when it has a wonky texture.  Receiving advice around that word from anyone other than my doctor, then, almost feels eating someone's half-chewed food.  "Healthier" also tends to bring with it a level of implied guilt, that I'm not taking care of my body correctly.  I want to enjoy food, but food has so much baggage for me:  why add any additional guilt to that?  I am learning to have more compassion on my body, so sometimes I can frame the conversation that way, that it is a kindness to myself to choose one option over another.  Throw in there that I need to have compassion on my emotional self, too, that a bit of comfort eating could be a different kind of kindness to myself.  All these elements together and I have a thirty minute internal conflict on whether I'm allowed to eat lunch, eat a particular lunch, and if I'll allow myself to be any kind of happy about it.  Even the have a snack vs not having a snack debate in my head is between the survival part of myself that wants to take in calories while it's seemingly safer, the part of my body that wants to just enjoy the taste of something without all the damn drama, and another survival part of me that is protecting the longevity of my body and its goals.

In short, every conversation about my eating habits is by default an emotional one. And I haven't even touched on the constant bombardment of marketing peppered with health buzzwords.  The survival parts of me that are fiercely protective about my bodily automy are on immediate high alert with even an inferred implication that I'm not taking care of my body correctly.  This doesn't mean that I won't talk about it or take suggestion, but that suggestion has to be framed very carefully and with some kind of a credible source.  There is a huge difference between "have you heard about X?" and "you should totally try X!"  The following sentence on either is also very important, having opened a difficult conversation and how they choose to continue, but the way that it is introduced will set me on edge when it's the latter, every time.  I would also stress that anything over text (email, SMS, or whatever) is more likely to be categorized into the hIGh ALeRt! camp of things regardless.  I am not opposed to new ideas; I am very skeptical of all things looking to alter my nutritional intake, particularly something that has no grounding in my particular concerns.

All of these things roiling around in my mind when I'm just trying to enjoy an ice cream cone, when I choose a salad instead of a taco, or when I'm trying to decide what to have for lunch when we come home from work midday or need to find something to eat now because that's when I have a break in the day and not necessarily when I'm hungry.  Now that I'm currently in a better place regarding my health--where I am routinely in less pain and able to get enough calories in--some of these voices are quieter, making room for some that want me to consider my weight and activity.  On the one hand, weight is just an indicator and not the end all and be all--I've had people tell me excitedly that I looked like I had lost weight, and then I painfully  explained to them that this was not a good thing because it was a byproduct of malnutrition caused by my disease, which definitely puts a damper on the conversation.  Actually, I have a few people that ask if they should congratulate me on weight loss or not by checking in whether it's the good kind or the bad kind, and I'm both pleased and touched that they check (it's been a while on that count, though, with summer being as stressful as it has been).

The survival parts of myself are LOUD.  They will berate and roar and demand and chastise and all else to urge me into a particular safe path.  It's like an internal overbearing parent, so intent on protection and fixated on the deatils that this particular part of me has forgotten the real goal of loving myself.  Or as another anaology it's like allergies, where the body is so intent on protecting me from a percieved danger that it makes it hard to breathe.  I appreciate the goal of that protective part of myself, but when we take a step back, the methods are counterproductive toward that goal of self-love, more harmful than it is helpful.  I'm trying to redirect that energy, to condition that protective part of myself into a more constructive help, something outside of panic mode.  Redirecting the inner critic means I can by sympathetic toward the goal but still acknowledge those methods are harmful, pointing that drive to areas that are going to be more helpful and redesigning those methods of expression--how I talk to myself matters.  And the crux of it all is finding the real goal of that voice--keeping me safe--and teaching it how to reach toward that goal with new, compassionate tactics.

It's a process.  I have gained better awareness of these parts as a starting point, but even in knowing the triggers there's a lot of work yet to do.

Boiling Frogs

There's a phrase that has come up a few times in the last while here that is so readily applicable to what myself and others close to me have been feeling that I feel compelled to share it.  Please forgive the inhumane nature of the metaphor.  

If you want to cook a frog, you can't just put the frog into a pot of boiling water.  They'll immediately start attempting their frantic escape, eventually hopping out of the pot to freedom and probably splashing their would-be predator with some boiling water in the process.  Instead, you put the frog in a pot of cold water and gradually turn on the heat.  The frog doesn't realize how hot the water is getting because it has adjusted to the temperature in increments.  

It is HARD to really get the sense of how hot the water is when you're in the middle of the situation, whether it's a stressful job, a toxic relationship, a health-related situation (such as chronic pain), or any number of other things.  When you've been in pain so long that you don't remember what it was like to not be in pain, that's like looking down and noticing that your skin is bright red from the heat of the water.  When you rationalize that this pain isn't so bad because it's not as bad as yesterday, that should be a clue to look over at the thermometer.  Just because you've gotten used to something doesn't mean its a good thing or a healthy thing.  

Let's take work right now for example.  I expect summers at my job to be stressful; it happens every year.  Schools moving to our software are concerned about everything starting off on the right foot, clearing up any weird things that came over from their old software that they had never gotten around to fixing, and making any last-minute changes that their superintendent happened to sneak into the last staff meeting as an innocuous bullet point on the agenda.  Even schools that have been with us for years might have new changes, new programs, new staff, or maybe the school is moving from semesters to trimesters.  Then, there are all of the different first-day-of-school-panic moments, where concerns that might normally be only a minor annoyance take on a new level of urgency.  Everyone knows that their emergency is the only emergency that matters.  It makes sense.  I don't begrudge anyone their panic and their anxiety--they need to feel what they need to feel in those moments.  This means that I am very, very busy from April through August, not only in training up folks for the upcoming year but also addressing those different overarching concerns and whatever else that pop up.  It does mean that part of my job occasionally entails talking someone off of a cliff, reassuring them that we will make that solution together and help them check pieces off of their massive to-do list.  My job is to be calm; my job is to empower people to help themselves; my job is to help find creative solutions to match creative situations.  

I never realize how hot the water is until things start to quiet back down.  I never realized how thin I felt stretched until the bulk of our schools have moved past those first day jitters into their smooth routine.  There simply hasn't been time to check inane things like how hot the water is.  I have three other people that I want to help before I can allow myself to take a bathroom break.  I and others on my team are invested in helping people, and sometimes that means you lose yourself in the details; this isn't necessarily healthy, but it happens.

What are the symptoms of "boiling water" has been a question I have been asking myself recently.  If I can't physically see a thermometer in the pot with me, what other markers do I have?  For me, mental exhaustion has been up there, which means that we tend to eat out more, since I don't have the mental space or energy to make anything at home; I also lose my gym habit.  I start the day off with some tired from the previous day.  Little things that wouldn't bother me suddenly are a little bit harder to move past.

What would be better than waiting for the "check engine" light of my body to turn on (or worse, steam to pour from under the hood) is to be more cognizant of checking in with myself.  My body will tell me where it's needing additional care or compassion.  I tell myself I'm too busy to stop, that I live on kinetic energy and can stay moving as long as I stay moving.  Coming to a standstill frightens me, in some ways, but I can't realize how warm the water is if I don't take time to feel it.  In short, I have a level of fear that I need to fight through in order to give myself enough space to honestly assess what my needs are, particularly when I've been so caught up in helping others work through theirs.  

In therapy, we have discussed how everyone's needs should be considered in a decision, and then my therapist very pointedly reminds me that means my needs should be in there, too.  I struggle with that in quite a few places.  

The water is cooling down a bit--it's still terribly hot, but it is giving me at least some idea of how hot it is, just by comparison.  Again, summer at work always has this element to it--it's to be expected--but I will not be sad to get past September.  It is a cyclical process at my job, but I have also decided that I need to check the water temperature in different places, to check in with myself from time to time overall but also in specific parts of myself.  I'm still learning how to pause and check the water, how to give myself space to do that.  I'll keep you posted.

Permanent Changes--No Peterson Baby, Folks

I have made permanent choices for myself before, the kind of elements that leave a lasting effect on the rest of one's life.  There are events you pick for yourself--such as whether or where you seek higher education--and people that you respond to--such as the friends you keep and whom you love--that certainly shape your life and world, all framed by some of those choices, but there is something very different when it comes to making permanent changes to your body.

There are a few situations where my best choice involved surgery, most notably my choice to have a permanent ostomy as my best course of treatment for my disease.  The choice was purely in my court (with all of my doctors, thankfully), and I could have languished a bit longer, but this was the best decision for my quality of life.  I do not regret it.  Still, all of the rationale and logical backing do not prepare anyone for actually scheduling the date.  There's something that hits home there in a way that I still cannot prepare myself for, even after four or five surgeries.  To a lesser extent, there's still that harsh reality that settled in when I made my tattoo appointment and my Lasik surgery date.  Neither of these two examples were as drastic as my permanent ostomy, but the permanence and recognition that my sense of self was going to have to change with it, that is still a lot to process and digest.

In this vein, I have made another permanent choice in my life:  I have decided that I will never complete a pregnancy; I will never have a biological child.

Nope. Not changing my mind on that one.

And, yes, that even means that were I to become pregnant despite all of my precautions, I would probably get an abortion.  Here's why:  everyone I have talked to that has gone through pregnancy acknowledges that there were permanent, unexpected changes to their body afterward (pelvic floor, vaginal tears, etc.); I have talked to many women that have felt they could not talk about their real frustrations with motherhood and/or any frustrations they had while being pregnant because of social pressures and/or dismissal of those concerns; I have three qualified specialists familiar with me and my case say, on no uncertain terms, that I would have a high risk pregnancy situation if I was able to carry at all; and most importantly, particularly coupled with that high risk situation, going through a pregnancy would absolutely emotionally destroy me.

I mean that last one in particular.  Emphatically.  It would break down all the things that make me who I am, and I would be in agony for (best case scenario) nine months, let alone the recovery time and the significant period of sleep deprivation afterward.  It would have physically killed me at other points in my disease and my life.  Every time I have something as mild as a stomachache, there is a series of mental gymnastics that I go through, where I'm worried that this is something that I need to address immediately because it is the first symptom of another Crohn's flare up.  Every.  Time.  Now, couple that will all of the weirdness that happens to a body that is pregnant.  No thanks.  I cannot willingly subject myself to something that uncertain.  I think this could easily foster resentment to hypothetical child, too, which is three kinds of unfair to hypothetical child.  Even if all of my Crohn's symptoms went away and did not play "catch-up" after and I had that child here in my arms, nope, I cannot say that it outweighs all of the things that could go terribly, terribly wrong.

**I want to emphasize that these are my reasons, but no one needs to have ANY or all of these in order for their decision to not have children be valid.  Full stop.**  No one needs to ride the monogamy escalator for the sake of riding it.  

I have analyzed my wants.  I have analyzed my needs.  I have analyzed my goals, emotional and otherwise.  A biological child is not in the cards for me.  There's some emotional processing to do with that yet, but this is the right decision for me.  Even harvesting eggs is a process, involving many appointments, shots, and drama.  This is not to say that I haven't had doubts, but I know that I have made my decision in this.  Adoption is not off the table, but I will never carry a child.

What does Andy think of this?  Let's ask:

Andy, what do you think of this?
I think that, I mean, it's your body and your decision and I'm glad to be a part of it.  I do not want to put you at risk.  The choice between a hypothetical child and you living, I'm going to choose you every time.  

So, what does that mean for you?
Well, it means that my dreams need to change.  I dreamed of having biological children, passing on traits of my family and yours, seeing my or your eyes reflect back at me through a child's eyes.  If that's not a possibility, then I feel a large responsibility to see that you're kept safe, that [a pregnancy and/or abortion] is not something that we have to deal with.

What do mean by "large responsibility?"
If I am going to stand by my words and say that I won't put your life in danger, then it is up to me to take steps to ensure that [a pregnancy] doesn't happen.  You have decided that you will not complete a pregnancy; I support and respect that decision.  It's OUR responsibility TOGETHER to ensure your safety.  As such, given the various options available in birth control and their associated risks, the most logical step for me was to get a vasectomy.  It's a simple procedure; it's safe; it's effective; and it's FAR less likely to have complications than any permanent solutions for women.  

I love you, in case you weren't sure.  How was the vasectomy?
I can't say it was the most pleasant fifteen minutes of my life.

Only fifteen minutes?
Yep.  For all of the "oh God I can't believe you're doing that?!" from society/friends, it really was not a big ordeal at all.

Are there any details you feel comfortable sharing with us?
Yes, I am more than happy to discuss anything and everything.  What do you want to know?

How long before you could start walking normally and not like a cowboy?
[laughs and puts on best John Wayne voice] Well, pilgrim, I would say from start to finish, um, maybe a week and half?  The worst of it was certainly over in a week.

What was the worst of it?
The worst of it was feeling like you'd just gotten a "dinger" for a week.  So, any time I had to move/walk it was a careful process.  

After that week, any other noticeable symptoms or issues?
The tenderness goes down more and more each day, but otherwise, no.  To be perfectly blunt, everything functions as expected, normal.  

Any suggestions for anyone considering a vasectomy?
I would say, first off, don't get scared by what other people try to put in your head about it.  It is simple.  It is truly not a big deal.  With a skilled urologist, you're out in fifteen minutes.  It's a simple process.  In regards to recovery, follow doctor's orders, don't take things too fast, and get yourself some bags of frozen peas.  Those will be your best friend.  I'm happy to be a resource for those with questions, too, if anyone needs the gory details.  Depending on how active your job is, you may want to think about taking a few days off, just until the initial tenderness goes down.  Oh, and one more piece of advice is to get some supportive underwear--any sort of wiggle is uncomfortable for the first few days.  If you can "contain" yourself, your recovery would be much more manageable.

Anything else you would like to say about the process?
Make sure you and your partner have discussed the permanency of this.  While vasectomies can be successfully reversed, it's not a guarantee.  Act as though it is a permanent change.  

Speaking of communication between partners, is there anything else you'd like to mention?
["Oh yeah" sound in the back of the throat] While it isn't something that you're guaranteed to run into, many offices might require your spouse to be present or sign a waiver to consent to the procedure, knowing that it will make you sterile.  It was an interesting point of empathy for me, to go in that moment "oh, holy crap, this is what it's like to not have full autonomy over my own sexual well-being."  

Anything else at all you'd like to say to the people?
While I've greatly appreciated the support of my confidants and friends, I've more than once heard the phrase "hero" as part of this decision, and I don't feel that it's well-deserved.  Taking care of each other, keeping each other safe and healthy, that's an inherent responsibility in a committed relationship.  All I did was take the best possible step to make sure that happens.  I guess what I'm trying to say with that is men taking responsibility for their part [in pregnancy] should not be such a rarity.  

Thank you for being a wonderful human being and partner.
[uncertain] Thanks.  [brightening] Happy to be in this together with you!

i Canz Game?

My older brother David got an original Nintendo Entertainment System for Christmas one year.  I remember watching him play Mario, specifically, controlling the little man jumping along the screen.  For a time, David would pass one of my parents the controller to get past some of the tricky parts.  I only have a few memories of when we lived in Witt (we left when I was five), but this is one of them.  David would get other systems and other games as time went on, and over time it became a ritual for us, that I would experience the story with him, watching as he did all of the mechanics.  He'd do the level grinding and other tedious pieces on his own, but then he'd let me know when he was back to the story. 

I didn't tend to do much playing--some of this was simply the nature of the games David liked to play and anything that was a verses situation, it was only fun losing to someone that had that much more experience so many times before I was ready to do something else.  There was one particular mini-game that we played where Yoshi was spitting watermelon seeds that I was able to win every fifth time or so, but otherwise, I would perhaps play a cooperative piece occasionally, watching all other times.  

My younger brother Mike eventually, too, started to show interest in video games and the two of them would talk shop, once they hit a certain age.  I knew the stories and characters that they were dealing with, but in my brain I labeled video games as "my brothers' thing."  Watching them could be mine but playing them was not.  There were a few games like Super Smash Brothers that got the family involved, though my lack of practice again meant that I would find my limit and then stop before getting too frustrated or otherwise being ready to move on to the next thing.  These were skills that I wasn't invested in developing.  Sure, I could spend time to sort out how to grab and throw an opponent, but it was my brothers' thing and I had other was I wanted to invest my time.  

Andy is a video game fan--he and my brothers and members of his family and several friends of ours will get excited about new video games coming out, discuss and recommend games to each other, and altogether bond about these experiences.  I only have these peripherally.  This means sometimes I could contribute, if it was a question about story or character, but there were other times I would go find something else to do for a few minutes or tune it out for a little while.  I was content to let people have their joy; that didn't mean there weren't times I felt left out.  There's one video game franchise that I REFUSE to have anything to do with because of overexposure to conversations I didn't understand and how much it has been overhyped to me (namely, the entire Final Fantasy series).  As game systems continued to get more advanced, learning all of the different skills and vernacular had more requirements, too, more elements to remember and figure out.  

"Just hit that button for me."

"Which button?  Where the HELL is a Z button?"

It was my brothers' thing or my friends' thing.  I had rented a Gameboy and Pokemon Yellow from Blockbuster a couple of times and gotten through the first couple of gyms and that was the entire limit to my personal experience until I was about twenty-five.  But there have been a couple of elements that changed that:  I had a friend introduce me to a series that was essentially a game about time management, making things by gathering ingredients and completing tasks rather than hitting buttons in the perfect sequence to get across the hill before you could continue.  A couple of years later, Andy bought me my own Nintendo 3DS (which I still called a Gameboy)--I had some doubts but eventually was lined up with some good games that I could enjoy.  Monster Hunter was given to us by a friend, and I remember thinking "that's nice of them; I'm never going to play this."  But I did give it a try--playing it with people made a world of difference, that it was a social thing, and soon I was suggesting it as an evening activity.  There were still moments when I would be told to do a specific function and I had to repeat that I had no clue how to raise a shield or how to check my inventory or negotiate my camera angle or whatever else, but it was fun to contribute and be a part of the adventure..  

Whelp.  Recently, I have taken a big step further:  I have been playing Borderlands 2 with Andy on the PS4.  If that doesn't mean much to you, no worries--I am going to impart some of the basics that I have learned, through the lens of a beginner.  There are so many pieces of basic terminology and fundamental skills that I simply have had no context for; there is a level of knowledge that non-gamers simply take for granted.  

Let's start with the video game controller itself.  **Note that the following observations are for this game only at this time, but there are elements that are, I'm told, consistent for other games, too.

So, there are two joysticky thingies.  One of those changes what direction you are looking in and one changes the direction that you're moving in.  This is hard to figure out how to make it work for you.  I have walked into many, many walls while looking to the side.  They also click when you press them down.  This is needed to do some tasks--I call it "clicky the sticky." Officially they're called L3 and R3 for the left side one and the right side one; I will forever call it clicky the sticky.  

There are the special shape buttons.  They do different things and there are usually prompts for "Press O to cancel" or something similar.

The cross on the left side, that's the "d" pad, short for directional pad.  This can move you around sometimes, particularly on controllers that don't have the joysticky thingies.  In the game I'm playing, it does a lot for shortcuts and such.  

There are two buttons at the top there, one right above the triangle, on the outside edge of the controller and one matching on the opposite side.  These are called the shoulder buttons sometimes or L1 for the left side one and R1 for the right side one.  

There are two button type things underneath those that are called triggers, and even more specifically L2 and R2.  These buttons turn a bit when you press them in, like pulling a trigger, compared to the other buttons which only depress down.  

The black rectangle is something that you can push down, too, to do different things.  The button between the stickies with the weird logo takes you back to the main screen entirely.  I have never used the two small black buttons on either side of the big rectangle.  

So here's a scene from the Peterson Household:  

(Both Petersons are seated on the couch, facing the TV and holding PS4 controllers.  LARISSA is holding her controller with a look of uncertainty.  ANDY has his controller in one hand with a practiced comfort.)

LARISSA:  How do I shoot?

ANDY:  R2, right trigger

LARISSA:  (blank stare followed by trying to turn the controller to assess what piece that is)

ANDY:  (noticing the confusion, holding up his controller and indicating with his index finger)  This part.

LARISSA:  There we go!  (Accidently hits the button that throws a grenade)  Ahh!  Run!

ANDY:  (with great patience)  It's okay.  I can revive you.  See that little diamond on your map?  That's where we're going.

LARISSA:  (peering at the screen trying to locate the map in question)  I managed to walk forward this time while moving my head in the direction I wanted to.

ANDY:  That's great, honey.

Aaaaaaaand Scene.  

There's a lot of knowledge that Andy takes for granted, but he has been a very patient teacher.  However, the weirdest part for me has been reassessing that this is something that isn't just Andy's hobby or my brothers' hobby, that it's something I don't have to be good at (at ALL) to still participate in.  I'm still not confident enough, though, to open up to playing with a wider group--I will slow everyone down right now, and while I trust the people I would play with to be patient with that, I also want them to enjoy their time as much as possible, at least until I have walking figured out.

I have to reassess what I thought I was capable of.  I have to reassess what might be worth trying even though I am several years behind many others in skill level and experience.  I have no muscle memory, but I have the opportunity to sight-read new things, make connections in my thirty-two year old mind that are new and exciting to explore.  I also have an increased awareness that I cannot assume that everyone has the same set of skills and/or baggage that I might expect them to in different situations.  My proximity to gamers has not given me knowledge in the practice of gaming; someone's proximity to a situation may not imply their ability to conduct themselves through it.  Andy has the opportunity to share something that he loves with me, and he has the opportunity to see different facets through my eyes as part of that, to re-experience some of those elements.  It's been an interesting adventure...and definitely cathartic to bust up some bad guy hideouts in the midst of our stressful summer season.