My Brain on...Sugar

OK, so the thing about giving up sugar is that, well, it's everywhere. It's tradition when you have a meal with a guest that you end it with a dessert - a sugary, sweet, often chocolate, ooey, gooey dessert (and if it includes ice cream, even better!)

Last weekend, my mother's church had a a ladies' tea social. I had promised her I'd go over a month before the program started, so bailing was not an option. I arrived, figured that tea wasn't going to be bad for me - (I actually like unsweetened tea - no sugar, no sweetener), but then the food came out. A plate of delicious warm chicken salad (that was passable), a fruit cup (fruit is OK with a meal, right?) and then a blueberry muffin. I ate slow, took my break, and was doing pretty good, and only ate 1/2 the blueberry muffin. Then they brought out a slice of cake for everyone.

The moment I put the cake in my mouth, my brain went CRAZY. My taste buds sang. I'm not kidding - my brain interpreted a singing noise! I thought, heck - half of a 2 inch by one inch square won't hurt, right? I'll skip the frosting and just eat the cake.

And I did stop after 1/2 the slice. Portion control was in check.

Between the cake and blueberry muffin, the next half hour was STRANGE. I have never had this reaction to sugar, even when I was a kid. I sat, listening to the guest speaker, while my face felt flushed and my brain had a slight pounding sensation. I felt like someone who had dropped acid or something (not that I've ever done that, but if I could imagine it, this was it.)

About an hour later, the effect wore off, and I was back to being my regular self. That evening I went to dinner with my mom (we were celebrating her birthday as well), and then we went to a movie. It was so strange to go to the concession stand for two bottles of water and nothing more - no popcorn, no drinks, no licorice. But I didn't feel bad - it just felt different.

After our class on Monday, I swore off sugar. After the last "head trip", I didn't feel like it was a good idea. Then Friday came.

You see, Fridays we eat dinner with my in-laws, and that usually wraps up with ice cream, cookies, cake, pie, or something like that. My mother-in-law had just come from the local Mexican market where they have these fantastic Neapolitan-type sugar cookies - strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate in a triangle shape. She also had some "pan dulce", or sweet breads. I wasn't interested in the sweet breads, but when I saw those cookies after dinner, I had to get up and go outside - the urge to eat them was so strong, even though I was comfortably full from dinner. I reasoned with myself - I don't have to eat the whole thing, just one bite from each flavor, right? After all, a little sugar won't put me over the edge...

After I left, she put the cookies away so they weren't in site. We watched TV for about 15 minutes, then my father-in-law suggested a walk. Since I knew the cookies were still in the house, I jumped at the chance to get out of the house again. My husband and mother-in-law joined us, and we spent 20 minutes walking around the neighborhood, talking to neighbors, and laughing and enjoying our time together.

As of this morning, I'm proud to say that I swore off the cookies. I'm on my way to one week without even a bite of sugar. And the time spent walking and talking with my family was far better than the three bites of a cookie ever would have been.

My husband is the greatest person in the world to me. I know, every wife probably says that every once in a while, but I really, truly mean it.

I recently went though a second surgery - I had more cysts on my ovary, and my OBGYN was afraid that it would cause the ovary to twist. Since they were growing and I was put on "exercise restriction", we decided to get it done as soon as possible. Steve had some vacation time he could use but had to be used by the 20th of May.

I thought I had prepared myself very well - I cleaned the house, got the laundry wrapped up, and the day of the surgery I felt fine - I wasn't nervous or anxious, especially since my Mother-in-law and Father-in-law were with Steve (he didn't need his mommy and daddy, but I did - it made me feel better.)

The day of the surgery, I don't remember much - family came to visit, but I was so drugged up that I was floating in and out. I do remember when they wheeled me into my room, though, I saw Steve and I knew I was in the clear.

The next day, they told me they'd want me up and walking - since I had to get up to use the restroom, I figured I'd try to walk a bit. Steve was extremely encouraging all along the way. The first time we walked down the hall, he held my hand and I held onto the railing on the wall. As we were returning to my room, an employee walked by and said "You should take a picture." I was like, huh? I don't want a picture taken - I look like crap! Then he explained that he was a social worker, and to see a husband and wife walk down the hall, supporting and helping each other was a beautiful picture. He didn't see much of that in his line of work.

Steve was great - he'd set little goals for me, and let me know I was doing well when I reached them. His encouragement made the whole ordeal very pleasant.


As I got home, I was feeling OK for a day or so. Steve was there to help me, encouraged me, and then went through my emotional roller-coaster with me. You see, physically I felt I was on the mend, but mentally I felt like I might have been going nuts! Apparently when you have surgery, you can go through a post-traumatic stress disorder. I wasn't aware of it, and all I knew was that the slightest things made me cry - watching Glee made me break out in tears when they sang a couple of sad songs. I felt sad for no reason sometimes. I was kind of afraid of all of these moods, but he smiled at me, let me cry it out, held me when I needed him. He was full of love and compassion, and wisdom beyond his years - he's been through many surgeries himself, so he understood exactly what I was going through, even though I didn't.

He was going to go back to work on Monday - or so I had thought. On Sunday night, I felt sick and couldn't sleep. He told me he knew that I would need him one more day, and he already told them that he wouldn't be back until Tuesday. I was so happy I cried (yes, again, I cried) and he said "I got this!" I knew I didn't have to worry.

The morning he did have to go back to work was hard for both of us. His mind was at home with me, and I was feeling sick and throwing up. I was so scared that it might have been serious (even though he was sure it wasn't), I called the Dr's office. They had me come in to check my incision (since the throwing up caused it to drain a bit), and my OBGYN explained to me that surgery is very stressful emotionally, and what I was going through was perfectly normal. As soon as the appointment was over, I called Steve - and I felt really, really good knowing that everything was OK on all fronts. He and I were able to go on with our day (mine to the store for some anti-nausea medication and Gatorade, his at work.) He came home, made a delicious dinner and then we went for a drive. By the end of the day, I knew why I was afraid for him to go back to work, but I knew we made it through and it was fine.

As I'm writing this, I'm in tears. The amount of love I feel for my husband is unmatched by anything else on this planet. He has been my support, both physically and emotionally, not just through this process but throughout my life. Steve has made numerous sacrifices for me - his time, his patience, his body. I don't know of a way to give back to him for all that he has given me. He is the foundation of my efforts, the light at the end of the tunnel, the reason I get up in the morning and the reason I can sleep at night. My love for him runs so deep within me and grows stronger every moment we share together. I'm the person I am and the person I can be because of his love and support.

So, you see, he might not be the greatest person in the world to everyone, but to me, he is the greatest husband who could ever exist.

Goodbye Vegas Trip, Hello Morphine Drip!

So, Steve and I had been planning a little Vegas excursion with part of our tax refund to celebrate our anniversary and my birthday. The rooms were booked, the tickets for shows bought, and the schedules had been set. I was looking forward to a little sun and some fun.

Turns out my body had other plans. After two and a half days of severe pain, I was worried I had appendicitis. I decided that we should probably go to the ER, because the sooner it was taken care of, the sooner we could go to Vegas without pain.

Well, it wasn't appendicitis. There were two endometriotic cysts - and one was so large that it was causing the pain. They said I would be in the hospital overnight, and maybe even through Monday. Needless to say, Vegas was canceled and we couldn't recoup the cost of our show tickets, but the Bellagio was nice to refund the amount of our room deposit, even without 24 hours notice. We'll go back there again, definitely.


When I think about how long the whole process took, I'm kind of shocked - it was a 2:30 in the morning when I checked in, and I had a diagnosis by 6:00 am. I had the cyst drained without having a scope or surgery (I love radiology!) around noon, and around 8:40 pm they determined there was no infection and no need for further surgery. Until that time I was on "NDO" (no food or drink), and I don't think I ever craved water so much in my life. By 9:00 pm, they gave me a percocet and authorized some food, and before I could finish my meal, I was falling asleep. Between the relief that everything was going to be OK, the sheer exhaustion, my sensitivity to narcotics (they work really, really well on me), and the sandwich I ate, everything hit me at once and I couldn't keep my eyes open.

I have to say I was very impressed with the staff at IMC. Every single person I had to work with was professional and very descriptive in every way. They must have some great training and skilled staff there, because they put me at ease every step of the way. They controlled my pain, took the right steps to make sure I was safe, and based on this hospital trip, I would recommend them to anyone!

My mom came to help us out so Steve could take a break. Her many years of nursing experience sure come in handy - but it seems that she felt she could never do enough. Just having my mommy there so my husband didn't have to bear the full burden was much more than I could ask for.

I also can't say how much I appreciate my husband. I know this is hard to believe, but a hospital trip can be a sick kind of romantic situation: every time he could be, he was right there with me. Getting back to my room after the drain, it was his face I looked for first - and was happy to see it. Any need I had, he was right there to help me. Sadly, I even needed help to use the restroom (they had me "wired for sound, cable, and satellite," he said,) so it was nice not to have to call a nurse every time.

The next morning was our anniversary. I woke up and said, "happy anniversary. Sorry we're stuck in a hospital." His response was "It doesn't matter that we're here. What matters is that we're together." Tonight we're planning pizza and a movie. After 14 years of marriage, that's what we both really want to do after this trip - just hang out in our own home, with each other.

Every year we're married, I think we have the best anniversary - then I realize it's not what we're doing, but who we're with that makes it special. I think this year is the best anniversary yet.

Grandpa

My Grandpa Johnson passed away yesterday. I can't say it was unexpected, he was 87 years old, but I can say that it's an awe-inspiring moment to witness his graceful passing.

Mom had told us that he was in the hospital on Thursday, and on Saturday it was looking like he might be on his way out. However, overnight, things took a downward turn, and I received the call at 7:00 am on Sunday that he may not make it through the day and to come right away. Although Steve had been unable to sleep the night before, he and I were both awake right away, got dressed quickly, and were on our way to Heber.

When I arrived, Grandpa was still breathing but wasn't conscious. I sat beside him, touched his head and his chest and whispered that I was there. Within a few minutes he let out his last breath, a soft moan, and he was gracefully on his way to his next journey.

I'm sure that wherever he ends up in heaven, he'll be greeted by his family, his two poodle companions, and my own father. I'm sure after a few war stories and embraces, Grandpa will be on his way building the streets of heaven or whatever there is to build, since that's what he seemed to be made to do: build things with his two very capable hands.

My first memory of my Grandfather was when he and Grandma would come to visit while we lived in Roosevelt. Grandpa and Grandma had two little poodles named Missy and Squirt, and every morning, regardless of where they were, he would take the poodles on a walk. "They have to burn extra energy, because for every step you take they have to take four," he'd tell me. While he visited, he and my father would spend time winterizing the trailer or building whatever would be useful, and sometimes things that were not necessarily practical but brought a lot of joy, such as my playhouse. When I was 6 years old, he built me a one-room palace with a split entry door, real windows, and wooden soldiers to guard it. It had a real shingle roof, and even a utility table where I could spend hours making mud-pies and weed cakes (inedible, of course.)

When I was about 9 years old, we kids spent an entire summer with Grandma and Grandpa while Mom stayed at the Weber State dorm rooms to work on her RN degree. That summer, he was our constant guardian and would do whatever we asked. One day he'd sit next to the pool while we swam, the next day he'd take us for a walk over to the library, and the day after was a weekly trip to the Bean Museum, where we'd discover new things about animals and even get to hold a boa constrictor. He never seemed to mind when we ran all over, just as long as we didn't leave his sight. He never spoke harshly to us on our trips. We spent an entire summer exploring Provo, and sometimes even talked him into buying us ice-cream cones from Reams but not telling Grandma so we could have ice cream again that night. I certainly inherited his love of ice cream, and there was no one that seemed to enjoy it more than he did.

When I graduated from High School, I moved to Provo with Grandma and Grandpa to attend college. They let me have the room near the garage, which used to be his music room - it was the one room where he could hide away and listen to the country music he was fond of but that Grandma didn't care for. It must have been a bit of a sacrifice, now that I'm older and understand the concept of a "man-cave", that sacred place where a man can go to be with his thoughts. While I was studying, he would give me hugs and tell me how proud he was of me.

As an adult, I had an opportunity to stay with him when Grandma and Mom took a trip to Germany. He had fallen and broken his arm, and Grandma didn't want to leave him, even for a trip to her home country. I agreed to take 1/2 days from work to stay with him. During that week he and I spent time talking, listening to Johnny Cash, and he would tell me stories from his times in the war, his trips with work along the West Coast, and about some of the things he learned about other people. These were stories that were difficult to come by in a family setting, as he was often overshadowed by our own boisterous voices. I enjoyed every moment of staying with him and learning about him as an adult.

In my life, I have never known anyone who was filled with so much love or felt things as deeply as he did. When his beloved poodle companions passed on, he vowed to never have another animal because it was so tough to lose them. No matter how much prodding, he wouldn't consider another animal, but still showed love and tender care to the rest of our family's cats and dogs.

My Grandfather's passing isn't really a sad occasion - it's more of a celebration of the love he had for his family and all those he had around him, including his two great-grandchildren, which made him smile even bigger than the usual every day smile. He had lived a full, happy life, married to his wife for over half a century, and almost every day he had something he had to do - mostly for her. On the day he died, she said "It was such a pleasure to take care of him, because he spent his entire life taking care of me." He was surrounded by his family when he left this earth, and he will be waiting to meet us on our own journeys past this world.

Well, this post used to be a link to Sammy's page on Petfinder. We went to Shop-ko today and before we got out of the truck, Steve gave me $85.00 and said, “Urf (Obi) has saved up his allowance for a little brother. We need to even out the numbers. We need another boy, and Urf needs a kitty who doesn’t yell at him. I think we need to keep Sammy for Urf.” ($85.00 is the normal adoption fee for a kitten from CAWS.)

So, apparently Sammy isn’t going to be a foster kitty anymore.

Welcome our new kitty, Sammy.

Bad Hotel Art

While Steve and I were in San Francisco, we had the opportunity to stay at the Hyatt at Fisherman's Wharf. Although the hotel itself was very nice, and had some spa-ish qualities to the rooms and lobby, I just can't explain this hotel art. Steve walked by this picture, and said "Stomach:"

OK, Granted, it's a cow's stomach, plus one, but I thought it was interesting that's what he saw. Then we got to this one:

And this is an X-ray of Steve's hip, after replacement:

Do you see the comparison here? (Apparenly I need to make it known that the "white" area between his leg bones is not his family blessing. It is his tailbone. Sickos!)

Whoever picks this stuff out needs to have a head check. Or maybe the person who came up with the designs needs to have a head check.

Around the corner, we have this beauty:

Well, I won't go into details about the symbolism of the three holes, but Steve said, "Edamame."

Then, before we enter the room, we have this:

Um, an X-ray of a woman in a corset? Shoulder blades and a spine?

Last, but not least, we have the piece de resistance:

"Alka Seltzer." (Can you tell that Steve might have had heartburn one night?)

I suppose it would have been more exciting to tell you all about the trip we took, but I started thinking about vacation pictures - they never really mean as much to the people looking at them as they do to the person who was there and took the picture. So, I'll just leave you with this:

The Evolution of Cat Names

I've heard somewhere that a cat has three names: There's the name they're first given, the name you give them, and the name they call themselves. I started to think about my cats, and how their names have evolved:

Cat #1:

• Given name: Aisha. She was our first cat, and we were her first humans. The name came from my nephew, who loved cats. Aisha was supposed to be his cat, and he wasn't even two years old yet. He called cats "ay-yah," but I just couldn't name a cat "ay-yah." I knew someone named Aisha when I was a kid, and I heard the name meant princess, so Aisha it was.

Abby, my mother-in-law (who's nickname is Lady-yes, humans have evolved names, too!) found her under some boxes and shopping carts at the Reams store around State and 2700 S. She was fierce and full of fight. There was a three-month period where we lived with my in-laws while we put together the down-payment for our house. The day she was brought home, I came home from work and Jesse, my father-in-law was outside, and told me there was an attack cat inside. I thought, "Wow. Wonder what that means."

Sure enough, I walked in, and a small kitten scampered up the couch to jump on me to attack me. If she were bigger than the frozen burrito size she was, I might have actually been a little afraid. Steve trained her for hours to keep attacking - she'd keep coming back at him, and finally, when she was about to give up, he'd give in to her. She was his baby first, and as we added cat #3, her responsibility has grown to keep the house and her "mommy" in line.

• Names we gave her: Aishie, Kit-Kat, Queen Aisha, Princess Aisha (which doesn't fit anymore- see Princess Beezy below), Aishe-Aish, (pronounced i-she-eish), Little Girl.



• Name she calls herself: Aisha. You see, she's not a cat. She has told us time and time again that she is our director, and must keep us in line. Bedtime is exactly when she says it is, and I must obey her. I am her charge. She sleeps on the corner of the bed to protect me and keep an eye on me. Therefore, she is not a cat: She calls herself Aisha. And by the way, she owns this house - hence the title of this blog.

Cat #2:

• Name given: Brady.



• Name we gave her: Bailey. OK, that's the name I gave her. She's a girl! Brady is a boy's name! Bailey-Boo, Boo-Boo, Bailey-bugga-boo, Cuddle Kitty, Bailey-big-eyes, Bailey-baby.
  

Bailey was adopted from Wasatch Humane (which is now Utah Animal Adoption Center.) She was a replacement for the baby-hunger I was feeling at the time. My sister-in-law just had her second baby, and I was feeling pretty down in the dumps that I didn't have a baby yet.

Bailey's homecoming was filled with noises I hadn't heard Aisha make yet. Growls, spits, and "Ffffff-ffff-fff!@#!@@@#" (cat cusswords.) However, Bailey was not intimidated. She was too dumb to be intimidated.

Dumb cats really are good cats - they cuddle with you, and do just about everything else the other cat does. Case in point: We got a drinking fountain for Aisha and Bailey. When Aisha was a kitten, Steve used to pour water out of a bottle, and Aisha would catch the stream in her mouth (again, proof that she's not a cat.) When we got the drinking fountain, Aisha figured the stream was there for her to drink from - not from the moving water in the bowl. Since this is what Aisha did, Bailey had to do it too. And still does - she can't take a drink without getting the entire side of her face wet.

• Name she calls herself: Unknown. Bailey doesn't seem to be quite aware that she should call herself anything. She's never referred to herself - only to her external world. If you could speak cat, and ask her what her name is, she'd say "Huuuuuhhhh?"

Cat #3:

• Given name: Shiloh. I think Lady gave her this name, or the people Lady got her from gave her this name.

When we first got Beezy (pronounced Beeshey - see below as to how this name evolved) it was on a day that I got a raise at work. Cats have always been good omens for me, and Lady rescued her from some people who thought she was "too mean." She was like Aisha-full of fire, and she growled at anything that got near her food. Steve put her up on his shoulder, no bigger than the palm of his hand, and gav her a piece of steak. She sat on his shoulder, ate her steak, and growled any time his hand got near her. (It took her months to stop growling over her food.) There was a little doubt at first, then Steve brought her home. He put her down on the floor in our bedroom, she walked around a little bit, and Aisha came over to check her out. Aisha sniffed at her, and jumped back when she hissed. The look on Aisha' face said "Holy $h!t! A Peruvian Ninja Hissing Rat!"

• Names we gave her: Chasquido (I thought we should have an A-kitty, a B-kitty, and she would be our C-kitty. Chasquido means "snap" in spanish - like "Oh, Snap!" "Oh, Chasquido!" But as she played, Steve nicknamed her Beezy - she was "beezy" over here, "beezy" over there, and just plain "beezy" playing. Bear (she looked like a baby bear when she was a kitten.), Baby-bear, Bear-bear, Bizh-Whizh, Princess Beezy, the Cutest Cat in the World (according to Steve,) Baby-Cat, Baby-girl, Peruvian-Ninja-Hissing-Rat.



• Name she calls herself: Unknown. It's not that she doesn't refer to herself, but that she thinks so highly of herself and is so secure in her care under "daddy" that she has no need to converse with the other cats unless she fees like it. Yes folks, she's a spoiled brat, and he likes it that way!

Cat #4

• Name given: Unknown. Obi was a stray, however, Steve thinks it was Clyde.


• Name we gave him: O.B. - he looked like Beezy, but he was an outdoor cat, so we named him O.B. for Outdoor Beezy - and when he had his tail degloved (see my first post,) the vet wrote down Obi. When you touch him and he's really relaxed, or if he wants something, he'll "Urf", so it evolved to Urf, Sir-Urfs-A-Lot, Urf-a-durf, Obi-wan, Baby Boy.


• Name he calls himself: Rarn (like yarn with an "r".) I have no idea how Steve knows this, but he swears he calls himself Rarn. See, when Obi was an outdoor cat, he had to socialize with other cats. Therefore, he had to give himself a name - and he could pronounce Rarn.

So there you have it: the introduction to my four fur babies.