When I quit smoking for the zillionth time it left a scar. One of those livid ones that will always be a little tender to the touch. I know for certain that should ever the medical profession suddenly announce it was all a mistake and they aren't shockingly bad for you, I'd be the first in the queue clutching my tenner and sparking up. This is not, nor is it likely to be the case so I have to face the fact that my dear old pals - they saw me through some tough old times I can tell you - are no longer a part of my life. I will never forget them. I think of them wistfully in moments of stress or anxiety - these are common moments for me as adrenaline, cortisol, and anything else the body usually produces as a fight or flight thing are a major part of my natural state - something I daily try to overcome and hope the Yoga will continue to help with. Or when I'm working on something 'academic' and having to concentrate properly like a grown-up; with certain people; in certain places; after a good meal; first thing in the morning... these times, I still get a flash of yearning for a Camel Light or even a Silk Cut (Silver would do...).
Here's the thing, I thought it would be exactly the same grieving process with my dear old pal 'Vino'. I thought not downing a gallon (or even a galleon) of wine at a party would mean I sat alone in a quiet corner pretending to sort out the fascinating contents of my handbag. But no! Not only have I not yet missed having any booze at all for some weeks now, I'm actually preferring it. My whole adult life (well, since about 13 I guess) has been punctuated by hangovers, groggy days and dehydrated nights with a tongue swollen to 8 times its usual size yet simultaneously wrung out like a giant sun-dried tomato (ew! that's those off the lunch menu then). I've lost whole evenings to the demon drink - and days too. I've danced on tables, fallen down stairs and philosophised about the most random things in that way only a drunk person can do - earnestly and repetitively. I have thought the world my best friend and sobbed uncontrollably whilst babbling total nonsense to complete strangers. Once I was even told to quieten down and go home by a (frankly, rather stout) policewoman.
I'm not, by the way, a raging alcoholic, but I've always loved a drinkie as many people do and since I passed 40, I'd begun to notice it's taken less to hit me hard and increasingly longer to recover. Oh, most of the time its been great of course: shared meals and lazy afternoons with friends and hysterical evenings with family, Birthdays and Christmases etc., laughing, dancing, singing (oh and I am AWFUL so it is best left off for that reason alone) and I'd not change a single thing. It is not worth regretting stuff - life is WAY too short but despite the many good times, most of the bad times I've had were never helped by drinking (and frequently made worse). My choice was made for me with this diabetes thing and the medication I have to take so I thought I'd kick up and resist. I believe some people do get away with one or two 'now-and-again' on Metformin but somehow it just felt like a good time to call my love-hate relationship with alcohol off. Quit while we are both still in with a chance of finding love elsewhere (I'm speed-dating rebound drinks at the moment. Diet Coke was a one-night-stand and a mistake - makes me burp too much to be sociable. The fruit juices are too sweet and soda water looks like I'm trying to be cheap; so far, slimline tonic is looking like she might get a second date...)
But, but, but, I cannot believe just how liberating it is to be free of alcohol. Not only am I losing weight (not just giving up the grog is doing that, I know, but it is making a difference) I'm sleeping won-der-full-yyy and dreaming things I can remember and want to! I have slept right through the night every night, for a few weeks now and it's great. That alone would make it worthwhile.
I had two 'events' last week that would usually have involved a lot of boozing, carousing even! And I'll be honest, I wasn't sure how it would be for me (that's a bit sad isn't it?!). The first was a dinner with my wifey (yes, wifey - tis no great big deal these days I hear) and the two Es - the funniest pair of lively, young buddies who make each other laugh and it isjust plain fun to be around them. The dinner was to be followed by a game of 'Cranium' (we live right on 'the edge' in Surrey - sometimes we even play board games... outside). I would usually drink throughout the evening. Probably a couple whilst cooking, a couple whilst eating and a couple more to follow. I'd wake the next day, groggy but functioning but very much aware of being tired, a bit grumpy (a bit grumpier than usual) and just a bit 'off'. I'd also probably doze off at some point or be wanting to during the evening. Instead, I had a brilliant time, slept like a log and woke up raring to go the next day. A lovely, relaxed night - aah, my team lost the game but you can't have it all. A board game that involves 'play-doh' and 'eyes-shut drawing' is bound to be a challenge.
The second event was a party for a gay friend - this I mention purely for the reason that only when you know this (if you also know gay men) can you get a full picture of what the evening would, inevitably, be like. Middle-aged gay men, cake and champers = a definite, full-on, camp carousing opportunity: heavy on the fabulously scented grooming products and no holds barred on the designer footwear daahling. This was no exception. Birthday boy was already flying when we arrived and so was his Mr.Right. Naturally, as you would expect (no point in avoiding stereotypes when they are so very right) the food was delicate, decorative, canape-ish and "Oh, had it delivered in, love, by a little woman just locally, pricey, but so worth it!". The cake was two cakes (well, of course), one being an enormous pavlova, the other a large, gooey, creamy, spongey affair that called to me like a lacivious old hooker from the minute I arrived. I resisted obvious charms but by god it was tough. Anyway, you get the picture, it was a lovely do. And there was champagne. CHAMPAGNE! No-one turns that down. Do they? Well, yes indeedy: I do! I enjoyed my slimline tonic water rather more than I thought I would (it was a warm night and I was actually glad not be be dehydrating) and I had lovely chats with lovely people and I can still remember their names and what we said - which was, on my part, coherent. Imagine! How cool? Well, to most people, probably not very - but to me it feels like something of an achievement.
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Welcome to Diabetes World...
Today, I got a new blood glucose 'monitoring system'. It comes with an impressive looking pouch, test strips in a test 'drum', a 'proven' least painful soft-clix plus finger pricker, lancets, batteries and a 'welcome pack'.
Now I don't know about any other diabetics out there but 'welcome' seems a bit of a laugh. It is not a cozy club I've joined here, it's a pain in the tushy. It is boring more than anything. If you are diagnosed and intend to manage your diabetes properly, most of the time you will be thinking about food - even if you don't want to, aren't hungry, are ill and can't face food - you have to think about it. What you have had, what you will have, what you can't have, what you should have. And, what you have to do to balance up any screw-ups you've made. In addition to which, you are always bearing in mind that even a change in the weather, a sniffle or a bit of a stressful day can throw everything up in the air and make it rise or drop wildly - totally without logic. It is not something I'd want to 'welcome' anyone to. Oh and don't start me on the potential complications - it is toooo depressing.
Moan over. Don't misunderstand me, I'm really not complaining about having it - that's just one of those things. I am complaining about misconceptions about what it is really like. I know this is one area I can't make right - unless you have it, you can't understand it. But it is in my nature to try to explain stuff (once a teacher...). The fact is, without the medications and all their attendant complications and side effects things would go wrong very quickly. So having those things is great, but hard work and by no means straighforward. It is not, certainly for the 'younger' diabetic about taking a pill or jabbing in a bit of insulin and away you go. But that is for the most part what most people think and it is frustrating. It is a degenerative condition with a pretty shitty outcome unless you are diligent (and lucky) and the only way to deal with it is to work hard. Let's be honest, that's not always going to be possible or desirable, you gotta live for heaven's sake. But what if I don't work hard most of the time? Definitely a shitty outcome. At least by trying I'll not be able to blame myself. I don't know who else I would blame but I'd have jolly good try - a passer by would do! In all seriousness, I've learned the hard way that at diagnosis, if you are given the chance to manage the condition with diet alone, the sensible person does just that. The Selenas of this world do three weeks of holiness, then decide there's been a mistake and go back to shovelling the wrong things down the cake-hole. This ends in medication. With some startlingly scatalogical side-effects. THAT ain't welcome either!
So, new glucose monitor, to go with my new 'lose weight, eat right' attitude. So far, so good. I'm 104 pages into the 200+ page instruction booklet, I have worked out what goes where, which bits need reading and how to extract blood (Yes, of course it bloody hurts!). I've even managed to do a test and put everything back in the pouch in the right order (there IS a right way and a wrong way, it says so in the instruction booklet - and there was an extra sheet with a diagram to prove it).
Taking control of my own body, health, weight etc is not something I'm naturally inclined to do. It's going to be a major and lifelong battle but I do have an aunt whose experience of the same thing does at least give me support and inspiration. I'm constantly aware that I have to try at this, and that if I were a naturally sporty, healthy type, I'd maybe have held this off a lot longer than my early 40s. So I either get on with it now or shorten my life by a very long way. My period of denial is over and my taking control has begun. I'm doing my best to take a positive approach as there are so many worse things that could happen. Like I could carry on ignoring it and hit that shitty outcome in no time at all.
The silver lining to this new kit is not just the speed, accuracy and attractive, handy rubber effect 'pochette' - it also boasts a GLOW IN THE DARK DISPLAY! Now, that is worth the effort!
Now I don't know about any other diabetics out there but 'welcome' seems a bit of a laugh. It is not a cozy club I've joined here, it's a pain in the tushy. It is boring more than anything. If you are diagnosed and intend to manage your diabetes properly, most of the time you will be thinking about food - even if you don't want to, aren't hungry, are ill and can't face food - you have to think about it. What you have had, what you will have, what you can't have, what you should have. And, what you have to do to balance up any screw-ups you've made. In addition to which, you are always bearing in mind that even a change in the weather, a sniffle or a bit of a stressful day can throw everything up in the air and make it rise or drop wildly - totally without logic. It is not something I'd want to 'welcome' anyone to. Oh and don't start me on the potential complications - it is toooo depressing.
Moan over. Don't misunderstand me, I'm really not complaining about having it - that's just one of those things. I am complaining about misconceptions about what it is really like. I know this is one area I can't make right - unless you have it, you can't understand it. But it is in my nature to try to explain stuff (once a teacher...). The fact is, without the medications and all their attendant complications and side effects things would go wrong very quickly. So having those things is great, but hard work and by no means straighforward. It is not, certainly for the 'younger' diabetic about taking a pill or jabbing in a bit of insulin and away you go. But that is for the most part what most people think and it is frustrating. It is a degenerative condition with a pretty shitty outcome unless you are diligent (and lucky) and the only way to deal with it is to work hard. Let's be honest, that's not always going to be possible or desirable, you gotta live for heaven's sake. But what if I don't work hard most of the time? Definitely a shitty outcome. At least by trying I'll not be able to blame myself. I don't know who else I would blame but I'd have jolly good try - a passer by would do! In all seriousness, I've learned the hard way that at diagnosis, if you are given the chance to manage the condition with diet alone, the sensible person does just that. The Selenas of this world do three weeks of holiness, then decide there's been a mistake and go back to shovelling the wrong things down the cake-hole. This ends in medication. With some startlingly scatalogical side-effects. THAT ain't welcome either!
So, new glucose monitor, to go with my new 'lose weight, eat right' attitude. So far, so good. I'm 104 pages into the 200+ page instruction booklet, I have worked out what goes where, which bits need reading and how to extract blood (Yes, of course it bloody hurts!). I've even managed to do a test and put everything back in the pouch in the right order (there IS a right way and a wrong way, it says so in the instruction booklet - and there was an extra sheet with a diagram to prove it).
Taking control of my own body, health, weight etc is not something I'm naturally inclined to do. It's going to be a major and lifelong battle but I do have an aunt whose experience of the same thing does at least give me support and inspiration. I'm constantly aware that I have to try at this, and that if I were a naturally sporty, healthy type, I'd maybe have held this off a lot longer than my early 40s. So I either get on with it now or shorten my life by a very long way. My period of denial is over and my taking control has begun. I'm doing my best to take a positive approach as there are so many worse things that could happen. Like I could carry on ignoring it and hit that shitty outcome in no time at all.
The silver lining to this new kit is not just the speed, accuracy and attractive, handy rubber effect 'pochette' - it also boasts a GLOW IN THE DARK DISPLAY! Now, that is worth the effort!
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
For anyone interested in the poses mentioned in tonight's post...
 |
| The Plank |
 |
| The Tree |
 |
| The Warrior |
and of course:
 |
| The Meditator |
Meditations on... meditation
Yoga. It is flipping hard work if it is done right. I hurt more today than I ever have from the gym (for 'ever' read 'a couple of weeks').
So, I went to a new Yoga place last night. They have an unlimited classes for twenty quid offer so I thought why not? Also, I have long wondered about going to a 'proper' place to see how it is in 'real' Yoga circles.
It seems that how it is done is with more noise - well, not everyone - just one person to whom I will return. Who was it? You ask (you might!). It was not skinny, young woman who made no eye contact, nor was it the clearly bonkers middle-aged woman with halter-top AND bra with standard straps. This is not a good look for anyone but bonkers people in Yoga rooms may wear this 'style' with impunity and even some elan where a similarly aged woman in any Sarf London high street just looks like a raddled old chav. She was, despite the lunacy very smiley and made polite conversation about the room temperature and so I allowed her to be liked. Until one of her feet found itself uncomfortably close to my face during a particularly tricky move. This wouldn't usually bother me too much - but this foot was of the type even a hardy chiropodist would retch at... it took me a moment to re-gather myself but I pushed on... through the noise of the only man in the group. Yoga men: very specific type usually but he didn't seem to fit the usual. He looked more like an accountant who used to do rugby at university but is more of a watcher than a player nowadays. He did make a brief nod in my direction when he arrived, hint of a smile and then straight to HIS mat (my guess is, if someone else went there next time, he'd be a bit put out - a touch of the towel on the sunbed about him). He settled himself, a few feet away from me so (ideally) out of reasonable ear-shot. He falolloped down and began to breathe. Of course, he'd been breathing when he arrived - he was definitely alive - but this was special breathing. Noisy YOGA breathing. Or rather NOISY Yoga breathing. I wish I could explain it adequately - it was kind of tricky to categorise. It was uninhibited, let's just say that - oh, and that it was upheld for the entire time we were doing the physical yoga - he did shush once we moved to meditation. Thank goodness manky-foot-woman arrived shortly after him.
Others at the class included a woman who was clearly way beyond beginners group but graced us with her bendiness as she was accompanying her pal (almost wider than she was tall) once the class had started thus I call them the 'two disruptively late women'. They were ok though and with the bendy pal to live up to, I felt rather sorry for wider-than-tall woman. She wasn't as bendy as her friend and was not good on one leg but a game girl and didn't give up - you have to admire that.
I did ok at the physical side of things - didn't fall over during 'the Tree' or fart during 'the warrier' or indeed, crash to the ground begging for mercy during 'the plank' so was, all in all quite pleased. Now we move to the meditation section of the proceedings. Usually in a Yoga class you do about an hourish of bendy, stretchy, fall-y-over stuff and then do the lying down with a blanket, thinking about your points of energy and flowers and such. It is my favourite part and after the physical stuff, it really does feel wonderful.
So, lying on my mat, cushion under head, blanket over me, eyes closed, I was ready to relax. The teacher lowered the blinds and lights to a gentle darkness, candle light at the other end of the studio flickered (ok - opened my eyes to see what she was doing). It was the perfect time to let all those worries and anxieties slip away and focus on the breath (that's what you do - obviously noisy-breath-man was prepping for the meditation from the get-go). We did the conscious relaxation of hands, feet, legs, and so on. We felt the heaviness; we gave ourselves up to the stillness... drifted... into total...
Sleep. I must have gone out like a light as the next thing I knew, I was awakened by a loud snorting, snore. At least I'm pretty sure it was loud; it woke me up. And it was definitely not the noisy-breath-man or manky-foot-woman who were my nearest mat neighbours. I know my own particular brand of snore - it had all the hallmarks. I'd like to think only I heard it but the fact that the teacher made creaky steps towards me at the moment I came to consciousness kind of suggests she'd heard it too.
I can only hope manky-foot-woman was so caught up with her own lunatic thoughts she didn't notice, and noisy-breath-man is a fair enough sort of a fellow to accept the failing of annoyingly noisy breathing issues in others.
So, I went to a new Yoga place last night. They have an unlimited classes for twenty quid offer so I thought why not? Also, I have long wondered about going to a 'proper' place to see how it is in 'real' Yoga circles.
It seems that how it is done is with more noise - well, not everyone - just one person to whom I will return. Who was it? You ask (you might!). It was not skinny, young woman who made no eye contact, nor was it the clearly bonkers middle-aged woman with halter-top AND bra with standard straps. This is not a good look for anyone but bonkers people in Yoga rooms may wear this 'style' with impunity and even some elan where a similarly aged woman in any Sarf London high street just looks like a raddled old chav. She was, despite the lunacy very smiley and made polite conversation about the room temperature and so I allowed her to be liked. Until one of her feet found itself uncomfortably close to my face during a particularly tricky move. This wouldn't usually bother me too much - but this foot was of the type even a hardy chiropodist would retch at... it took me a moment to re-gather myself but I pushed on... through the noise of the only man in the group. Yoga men: very specific type usually but he didn't seem to fit the usual. He looked more like an accountant who used to do rugby at university but is more of a watcher than a player nowadays. He did make a brief nod in my direction when he arrived, hint of a smile and then straight to HIS mat (my guess is, if someone else went there next time, he'd be a bit put out - a touch of the towel on the sunbed about him). He settled himself, a few feet away from me so (ideally) out of reasonable ear-shot. He falolloped down and began to breathe. Of course, he'd been breathing when he arrived - he was definitely alive - but this was special breathing. Noisy YOGA breathing. Or rather NOISY Yoga breathing. I wish I could explain it adequately - it was kind of tricky to categorise. It was uninhibited, let's just say that - oh, and that it was upheld for the entire time we were doing the physical yoga - he did shush once we moved to meditation. Thank goodness manky-foot-woman arrived shortly after him.
Others at the class included a woman who was clearly way beyond beginners group but graced us with her bendiness as she was accompanying her pal (almost wider than she was tall) once the class had started thus I call them the 'two disruptively late women'. They were ok though and with the bendy pal to live up to, I felt rather sorry for wider-than-tall woman. She wasn't as bendy as her friend and was not good on one leg but a game girl and didn't give up - you have to admire that.
I did ok at the physical side of things - didn't fall over during 'the Tree' or fart during 'the warrier' or indeed, crash to the ground begging for mercy during 'the plank' so was, all in all quite pleased. Now we move to the meditation section of the proceedings. Usually in a Yoga class you do about an hourish of bendy, stretchy, fall-y-over stuff and then do the lying down with a blanket, thinking about your points of energy and flowers and such. It is my favourite part and after the physical stuff, it really does feel wonderful.
So, lying on my mat, cushion under head, blanket over me, eyes closed, I was ready to relax. The teacher lowered the blinds and lights to a gentle darkness, candle light at the other end of the studio flickered (ok - opened my eyes to see what she was doing). It was the perfect time to let all those worries and anxieties slip away and focus on the breath (that's what you do - obviously noisy-breath-man was prepping for the meditation from the get-go). We did the conscious relaxation of hands, feet, legs, and so on. We felt the heaviness; we gave ourselves up to the stillness... drifted... into total...
Sleep. I must have gone out like a light as the next thing I knew, I was awakened by a loud snorting, snore. At least I'm pretty sure it was loud; it woke me up. And it was definitely not the noisy-breath-man or manky-foot-woman who were my nearest mat neighbours. I know my own particular brand of snore - it had all the hallmarks. I'd like to think only I heard it but the fact that the teacher made creaky steps towards me at the moment I came to consciousness kind of suggests she'd heard it too.
I can only hope manky-foot-woman was so caught up with her own lunatic thoughts she didn't notice, and noisy-breath-man is a fair enough sort of a fellow to accept the failing of annoyingly noisy breathing issues in others.
Monday, 25 July 2011
Getting started...
So, as I said before, the reason behind starting this blog thing is my rather sudden face to face with proper health issues. Diabetes, cholesterol and the attendant plop that comes with.
So. Hard to describe just how far away from a gym-bunny I am but if you imagine a cross between Jo Brand and Ruby Wax attitude wise, that's about it. I'm not sporty, cannot catch a ball (or anything thrown at me - my instinct is to SAVE MYSELF!). Nor can I run in a way that is anything other than 'girl'. If anyone remembers an episode of 'Friends' where Phoebe runs - you have the picture.
To make matters worse, not only do I love to cook, I love to eat. I do not understand why anyone would subject themselves to a diet and the Kate Moss line "nothing tastes as good as being thin feels" (or something like that) - leaves my jaw a-hangin... I could make a list of things I believe I've eaten to disprove this but the fact is, I'm supposed to be doing an MA dissertation at the moment and really don't have 4 hours to spare!
So, I get the talking to from the Doctor, I sit myself down and have a think. No brainer really... stop with the pies or meet your maker way earlier than you planned... So.
Gym, diet changes, Yoga and take control.
The Yoga I have done before, Pilates too. I loved them and really wasn't too bad, however, after falling on someone (attempting a shoulder stand way before I was up to it) in the Yoga class and farting loudly in the Pilates class (there is a LOT of waving of legs in the air - these things happen when you pass 40)... I gave those particular disciplines a rest.
The diet changes are straightforward enough - stop eating the stuff you like and start eating the stuff you pretend to like if you go somewhere fancy to eat. Although, I draw the line at broccoli - as far as I am concerned, it is the work of a fiend.
And so to the gym. As I stolled back through the doors (I've made one or two half-hearted attempts before), Shaun the trainer (person, not item of footwear - but with the sporty theme you might get confused) looks up, beams at me "Hi!" he says "So, here we are again". It was more resignation than either a question or a statement of fact - he looked a little older I felt, a little weary. But manfully, he took me on again, went through my program of torture with me and is kind enough to hide his surprise each day when I reappear. I'm taking him some eggs in on Wednesday - my chickens love to share. I think he needs building up a bit.
So. Hard to describe just how far away from a gym-bunny I am but if you imagine a cross between Jo Brand and Ruby Wax attitude wise, that's about it. I'm not sporty, cannot catch a ball (or anything thrown at me - my instinct is to SAVE MYSELF!). Nor can I run in a way that is anything other than 'girl'. If anyone remembers an episode of 'Friends' where Phoebe runs - you have the picture.
To make matters worse, not only do I love to cook, I love to eat. I do not understand why anyone would subject themselves to a diet and the Kate Moss line "nothing tastes as good as being thin feels" (or something like that) - leaves my jaw a-hangin... I could make a list of things I believe I've eaten to disprove this but the fact is, I'm supposed to be doing an MA dissertation at the moment and really don't have 4 hours to spare!
So, I get the talking to from the Doctor, I sit myself down and have a think. No brainer really... stop with the pies or meet your maker way earlier than you planned... So.
Gym, diet changes, Yoga and take control.
The Yoga I have done before, Pilates too. I loved them and really wasn't too bad, however, after falling on someone (attempting a shoulder stand way before I was up to it) in the Yoga class and farting loudly in the Pilates class (there is a LOT of waving of legs in the air - these things happen when you pass 40)... I gave those particular disciplines a rest.
The diet changes are straightforward enough - stop eating the stuff you like and start eating the stuff you pretend to like if you go somewhere fancy to eat. Although, I draw the line at broccoli - as far as I am concerned, it is the work of a fiend.
And so to the gym. As I stolled back through the doors (I've made one or two half-hearted attempts before), Shaun the trainer (person, not item of footwear - but with the sporty theme you might get confused) looks up, beams at me "Hi!" he says "So, here we are again". It was more resignation than either a question or a statement of fact - he looked a little older I felt, a little weary. But manfully, he took me on again, went through my program of torture with me and is kind enough to hide his surprise each day when I reappear. I'm taking him some eggs in on Wednesday - my chickens love to share. I think he needs building up a bit.
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