Ha.

That's all I have to say to myself. I fell off plan. Vacation overlapped with two large prednisone bursts (each lasting about a week), and there went my willpower for three weeks. THREE WEEKS. Do you know what three weeks of crappy eating does to the weight of someone who a) has the appetite of a horse thanks to prednisone, and b) can't even exercise it off? I'll tell you, it ain't pretty.

Wish me luck. I'm off the prednisone (again), starting a new drug (Imuren, another immunosuppressant to go with my Humira), and hoping to stay on track. I hope I hope I hope. When my appetite gets bigger than an desert monsoon cloud in July, it's hard to control, and one tiny slip equals a whole throwaway day.

I feel guilty, ashamed, upset with myself and adding to this is the fact that last week, after the 4th of July, I was bedridden for two days. No doubt, I eat more when I'm not feeling well and depressed, and the past three or four weeks, that has described my state. These are not excuses, per se. Not excuses at all. Just explanations.

Gone now from the house are all the goodies and treats we acquired from vacation and all the leftover 4th of July party snacks. The worst stuff in the house is stuff I don't even care to eat anymore, leaving me pretty much with only healthy options.

We are heading out to see family at the end of next month. My goal is to be about 15 pounds down from where I am now (which, sadly, puts me back to almost where I was when I last updated this blog), so that gives me 6 weeks to try to get my @#$% together. We'll see. I can only do the best I can do, but I just hope that "best" is better than what it's been lately.

The Start of Summer

Five years ago today, I found out I was pregnant with what would become my first miscarriage. It was a turning point for me, a day that marks a suddenly more-grown-up me. We'd been trying to conceive, but seeing two pink lines had me gaping in disbelief, euphoria, anxiety, and fear. Was I ready? Was I grown up enough (heck, I was 29; I should have been grown up enough)? How was my life - no, our lives - going to change? I promised myself I had months to adjust and for now, I could just be happy. I was so, so happy. And something clicked in my brain that day, something that said, "It's not about you anymore." I gave myself to this little person growing inside me and all my behaviors, all my actions and thoughts went towards trying to figure out how to make the best life for him or her, and how to be the best mother. When I found out that the baby's heart had stopped, my world around me collapsed. I had, in just a couple months, created a new persona, a new image of myself that was dependent on the life in me, and to have it taken away left me feeling lost and literally empty. One thing that didn't change, however, was the vow to take better care of myself. To continue growing up so when the baby came along that would stick around (Lulu, as it turned out), I would be ready.

Related to this notion is the idea that before then, no diet I ever put myself on ever worked. Yes, it should be enough to diet for oneself. It *should* be. For me, it wasn't. I'm sorry. It's not that I don't respect myself or love myself or feel that I'm worth it. Sure, I do. But my body has failed me in numerous ways, and quite frankly, I'm angry with it. So, screw it, I'll be a little fatter. Who was I hurting? Only myself, and heck, I was already hurting, so what was a little more hurt on top of it?

The very idea of becoming a mother - even though it took over a year to get pregnant with Lulu, my first successful pregnancy - was enough to realize that the power was right in my hands, and I had a new reason to utilize that given power. I'm a changed person from the person I was in my 20's. That's why I believe that this time will be different, that I'll be able to get healthy and stay that way. Not entirely for me, but for them, too. All of them. Even the ones I lost.

My health has not been great lately, despite increasing the frequency of my meds. I'm back to being almost as bad as I was before. I'm taking Vicodin to take the edge off, but I hate how sleepy it makes me. Prednisone is still sitting on the shelf, unopened. I'm not that desperate yet, though maybe I should be.

I'll admit: I got depressed the other night, and I ate too much. I'm an emotional eater, always have been. The difference between now and then, however, is that before, I'd emotionally eat, feel guilt, and eat more out of guilt the next day and the day after. This time, I was able to just hop back on the train the next day, no real damage done. No sense beating myself up. In fact, if anything, I was able to give in to a couple cravings I'd been having, and now, those cravings are squashed and I'm left not feeling deprived.

This weekend, we did a family trip to Costco, which is always an exciting event in our household as Lulu and Thor love the samples, and Z and I just love getting out of the heat of summer. We picked up 4 pounds of luscious, huge strawberries and yesterday, I just plucked them in my mouth, one after another. It felt decadent and indulgent, but I could smirk at the same time, knowing that no harm was being done. Silly sweet tooth, so easily fooled by one of the most perfect fruits nature created.

Summer is heading toward us full force here, which brings along temptations of barbeques, summer holiday treats (4th of July, Memorial Day, etc.), but also the best crop of fruits, fresh herbs, vegetables, not to mention great grilling weather. Fortunately, Z is on board with my healthy eating, and the kids don't even know the difference, so we're enjoying pesto made from fresh basil, grilled chicken, fat berries, fresh zucchini, plump tomatoes, and steamed artichokes (by far one of my favorite treats). Temptations may abound that aren't healthy, but even more surrounds me that is seasonal, delicious, and good for my family and me. Summers in Arizona might be brutal but, hey, there are upsides to everything in life, even terrible events that happened years ago, for today, I have my Lulu, and I have my Thor, and I couldn't love or appreciate them more if I tried.

20 Pounds!

Woooot!

*And* I managed to resist Z's famous vanilla cinnamon French toast this morning. Somehow, seeing that number on the scale fall is as motivating as anything. Next goal: 30 pounds!

Still Here

Busy week - Z had several days off for the long weekend and although we didn't do much, I still find that I had no time to sit down to update. Yesterday was our seven year wedding anniversary, though we'll be celebrating tonight by going to the restaurant at the resort where we were married. It's a beautiful, rustic place with spectacular views of the city and a wine list to make any sommelier drool.

I'm now down 19 pounds! I'll hopefully hit the big 2-0 this week sometime. I celebrated my loose clothes by going and buying a pair of new shorts a couple days ago. My old size 4's and 6's have a long, long way to go before fitting me again, so I needed something to tide me over for these next few hot months where pants are just a cruel and sweltering option. It's odd that I have plenty of clothes that fit me when I was quite overweight, and plenty of clothes that fit me when I was quite svelte. Very few in between. What the heck did I wear last time I lost all the weight? I suspect I just went baggy, but heck, I'm just so happy to feel somewhat myself again that I want to wear clothes that look at least semi-good. Forget baggy.

Happily, last Friday's injection of Humira is still hanging in there. Granted, it's only Tuesday, but I feel fairly good and only have 3 days left until my next dose. It feels so good to sleep again without waking every few minutes due to pain. Of course, Lulu then went on to wake me up twice last night because her "feet were sticking out of the covers" (I'm totally serious) so it's time to teach her a lesson in covering oneself up with a blanket. Sigh.

A happy belated Memorial Day to all, with extra thoughts and thanks to those who serve our country as well as their loved ones.

A History of Wake-Up Calls

Almost four years ago, I stepped on the scale in my reproductive endocrinologist's office. Having had several miscarriages, I was determined to find out what was wrong with me - what was wrong with us, as Z might be a factor - and have a healthy pregnancy. At this point, I knew I was heavy; I just don't think I realized how heavy I was.

The number glaring back at me from the scale seemed unreal, impossible: 213 pounds. There had to be a mistake. I hadn't weighed myself for months, but there couldn't be any way that I had toppled over 200 pounds...was there?

My RE, Dr. H, held a copy of my driver's license, being standard procedure to have copies of all patients' licenses. He frowned at the picture in front of him, and then frowned at me.

"How long ago was this picture taken?" he asked. I knew where he was going, and I felt my face flush.

"About 3 years ago," I mumbled. I remember well. It was driver's license photo taken after I returned from my honeymoon where I was "wedding-thin". Brief pause.

"You mean, you've gained almost 80 pounds in 3 years?"

"Maybe less," I argued. "I think I might have weighed a little more than 135 at that point." This fact had no impact on Dr. H. He proceeded to explain that I was almost 60 pounds overweight and was about 30 pounds into the obese zone.

Obese? Not me. Other people were obese. People who had to have custom made clothes, who had to use scooters because they could no longer walk. There was no way I could be obese. I still fit into most stores' clothes, albeit from the "women's" section. As this was before my RA became bad again, I was still able-bodied and could moderately exercise still, if I choose. So, no, I couldn't be obese.

But I was, and in order to not be obese anymore, I needed to lose about 30 pounds. Then, and only then, would I not be obese. Just overweight. Fantastic.

Dr. H's orders were clear, no-nonsense, and included a thick handout of instructions to follow. I was to lose 30 pounds (at least) while following what can best be described as a diabetic diet. No refined sugar or starch, lots of whole grains, veggies, complex carbs, etc. He explained that having a healthier weight (and, by virtue of following the diabetic diet, a healthy blood sugar) could only help my pregnancies, that it wasn't necessarily my weight that caused my miscarriages, but why not increase my chances all I could?

I sat, crying in his office, feeling ashamed, mortified, in disbelief. Obese had never been a word that I thought would apply to me, and never had I thought it might, in any way, impact my unborn children. But my tears were tinged with motivation and desire, an early indication that my health was no longer my own and belonged equally as much to my children, whether born or not.

I started my diet that night, and the next day, the scale slipped down 3 pounds. My body liked this new diet. The weight shed incredibly fast, and once I threw in some treadmill walking, it slipped even faster. Weeks later, I became pregnant with my daughter. I started heparin (a blood thinner, as I have a history of blood clots), continued to eat healthy throughout my pregnancy, and boom, healthy baby. I suspect the heparin is primarily responsible for carrying to term, but I have no doubt that my healthier weight contributed, too, if only by not causing as much wear and tear on my body.

Everyone has their own wake-up calls. For some, it's seeing photos of themselves. For others, it's being told by a concerned loved-one that it's time to start monitoring the scale. Others, like me, have their attention brought about by a doctor, but with health implications. For me, it was more than my own health; it was my kids'. Double health implications.

Today, it's easy to turn a blind eye to what obese actually is. Many (such as myself) just picture morbidly obese but happily ignore those who are on the lower-obese (yet still make-no-mistake-about-it obese). I remember seeing old episodes of "Friends" where they flashback to Monica's "fat" days. To me, she never looked fat. Chunky, sure, but so was I. On the show, she was continuously riddled for her weight, implying she was enormous, unfathomably huge. Then it was mentioned she weighed 200 pounds. 200 pounds! Heck, I weight MORE than 200 pounds! So, what did that make me? And thus was born yet another (yet, perhaps somewhat ridiculous) wake-up call. I was heavier than I thought I was. The depiction of poor Monica was unfair, to be sure. I'll be first to admit it, as will others who fight their weight who never thought Monica was as heavy as they described her. But at the same time, it proved the idea that I so stubbornly resisted: obese is a lot smaller than most of us realize. And I fit the criteria.

For over two years, even throughout my pregnancy with Thor, I've maintained a healthy to semi-healthy (read: slightly overweight, not obese) weight. This most recently weight-gain, though, had me on the fast track to obesity again. The scale was sliding too close, and stepping on that scale for the first time in weeks was the latest wake-up call. These days, I weigh myself daily. For the past almost 5 weeks, I haven't missed a morning of stepping on my scale. Some may advise against daily weighing, but for me, it is a necessity. I need the daily reminder. I need the daily wake-up call that I can no longer just sit aside and pretend that the number isn't creeping up. For me, it's about accountability. It's when I avert my eyes that my weight becomes an issue. Whether I like the number in front of me or not, I at least need to know what I'm dealing with so I no longer become as happily ignorant as I was 4 years ago.

In happier news, I saw my rheumatologist yesterday and my Humira dose got increased to every week from every other week. That means more days of feeling well with fewer days of feeling icky in between. In one month, if I'm not better, I'll start Imuran, the disease modifying agent. I'm not terribly thrilled at this prospect, but will do what it takes to feel better. After not feeling well all of last week, I took my Humira injection on Friday and felt better within hours. This is a good sign. It works, just wears off quickly, hence increasing the frequency. I just hope this works.

This weekend, I managed to eat healthily and the scale reflect my progress: I'm almost 17 pounds down from when I started. Amazing how just changing little habits makes such a big difference! My desire is just to make these "little habits" permanent, so no wake-up call is needed in the future.

One Step Forward, Two Painful Steps Back

I guess the honeymoon period is over. I was so reluctant to write this, but it's looking truer and truer by the day, and that is that the Humira is already failing me. It's getting worse daily and I'm about as bad as I was before I started the Humira. My knuckles are swollen like plumped up marbles. My wrists are unbendable. My shoulders are stiff, my knees creaky and stubborn, protesting every time I stand from a sitting position. My ankles are unstable, my toes like every one has been stubbed against a chair. I've had to use my handicap permit a couple times the past few days. I came dangerously close to dropping Thor today and burst into tears when I couldn't remove his carseat yesterday to transfer it to a friend's car. My friend, who is 6 months pregnant, and had to push Thor's stroller and help me juggle him because his tiny little self is too heavy for me to hold.

Lulu watched me fall a couple days ago, landing on my left wrist and shrieking with pain. I fall easily because of the instability in my ankles and knees. She was scared and her eyes broadened with worry. I pulled together quickly, and she asked me if it hurt. I told her yes, I had a booboo. "Where?" she asked. On my wrist, I explained, and then pointed to my knuckles and asked if she could see how big they were. She nodded, caressing them curiously and tenderly with her little fingers. "Can I kiss them to make them better?" she asked. My eyes stung with tears, not out of sadness, but shock and awe at this little person. Choked up, all I could do was nod. She gently took my hand, and with the sweetness that a prince kisses the hand of the princess, she grazed her lips over the largest knuckle on my right hand. the middle one, the one that has a right-hand diamond ring that hasn't been able to come off for months, trapped underneath a huge swell.

"Is that better?" she asked, cocking her head, still holding my hand.
"Yes, sweetie, it's much better now." I hugged her and held her tightly, not wanting her to see me cry and misinterpret my tears for anything but sheer, all-encompassing love for her.

Normally, the kids have no idea anything is wrong with me. Unless they play too rough with me (in which case Z and I will tell them to be gentle with me) or if they witness a fall of sorts, like Lulu did, they probably just sort of assume I'm a wimp. Which is fine with me. I don't complain around them, but try to remain matter-of-fact: this is why Mommy can't run with you, this is why you shouldn't grab Mommy's hand too hard. I don't want them to worry. I want them to be kids and not ever have to worry about their mom. But Lulu is just so darn perceptive and there was no hiding that fall from her. I feel guilty for letting her see me shriek like that, but in the end, I had the chance to discover all the more what a beautiful little person she is becoming.

I even feel a little guilty complaining here. So many people, even people I know, have it so much worse than me. Cancer (and not the type of easy-to-remove cancer I had), lupus (a disease for which I'm susceptible and for which I've been tested for multiple times and, thankfully, have been negative), multiple sclerosis, muscular dystrophy, and a laundry list of other afflictions, all affect people I know and love. Hell, I have it easy! I know that. I remind myself of that daily, believe me. I'm so damn lucky. Yet, that whiny, entitled part of myself comes battling through on my bad days and puts me in moods like I am today. So, I am so sorry, my readers, that I complain like I do. Sometimes it's easier to do it here, where a reader can choose to skip an entry, than to my friends or family who are dealing with their own crap and may not feel like they have a choice to ignore me if I choose to complain to them. Does that make sense?

I have a doctor's appointment with my rheumatologist on Monday and I'm positive they will increase the frequency of Humira and possibly start a disease modifying agent, probably Imuran or possibly methotrexate, both chemo drugs which have the potential of increasing the efficacy of biologics like Humira. So, I have not seen the end of the road yet. I still have options, thank goodness, before going back to prednisone. It's looking mighty tempting, sitting there in my medicine cabinet, promising me almost immediate relief if I just take a few pills. I went as far as getting the bottle out and trying to open it, only to find that I physically was not strong enough to open it. In my own twisted mind, this was a sign I shouldn't take it. I put the bottle back and took a pain reliever instead.

In happier news, I managed to behave myself at dinner the other night, treating myself to just a couple slices of pizza, sharing the rest with Thor and Lulu. The sodium made my scale laugh in my face the past couple days, but I know it is only temporarily and the water weight will probably shed in a such a manner to make me feel particularly successful and virtuous. Last night was Mondo Salad night, which Lulu decided to copy, neglecting her whole grain penne and marinara sauce for her Mini Mondo Salad. 'Atta girl! Thor "asked" (via pointing and screaming) for some salad, only to pop a piece of lettuce in his mouth, wretch, and hand it back to me. One out of two ain't bad.

Tonight is a potluck at Lulu's school and I'm hoping someone brings along a healthy option such as salad or baked chicken or something. Yes, I should have opted to bring a healthy option myself (not a noodle, red sauce, sausage and cheese casserole), but I choked! I couldn't think! I was under the gun to write down what I'd bring, to make a commitment in just a few seconds, and it's all I could think of. Anyway, if nothing looks appealing/healthy, I'll eat at home. No big deal.


Today marks four weeks since The Great Weight Reversal kicked off and I am 14 pounds down. I suspect I am still hanging onto water weight and I'll see a considerable drop in the next couple days as I eat more wholesomely. Hopefully, in a few days, I'll be able to report more of a 15-16 pound drop. That would put me almost a third of the way to my goal! This is not to say that I expect to reach my goal in only three months, but it sure is motivating to have a start such as this. As we all know, though, it isn't the losing weight that is the problem. It's the maintaining. Once I reach The Goal, I plan on continuing writing here (perhaps under a new blog name? We'll see) as I try to stay healthy. It's not just a three month challenge. It's a lifetime challenge.

The Verdict

Healthy!

Nothing to worry about this year, at least, nothing out of the ordinary. I have many atypical moles on my back, all of which need to be examined every couple of months for changes, but nothing today was overly worrisome. According to the doctor, having had one melanoma in the past puts me at an 8 times higher risk of developing another one in the future. And having atypical moles puts me at a 12 times higher risk. I'm a big, walking risk factor. She carefully outline how quickly melanomas can mestastisize and once they do, there is not much that can be done. I was lucky to have found my melanoma so quickly, before it spread. No radiation, chemo, or anything. Just an excision and a dime-sized dimple on my breast.

Being at the cancer clinic is always humbling, as I am going in there for a checkup with the assumption that I will walk out as healthy as when I walked in. I am overtly aware that this is not the case for many - if not most - of the patients there. My mother was a oncology nurse for many years and always said, in a similar vein, how lucky she felt every day, working with the patients with whom she worked. Today, I am lucky and I can only hope that when I walk back out of those clinic doors next time, it will be with the same relief I feel today.

I remember reading a segment on Eva Cassidy, a talented singer who, at the age of 33, died of advanced melanoma. For her, it happened quite suddenly, as it does for many people. The oncologist today told me to take pictures of my back and all the places I can't see and have Z do a comparison check every month or two, just to be sure nothing has grown or changed. I nodded earnestly, promising I would. She's heard this line from me before.

"Make it a priority this week," she said. "It's important to catch these things early."

Another earnest nod.

"If you don't do it for yourself, do it for your family. Do it so you can live a long life for your children."

Sound familiar?

This resonated with me. It chilled me. It's something I have said on this very blog. I'll have Z take the comparison pictures this weekend, and this time, I mean it.