The Tao Of Daisy

Two weeks ago, we had to make a difficult decision to say goodbye to my children’s other mother, Daisy. Daisy was 18 years old—and has been just about the only constant in my children’s lives. Between our incessant moving, health and other various life crises, Daisy was the constant, the calm in every life storm.

She could soothe my children in a way of which their mother is totally incapable. She was part of the family before my children were. She seemed to think Ethan was her own kitten from the time we brought him home from the hospital until the time he carried her to the animal hospital for the last time.

I’ve owned a lot of cats in my lifetime and Daisy was unique among them. She, like my son has always been an old, wise soul. And as much as I complain about our house being overrun by cats, she is, and will continue to be deeply missed. Here’s to you Miss Daisy. See you on the other side.

As a coping mechanism for us all, I started writing the Tao of Daisy during her final days. It is a tribute to the deep wisdom and touch of mysticism that embodied her existence:

Tao of Daisy

The origin of the cat is unknown. It is the ultimate mystery and is important because it is mysterious. Cats are by nature mysterious. Were the origin to be known, it would cease to be a mystery and the cat would cease to be a cat. Therefore do not seek what cannot be known. Rather, pet the cat before you.
All things come from and return to the Mother Cat. If you believe you came from elsewhere you are mistaken. You did not begin until the cat chose you. You will have no end until the cat is finished with you.
Your Mother Cat protects you. Sometimes with her claws, sometimes with her tail. And sometimes she attacks you with her claws or her tail. Accept such with humility, for you deserved the chastisement.

When faced with a decision of great import, find a warm, soft place. Curl up and let the nap of deciding envelope you. If, when you wake, you are still undecided, return to the nap.

If the view from your window is snowy, stay on the warm side of the glass.
When faced with great danger, hide. When you emerge, if the danger lingers, hide longer.

Tuna comes to the patient cat. If patience is prolonged, the provider is at fault and must be chastised.
Do not accept a dish that is less than half full. The wise cat must be still and stare until the bowl is filled.

Gynomite!

I think my gynecologist has now placed a permanent flag in my chart indicating that I am a "difficult patient."  Even though I am not.  I don't really like confrontation--especially in medicine.  I've always just gone along with things.  Except when I haven't.  And unfortunately for my poor Gynocologist, those moments have been at her office.  

Backing up a few years...I had dutifully gone in for the annual pee in a cup and stick a swab up your hoo-haw celebration, and got some labwork done in the process (I started down the menopause road at 34--but that is another post altogether).  Two weeks later, I was summoned in to the office to review my lab results with the doctor.  I checked in, and as per usual, was told to go pee in a cup.  

For those of you of the female persuasion, you know what this entails.  For me at least, it generally means contorting myself into an awkward position for the pleasure of peeing all over my hand, writing my name on my little cup, like you did for a grade school science experiment, and leaving it in a secret little door in the wall for someone to grade.

I also know that the only reason this is done, is to check if you are pregnant.  Now, having already gone through this joyful ritual a mere two weeks earlier, knowing even then, that I was not and could not be pregnant then, only to be asked to go through the ritual again so that I could review the blood work results with my doctor "stuck in my craw" as they say (who "they" are, we've yet to understand).  

Therefore, I politely declined.  The office admin looked shocked.  I asked why they needed my pee again?  She said that insurance requires a pee test for every visit.  I politely stated that I doubt the insurance company wants to pay for unnecessary tests unrelated to the nature of my visit here today--unless the doctor wished to discuss my labwork over a particularly strange cocktail mixed in a paper cup with my name written on it (I didn't say that last part).  Again, shocked look as she said she would let the doctor know.  Is it really so uncommon that someone refuses to pee in a cup?  Have we all become lemmings, wherein we leave all dignity at the door of the doctors' office?

To her credit, when the doctor called me back, she apologized for her staff and confirmed to me that they did not indeed need a urine sample to review my blood work.   Nonetheless, I imagine there was some sort of flag placed in my chart at that time (....uncooperative, refuses simple requests, asks too many questions....)

Fast forward to last year.  I showed up, dutifully peed in a cup (I think I might start making refusal of that one a regular occurrence though--seriously people, unless we want to revisit immaculate conception in this century, I'm not pregnant), dutifully had my hoo-haw swabbed, then had "the talk" with my gyno.  Let's be clear--I really like my Gynecologist.  She's great--I mean for somebody who chose as a profession to stick there hands up you-know-where--I'm not going to invite her to dinner (without asking her to thoroughly scrub up at least), but she seems to know her stuff, is kind and not condescending in any way.  

Notwithstanding all that, after my lady bits were properly swabbed, she looked at me seriously and commented that in the years I've been coming to her practice, I'd put on some weight.  Thank you captain obvious.  I told her I was seeing a dietitian currently, and that she was on it.  She then proceeded to have a long conversation with me about various methods of weight loss.  How she had recently lost some weight, and how I could go online and google various things to help me figure out how to loose weight.  I participated politely in the discussion, that went on WAY TOO LONG.  And left.  

I mentioned this conversation later that week to my dietician who about lost it.  She was ready to march on over to my gynecology practice and read my doctor the riot act.  And I realized she was absolutely right.  I should have been a bit more bothered by the whole interchange with the gyno and should have created better boundaries in that discussion--as in refusing to engage in that discussion.  For example, my dietitian pointed out--if something suspiciously canceresque had appeared in my lab results, would she have called me in and discussed googling cancer treatments with me, telling me what she had done to deal with her little bout of cervical cancer?  Absolutely not!  She would have referred me to a specialist and left it at that.  Why does every doctor out there seem to think that A--not only is being fat in and of itself a disease, and is the cause of every other disease, and B--that either by simply telling you to lose some weight, or to diet and exercise, that you will magically be cured of the disease of fatness?  Do they often prescribe treatments with a greater than 90% fail rate?  Because that's what diets are.  By and large the result of dieting is weight gain.  WHY DO PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY DOCTORS KEEP TELLING PEOPLE TO DIET?!!?  

I digress.  My dietitian informed me that I have a right to refused to be weighed, and to refuse to discuss my weight with practitioners that do not specialize in nutrition management.  So it is with much angst that I have approached my annual hoo-haw swabbing ritual this year.  As I said, I am at heart non-confrontational.  I've had a lot of doctors appointments lately (long story), none of whom insisted on discussing my weight in depth, all of whom insisted on weighing me.  Which brings me to a doctor appt I had two days prior to my annual Gynomite visit.  

Here's the thing--I have not weighed myself in well over a year.  I have learned that the drawbacks to weighing oneself regularly far outweigh any benefits (again, topic for another post).  So, because I don't like confrontation, and I know these other doctors are going to be satisfied by simply telling me I should loose weight  to solve all my problems, but back off when I mention I'm seeing a specialist, I've suffered myself to be weighed.  I simply close my eyes while on the scale.  Except last week.  I stepped on the scale, closed my eyes, and lost my balance.  So I opened my eyes and saw the reading.  Again a topic for another post, but this triggered a bit of a mental freak out.  

Knowing therefore that I was to go see Dr. Gynomite in a mere two days, I steeled myself.  I was going to refuse to be weighed!  I submitted to the cup peeing because I like to limit myself to one confrontation per doctor's visit, but then when the attendant told me to step on the scale, I said--politely, that I would not like to be weighed.  Just real fast she replies.  Like doing it fast means it didn't happen.  I asked why she needed my weight, and she said because they need it for the chart but wouldn't be discussed in my visit.  I explained that it was my understanding that a doctor only needs a weight when prescribing weight based medications, and since the only medication I get from this doctor is non-weight based, that I didn't see it as necessary.  And further, that it was my experience at this office that the doctor does discuss weight during my visit, and since I have other healthcare practitioners concerning themselves with my weight, I didn't need another one in the mix...thank you very much.  

Again, blank stare.  She said she's never had anyone refuse to be weighed.  REALLY?  NEVER?  Again ladies, what have we become? Sounds like we need to be more self-assertive.

So I had my bits swabbed, and didn't discuss my weight.  Granted, my doc suddenly "was called to the hospital" so I saw her partner.  I'm pretty sure that little flag in my chart, just got bigger.  

Tune in next time for the Smashburger lunch I really am going to host post mammogram:

"Get your girls smashed, then come get a smashburger with the girls!"

I Can Breathe for the First Time; or Sleepovers With Luis

I spent two nights away from my family last week....with Luis.  He was so gentle with me.  He took time to calm my fears.   He ran his hands through my hair, touched my face, my neck, plying me with alcohol...wipes, and glue.  Lots of glue.  He ran wires down my clothing, made me wear a mask, watched me sleep, and brought me breakfast in bed.

It feels so very illicit, and a little kinky.

But it's not really.

You see, I think I have a problem.  Breathing.  Luis thinks so too. Though he won't say.  He's not at liberty to discuss results with me.

So next week, I'll go see the sleep doctor, and tell her about my two nights at the sleep center with Luis, watching me breathe.  And she'll tell me what Luis already knows--that I have sleep apnea.

And every time I put on my sleep mask by myself, I'll think of Luis.  And how since he's been gone, I can breathe for the first time.

Coming Out

I remember when the TSA full body scanners came out and complaining about them on social media was all the rage.  I also remember thinking, "what's the big deal? If I get scanned and the virtual mini-me that shows up on the scanner's screen looks all lumpy, are the screeners (or anyone else within view of the screen) going to point and giggle and say "look!  she's fat!" as if we're all surprised.  As if no-one noticed as I slid gracefully into the scanning booth that I was fat, and were shocked to realize that, contrary to the optical-illusion created by my clothing, there was indeed a fat person hiding in there.

I don't want to write about full body scanners today.  What I want to write about is this myth that fat people seem obliged to participate in in our society.  This myth that I'm not really a fat person, I'm just a thin person waiting to be uncovered (I think Oprah said something to that effect).  The myth that every fat person is actually an unhappy thin person, trying to get back to their thin body.

Guess what?  I've never been thin.  Nope, never.  Okay, so maybe for a fleeting moment as a toddler--I'll have to ask my mom on that one.  But every memory I have of myself is as a fat person.  And oh so many of those memories are of a fat person who wants sooooo badly to be thin.  Who believes that if she just does A,B, and C, thinness will be hers.  And that thinness is indeed the ultimate prize, and that somehow, I've just always failed.  That although I am quite successful in a great many other areas in my life, that I am still a failure at heart, because I've failed to achieve the elusive and magical state of thinness.

That's the myth.  That's the lie society is telling us.  That we are all just over-developed thin people, and we should be ashamed.  Guess what?  I'm done believing that myth.  If there is one thing 43 years has taught me, it is that I am fat.  There, I've said it.  I've come out:  I am a fat person.  I'm not a fat person trying to get thin any longer.  I'm just Jen.  And I am fat.  And I'm working every day to be okay with that.  I feel much better already.  Thanks for asking.

There was a period in my life when I was okay with that.  It too was fleeting.  I'm not sure how I lost it, but in the past several years, I've managed to lose that comfort in my own skin.  I'm working to find it again.

I intend to resurrect this blog and perhaps spend some time on this little journey of mine, and will give you other little nuggets of my thoughts and experiences, but for a coming out party, I think this will suffice.

Child Shaming and the Fabulous Gown

Today I made a bet with my child.  The premise of the bet is unimportant.  The outcome is key to my parenting philosophy of late:  shaming and embarrassment makes kids tougher.  I'll tell him to ask his therapist in 20 years how that worked for him.

Needless to say, I won the bet.  And my child did the walk of shame to the mailbox to collect our mail--at the end of the cul de sac,  wearing my shimmery mu mu (aka the Fabulous Gown), curtsying politely to the neighbors every few steps to calls of "Hey Elliot, why are you wearing a dress".  It was epic.  He pulled it off like a champ.

I filmed the whole thing on my phone.  If I ever get that tech-savvy, I'll post it here.  But in the meantime I'll just save it for that special occasion when we put together the clip reel to loop at the sign-in table at his wedding reception.  I may also play his infamous scat solo, recorded while he was on the toilet, titled "Everybody Poops."

To his future bride, and his future therapist:  you're welcome.

Of Hills and Hamstrings

We just returned from what I like to call my annual "voluncation" where I go upstate New York and get to be a stage director again for an enormous theatrical/religious undertaking called The Hill Cumorah Pageant.

I am in no shape to be climbing hills and stages.  And yet, I went.  Next year, I will be lighter.  That is my vow.  But this year, not only was I too fat for the Hill, I had also suffered a serious injury just prior to departing.

I'm calling it a sky-diving related incident.

I'll save you the awkward details of the lead-up to the incident, and simply explain that, while walking on a rain-wet surface, I slipped, and went down.  All. the. way.

Fat people should not do the splits.  I thought I was fairly limber.  I'm not that limber.

In my mind, this is what I looked like when I fell:

In reality, it probably wasn't that glamorous.  My poor son who was with me, managed to assist his fat old mother upright, up a few stairs and a couple blocks to the car, whereupon I had a good cry, then drove the 60 minutes home, groaning in pain every time I had to apply the breaks.  I thought surely this meant I wouldn't be able to go to pageant.

But, my hamstring was only severely strained.  Which heals rather quickly, even though it left a very, very ugly bruise. But, by the time my flight left for New York, I was barely limping and was beginning to do stairs.  Slowly.  I took the hills and stairs slowly all week, mincing steps like a little old lady, and avoiding the highest stages at all costs.  But I did it.

Next year, I won't be so stupid, nor fat.  I showed the picture to my boss and his response was:  "well, at least you stuck the landing."  True that.

Dottore Pants

My husband and I spent four hours at a medical clinic today.  No, it's not Valentine's Day, thanks for asking. I know that's a little romantic tradition of ours, but today was even more special.  Today we met Doctor Vasquez.  I couldn't stop staring.  When he entered the room and shook our hands, I suddenly felt a little breathless and unsure of where I was.  Doctor Vasquez looks like what you think a doctor in a telenovella or soap opera should look like; young, handsome, latin, smooth, and very well-dressed.

I kept expecting him to say:  "No, I am not a Doctor, but I play one on television."

Instead, in response to every answered question he would say: "Good.  Muy bien."  And "shit".  He said "shit" several times, which is not what I'm used to hearing from a doctor.  But he said it in such a way that it wasn't offensive in the slightest.  He said it in a way that made me want to say it too.  And giggle.

And if ever there was a man who knows how to wear pants, it is Doctor Vasquez.

In the United States, men have not yet mastered the art of pants-wearing.  They are always too long, too short, too tight or too loose.  Not so for Doctor Vasquez.  It made me think just for a moment, that maybe I was in Italy again.  Or that I wanted to be wherever he came from.

The good news is that we anticipate seeing quite a bit more of Dr. Vasquez in the next few months. I'll let you know how it goes.  Muy bien.


Next time maybe I'll tell you about Miguel, my boyfriend in the Canary Islands.