It's Here

Tomorrow I am 40. And I will not climb Mt. Hood as I had declared when I started this blog one year ago. I will not begin my 40th year at the summit of a mountain I love dearly.

For the past six months when I didn’t prioritize exercise, while I was consumed by the auction I organize, while I procrastinated, I knew I would not hit my goal. I knew I would not climb Mt. Hood because I wasn’t making it happen.

But turning 40 isn’t the end. Right? I’ve got plans. I’m not elderly for a while still. And the list of excuses I started the year with is gone. I don’t need comfort food. I can exercise without joining a gym. I can breathe through my nose. There is time for everyone and everything if they are important. My goal to climb Mt. Hood prompted transformation that can’t be taken back. I’m happier now, even though I’ve fallen thousands of feet short.

Looking ahead, I know there will be more fun, more challenges, and more evolution in the coming year. Maybe a new goal for my 41st birthday?

Tomorrow I will start following my new schedule that includes time for exercising and writing.

This weekend I will park myself in a small Forest Service cabin on Mt. Hood. My family and friends will come to celebrate. I will hike, spend time in the woods, and gaze upon Mt. Hood from a distance.

On June 17, Joe and I will climb Mt. St. Helens. Eight hours up and back.

And then there’s still the possibility of climbing Mt. Hood next spring if I decide to make it happen.

Happy Birthday to me!

Structure

I have outlined my whole book in a four-part structure.  A detailed spreadsheet that provides a map for where I’m going.  I know which scenes have yet to be written and what information needs to be included based on where it falls in the structure. 

I had resisted putting structure to my writing.  I had thought it should grow organically, flow at will.  I never saw myself as rigid or someone who could not function without structure.  More typically, I see myself as a loosey-goosey, go with the flow, flexible kind of person.  But maybe that’s just what I tell myself? 

I fidget when boundaries at work are unclear; worry endlessly about a camping trip until I start a list; am paralyzed by a day without any scheduled plans. 

So it seems structure is more than welcome—as long as I am not beholden to it at all costs.  I do my best to plan, to make sure all is thought through, and then if everything falls apart, I  g o  w i t h  t h e  f l o w.  The cost and consequences of control are too high.  And because at my core, I have a scary, industrial-strength stubborn streak, I will break any controlling situation. 

In my struggle to get healthy, I have yet to find a structure that works.  I find myself feeling stubborn when I know I need to cook a healthy meal or get outside for a hike.  And how crazy is that to be in a battle of wills with myself? 

So to Excel I go, to create a another structure that maps out where I want to go to be healthy and strong.  Spreadsheets are a perfect non-threatening tool.  Easy to modify, print-out, and tape to the refrigerator.  We'll see...



 

New Nose

My nose has been straight for over two months.  Enough time for the memory of surgery to fade, but even after day one or day six, I could say with truth that it was worth it.

I now sleep with my mouth closed for the first time in my life.  People have noticed that my color is better.  I have unusual clarity of mind.  I didn't hyperventilate on my last uphill hike.  All that I had hoped for and more.

For anyone who would like the details, or is considering the same surgery, you'll see the full accounting below.

Pre-op, terror.

All was okay until the kind nurse started plugging vials of clear liquid in to my IV.   

"This one usually causes some anxiety and unfortunately we can't give you the 'feel good' stuff until the surgeon arrives."  

Not some anxiety, but the worst kind of terror I have ever felt in my life.  I felt trapped in my small curtained room, stupid that I had planned the torture I was about to experience.  I considered pulling out the IV and running out the door.  And I know how to get through most panic.  I survived an MRI un-medicated by going to a happy place in my mind (Central Park c. 1998).  And did I mention that I'm claustrophobic?  But even the happy place didn't work.  When the nurse checked on me, she must have known I was about to bail.  We walked the halls, her at my elbow, my IV bag in her hand.  The surgeon arrived to answer any questions (I had none) and to confirm I understood she was doing a septoplasty.  Between the nurses and doctors, I confirmed this no less than seven times.  Apparently there are some mix ups with surgery?  Finally I was wheeled through the halls to the operating room, pumped with the "feel good" drugs finally, then I scooted my body from the gurney to the table, and goodbye.

Waking up, pleasant.   

Two kind voices in my head, then faces.  "Do you want me to get your husband?" 

"Yes."

  

Drive home, cold.  

Doctor's don't write prescriptions for the painkillers in advance, so instead of bringing me home and leaving again, I told Joe to drive straight to the pharmacy.  When I got in the house and settled in bed, there was a white hot flush that lasted only a minute.  Then the shivering began, so I wrapped up and laid back in my nest of pillows and blankets.  

Day one, schedule.  

My iPhone alarm was set in four hour increments for the next 48 hours.  I dutifully took my Percocet, antibiotics, and ate a few saltines.  Plus as much water as I could remember to drink throughout. Propped up on pillows behind and on the side, I am upright and try to sleep.  I think I sleep.  No pain.  Not too much swelling.  Felt pretty good.  Mustache bandage on for most of the day.

Day two, shower, hallelujah.   

Lots of TV, bored, bored, bored.  Packing hung down in the back of my throat, gross.  More swelling.  Figured I would get some bruising under my eyes.  Felt like a bad head cold.  Mustache bandage on for just a bit of the day.  No air flow through my nose, meant the pressure in my ears built up with every swallow.

  

Day four, packing is not actually packing in the back of my throat.  

Turns out the anesthesiologist tore a part of my uvula (the little dangly thing in the back of your throat) with the breathing tube and it was hanging in the back of my throat causing some mild choking and much irritation.  My surgeon plucked off the tissue in a breeze and sent us home.  The pain set in right away.  Searing pain that was not relieved by Percocet.  Even every four hours.  Pain all the time, no sleep, no rest.

Day five & six, pain and boredom.  

Plus gargling with salt water, flushing my nose with saline, eating nothing, not even saltines.  Meds were wreaking havoc on stomach.  Three full seasons of The Office, two seasons of Parenthood, and the first season of Downton Abbey.  Netflix I love you. 

Day seven, splints out.  

Miracle of miracles to breath clear.  Because I do not close my eyes or look away for shots or blood draws, I watched through crossed eyes down at my nose as she pulled out the splints that were unbelievable large and disgusting.  A putrid color I have never seen before and hope to never see again.  The cold east county air burned my nose on the walk to the car, but I was breathing.

Day eight, try to return to work.  

Bad idea.  My morning meeting was a foggy fuzz.  I had been off pain killers, for a few days, but going out in public pointed that I was not yet ready for conversation.  Plus my stomach revolted from the five bottles of pills I took and the six vials pumped through my IV. 

Day sixty-eight, bone spurs.
I can fully breathe and that's still the most amazing thing in the world.  But my new straight nose is lumpy with bone spurs and cartilage gone wild.  In two weeks, the surgeon will go in with a rasp to shave it down straight.  Just through my skin, with some numbing but no painkillers or anesthesia or IVs.  Bone spurs are a possible complication to this kind of surgery.  Oh well.  I can breathe.

Before                       

 

 After 

Under the Knife

I continue to prepare for my climb this spring, sometimes consciously and other times not.  
I had not consciously planned to buy prescription sunglasses the day I dropped the kids at the theater with the grandmas.  But there I headed, to Eye Health NW where I ordered a pair of cute Oakley prescription sunglasses.  I would surely go snow blind without them.  Sunglasses hadn’t even made it to my to-do list yet, but check…done.  

Another preparation, though very conscious and much deliberated, is my decision is to have a septoplasty to correct a deviated septum so I can breathe through my nose. 

I wrote about it last September here.

Did I mention that it’s tomorrow?

Tomorrow I will be put under anesthesia for the first time ever.  A tube will be threaded down my throat and a machine will breathe for me during the 2 ½ hour surgery.  This freaks me out beyond words.  Though I need this surgery, it is elective.  I could call now and cancel.  I could even call in the morning to cancel.  But I won’t.  I need to breathe through my nose.

When the fear of not waking up from surgery freezes my heart, I brush past quick and force myself to block the thoughts I know will only drive me to panic.  The kids don’t need to see me panic.  And I don’t need to panic.  The surgery is a means to an end.   

Goodbye old nose.

I know I won’t be breathing clear for a while though.  The cartilage and tissue will surely need some time to calm down after all the snipping, mashing, and molding.  But by spring, even before spring, I’ll breathe clear for the first time in my life.  And I’ll have a chance to see what my body can do on a steep incline when there’s enough oxygen in my blood.

Here’s a video of a septoplasty if you have the stomach for it.  The surgeon is from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills on Bravo, not that I’ve ever watched that show.

A Room of My Own, But Not for Sleeping

Six hours of solid writing last night and I decided I should try to get some sleep.   My hands and forearms ached from typing.  My eyes blurred from too much time at the computer screen. 

In the six hours, I had mapped out my whole book in greater detail than before, organized the scenes in to four parts, wrote new scenes, and re-read chapters in the two reference books I brought along.  All good work and I was feeling proud of myself for not freaking out over being alone. 

The worst part of the afternoon/night was leaving the room for trips to the European-style common bathroom they have here at Edgefield.  I felt vulnerable to the large, unattended rooms, even worried that I might encounter a ghost.  The building felt too wide open to whoever might want to enter.  And there were plenty of drunken people out in the hallways throughout the night.  I even heard a boozy screaming argument out on the porch next to my room. 

Coming back from the last trip to the bathroom at 10:30 pm, I was happy to see a tall sign blocking the outside door nearest my room.  Presumably it said to enter through the main doors after hours.  Whew.

I clicked off all but the soft bedside light and settled in to the tiny but comfortable twin bed.  I swiped the screen of my Kindle to wake it up and read four chapters of The Boys of My Youth by Jo Ann Beard.  Knowing it was getting late and that I wanted to write more in the morning before check out, I shut down the Kindle, clicked off the light, and attempted to fall asleep. 

It was too hot, then the bed felt too small, then I couldn’t get the pillows right, then it was 1:30 am and I couldn’t have been more wide awake.  I had forgotten that I can’t sleep anywhere but my bed at home. 

After a decade of unrelenting insomnia and six of those reliant on prescription sleeping pills, the sleeplessness went away as if by magic and I rest well most every night now.  Except when I’m not at home. 

Now it’s 6:26 am.  I finished The Boys of My Youth (loved it and highly recommend), worked on more scenes, and am waiting until I hear other guests wake up and start moving around in the hallway so I can go to the bathroom.

Here's a photo of the actual room.  A bargain at $50 a night, even if I never slept.

 

A Room of My Own

Though I’ve set out to climb Mt. Hood this spring, the imagined snapshot of me standing at the peak, surrounded by white silence, alone at the top of the earth, makes my heart race.  That image in my mind and the fear in my body describe the feeling I avoid at all costs: loneliness.

I know other mothers who cherish alone time.  They are somehow refreshed by the solitude.  While I like the idea of peace and quiet, I am anything but refreshed by being alone.  My response to coming upon a free chunk of time is to make plans with a friend.  Otherwise I am in front of the TV, sucked in to the artificial world of sitcom, or drama, or reality show, or infomercial.  What’s on the TV doesn’t matter.

I know that sounds sad.  I’ve spent hundreds of hours dredging through memory as I write my book, so I know where it all comes from.  As a kid, I was alone too much.  And it was sad. 

But now as a nearly 40-year-old woman, this particular fear has become a problem.  There are things I need to do alone.  Like carving out large chunks of time to write.  And more chunks of time to exercise.  Unfortunately, neither of those things can be done effectively with other people.

I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating my “ideal” writing scenario, imagining a room of my own.  Currently I write while my family buzzes around me or after they all go to bed.  It isn’t necessarily the quality, focused time I need, but it works to a point.

In the vein of growth I began with my last birthday, I booked myself an overnight stay this Sunday at Edgefield to write.  Even though the hotel is probably haunted like they say, it “feels” right so I figure it’s worth a try.

Instead of the scared little girl at home by herself, a new image flashes in my mind.  It’s Monday morning at check out.  A woman stands at the counter, she radiates peace. It’s a woman who’s written 30 fresh scenes for her book.  And she’s ready to plan the next overnight.  Alone.

The Quest Resumes

The adipose tissue in my body is out of whack.  Adipose tissue is just another term for fat, which I’ve been reading about for the last few days.  A new book (there’s always a new book) has led to a new path for getting my body healthy.  I have to admit I skimmed through much of it, but generally I have the following understanding of what’s going on in my body. 

My fat cells have gone haywire. 

Some people can eat sugar and carbohydrates.  Some people can eat them and not gain weight.  Some people can eat them and not need a nap.  A cream filled maple bar sends me to bed.  It produces flu-like symptoms.  One slice of whole-grain, whole-wheat, seed covered, organic dark brown bread and I crash.  So I didn’t need to read a book to understand that carbs and me don’t get along.  But before this new book, I didn’t really understand why they are all I want to eat. 

It’s because my fat cells have taken over. 

They shout the order, “Make more insulin!”  The insulin snakes to my brain, commands, “Bagels, cereal, toast, chocolate!” 

I can certainly override these commands.  I am not a robot after all.  But the trick is that no matter how much I eat of non-carbohydrate laden food, I feel starved.  Because that is what’s happening.  The fat cells are starving without a regular flush of sugar.  And I guess that’s what I’m after.  To take control back from the adipose tissue which is clearly trying to kill me. 

I’m on day two of no carbs right in the thick of Christmas cookies and eggnog.  I am literally surrounded by sugar, but I will always be surrounded by sugar. 

So here we go…