8 packing lists.
2 hot pink and leopard-spotted luggage tags.
2 medicine containers- 1 human, 1 canine.
6 new sweaters.
2 sleep masks, one saying, 'Genius At Work."
4 paperback books.
2 umbrellas.
1 journal, 1 crossword puzzle book, 2 ipods.
16 GB of memory between 2 digital cameras and a flip videocamera.
Our vacation begins in 89 hours.
Not that I'm counting.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Alien in the Cereal Aisle
I made braised pork chops with apples and thyme butter sauce for dinner. My own recipe, nowhere near as sophisticated or complicated as it sounds. We ate in front of the television while we caught up on the football games we missed this afternoon.
It seems a little thing now, cooking a meal and sitting down to eat it, but I remember not too long ago when it would have been impossible for me.
Anorexia is knowing you're dying but refusing treatment because you're afraid of the medicine. It's much more complicated than that, I am simplifying, but at the very depths, the brain needs a certain amount of nourishment for any other kind of therapy to be effective. You have to start eating again before you even begin treating the reasons behind your refusal to eat. The truly sad part is most people see the food going in and assume everything is now fine- crisis averted, panic is over, on to the next problem. Really all you're doing is fueling the battle looming on the horizon.
When I was in treatment in Baltimore, the charge nurses took us on "therapeutic trips" to grocery stores and restaurants and held cooking classes and seminars to desensitize us to food. To me, each trip felt like landing on Mars. I didn't feel more normal tagging along behind six other emaciated girls and three nurses, discussing the merits of the different varieties and flavors of Ensure. There was something odd about pretending to be normal and knowing you're failing miserably. At looking at the young mother picking out apples for her daughter and wondering if you could take the rejection if you asked them to please take me with you I don't belong here.
And in the end, it really wasn't that we were afraid of food- or recipes, or cooking- most of us could arrange a four-course dinner party for 12 in 30 minutes flat. Our problem was sitting down to the table we set, eating the food we prepared, then leaving the table and letting ourselves go on with our day.
My parents say I don't give myself enough credit for what I've accomplished. It's probably true. I'm much more apt to punish myself for what I did yesterday than pat myself on the back for what I did ten years ago. The truth is what once was so difficult is pretty easy now. I guess "normal," like everything else, is a sliding scale.
While normal changes, the memories don't. I still remember being the alien in the cereal aisle, unsure of the changes she was seeing, yet knowing going home the same was not an option. And hoping desperately this new world would have a place for her after all.
It seems a little thing now, cooking a meal and sitting down to eat it, but I remember not too long ago when it would have been impossible for me.
Anorexia is knowing you're dying but refusing treatment because you're afraid of the medicine. It's much more complicated than that, I am simplifying, but at the very depths, the brain needs a certain amount of nourishment for any other kind of therapy to be effective. You have to start eating again before you even begin treating the reasons behind your refusal to eat. The truly sad part is most people see the food going in and assume everything is now fine- crisis averted, panic is over, on to the next problem. Really all you're doing is fueling the battle looming on the horizon.
When I was in treatment in Baltimore, the charge nurses took us on "therapeutic trips" to grocery stores and restaurants and held cooking classes and seminars to desensitize us to food. To me, each trip felt like landing on Mars. I didn't feel more normal tagging along behind six other emaciated girls and three nurses, discussing the merits of the different varieties and flavors of Ensure. There was something odd about pretending to be normal and knowing you're failing miserably. At looking at the young mother picking out apples for her daughter and wondering if you could take the rejection if you asked them to please take me with you I don't belong here.
And in the end, it really wasn't that we were afraid of food- or recipes, or cooking- most of us could arrange a four-course dinner party for 12 in 30 minutes flat. Our problem was sitting down to the table we set, eating the food we prepared, then leaving the table and letting ourselves go on with our day.
My parents say I don't give myself enough credit for what I've accomplished. It's probably true. I'm much more apt to punish myself for what I did yesterday than pat myself on the back for what I did ten years ago. The truth is what once was so difficult is pretty easy now. I guess "normal," like everything else, is a sliding scale.
While normal changes, the memories don't. I still remember being the alien in the cereal aisle, unsure of the changes she was seeing, yet knowing going home the same was not an option. And hoping desperately this new world would have a place for her after all.
Strawberry-Flavored Prozac and Rose-Colored Glasses
Got my flu shot yesterday. At Target. Because, really, is there anything you can't get at Target? If Heaven has a symbol, it's a red bullseye.
But I digress.
Waiting in line for the pharamacist to key in my paperwork, I noticed a strange flipchart listing the flavors available for flavoring medicines for kids. Because I have no regard for the pharmacy's sign to "Wait behind the red line and we will call you to the counter when your prescription is ready" and more importantly, I was bored, I picked up the chart and started flipping through. Not only did the chart list the available flavors, but it also gave flavoring suggestions for popular drugs.
Prozac is best with raspberry, banana, or orange. Vicodinitussin (never heard of it, but by God the next time I'm in pain I want some) is best in lemon, cherry, and strawberry. Ritalin, apparently, was good with anything. And on and on and on. Although some flavors were available, like chocolate-covered banana and watermelon, they didn't seem to be recommended for pairing with anything, which leads me to believe they were actually worse than the taste of the medicine itself.
While usually I would worry about a nation more concerned with making its medications more palatable for the privileged than making sure the bad-tasting medications are available to all, I'm trying to see the good side of the situation. The glass half-full, if you will. When I come up with the good side I'll let you know. In the meantime, pass the lime-flavored Tramadol. I think I have a headache.
But I digress.
Waiting in line for the pharamacist to key in my paperwork, I noticed a strange flipchart listing the flavors available for flavoring medicines for kids. Because I have no regard for the pharmacy's sign to "Wait behind the red line and we will call you to the counter when your prescription is ready" and more importantly, I was bored, I picked up the chart and started flipping through. Not only did the chart list the available flavors, but it also gave flavoring suggestions for popular drugs.
Prozac is best with raspberry, banana, or orange. Vicodinitussin (never heard of it, but by God the next time I'm in pain I want some) is best in lemon, cherry, and strawberry. Ritalin, apparently, was good with anything. And on and on and on. Although some flavors were available, like chocolate-covered banana and watermelon, they didn't seem to be recommended for pairing with anything, which leads me to believe they were actually worse than the taste of the medicine itself.
While usually I would worry about a nation more concerned with making its medications more palatable for the privileged than making sure the bad-tasting medications are available to all, I'm trying to see the good side of the situation. The glass half-full, if you will. When I come up with the good side I'll let you know. In the meantime, pass the lime-flavored Tramadol. I think I have a headache.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Jesus Fish
Last weekend, I parked the Barbie Jeep in the grocery store parking lot, looked both ways, and was nearly sideswiped by a blue-haired old lady in a dented Nissan. After the obligatory two-second check to make sure all appendages were still attached, I looked back at the lady, who threw her hands up in the air and, if my rudimentary lipreading was indeed correct, cursed me and the woman that bore me. The Nissan then pealed off, startling a woman maneuvering a stroller out of the store, and landed in a handicapped parking spot. I couldn't help but notice the shiny Jesus fish prominently displayed on the trunk.
I don't profess to know the ways of the Almighty, but vehicular manslaughter is probably not one of the things Jesus Would Do.
Call me jaded, call me (gasp) unChristian, but I've begun to draw distinct relationships between how Christian someone says s/he is and how Christian s/he acts. It seems to me the more someone protests to be godly, the more leeway they allow themselves in actually acting that way. A recent experience on I-95 cemented this theory when a car displaying five Jesus fish--
Really? Does five make you extra-extra-Christian? Faith isn't Kentucky Fried Chicken, folks--
cut my mother-in-law off when we were trying to exit the interstate. Another experience featured a person spouting hate speech about homosexuals peppered with biblical verses taken out of context.
A Jesus fish is not a get-out-of-hell-free card.
Maybe it's just me, but I think the world would be a much better place if people started viewing their faith as a calling rather than celebrating it as a trophy. In the end, it's more about what you take into your heart than what you display on your car.
I don't profess to know the ways of the Almighty, but vehicular manslaughter is probably not one of the things Jesus Would Do.
Call me jaded, call me (gasp) unChristian, but I've begun to draw distinct relationships between how Christian someone says s/he is and how Christian s/he acts. It seems to me the more someone protests to be godly, the more leeway they allow themselves in actually acting that way. A recent experience on I-95 cemented this theory when a car displaying five Jesus fish--
Really? Does five make you extra-extra-Christian? Faith isn't Kentucky Fried Chicken, folks--
cut my mother-in-law off when we were trying to exit the interstate. Another experience featured a person spouting hate speech about homosexuals peppered with biblical verses taken out of context.
A Jesus fish is not a get-out-of-hell-free card.
Maybe it's just me, but I think the world would be a much better place if people started viewing their faith as a calling rather than celebrating it as a trophy. In the end, it's more about what you take into your heart than what you display on your car.
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