|24 ounces of Spinachy Carroty Strawberryish Goodness|
|My 5-pound high blood pressure generator.|
Every time I hobble through the kitchen in my home, I have to turn my head away from the window so that I will not catch a glimpse of my nemesis. It is big, it is green, it is frightening, and it is NOT going to go away. But maybe, just maybe, if I don’t catch a glimpse, I won’t be overwhelmed by my feeling that I should be doing something about it.
My arch-enemy is not a big green snake. It is not Oscar the Grouch, or Kermit the Frog. It is the huge, weed-infested yards that surround the home we currently live in. You see, our home was built in the 1950s, and is therefore not restricted by the Xeriscape requirements that most homes here in Albuquerque are. (Xeriscape is landscaping designed around low water use. Think cactus and rocks.) However, by the time we moved into the house 3 years ago, no one had bothered to do anything else with landscaping the home for years. So, when the weather starts warming up again, we wind up in a home surrounded by huge patches of weeds. Where there are not weeds, there is simply good old-fashioned dirt.
In my head, I am the kind of guy who is out every weekend working on his perfectly manicured yard – a couple of small lawns, some fruit trees, even a garden for fresh veggies. In reality, I am disabled, mobility-impaired, and know nothing about yard care in the first place. So, I should just farm the work out, right? Last week, I attempted to do just that – I spoke with a handyman here in our neighborhood about what it would cost us to rein in my front yard. He took one look at my yard, filled with two-foot high weeds punctuated my 3 dead 10-foot tall trees that would have to be chain-sawed and removed, and quoted me a reasonable price – $60.
But, no matter how I tried, I could not squeeze another $60 our of our household budget. Social Security Disability keeps our household held firmly below the poverty line, and leaves no money for things like contractor yard care. Discouraged, I decided to tackle the problem myself. I spent two hours with a weed trimmer engaged in combat with the front yard. The end result? I was laid out for 3 days from injuring my back and knees. And my front yard is just as ugly as it ever was – now filled with dirt and dead weeds, over which still tower my deceased trees.
So, here I sit, crippled by my two disabilities – the one that keeps me from working (epilepsy), and the one that keeps me from moving (obesity). Between the two, I feel effectively trapped – and that gigantic patch of weeds in the back yard just keeps growing. Unless the Xeriscape Fairy arrives, I can expect that the situation is never going to change – even if I had the energy to take down all those weeds (which I don’t), I still wouldn’t have the money to replace them with something else. The circle of life continues.
Now, the odds are good that weight loss will give me back some mobility. There is even a chance (not a guarantee, but a chance) that weight loss will increase the efficacy of my anti-seizure meds – maybe even to the point where I could look into beginning to work again. But until that day arrives, I will just have to keep on waiting for the willpower to charge out into the back yard and injure myself again reining it in. Knowing all the while that the front yard is once again getting over-grown…
Sighing and Trying Not To Look Out The Windows,
|Warehouse store, or den of torture?|
Through the last few weeks of evaluation and preparation for bariatric surgery, I have been pretty happy with my mental attitude. I have been looking at the upcoming surgery as an opportunity to get healthier, not something that I am unhappy about or dreading. And I have, for the most part, been looking forward to the life changes that will come along with weight loss. Some sacrifices have to be made, sure, but they are all worth it, right?
Then, I met my emotional Waterloo last Friday, on a grocery visit to our local Costco.
Exploring The Forbidden
At first, it wasn’t too bad. I decided as we entered, that I would check some of my favorite foods against the pre-surgical diet of 135 grams per day (or less) of Carbohydrates. We walked through the door and were immediately confronted with a rack filled with Costco muffins. Now THERE was something I would never have again, right? I checked the nutritional info, and boy howdy, was I right. Each muffin was 690 calories (1/3 of my daily caloric intake), with 79 grams of carbohydrates – almost 2 full meals worth. I shuddered a bit to think of the number of times I had eaten a muffin (or two…) along with a regular breakfast, and then moved deeper into the store.
Things did not get easier once inside. Many of my favorite processed foods called out to me from the frozen section. Frozen hash browns stood out harshly – they are a required ingredient in one of our “staple foods” around here, breakfast burritos. 18 grams of carbs a serving…and a serving was only 3 ounces of potatoes. The last time I put only 3 ounces of potatoes in a burrito would be, let’s see, NEVER. More like three times that amount. So, 54 grams of hash browns in a burrito…and I normally eat at least 2 burritos for breakfast…that would be 108 grams of carbs, taken out of my pre-surgery 135 gram per day diet, before factoring in any other ingredient! More than two-thirds of my daily carbohydrate diet, gone in 2 breakfast burritos! Once I realized breakfast burritos were going to have to come off the menu, depression began to set in.
We had to pass through the section filled with all the beautiful imported beers I will never have again. Through the aisle containing the Ghiradhelli Brownie mixes I would not be making again any time soon. I had a brief hope when we hit the fruit juices, hoping for some relief here (fruit is healthy, right?), but, nope: a mere 8 ounces of Welch’s Grape Juice was a whopping 36 carbs. No more fruit juice as a Coke replacement for me, then, I trudged onward.
The Cruelest Blow
And then, the breaking point. My nose recognized that strong, earthy scent, and I realized I had arrived at the coffee aisle. We are only a few days now from D-Day (Decaf, that is) here at home, and I simply could no longer bear the thought of what was coming down the road. I have been a habitual coffee drinker since 16 years of age and now it, too, will be making an exit from my life. I suddenly felt like a 6-year-old being hauled through Toys-R-Us and being told firmly to not touch anything. I looked back at the aisles filled with forbidden items, then looked into our cart filled with Kale, Celery, and multivitamins, and had never felt so betrayed in my life.
My depressed mental state lasted all the way home. Once we arrived, I was left to unload the groceries from the car. And, after carrying 3 loads of groceries from car to fridge – a total of maybe 90 steps – I had to collapse on the couch, panting as if I had run a marathon.
Oh, right. That is why I am doing this.