Slouching through life

     In the seminal sports comedy "Caddyshack," Chevy Chase's Ty Webb says to Ted Knight's Judge Smails:

"Don't sell yourself short, Judge. ... You're a tremendous slouch."

     So am I. Just in an entirely different manner.
     My posture stinks on an epic scale. I've been made most painfully aware of this lately, because for the past few weeks, I've been locked in a varying-shades-of-painful duel with my aching back. Fun, it is not.
     I have been a serious sufferer for about eight years, thanks to degenerative disc disease at L5/S1 in my lower back. That much-compressed site has been the source of the lion's share of my woes. After a 2004 bout that left me flat on my back and drugged out of my mind for a full week, I've gone through the intervening years armed with heating pad and dandy muscle relaxant Flexeril at the ready. On a semi-regular basis, my wonky disc bulges, the muscles around it go into spasm to try and support it and I can't bend at the waist and have teeth-grinding, blood-sweating pain for a couple days at a crack.
     I reiterate ... fun, it is not.
     This episode was a bit different, however. Different location. Different initial muscle seizure. Different pain track. I agreed to visit my health care provider, Rachel (she who must be obeyed!) rather quickly, and was alarmed when she voiced concern that I may have popped a second disc, this time in the lumbar (mid-back) region.
     I was immediately dispatched for an X-ray.
     Luckily, it came back negative. It doesn't explain why a different muscle decided to act up, but I'm satisfied to know I still only have one "official" problem child in my nearly 42-year-old spine. Oh, and about that one ... not to be outdone, once the lumbar strain began to subside, L5/S1 decided to voice its displeasure at being temporarily overshadowed.
     You guessed it; it started acting up. Cheeky little bugger.
     But this time, I've been actively combating it with something other than heating pad and drugs. On Rachel's orders, a mighty pair of physical therapists have been given orders to whip me into shape, kicking and screaming if necessary.
     In eight years as a back patient, I don't think I've ever given PT a go.
     I like it. And it's helping.
     Besides the physical stretching that PT mavens Michelle and Becky have me doing, they've given me a good bit of mental insight as well.
     This posture business is a killer. Decades of god-awful office chairs have left me slouching toward oblivion. In trying to find a comfortable position -- where there is none -- I invariably end up listing toward one side or another, curled up in a ball, sliding halfway under my desk or some such nonsense. What's worse, I'm no longer aware I'm doing it.
     In the last week and a half or so, I've been catching myself sliding into a state of unmindfulness about my posture and/or abdominal muscles with alarming regularity. They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to correcting a bad behavior, but I have a mountain of habit to break.
     Besides the PT, I have one other thing helping me. Although I was told in no uncertain terms that cardio and the weight room at the gym were off limits until further notice, my lovely PT people cleared me to hit the pool. More specifically, I was given the green light to join in the new season of Hempfield Rec Water Pilates, which began last Monday.
     For a variety of reasons, I hadn't participated in that activity in about two years.
     I had forgotten how much I loved it. (I had also forgotten how freaky it is to be "weightless" in the pool for an hour, then exit and feel like you're zipping on a fat suit.)
     Very likely, I will not get buff in these classes. I will not lose weight with them alone. However, they provide several benefits critical to my war on weight. This form of exercise will, without a doubt, improve my balance, flexibility and core strength.
     Key, key and key. I also remain highly amused by the fact that in the water, my range of motion is that of a fit person.
     In the last couple days, the back has been getting more and more stable. I have a follow-up appointment with Rachel this Thursday, at which point I hope to be cleared for cardio and weight machines. Honestly, I've missed them.
     Until then, though, you can find me in the pool.
     I'll be the one not slouching.  

No pain, no ... well, you know

     I am sore.
     And it's likely to get worse, entirely of my own volition. That's not a bad thing.
     Come hell or high water ... and given the storms in Lancaster County tonight, the latter is entirely possible ... I will be hauling my tubby self back to the gym in the morning to lift more weights.
     I started back at the gym right about a month ago, spurred by the enthusiasm of Supportive Partner Man (toning up and slimming down!) and his truly epic War on Fat. I'm happy to report that I am still on the road to wellness. Up until now, however, it's been an exclusively cardio road.
     To try and get my cholesterol-saturated ticker and its accessories used to the idea of pumping blood again instead of melted butter, and so my joints wouldn't die of the shock, I stuck to the elliptical the first two weeks. Then I added the shiny new treadmills to my rotation. Just my second time on that, I forced myself into my own little HARC Death March ... a 5K at a 5.0 percent incline. It took me an inglorious hour. But I did it. The next morning, my Achilles' tendons felt like they were on fire. I could barely walk down the stairs.
     You could say I overdid it a bit. Earned me a minor scolding from Rachel, our awesome nurse practitioner. But I got back on the horse, er, machine, and started conditioning myself. Two more weeks down the road, my Achilles' don't feel like they're going to rip away, and I miss the cardio if I don't do it. I'm feeling much better, physically.
     So I've upped the ante again.
     On Monday, I had a 10 a.m. meeting with Dave, one of HARC's resident fitness instructors. At 67, he's more than enviably fit, leg-pressing 415 and hitting 125 on the abdominal crunch machine of doom. His challenge was to take me through all the Cybex weight machines and help me find proper form and correct settings.
     I only did one full set on each machine, but that apparently was enough to make a dent. I woke up Tuesday morning feeling quite achy. Given my intent to hit it harder today ... and throw in some cardio ... Thursday could be a big-time ibuprofin day. But again, that's not a bad thing.
     Maybe by the end of August, I'll be up for the next change in routine. Dave heartily suggested I try a group class in Bodypump or Bodyflow. That'll be a caution. I have long lived in fear of group exercise classes, as I am alarmingly uncoordinated. I've always been afraid of falling smack on my face in such a scenario and making a complete fool of myself. I know several people who do group classes and love them. My friend Cindy, for example, is the Zumba queen. Lori is a spin class fan who also has described herself as a "Pilates evangelist." And John is actually in training to become a yoga instructor. These friends often speak glowingly of their disciplines' benefits. I believe all of them. Meanwhile, part of me wants to try Bodyflow, described in the playbook as:

 "A yoga, Tai Chi and Pilates workout that builds flexibility and strength, leaving you feeling centered and calm. Controlled breathing, concentration and a carefully structured series of stretches, moves and poses create a holistic workout that brings the body into a state of harmony and balance."

     But I'm still petrified of publicly choreographed exercise.
     I wonder if there's an official name for that. Jazzerciseaphobia, maybe? Or, the unnatural fear of Richard Simmons ... Simmophobia?
     In the meantime, I'll just be over here in the weight room, picking things up and putting them down.

Steam heat and American Stick Insects

     So much for that twofer post ... is that really a week ago? Gee, time flies.

     No, I didn't get trapped under a pile of falling stuff last Friday. Literally, anyway. Figuratively? I always get trapped under a pile of falling stuff. I'm not quite sure how my attention always seems to get diverted by something else (my Disney fan friends are now shouting "squirrel!" in unison, I think), but I am prone to being easily sidetracked.

     So, let's see. What's been going on at Chez T since last I checked in?

     Our traditional family yard sale has been postponed — it was scheduled for tomorrow morning — because it's going to be ridiculously, disgustingly hot and humid. As The Lovely Cousin Jody explained it, it was for the best to postpone because: A, we didn't think it wise to make some of our older family members have to come out in the heat; and, B, the thought of haggling with the masses while overheated and drenched with sweat might lead to some, shall we say, unwelcome fits of temper ... or perhaps spontaneous combustion.

     The part of me that enjoys hanging out with some of my favorite family members is disappointed, but the part of me that enjoys air conditioning is quite pleased.

     And anyway, we'll still be having it, just on a (hopefully cooler) Saturday to be named later.

     Hmm, what else?

     In the ongoing gym-based serial "Tales of Brave Supportive Partner Man (he picks things up and puts them down!)," SPM has been chugging right along. He made his first visit to a support group last night, and his friendly neighborhood exercise physiologists, Ryan and Cory, apparently are happy with his progress in the gym. They have increased his weights and time on the cardio equipment. He's been coming home drenched and achy, but rightfully feeling quite good about himself. 

     As an extra bonus, he even went to the regular gym today for the first time in about two years. Although I am but the B-plot in this story — I'm shooting to earn an Emmy award for comic relief — I am happy to say that I got out of bed and accompanied him. I tried a different program on the elliptical today, which was going quite well until the machine told me to pedal backwards. I managed to do it without falling on my head, so, score. Lasted nearly five minutes going that way, too. But my quads are killing me.   

     The interesting part of going to the gym is the other people. There are a few who are built like we are, but most of them fall into three categories: fit, fitter and American Stick Insect. The last of which I remain intimidated by. There was one woman on the step machine today with eye-popping washboard abs and what looked to be 0.17 percent body fat. I know this because she was ruthlessly owning the machine while wearing only her spandex shorts and her sports bra. Seriously, you could liposuction me to within an inch of my life, then lock me in the gym for a month with only granola, water and the arc trainer to sustain me and I doubt I could be that thin. I know there are many of these people who are very nice. However, I've had issues with a few who have given me the stinkeye as I've loaded my tubby butt onto the elliptical, hinting that I had no right to be breathing their air.

     Makes me want to force-feed them a donut or six.

     SPM says he refuses to be intimidated by these people any longer, and he's going to go to the gym whether he feels wanted or not. He's just reported he's lost another belt notch, so I guess he's the one with the most correct outlook. 

A long, hard look

     Playing the role of Supportive Partner Woman (lover of cinnamon-y donuts!) is something at which I very much want to be successful. I've written about it here before. But, as I am discovering, it's not the easiest project I've ever attacked.
     My dear SPM (walker of increasing increments!) is seriously into his weight loss process, as he needs to be. But I'm really beginning to grasp why spouses are so readily welcomed at all the appointments and the support group sessions. We need all the help we can get, too.
     Monday morning SPM had appointments with Ryan, the exercise physiologist, and Shauna, the dietician. Naturally, I went along. Everyone's thrilled with SPM's progress so far. He's down 12 pounds (they told him he needed to lose 10 before the surgery ... the surgery's still at least four months off) and has majorly improved his eating habits all on his own. They expect him to really take off now that he's going to start adding supervised, instructed exercise to his repertoire.
     But as they were asking him questions about diet and exercise and lifestyle, it really and truly hit home how much my own lifestyle must change as well.
     Like, completely.
     It dawned upon me that, gee, I really have to do this. The time for fooling around with the weight and the health has struck the witching hour.
     As SPM's shadow begins shrinking, there is nowhere else for me to hide. And, I can't lie ... that scares me.
     See, I've always been able to talk a great game. I'm fantastic about being an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, the friend who focuses on the other person to help solve their problems. But that's my game. I live to find projects, distractions. If I help you, I don't have to look at my own mess, which can be downright depressing. So, out of sight, out of mind.
     But now I can't do it anymore. Because realistically, not only is SPM's health at stake here, so's my own. Through SPM, I've been able to get a long, up-close look at some of what may await me if I keep going down the path I've been on. Sleep apnea or diabetes, perhaps. Throw in my own family history of high cholesterol and cardiac/vascular events, and I'm totally screwed.
    Talk about a deadline hanging over your head. A real, literal deadline.
    So, yeah. It's time to woman up.
    And guess what? SPM is hitting the bariatrics office's in-house gym at 10 a.m. At the same time, I'm planning to step foot into our local rec center for the first time in almost two years.
     I've already started to sweat.
   

Renewing the Battle of the Bulge

     As an Oversized American, I've never been too fond of going for regular doctor visits.
     Dentist, eye doc, those I can handle ... they don't force me onto a scale. "Woman's doctor" and GP? I'd almost rather be made to sit and listen, for hours on end, to rich politicians or fire-and-brimstoney preachers endlessly yammering about how they know what's best for me and the rest of the unwashed masses. Almost.
     Today, however, I had a most unusual experience: a GP visit I actually found somewhat pleasant and definitely worth the price of admission.
     Given the ongoing medical treatment of Supportive Partner Man (pursuer of a healthier lifestyle!), I, in an effort to be more supportive of him for a change, have made the choice to improve my own overall health and welfare. Keep in mind that I have been running about three years past the expiration date in the checkup department. My primary doc of record was still based in our old home of Reading. SPM, meanwhile, recently has fallen in with a new caregiver at his "primary physician's" sprawling Lancaster practice. Upon meeting her — Rachel Ho, nurse practitioner — for the first time last month, I made an appointment of my own.
     With that appointment behind me, I can say with certainty that she's pretty damned cool, very knowledgeable and, most importantly, will not hesitate to boot me up the arse as I need it.
     "They call me 'The Dictator,' " she said with a quirked eyebrow and a lazy grin.
     No, this one's not going to take me being lazy about my health. I get the distinct feeling that she's going to challenge me, go drill sergeant on me, explain things in depth and actually get involved with my care past a cursory glance at my record and check of my blood pressure.
     As an aside, I'm happy to report that my BP was 104/64. I was floored. Both The Old Man and Saint Joan sailed off into Hypertensionland in their mid-40s, so I am a bit nervous about potentially going the same route, especially given my love of super-salty foodstuffs. So far, so good, though.
     But my challenge is my weight. I know ... shocking, right?
     Still, it can be very sobering to hear a medical professional, no matter how awesomely snarky, tell you that you could stand to lose somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 pounds. In all honesty, I could be a candidate for the bariatric surgery SPM is considering. Sobering, indeed. She wants me to fall in line with the diet and lifestyle changes made by SPM in the last month, with which she was most pleased. His blood sugar numbers are trending down, as is his weight. I'm very, very proud  of him; but like the blogging, where he's also ahead of me, I need to catch up.
     My next official appointment is in mid-Septemeber, though I'll get to see Rachel for a monthly side dish of motivation at Brian's regular appointments with her. My "official" bloodwork — the tale of the tape on my other official problem, high cholesterol — is due at that time. That gives me three months to show I'm making some progress. And in the meantime, I've booked my yearly trip to the woman's doctor, scheduled a mammogram and made a dentist appointment. The eye doctor will probably show up in the rotation later this summer, too.
      I really should seek out a local specialist for my arthritic lower back, while I'm at it. I do have a recommendation for one. Perhaps in the fall, depending on how I'm doing in the Rachel Challenge.
     I must leave you today with something I found in my Twitter feed this morning that I thought was both amusing and appropriate. From the fine folks at Retronaut, it definitely made me laugh:

   
     Wonder if I can find a set of these on eBay?

... And thank you for your support

     Although my mind just unsurprisingly catapulted me back to the '80s and into a Bartles & Jaymes commercial (remember them?), I do have a serious topic on the docket.
     There are big, big changes afoot at Chez T.
     Many of you are familiar with my dear one, Supportive Partner Man (wrangler of giant yard sale boxes!). There's a link to his blog off to the left, and, what the heck, I'll just give you one here, too. SPM and I both have, for the length of our adulthoods, struggled mightily with weight, he even moreso than I. Right now, though, he's doing something about it.
     I mean, really doing something about it.
     Ground down from battling several associated medical conditions, he's bravely taken his first several steps on the road to bariatric surgery. Thus, our topic ... and title ... for the day. Support.
     I haven't mentioned anything here until now because, really, this is SPM's tale to tell. But as he has become more and more committed to this course of action, and therefore more and more open about what's happening, I have found myself considering the role I will play.
     Certainly, I will be the point person of the family support group. But this will mean big ol' lifestyle changes for me, too, and that's not a bad thing. After all, I'm a card-carrying charter member of the Jolly Fat Chick Club.
     I love food. Been self-medicating with it for decades. Other branches on my family tree have had issues with the drugs and the booze, but I dance the fine line of the addiction waltz with butter, sugar and flour. The balm and comfort for my exquisite inner pain comes from anything cake-y. Wave a fresh Wegmans cinnamon friedcake or two in front of my nose and I am your minion.
     This sizable character flaw has helped construct an interesting little co-dependency between SPM and me over the years. We've become comfortable in our indulgences, so comfortable that we can quietly injure each other and not even realize we're doing it. But we really have done each other more harm than good. It's past time for it to stop, even if we're struggling with how to go about doing it.
     Consider this my public apology to him. He deserves better than that, and better than I've given him thus far.
     Now that he's breaking the die, so too must I cease to be a food zombie.
     This won't be easy. For either of us. But we're doing each other too great a disservice by keeping things the way they are. We really must learn to support each other on this new-old battlefield, because if we don't, we're doomed before we even begin. SPM has brought so much joy into my life over the last nine years ... could I do anything less than throw my unconditional love and support behind him in this endeavor? I think not.
     Thus far, I've been going to many of SPM's appointments and classes with him, and with continue to do so. So far I've learned quite a bit. It's also been sobering to see people who are smaller than me in the actual surgical program. I've resolved that I'll try and match SPM's diet and exercise steps over the next six months of prep time, and hopefully make myself a little healthier in the process.
     He's touched on the fact that there are those who give the bariatric surgical procedure a cursory glance and dismiss it as being "the easy way out." Also there are those negative souls who say, "Even if you do have it done, you might not succeed, so why would you even consider trying?"
    To quote Big Daddy Pollitt of "Cat on a Hot Tim Roof": Bull.
     There's nothing easy about this process. Not a single goddamned thing. SPM has to relearn how to cook, how to eat, how to exercise, how to live. He has to learn how to think differently about himself. He has to learn how to not fall back into the traps of his own negativity and despair ... or get sucked into the traps, however unconsciously laid, of others who can't break out of their own prisons of fear.
     Even if that person is me.
     Wish us both luck.