Eleven Months That Changed My Life

I was really motivated to lose weight when my doctor wanted to put me back on Metformin in addition to 56 units of insulin a day. Firstly, I knew that would not work, and secondly, Metformin and I don't get along. A big problem with oral medication for diabetes is that the user can't self-adjust the dosage of it in response to the morning glucose tests like one can with insulin. Another is that a person HAS to eat a certain amount within 20 minutes of taking the medication to reduce the side-effects. So I figured the problem was the carbohydrate-counting diet they had me on. I abandoned carbohydrate-counting totally and substituted Weight Watchers.

Since I hate meetings, hype, wasting gas, and weighing myself in front of other people, I opted to do WW online. I'm self-disciplined enough that it has worked. As a diabetic, I was already used to weighing, measuring, and estimating portion sizes when I wasn't home to weigh and measure. I tested my glucose every morning without fail and adjusted my insulin appropriately if I had 3 successive readings out of range. At first, I was very careful to make my before-bed snack some fruit with carbs. Later, as I came to know and trust the program, I stopped thinking about carbs at all.

Here are the results: The FIRST WEEK my morning glucose readings went into or below the normal range. I have had NO high readings in the eleven months since. My November blood work had my HemoA1C at 6.06 (Normal range is 5 to 7) and my most recent lab work had ALL blood factors in the normal range. My doctor said my Body Mass Index is now 27.1 and the AMA recently revised the BMI target for older women to be 26 to 28, so I am a normal weight for the first time in almost 40 years! I've gradually reduced my insulin to 12 units daily. 48 pounds lost. 7 inches lost off my butt and down from a dress size somewhere in Women's 20's to size 14 plus-or-minus depending on the cut. Best of all, the reduced stress on my knees and feet means I can be active (which helps with diabetes and weight loss), fishing longer, hiking again, and with more stamina doing yard work. I spent a full day in April geocaching with a bunch of youngsters in rough terrain and kept up with them except for two short breaks. A half-mile uphill hike to a scenic overlook last week was a piece of cake. Of course, I am no longer 24 years old as I was last time I weighed less than 150 pounds, so there are still some limitations, but not many! I sleep better and my flexibility has also improved.

Yes, Weight Watchers costs almost $20 a month. I save that just in portion sizes. I'd reduced them to half when I retired from my very-physical job, but WW cut that in half again. And I have to eat veggies, which I dislike unless well-disguised with butter or sauces. Worst of all, I am a fat addict. There are hundreds of products for folks with sweet tooths, but nothing replaces the rich taste of real butter, real cream in coffee, gourmet cheese, or full-monte bacon. I've compromised with low- or no-fat alternatives where I can, but some things I refuse to budge on and just enjoy them very sparingly. The whole purpose was for me to learn a new eating discipline that I could live with, essentially, the rest of my life. I have not gone from 'meals' to 'grazing' as many on WW do, nor have I wasted time in pointless exercise when I can get my activity in by fishing, hiking, snow-shoeing, hunting, and working outside or in my wood shop. I've fit the program into my life, not vice-versa.

I feel so much better about my self-image that I have gotten my hair cut stylishly perky, and enjoy buying new clothes to replace the wardrobe which is now outrageously baggy and often downright shabby. This is the real hidden expense of WW. Now that I am within sneezing distance of my goal weight I can buy quality clothing and expect it to fit for some time to come.

I could not have started and continued this program when I was working, because of stress and the unreasonable demands my former employer put on my time. Because of my job, I spent 12 years as an out-of-control diabetic dependent on expensive medication and with ever-increasing peripheral damage to my body and psyche. It literally almost killed me. I was displaying all the symptoms of a diabetic on the last six months of the downhill slope when my doctor gave me the advice that kept me alive and led to my current state of health. I still live with some of those diabetes-related conditions today, the worst being impaired memory and cognitive functions. Fighting these impediments plus my chronic depression has made sticking to WW a big job, but persistence has paid off. I am less than 2 pounds from my goal weight.

Lots of people in Weight Watchers report a phenomenon when nearing their goal weight of leveling out, or see-sawing up and down in weight, for weeks at a time. My goal is 8 to 10 pounds above the highest weight listed on the “If you are X feet tall and Y years of age, you should weigh between these two weights” chart. I did this specifically to avoid the leveling problem, and because I feel an older woman looks worse too thin than a little plump, not to mention being more vulnerable with fewer reserves. (Recent studies have vindicated my belief.) Yet I ‘plateaued’ for three weeks, after see-sawing for four weeks. I now look upon weight loss as something like fly casting. Yes, I know, everything in my life gets compared to something in fly-fishing eventually, But, see if you can’t see the truth in this.

A common mistake beginner casters make, and even more experienced ones sometimes, is altering the stroke on the ‘business’ cast. They get a good rhythm going making perfect false casts, but that final one, meant to place the fly perfectly on the water, they feel deserves or requires some extra oomph. Things fall apart, although any one of those prior false casts would have been perfect if laid on the water. The discipline to just do exactly the same perfect movement when the chips are down is what separates the good caster from the novice. As I near my goal weight, I find myself impatient to get there quickly. I anticipate the supposed pleasures of the Maintenance Diet, even though I’m aware that I started this to learn new eating habits meant to last a lifetime. Sometimes I eat as if I’m already on Maintenance, taking an extra slice of bread, a little more meat, or reaching for the ‘good’ salad dressing instead of the despicable vinaigrette. Sometimes I revert to being a WW Nazi and count out my finger carrots or go out and work up a gratuitous sweat. No wonder I see-saw up and down in weight. If I just kept doing the things that worked so well for the last 11 months, the results would be as consistently good as they have been up until now. That behavior was the false-casting; now, with the goal so close I can smell it, the pressure is on and it’s time for the business cast. Which should be no different from the previous ones… See my point?

I joined Weight Watchers to stabilize my blood glucose and learn a new eating discipline. The actual weight loss has been a bonus. I must remember this, take the pressure off myself, and let these last two pounds flow off just like the previous 48. The rewards, in increased ability to enjoy the things I love and decreased pain, are worth it.

Writing Diary #2: Repetition

Most of my published writings are about fly-fishing.  I edit a fly-fishing quarterly and have a regular column.  The problem is, there are a limited number of things a person can say about fishing.  “I used this fly.  I went here.  I caught X number of this species of fish.”  Essentially that boils down most of the articles in most of the fly-fishing magazines.  I seldom read any of the mass-market fly fishing magazines anymore, and that’s one of the reasons.

Fly-fishing has a rich literature going back seven centuries.  Obviously the where-to-go, what-to-use writings are of little or no relevance anymore, but there are classics that endure.  At their root, they invariably deal with emotions:  Why do we fly fish?  How does doing so make us feel?  What do we learn from it that enriches our lives?  For fly-fishing is not an efficient way to fish, it’s a way to nourish the soul.  Process-oriented, not goal-oriented, to use current vernacular.  This is what I usually address when I write about fly-fishing:  The artistry of the experience.

Even so, there is a certain amount of repetition.  Trout are beautiful.  The insects they eat live very brief lives, which inevitably makes me reflect on the cycles of life, death, and beyond.  The pace of time while fishing is different than the normal human bustle.  The act of predation forges a different type of connection with the natural world than mere observation, yet fly-fishing allows the fish to be returned to its life unharmed.  These are themes I’ve explored many times, because they are the essence of how and why I fish, and how I think and feel while doing so.  I sometimes feel I have little more to say about fly-fishing, and I suppose that’s true.

Yet every experiential piece I write expresses these feelings a little differently, and I find new words to describe them.  A reader who is unmoved by one piece may find poetry in another that resonates with their own fly-fishing experiences, expresses their inner feelings in a way they’ve been unable to articulate.  Every once in a great while a reader e-mails me with a hesitant, usually awkwardly-written,  “Yeah.  That’s it.”  Or greets me at some fishing function with a hug and a reference to one article or another.  This is why I keep writing, for these moments when true communication occurs.

When teaching, it pays to present the same information from several different approaches, since students often grasp one and not the others.  It’s the same with writing.  I may not have much to say, but by saying it differently several times, I increase my chances of reaching every reader.  Those who love words for their own sake, the sheer loveliness of the English language and the way words combine to exquisite ends, will not mind the repetition.  They’ll see the brush strokes, not the subject matter, and appreciate it (or not) on its merits.  And there will be more instances of  “Yeah.  That’s it.”

Empty Nest Syndrome

It seems just yesterday we saw the first fuzzy head peek above the edge of the phoebe nest in the porch eaves.  That first day the poor parents were frantic, making trip after trip with toothsome morsels for the hatchlings.  There were two wobbling heads raised on spindly necks that we could see.  The normal brood in this nest over the years has been four.  Had the untimely late snowy cold killed the rest of the eggs?  I swore I could hear three distinct voices in the rhythmic feeble cheeps that heralded the arrival of each snack.  Several anxious days later, we sighed with relief when the third head, beak straining upward in entreaty, became visible alongside the others.  We had three grand-chicks!

Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe looked weary and frazzled.  How they found so many food items in such short forays I can’t imagine.  Grubs, insects, and the favorite caterpillars were dropped into straining, strident hatchling maws.  Larger morsels were deftly severed in two.  Or was the phoebe parent just clever enough to silence two of the three shrill begging voices in one trip?  Almost daily, the voices became louder and deeper as the chicks grew and strengthened.

We were so proud.  Wasn’t it clever of Mr. Phoebe to choose a nest site eight vertical feet from the ground, sheltered by a roof, upheld by a sturdy rafter, immune to wind, predator, and rain?  Wasn’t Mrs. Phoebe smart to realize that our cats, who watched the nest with unswerving gaze, were no threat to her brood?  The cats themselves seemed as solicitous as they were fascinated, rattling their warning when squirrels came near the nest, which the phoebes took as a signal to scold or dive upon the intruding rodents.

Sometime during the week past I saw the phoebe couple engaging in aerial acrobatics, something they certainly had no energy for during their previous single-minded, continuous food deliveries from dawn until dusk.  Maggi reported that yesterday she’d seen them dancing in flight, Mr. Phoebe singing his squeaky-toy song.  And I noticed today, it is now hard to distinguish the chicks from their parents by size.  The young ones are still somewhat fuzzy, but the nest is obviously crowded to capacity.  When neither parent is around to see, the chicks are fanning their wings, trying out muscles that will soon be used in flight:  The sudden, unpredictable explosion of birds from the nest, only the parents (raising their second brood) to return.  Of course, when a parent is sighted returning to the nest with food, the chicks hunker down, voices raised in supplication, eyes round with innocence and mouths open for food.  But their feed-the-helpless-chick act will not fool anyone much longer.

Where does the time go?  Even the parent birds, who surely wished that dusk would come sooner during those first busy feeding days, must sense their young will soon leave them, and feel some regret at that notion.  For us, the felines and humans that have watched with the fond non-responsibility of godparents, the empty nest syndrome will be acute.  When the sweet peeping of begging chicks is replaced by silence;  when no fuzzy, ugly-cute heads crane above the nest edge to look at us;  we will feel the loss.  How fleeting is childhood!  How quickly our young grow up and leave!

This forces us to think of the swiftness of time, and reflect on how we should appreciate each irreplaceable day.  There will never be another one just like it.