December Book Report: A Gentleman in Moscow

This book, by Amor Towles, has been on my to-read list for a long time.  When my Secret Book Santa gave it to me in a holiday gift exchange at school, it moved to the top of my list and has been my read for the last week.  

In a word, the novel is splendid.  At turns sentimental and suspenseful, Towles weaves together a simply wonderful story of a man whose life seems limited but instead is limitless.  Pressed to make the best of a difficult situation as his beloved nation sinks into the ridiculous rigors of Bolshevism, Count Alexander Rostov remembers his father’s most valuable bits of advice: “Master one’s circumstances or be mastered by them” and “constant cheerfulness is a sign of wisdom" and puts them to good use.  With these pearls, his life —— seemingly constrained by his captivity in the Hotel Metropol —— becomes an existence of wonder, joy, and friendship.  The Count is a man the reader both likes and admires.  The novel is well-written, the narrator well-read and as charming as the Count, the Russian history at the center of the story is both well-understood and well-utilized.  It was the perfect read for me as I wait out the delay for my hip surgery and struggle to master those circumstances.  I loved the novel and will set it aside to be read again some day, grateful for the ways in which a book has once again saved me.  

Christmas Cardinals

My dad was a baseball fan and the St Louis Cardinals were his team.  He passed on the love of baseball to both my sister and me.  In turn, I passed it on to my son.  Via Grandpa, JT became a Cardinals fan.  Some of my fondest memories are the sound of the two of them on the phone, dissecting their team’s prospects and celebrating their triumphs.   My Dad’s passing earlier this year made the 2023 baseball season bittersweet for me.  But I’ve found comfort in memories of Dad brought on by cardinals.  This set reminds me of the joy he found in his three grandsons.  It’s made me happy all of the holiday season, a reminder that Dad is still here to celebrate his boys, cheer on his team, condemn Republican stupidity, and look after us.

Alchemy For Peace

Each year’s Christmas tree is a beauty all its own.  The magic of twinkling lights on a tree bejeweled with ornaments that tell the story of my life is never lost on me. I welcome the light it brings in December’s darkness.   

The world is a hard place right now and for me the tree is a reminder to be grateful for the many blessings in my life.  Tonight it seems especially lovely and my heart is grateful. I hope that this bit of holiday joy can be a beacon for more peace in a world that badly needs it.  

December Cooking Journal: When Eating Isn’t an Option

The requirement that I lose weight to be allowed the hip surgery I desperately need was frustrating on many, many levels.  I think that all people deserve the healthcare they need and the overwhelming evidence is that fat people benefit enormously from receiving a new hip if they need one.  While I looked for a surgeon willing to treat me immediately, I also hedged my bets and engaged in food restriction.  I wasn’t hungry so much as I was angry. I love to cook and try new things.  My mental health suffers tremendously when I count calories.  But my crummy self-image was nothing compared to the pain of my crummy hip, and so I did what needed doing.  

Contrary to all the bullshit spouted by the media, I’m not fat because I lay about and eat bon bons all day.  I’m a person who eats 5-7 servings of fruits and veg on the daily.  When my hip doesn’t ache, I am active.  My metabolism is shot to hell from years of weird food rules and restrictions.  Fifteen years ago, I learned intuitive eating techniques that were the way out of the cycle of misery brought on by near-constant dieting.  I adapted the strategies I learned from intuitive eating to limit food and shed the 30 pounds that would earn me a qualifying BMI for surgery.  I made the food I craved, including this yummy soup, ate limited portions of it, and I let my anger burn.  In this way, I was able to qualify to have medical care.  That requirement is totally fucked up, of course.  But I played by the bullshit rules and won't stop doing so until I have the hip I need and deserve.  

Gratitude Journal: Finally, Some Really Good News

Today, I saw the surgeon to see if he would provide the hip replacement treatment I desperately need.  JT accompanied me for the appointment.  More than anyone else, he has seen the ways in which I’ve been increasingly disabled by my hip.  A 23 year old being the up-close witness to my pain and sadness in the last three months is not an easy journey.  He has been an absolute rock for me and it’s not an exaggeration to write that I wouldn’t have gotten here without him.   He’s not the only person in my support network - far from it - and I am incredibly lucky on that front.  But he has had to rescue me from myself over and over again since the pain became unbearable in August.  As my mobility has faltered, he has filled the gap. 

We came to today's appointment a united bundle of nerves, arriving early, tense with anxiety and each of us with an eczema breakout.  I was convinced that the surgeon would move the goal post for surgery, demanding that I lose even more weight (I've lost 30 pounds in just under 3 months). But we needn’t have worried.  From the outset, the Physician’s Assistant was clear: you’re getting the hip.  The surgeon popped in and asked for more x-rays and within the half hour I had my pre-surgery packet and a promise that the scheduler would be in touch within the week.  There is a wait list but surgery will happen toward the end of  January.

 I am incredibly grateful to arrive at this point.  I couldn’t have gotten here without JT,  my sister, the pain management doctor I was lucky enough to find, and so many of my friends who cheered me on when I felt like my prospects were bleak.  At supper last night, JT poured us each a finger of bourbon and we drank a cheer to my new hip. I thanked him for all he has done to get me here; he reminded me that I had been by his side in 2022, when things were hard for him.  We’re a team, he said.  Tonight, we’re a team that feels both grateful and unstoppable.

Things That I Miss

To qualify for the medical treatment I need (yes, we’re still on the topic of hip replacement), I was forced to lose weight.  Setting aside my fury over the fact that weight was used to exclude me from life-saving healthcare with little medical evidence in support of the policy (and clearly, I cannot set that aside), I immediately set to work limiting my food intake.  It’s a hard world to live in for a woman who loves to cook and feed people, but it is the world I am currently living in and will live in until the day I get the hip that I need.  I miss the world of intuitive eating - where I could eat when I was hungry and choose the food I craved.  Salads with homemade dressing?  Yes, please. Grilled veggies with burrata?  Coming up.  A cookie or two after supper?  Help yourself. The occasional icy cold Coca-Cola?  Sure enough. 

Instead, I drink water and eat small portions of food - 800-1200 calories a day - and think of nothing but food, even if I am not hungry.  I hate this existence - and yes, that’s a strong word - because for me it is accompanied by immeasurable self-loathing and obsessive calorie counting that finds me frantic with worry that I should not eat at all.  Or should throw up what I do eat. And the fact that I am doing this because medicine has arbitrarily defined me as too fat for medical care well…..let’s just say that doesn’t ease the problem of self-loathing.  I miss so many things: liking myself and valuing my body’s strength, the ability to make a new recipe without considering the calories involved, the endless mental space to imagine instead of obsessively fret about food.  The other day I made cookies for the 7th grade and I would have loved to eat one.  I didn’t because I was petrified to slip from food restrictions in advance of my appointment with the surgeon.  So add that to the things I miss - not the cookie, but my rational brain - one cookie would not a disaster make.  I miss being able to enjoy the food I eat.  I miss being able to have a treat when I want it without consuming fear that one cookie stands between me and independent living.  I miss the way body positivity and the HAES movement made me feel like my BMI was the least interesting thing about me.  These days, my BMI is the only interesting thing about me.  It’s brutal to miss being a person who genuinely liked herself, full stop.  When you add in the dreadful limits that exist in my physical abilities as I live with this painful hip, it’s a wonder that I am still fighting for my life back.  But, damnit, I am fighting.  And I deserve to exist.

Style Journal: The Bullpen

For as long as I can remember, I’ve used part of my Sunday to set me up for success in the week ahead.  On Sunday, I change my sheets, plan for the suppers I’ll make in the week ahead, and organize my calendar for the week.  Each of these tasks is helpful but the best of my Sunday traditions is setting up the bullpen.  Each Sunday, I plan the clothes I will wear in the coming week.  I organize, steam or iron as necessary, and then hang them up on my closet door, ready for the early mornings that the week will bring.  Sweaters are hung up or folded and set at the ready on my dresser.  On Sundays, I tuck into bed grateful that the bullpen will steer me right come morning. 

As the week progresses, and the bullpen is less full, I know that the weekend is getting closer, which is also a pleasing side effect of my bullpen tradition.  This habit has served me well over the years, and I especially like this element of my organized life.

One Step Closer?

On Tuesday, I officially made the weight requirement for my orthopedic surgeon to perform the hip replacement I so desperately need.  The news was overwhelming and all I could do was cry.  That afternoon, I moved my orthopedic appointment up to the 15th of December.  I’m still holding the line on food restriction and though the pace of my weight loss has slowed - a thing bound to happen once my metabolism caught wind of what I am up to - I remain on track to lose a pound a week.  Food restriction will continue in earnest until the day of my surgery - a date yet-to-be-scheduled.  And that’s the fly in the ointment right now.  

When I see him on the 15th, I am fearful that the surgeon will move the BMI target and require that I lose more weight.  I have no especially rational reason to believe this; my primary care and pain management doctors have reassured me that the surgeon won’t do so.  But none of this journey has been rational. The surgeon’s adherence to BMI, a health metric well-discredited, is where the irrationality started and my less-hopeful self assumes more stupidity will follow.  Of all people, the orthopedic surgeon who told me on September 21 that the only treatment for my pain was a hip replacement surely knew what the next three months would bring.  In September, I could still walk without a cane and could make it the length of several football fields before I needed to rest.  By October, I needed a cane to make the length of a single football field.  Now, I can’t walk that far without excruciating discomfort.  I can't grocery shop or go anywhere by myself.  I cannot sleep at night without narcotics.  He knew this would happen, didn’t warn me, and really didn’t seem to even give a damn.  My lack of faith in his word is understandable.  And yet I met the goal and I am holding on to hope for a surgery date and with it, the prospect of a return to the full life that I long for.  

Among the Trees: A Christmas Tradition

 All year long, I’ve reserved the 5th of each month for a post about the places I go for walks.  Mostly, I like to walk in the woods and most frequently, I walk in the woods at Colonial Park.  Since my hip took its turn to  dreadful in August, I haven’t really been able to go for a walk.  As I wait for the hip replacement I so desperately need, I’ve become more and more disabled.  These days, I can stand for just a few minutes and only walk very short distances.  I haven’t been to Colonial Park since September.  I could go, of course, and sit on a bench and admire the nature around me, but I have found doing so very sad, not the source of peace and joy that it once was.  Deep inside me, is a fury and anger about the way in which denial of healthcare has served to disable me further.  Being forced to sit in a place I once walked in is yet another reminder that my life doesn’t matter because I am fat.   It’s hard enough to live as I do right now without that reminder.  I’m saving my favorite places for that point in the future when I’ve lost enough weight to be allowed a new hip.  But trees are my evidence that the universe is splendid and I do take time to admire them.  This month, that came in the form of a trip to select our Christmas tree.  JT led the adventure, which enabled me to be confident that I could walk and stand long enough.  We visited Home Depot at twilight and the rows of balsams and fir trees smelled amazing.  

This year we chose a balsam tree and JT loaded it up, secured it in the stand, and then brought it inside for us to decorate.  

The house smells amazing and soon enough, this gem will have twinkling lights and ornaments.  Choosing a tree is one of my favorite Christmas traditions and I’m grateful that JT helped to make it happen this year.

A Night with Neil DeGrasse Tyson

In my experience, a Neil DeGrasse Tyson event is a bunch of scientific true believers.  I can say for certain that was the case for me, JT, and my friend H.  We saw Tyson on Thursday night and, like the fan crew we are, we cheered when the wisdom of science range true.  

Talks like this - surrounded by hundreds of people who know that only science can save us - provide a sense of real hope in a world that often feels bleak.  That’s happy.

December 1: Christmas Cactus

At the close of my visit to California after my father’s passing in February, I brought home some clippings from my Dad’s Christmas cactus, a beautiful plant that he had been growing for years.  The cactus spent the Summer and Fall outside under my watchful eye.  I was pleased as the transplants took hold and began to grow.  The plant is the recipient of a lot of attention; I talk to it as if my dad can hear me.  In the cold weather, it’s come inside and sits front and center to soak up the Winter sunlight.  

I didn’t expect any flowers this year but that is exactly what has happened.  

In my mind, these bright blooms can only have one source, the green thumb of my dad reaching through the great beyond.  Each morning I say hello to him and the blooms.  I think that my early-rising Dad would appreciate a morning greeting as dawn emerges.  And that I feel his spirit as the day begins is a lovely gift from this precious plant.