Thursday, February 28, 2013

Throw Back Thursday

There's been a trend on Facebook lately, (and it's probably an Instagram thing, but I'm really not organized enough to maintain 2 social media sites) to post an old photo on Thursdays.  I've rather enjoyed seeing many of my friend's posts.  Childhood friends are especially enjoyable to see because largely, that's how I remember them--neck deep in the sandbox, not toting a toddler on each hip!

This morning I've seen several and I was thinking about some special time that I spent with my miniest me a few days ago.  You see, we have a small wedding album that sits on a low shelf in our living room.  She loves to flip through it, almost daily.  It was Tuesday afternoon, and I heard her in the living room, flipping through the album, narrating to her doll "Awilla" who everyone in the photos were.  Since these photos are just the snap shots taken by some family members, I asked her if she wanted to see some more pictures from our wedding, and I pulled out the professional ones.

As I flipped thorough each and every photograph, something beautiful happened--I remembered how it felt to love my husband like I did that day, and I started to cry.  Our relationship hasn't been ideal lately.  We've both made a lot of stupid mistakes.  Other people have been allowed to play a far to active role in a very personal scenario, and it's caused distance.  It has caused anger.  It has caused hurt and separation.  It has inhibited the ability to love each other.

Of course, over the years, life gets in the way of the "honeymoon" phase.  Kids demand way too much attention, jobs and finances take priorities and sometimes it becomes impossible to even be able to share a meal and enjoy the presence of each other without talking about the state of the bills, bank account or behavioral issues with the kids.  These kinds of things quickly steal the romance.

As I flipped through these photographs and through my mind echoed the sweet sentiment of a friend of the "sweet spirit" that was present on our wedding day, suddenly it all came back to me.  It had been so long since I'd really looked at my wedding photos.  Sure, there are some that hang on the walls, or are artfully displayed around my home, but I hadn't really looked at them for probably 2 years or more.  My heart finally felt an emotion that I'd been lacking for months.  A sensitivity toward my husband as I saw his longing, loving looks in the photos, the same looks he gives me now, despite how hateful I have become.  I felt that tenderness again.  I felt that love again.  I finally felt some hope again.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Something HAS to Change

It is with a very heavy heart that I sit down to type this morning.  I don't think that it will come as any surprise that situations in my personal life have become somewhat overwhelming in recent months, but that's not what I'm here to talk about.

Almost four and a half years ago, I stood in a hospital room next to the bed my mother was lying in, waiting on results from a mass that they found in her abdomen.  Just a few months prior, she was treated for a mass in her breast.  The doctors feared that the masses were incarcerated cysts.  Fortunately, this was not the case, nor were they cancerous.  They were each, in fact, an abscess caused by diabetes that was out of control.  My mother's blood sugar that day was 450.  The normal range is 70-120.  She was morbidly obese.  I stood in that hospital room, pregnant with her 2nd granddaughter, fearful that she would never see her grow up.  The doctors told her that she wouldn't live to see her granddaughters graduate high school, if something didn't change.

Just over a year later, I received one of the most painful phone calls I can recall.  My father had been hospitalized with internal bleeding.  After several tests to determine where the bleeding was coming from, they discovered a large tumor in his esophagus--it was cancer and he must begin aggressive chemotherapy and radiation immediately if there was any hope for survival.  The type of cancer that he had was directly related to his lifestyle choices with something like 80% of cases being overweight men who drank excessively.

Fortunately, both of my parents are still alive.  Each living comparably healthier lives than ever before.  The fear of not being present in the life of her grandchildren was enough to make my mother lose more than 130 lbs.  She went from being on some of the highest doses of insulin and over $100 (after insurance) prescription expense monthly, to completely diabetes free.  She is happier and very present in my daughters' lives.  My dad went through the chemo and radiation.  I stood by his bedside while he hallucinated because of the medications.  I sat by his side daily, running his feeding tube.  I watched my once strong and intimidating father become a frail old man.  Then I watched him slowly regain his strength.  I held my breath and prayed and waited by the phone while he went for his follow-up PET scan, and cried tears of relief when they declared him cancer free.  I celebrate the more cautious choices that he makes now, on what he consumes.  This story has a happy ending, but unfortunately, the one I must tell, does not.

Over the last few months I have watched the health of several people I know and care about rapidly decline, all because of issues that if addressed soon enough, could have been prevented.  Please know that the story I am about to tell is not intended to hurt anyone, it contains no judgement, just genuine heartfelt pain and concern.  About a month ago, my mom's cousin died, unexpectedly at age 66.  She was an amazingly beautiful woman.  I had many fond childhood memories of sitting in her living room, wrestling with her sons and eavesdropping on her conversations with my mom.  She had the most amazingly memorable voice.  It was kind of raspy with that distinctive Italian-American accent.  She had a heart bigger than anyone I've ever met.  No exceptions.  She always told it like it was, but no one ever got mad at her.  She was exactly what I hope someone remembers me as some day.  She also had diabetes, and weight issues that had gotten out of control.  This is ultimately what took her life.

Yesterday, my husband received a phone call that a childhood friend had passed away.  A young man of only 27.  His weight had gotten so unmanageable that he resorted to bariatric surgery.  Through many complications from several surgeries, he ultimately lost the battle.

I have another family member who daily struggles with the complications of diabetes that is out of control.  Unfortunately at this point, its all about managing pain and symptoms.  She has lost her vision almost completely, has neuropathy and must undergo painful dialysis because she has lost most of her kidney function.  I ache for her.  My heart breaks for the pain that she's going through.  My heart breaks for the pain of the loss for the friends and family of the young man.  My heart aches and breaks for my cousins and aunts and uncles, for myself and my family who lost such an amazing woman.  Most of all, my heart aches for our country, for the thousands of people who are facing these or similar health complications, which  if addressed soon enough can be avoided.

Within my immediate circle, two people died senselessly.  More than a dozen more are suffering unnecessarily.  I can't bear the thought or the pain of losing someone else because I didn't try to help.  The fact is that I am confident that I too would have been added to this list if it wasn't for a friend that offered me a life line.  I had spent every year of my life for the first 23 years overweight.  My weight was rapidly spiraling out of control.  It was my daughters, that were ultimately the catalyst for the change, but my friend Carrie who was my biggest cheerleader and who introduced me to Turbo Jam--for me, it was Beachbody.  Three and a half years and nearly a dozen programs and 130 lbs later and I have the confidence that it will never be my weight that will take my life.  Beachbody was what made sense for me and I decided to pay that forward, and sadly, I've fallen short.  I've not been the catalyst for change that I had hoped to be.  As I heard the news yesterday of another death and more complications, I knew that I could no longer be silent.

The fact is this, I love Beachbody and I fully believe and am committed to their mission.  I celebrate the work that they have done for me and several people that I care about, BUT more than anything, I love to see my friends and family HAPPY and HEALTHY.  I want to help you.  I don't want to see anyone I love and care about, or even know for that matter, suffer a senseless death or painful medical complications because of something that could be avoided.  I don't care if you buy P90X, I don' t care if you never take a single sip of Shakeology, but what I do care about is you caring for yourself.  PLEASE, let me help you.

Whatever support you might need, I will offer it.  Encouragement, recipes, workout recommendations, resources, etc.  You can find me on facebook, comment here or email me privately at michelleesander@gmail.com   PLEASE, DON'T WAIT UNTIL IT'S TOO LATE!

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Like a Primal Battle Cry

There comes a point in time, I believe in all people's lives that they look at their life and say, "this is not AT ALL what I had planned."  Maybe it doesn't happen to everyone, but for the sake of not feeling completely ostracised, I am going to believe that it does. 

Things have been in flux.  For a long time, things in my life have been in flux.  It feels like I'm in the middle of a rushing river and just trying to ride the current, but jagged rocks block the path and so I'm repeatedly bashed into these rocks, snagged on branches and ultimately inhibited from the metamorphosis that seems so natural.  The irony, though, is that I don't know where this river goes, I don't know what the metamorphosis is, just that it must happen.  The feeling is that the pressure to be and do all of the right things and fulfill all of the right roles and maintain all of the right statues is so pervasive and yet something deep within me screams in opposition like a primal battle cry.

My throat burns.  It burns from swallowing the words that I would say, from swallowing the feelings and emotions that I shouldn't feel, or say.  My gut wretches, not knowing what to say or how to say it, but knowing that there is something that I must say.  Though I try to find comfort in the resolution that everyone has entertained this same scenario, I maintain a feeling of complete solitude. 

This is not AT ALL what I had planned....