My 30 Lb Weight Loss Trick!

For those of you who haven't seen me in a while, my blog is aptly named.  As of late, however, it might be more accurate to go by "littlest momma".  I am a paltry 95 pounds.  As my aunt lovingly put it, I'm looking a little holocaust-esque.  I get a lot of people either offering me their fat (well intentioned but how, exactly, are we going to pull it off?) and a lot of other people saying they wish they were my weight.  I want to tell them no, you don't want to be in the double digits and that it's really not flattering for anyone beyond middle school. I'm constantly asked, "Why don't you eat something?"  I'd love to tell them, "I wish I had thought of that!!!!" but instead I usually give an unamused chuckle. 

What's my secret? How have I achieved the perfect anorexic model look?  Contrary to popular assumption, I don't work out (at all. Ever. Just a huge no-no.) and I certainly don't ever deny myself food.  That leaves us with option C: a Crohn's flare up.  I can hear the skeptics now: I thought your ileostomy ended all that?  And that presumption is what brings me here today.

Crohn's is a disease of the entire gastrointestinal tract.  It can affect you from your bottom all the way up to your mouth.  It sets up camp in your intestines and makes you double over with gut wrenching pain.  Sometimes, when being attacked internally isn't enough it surfaces on the skin with ulcers that feel like fire.  When life gets stressful, Crohn's will ensure that your mouth is ridden with canker sores that render eating unenjoyable.  My personal favorite is when Crohn's causes poop to come out of a myriad places it's not supposed to. 

The fact of the matter is, most of these symptoms go unnoticed by the person you sit next to in class or even your closest coworker.  The only real evidence I have of this flare up is my rapidly decreasing weight, and I've found that all too often people think I am intending to diet myself into oblivion. 

My ileostomy has thankfully made it so that the diseased areas of my intestines below it are finally getting the rest they need.  The disease there lies dormant for now.  After a year of my body adjusting to the ileostomy, however, Crohn's had to find a new vulnerable area: my upper GI.  This form is not so gory like my disease of yore (pre-ileostomy).  But it leaves me without an appetite, constantly nauseous, and doubling over at night praying that I'll just pass out instead of experience the pain.

I'm not trying to start a pity-party for the littlest momma here, I promise. I'm merely trying to inform, especially as I know there are people who are confused as to why and how I could get sick after my life-changing surgery.  There is no cure-all for Crohn's.  There is no magic diet (as many well-meaning friends have tried to tell me), there is no single medicine or treatment, there is no one surgery that will rid a person of this illness.

Crohn's is not the only one of its kind.  Many other diseases, auto-immune and otherwise, leave people looking relatively healthy on the outside while underneath they are ailing.  So please, please be mindful.  There are a lot of people out there who you would never suspect who are silently suffering. 

Okay, I'll jump of my "soap box", as it were, and remind you that your prayers (not your "thoughts") are coveted. 

We give great honor to those who endure under suffering. For instance, you know about Job, a man of great endurance. You can see how the Lord was kind to him at the end, for the Lord is full of tenderness and mercy.

James 5:11 

Lessons from the Beach

Between clashing work schedules, thousands of dollars in dental work, and a noticeable lack of date nights, it was time for a vacation.  Ian and I needed a vacation.  Ian's mother graciously took off work for a week to tend to our little one, as we were in need of shedding the "daddy-mommy" personas to revive the "husband-wife" dynamic.   So, we packed our bags, grabbed two of our good friends, and headed where all poor young couples (should) go: the white sandy beaches of Destin, Florida.

For six carefree days I reveled in the ocean breeze, the salty air, and the crystal clear water.  I munched on crab legs and went parasailing; I sleepily read books by the pool and played a decent round of putt-putt.

Eating the best popcorn shrimp I've ever had at Dewey Destin

There's something about going on vacation with another couple, though.  You get a deeper glimpse into the mechanics of their relationship: the way they interact, that thing one of them finds annoying about the other, and above all how they treat each other. 

I noticed from day one of our trip something Taylor did for Will: before catering to herself she always asked if there was anything he needed.  How long has it been since I've done that? I sheepishly asked myself.  It was then that I realized I had been sorely neglecting one of my main roles as a wife: being my husband's helper. 

The whole gang before our snorkeling excursion

The competitive nature in me knew I had to keep up with Taylor's kindness, or else Ian would quickly realize what he's missing.  So, I began pro-actively making sure Ian wanted for nothing. "Let me get you a drink," and "What can I do for you?", while sounding more like what you hear from a waitress, became my vacation refrains.  I can hear the groans of progressive feminists as I write about my traditional gender role, but I have this to say:  it made my husband noticeably happier which in turn, made me noticeably happier.  Being Ian's helper was not the drag I had been making it out to be; it was actually quite gratifying.

During this time, I also remembered many of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place, reasons I regretfully don't acknowledge enough anymore.  I have compiled a handful for your reading pleasure: 

admiring my hubby

• Ian humors me.  If you know me well, you know I need someone who knows how to humor me when I make my trademark ridiculous and irrational statements.
• He knows how to perfectly blend being goofy, sarcastic, and witty.
• He almost always reciprocates with calm kindness (or just wisely saying nothing), when I yell at him that I am NOT cheating at putt-putt!!! You can give up after five putts!
• He is easy on the eyes. After tanning in the Florida sun for a week, he could aptly be described as "tall, dark, and handsome".

Now, our vacation is over.  We have returned to the realities of working, dental work, and parenting a toddler. School looms on the horizon. As we embark on our second year of marriage I am determined to continue forming habits that fall under this "helper" role, not just because he deserves it, but because I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.
 

Then the Lord God said, "It is not good for the man to be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him."   

Genesis 2:18

The Ol' College Try

Billy Madison perhaps put it best when he sang, "Back to school, back to school, to prove to Dad I'm not a fool."  Only, it's not just my dad I'm trying to prove it to. It's everyone around me: my coworkers, my son, my in-laws, my high school classmates who were sure I didn't have great aspirations.  Most of all, however, I'm trying to prove it to myself: I'm not a failure, I'm not a quitter, I can and will finish this race.

Maybe that's part of my problem.  School, to me (along with most things), is a competition, in that whoever gets finished first wins. So to me, all my peers who have their bachelors degrees have beat me, and I am a very sore loser.  What makes matters worse (in my mind) is that I had the head start of going to college two years early! Like, why am I not done with this?!

Unfortunately, school didn't feel like a competition when I felt like I was winning. I cared not a bit for it. My first round at the University of Louisville was butchered by health problems (nixing my entire first semester's grades) and then my own stupidity (failing a class because I never went and subsequently losing my full tuition scholarship - I know, I want to kick me, too).  I wandered from one major to another, no drive to do something I wasn't absolutely passionate about such as "going to class" or "studying".  Then, my final semester I was pregnant, sick, and unmotivated, ultimately finishing with a poor excuse of a GPA for someone who should easily have a point higher.

I haven't taken a class for two years.  I am terrified of going back.  I really mucked up my first opportunity which has totally shaken my confidence for the next go at it.

Then again, a lot has happened in that that time.  I've had a baby, I've regained health I haven't had since kindergarten, I've gotten married, I've become financially self-sufficient, and I realized along the way the dream I have for myself.  I have a son to whom I absolutely, passionately want to give the world and do so by the passion I've found for a career in nursing. Gone are my lazy, unmotivated days of yore!

So I find myself back in school. This first semester will be just a couple online classes that are required for my new major.  I figured it best to ease into the whole routine as I've never gone to school, worked full time, and taken care of a baby simultaneously.   It was clear God wanted me there this fall, no matter how apprehensive I am.  He clearly has more faith in me than I do.

Graduating kindergarten was a lot easier

How this semester will end, academically is up to me (financially...well, we'll see!).  Rest assured, my all will be given. I am accountable not only to my anonymous donor who gave me this opportunity to re-enroll, but to my family, and mostly to myself.  I must finish what I started, and finish strong. So, with butterflies in my stomach, I am a student once more! GO CARDS!

It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.

Lamentations 3:27

The Rescuer

If asked to describe my dad in a single word, my answer might vary depending on the day.  If I was asked after getting in trouble in high school it would be "loquacious", as he daily gave me long lectures on my life choices (as any responsible parent does).  On a day that I'm exceptionally hypochondriacal, I might describe him as "knowledgeable" or "resourceful", as he always seems to know what is wrong with me or how to remedy it (usually with medicine he has in his pocket).  Other times, when I go on my typical rants about nothing, and my dad sits back with an eyebrow raised and arms crossed...on those days I would characterize him as "smug".  If you asked my friends, they would say he is nothing if not "mysterious" - among all my various social circles there are murmurings of his being in the CIA.

All these attributes aside, there is one word that truly encapsulates my dad and his role in my life: he has been my "rescuer".

When I was 14, I went on a mission to an Egyptian orphanage.  I had been gone for a total of about seven weeks, during which I communicated with family and friends solely by handwritten letters (and crappy postal systems).  It was finally time to go home. My team and I got to Charles de Gaulle airport only to find out that there had been a foiled terrorist attack in England.  This delayed our flight from France to New York by six or more hours. 

The French equivalent of the TSA went through each passenger's carry-ons individually before we could board. I paced nervously, my heart pounding from too many shots of espresso.  There is no way I will make my connecting flight home!

Worrying didn't add a single hour to my day, as it never does, and it did certainly didn't get me to the airport on time. I inevitably missed my connecting flight.  I was a tween stranded at JFK with a bunch of my friends who were about to make their own homecomings that I so longed for.  I found a payphone (866-CALL-ATT!) and called my mom to let her know the news.

"Hello?"  I immediately broke down at the familiar sound of my mother's voice.
"Our plane arrived late and now I've missed my flight and I need a new flight and I just want to be home," I blubbered through my uncontrollable sobs.

I will never forget my mom's calm reply.  "I know.  Dad is on a plane right now coming to get you. He'll be there to meet you in less than an hour."

Frantic tears turned into thankful tears.  I hung up the phone and literally jumped up and down with joy all over the airport.  Dad was coming to my rescue, in a big way.  He found his way to me and I ran to his safe embrace.  We left JFK for Newark and stopped at a diner where I scarfed down bacon and basked in this grand gesture of love. 

My dad has swooped in to "save" me several other instances throughout my life and I am so thankful.  I love you, Pops, and want to thank you for being such a godly example to your children: you have loved me unconditionally and, when I went astray, you always came to find me.  Happy father's day. Ani ohevet otkhah, aba.

Owning It

It's been a while since I've posted anything, a fact that isn't lost on me.  The past month I've been looking to my life for blog-worthy anecdotes and have come up short.  It was just yesterday I told my parents that really nothing has been going on except working and rearing my toddler (it doesn't sound right labeling him as such, but it's accurate!).  No more anonymous donors to speak of (duh! I'm not expecting any more either!), no earth-shattering moments, and no patient interactions that I think whoever reads this would find interesting.

But today...today something happened.  I wore a bikini.

Wearing a bikini to the pool is actually a common practice for many 20-somethings like myself.  After my surgery, however, I resigned myself to a life in the one-piece. After all, I have a hard enough time looking at the bag of intestine and poop hanging from my abdomen; why expose the public to such an atrocity?

In the winter, when all the swimsuits hit the stores in preparation for spring, I bought what I thought was the closest thing I could get to normal swimwear: a very nice mono-kini.  It covered up the bulge from my bag decently and allowed me to feel okay enough about my "beach bod".  As long as people can't tell I have a bag, I'm good.

A few weeks ago my husband mentioned he didn't think it would be such a terrible thing to wear a two-piece.  Oh yeah, and flaunt my most major insecurity? Yeah, right! It's one thing to tell people, "I have an ostomy".  It's quite another to go to a very public place with my body on display, and with it, a bag of my waste that, if removed, will show a stub of my intestine that on first glance looks like a very red male reproductive part. No, thank you!

Since then, I have gone to the pool a handful of times.  Every trip I self consciously look down at my bathing suit, silently pleading and hoping that no one will detect an abnormality with my body. 

Last Sunday, I found myself a prime opportunity to read by the pool.  I couldn't find my one piece.  I looked to my old bikinis which were in a give-away pile; they were challenging me.  Maybe I could...  But, my one piece turned up.  How silly of me to even consider exposing my icky insecurity!

Ian's idea of my wearing a bikini came up again today at lunch with my parents.  "He actually wants me to," I said.  To my surprise, my parents agreed that it wouldn't be the worst or the grossest thing in the world.  When it came time to get ready for the pool, I once again donned my one-piece.  Then I got to thinking:

What is so bad about my bag?  Why do I let it make me feel so...freakish?  Is it so freakish?  Doesn't everyone have that one weird thing that bothers them about their body?

I grabbed a bikini from what had been the give-away pile.  I went to the pool in it.  And you know what?  It is the most confident I've felt in the eleven months and one day since my surgery.  I was finally owning it.

My sweetness and me at the pool!

For you formed my inward parts;

You knitted me together in my mother's womb.

I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Psalm 139:12-14a

 

Anonymous Donor: Tuition Edition

I am rendered speechless, yet again: by the generosity of others and by God's mercy and provision.  Allow me to explain:

The last time I was in school was the fall of 2012.  My idiocy the semester before led to losing my scholarship at UofL, which had completely covered my tuition.  So, pregnant and clueless I began those fall classes not knowing how or when I was going to pay the five thousand-ish dollars.

Somehow, the school let me go the whole semester without paying a nickel.  Then the bills started arriving, reminding me of my debt to UofL.  I worked out a payment plan of the minimum $175 per month, which has been a financial concern and a burden.  Not only has it been a decent chunk out of the bank account, but at that rate, it would take years before I could pay it off and re-enroll.

I was able to use a gift left to me by my Grandfather to pay off a fraction of the debt, and since then I have been struggling to pay the monthly fee.  The debt has rendered me unable to continue and finish my education, no matter how much I want to.

Two days ago I got this text from my Grandaddy:

You know what they say: "If it seems too good to be true, it probably is....or it's a gift from God."  I looked at my account; and there it was.  I called the company and they confirmed that indeed, the thousands of dollars of debt had been paid. Tears of sheer joy, relief, and gratitude followed.  

I don't know who you are, but I truly cannot thank you enough for this.  You have not only lifted an incredible weight from my shoulders (and heart), but you have also given me the gift of opportunity to complete my degree, and the motivation to do so.  I don't know of a clearer way God could tell me to rise to the challenge and finish my schooling.

So, anonymous donor, thank you.  You have paid a debt that was not yours.  Know that I will work so, so hard.  Know that I will give it my very best because I will not let your generosity go to waste.  Just...thank you.  

~

 In remembrance of Good Friday:

And Jesus cried out again with a loud voice and yielded up his spirit.

Matthew  27:50

My New Role Model

My line of work has allowed me to see people from all walks of life in varying stages of their lives, mostly their most trying times, and how they are coping with it all.  There are the complainers, the curmudgeons; there are the people who have resigned themselves to a death sentence (some ready and waiting; some begging for it; some terrified of it); there are the hopefuls who ask, "Do you think I'll be going home tomorrow?"  Humans in different degrees of misery and hardship. 

Two nights ago, we got a new patient who was, for our floor, very young (forties or fifties).  The man has multiple sclerosis and recently lost the job that helped provide for his four children.  I wasn't assigned to him, but when his nurse and aide came out of his room I quickly wished I was. 

They spoke of him with respect and admiration: his nurse sat down in awe and said, "He just radiates....Jesus".  His aide had only praise as well: "I have never seen a man who is going through all that have that joy. He's the real deal. He's the real deal."  This man made an immediate impression on these people by his obvious love for the Lord and resulting peace and joy in what would otherwise be a desolate time in his life. 

All this to say, I would love for people to walk away from me saying the same things.  Sadly, I know they don't.  Not long ago, I mentioned to a coworker that I went to Portland Christian School in my formative years and she said, "Oh really? I would have never guessed you were a Christian."  Yikes!! Granted, she works day shift and doesn't spend much time with me, but her comment was convicting.

I used to want people to say, "She walks like an ace," after meeting me, per the Beach Boys.  (This never happened.  I have an undeniably weird gait that my physical therapist has even pointed out.) My priorities have since changed, and now the challenge is to radiate Jesus like this man did, leaving people hungry for the Holy Spirit.