My journalism journey part 6

Montana was glorious; living at 4,300 feet took awhile for my body to adjust. Anaconda was in a valley and every time a cloud came over, we got a little rain or snow, depending on the season. I loved the scenery. But I was a little lonely at first. The dog, Sox, ran away and so my editor's wife, Margie Mundstock, offered me one of their kittens. She had two momma cats living outdoors that each had a litter of eight kittens. My editor was frustrated with the kittens digging in his garden and threatened to take them to the creek (which he pronounced "crick") and drown. So to save the poor creature, I offered to take a pair. I had never like cats; my dad didn't like cats and the only cat I ever knew was my friend Libby Rich's cat Midnight, who nipped at me once (I'm sure I deserved it, in hindsight).

One afternoon, I went over to play with the kittens and pick out a pair. The poor babies were a bit shy. There was a little girl next door who liked to take the kittens up on the deck and drop them to see if they'd land on their feet. Years later, when I was taking photos of a girls' basketball game, I met her. She asked me to take her photo. I told her I didn't take photos of children who terrorized kittens. She said she didn't like cats; I said I didn't like children who were mean to animals and wouldn't take her photo. So there!

I settled on a pair of male kittens. One was a gray tabby with green eyes that I named Kittle after my favorite Chicago White Sox player at the time, Ron Kittle. The other was a gray tabby with a white chest and green eyes that I named Carlton, after the White Sox catcher, Carlton Fisk. Both were playful and frisky and I thought would be a good pair to take home. Margie said to come back in a week and the kittens would be ready to take home.

So I came back in about a week one afternoon; no one was home. So I played with the kittens in the yard. Carlton didn't want to come to me. Kittle did, as did a little shy black kitten whose fur was tinged with a reddish hue. I played with a piece of grass with him. He was friendly; I called him Cinnamon because of his coloring. He also had fangs hanging out of his mouth. I decided I was going to take him instead.

When I saw Margie again in the office, I told her of my decision. She said she had taken some of the kittens to the vet to be euthanized. She wasn't sure if the black kitten was in the batch. When I came to take the kittens, we couldn't find Cinnamon, but finally caught him and Kittle. I took the kittens home and they immediately hid. When Cinnamon came out, he clung to my neck and purred. Kittle played a while, then came on my lap and stole my pen while I was interviewing someone. Kittle was a character and never shy. He was always in trouble.

Cinnamon was a little shy. I could tell he had been terrorized by the little girl next door. When I picked him up, he was afraid I was going to throw him down. But he and Kittle came into my bed immediately. And I started sneezing and coughing. I thought for sure I was allergic. So I got tested. Turns out I wasn't allergic to cats but to dogs. Go figure. I lived with a dog most of my life (we had a dog named Lady Louise II, then my sister had Lady III), but I was allergic to them, not to the cats I had just adopted. I just had a bunch of other allergies to the rest of the world: trees, molds, pollens, grasses, etc. But the cats, they were OK.

The two little guys settled into my life and curled up in my heart. I didn't know how to react to them, but I quickly learned. You didn't hit cats; you lightly tapped them on their nose to discipline them, as their mom would. The kittens taught me a lot, too, just about how to handle them.

As they grew up, they delighted me with their antics. One day, I came home for lunch and was greeted at the door by Cinnamon, who had a little package in his mouth from a rattan sleigh. The two kittens had picked apart everything in the Christmas decoration and were playing with the packages in the clawfoot bathtub. I was angry but I had to laugh. He was so cute.

One day, Cinnamon wasn't eating or drinking. He was lethargic. I didn't know what was going on. I took him to the vet, who thought he either had feline leukemia, kidney disease or a blockage. As the cat lay on the steel exam table, looking scared and skinny, I said, "Doctor you have to save him, I love him." Cinnamon looked up at me with his big green eyes as if to say, "I didn't know that!"

It turned out he had swallowed a metal bracket from my stereo stand (no wonder it didn't stand straight; he had taken it off). On the X-ray, the piece looked like an "M". Wally said, "Don't you know, we brand all our cats with an 'M'?"

Dr. Dave, the vet, lived next door to me, it turns out, and after removing the piece, came over and told me Cinnamon was fine  but asked if he could keep the bracket for his collection. When Cinnamon came home a couple days later, his tummy bare and stitches in the middle, he was a different cat. He wasn't afraid of me anymore. He jumped into my arms when I came home at night. He curled up next to me in bed and put his paws around my neck and purred.

He knew I loved him and I would never hurt him. And somehow, I had learned to love a cat; well, two.

Over the years, I would be owned by other cats: Bootsie (known as the ***** for her attitude), Bonnie, a Siamese; Maggie, a white kitten who was given to me by a couple I interviewed for a story (the kitten climbed on my camera bag and started licking my fingers); Scooter, who came into my life after Kittle died; Diva and Nettie, who came into my life after Cinnamon died; and now Juliette, who was adopted in Louisiana after Scooter died. They all hold a place in my heart and came along the road in my life.

Okay, here's the way I started my self analysis. It's not perfect but it's a way to start your own assessment. 

Back when I had gained some weight (20 pounds), I began looking at the cause. Mostly what I found was that when we have WLS, we have that "honeymoon" phase where we lose weight with little effort. Most of us can lose weight while we sleep because we are have the rerouted intestine that doesn't absorb as much, the newly constructed pouch that is still sensitive to amounts of foods that we eat, and our larger than life sizes makes weight loss easy. Because we have these factors that are pretty much a guarantee for success, we don't do much toward behavior modification nor do we work on those things that cause us to snack on the wrong foods.

Most doctors agree that after the first year, our rerouted small intestine evolves a bit so that it can absorb a little more efficiently but that alone will not cause a significant weight gain. They also agree that over the first year, most of us push the limits so that our pouches begin to lose their sensitivity to certain kinds of foods like greasy or sugary foods; unfortunately, most of us are never cured of our messed up minds about food so we do try to work the pouch to get some of our cravings met. For instance, I go nuts for chips and crackers. I can eat a ton of those kinds of foods because they slide or glide right through my pouch. Some folks keep testing the pouch for sugar, and over time and exposure, they are able to eat a little sugar. Once we have lost that sensitivity to certain foods or amounts of foods, and once our intestine begins to absorb a little more efficiently, it's only natural that our deflated fat cells will do what they do best and that is store the fat.

 So, how in the hell can we keep the weight loss pace up until we lose the amount we want to lose? More importantly, how can we maintain our weight loss? I've thought about this and researched the topic over and over. I've learned about stress and how to rid my life of stress and for the stress I cannot kick to the curb, I've learned techniques for eliminating the reactions to stress. But, what I wanted to do was look at me and analyze when I most often went for the chips and figure out was it hunger, boredom, emotional, or all of the above.

 I've done my eating behavior analysis and if you guys want to work on what sets you off on an eating frenzy, you can spend a week journaling and analyze your behaviors. I know....I hate doing that too but I think when we examine what and when and where we eat, we can make some educated assumptions about the reasons we are eating and maybe work out a plan that will help us handle the situations that cause us to eat and more importantly what makes us go after the bad foods.

When I did mine, I broke my journaling into my plan for the day that I write a day or two in advance. I leave space for comment sections after each eating event. I thought evaluating the meal's success, how much I ate, what was good or bad about it...that kind of thing. I realized that I need to measure food...and I need to eat it. At the end, I had a summary section that would provide some added information. I've copied a section below out of my journal so you can use as your own model but by all means, if you have some ideas for a better format, please share.

July 15, 2016

Dietary Plan:

Breakfast: Loaded oatmeal (nuts and berries)

Comment--I am going to start measuring my oatmeal. I cannot eat a lot of oatmeal because it is dense but I do put butter on it and nuts and berries. If I eat 3/4^th cup of oatmeal, 1 tsp of butter, 1/8^th cup of nuts, and ½ cup of berries, it is good but if I throw more butter on it and add extra nuts and berries, I can load the oatmeal with more than healthy nutrients.  I use Splenda so that part is covered.

Snack: Celery and Bell Peppers

Comment--the good thing about eating raw vegetables is that they give me the crunch factor. I really need to chew. 

Lunch: Avocado and tomato sandwich

Comment--I rarely eat my entire sandwich and as a result, an hour after I eat, I start looking for something to eat and usually find crackers. Today, I ate six large crackers. That is not good.

Snack: Cucumbers--and I ate the cucumbers too. Damn it

Dinner: Shrimp stir fry (four large shrimp with broccoli, carrots, and peas) No rice, no pasta.

Comment--the shrimp is good and I know I need the protein so I ate the shrimp first then I ate the vegetables. Here's the deal...I start getting really hungry about an hour before bedtime. I mean I really want to eat some chips. Tonight, I ate some cheese, tomato, and a slice of bread. WTF

Snack: Watermelon and I ate the watermelon

Summary:

Here's the deal, I am eating the crackers for no reason...I am not hungry when I run for the crackers. I swear it's not hunger. I looked at my activities and there wasn't anything stressing me out and it's not emotional because all day today, I've been happy. I am excited about my upcoming retirement and we are excited about the upcoming vacation. My daughter and I are getting along and Kenny and I are also doing good. I am not sad or depressed....so it must be boredom. Now here's the deal....I am working and am always busy when I am working so how am I bored. I talked to a friend of mine about this and she suggested that I watch the time...you know, is it happening at 2 or 2:30....and she said to beat the urge by drinking water.  A lot of water so I'm going to try it.  The eating before bed is boredom, I know. I rarely have that time when I am not working or thinking so right before bed, I find myself lost....I feel like I am supposed to be doing something. 

My plan to alleviate the hunger right before bedtime: I will keep a sewing project close like needle point or crocheting or I will keep a book handy and when I feel the urge to gobble up some crackers, I will reach for the hooks or the books....and I will also drink the water...could my cravings have something to do with my lack of water consumption?

Tomorrow, I will time my water drinking and see if I still get those urges.

Maybe the dress will be back tomorrow. 

You are doing so good with your food intake and the walking is great.  

I love the string cheese too and keep it on hand for those urges....

Keep writing and posting please

J

My journalism journey part 5, Montana adventures
When I left Illinois, I knew my dad was not well. He had been on dialysis for awhile because he was in kidney failure. He didn't want to ask any of us for a kidney, although I know any of the kids would have given him one. I would have done it, I know.
I got to Montana in March 1984. In late April, I found out he had colon cancer and it was terminal. I found out on a Friday afternoon, after we got the paper out, and I walked home and cried for a long time. I probably wouldn't see him again. How would I afford to get home? Driving would take 2-3 days. I had no idea what a plane ticket would cost, but I was sure it wasn't cheap, and I was having trouble just getting by after the move.
My publisher, Dean, offered to foot the bill for the plane ticket and I would pay him back. He had me talk to his travel agent and we arranged for a date a couple of weeks away. I felt hopeful.
But the day I was to pick up the ticket, I got another call, this time from my sister-in-law, Debbie. She said Dad had been taken to the hospital and was in intensive care. He probably didn't have long.
So now the ticket was going to cost more, a lot more. Dean again came through for me. He picked up the tab, with me paying him back. I got on the puddle jumper from Butte to Minneapolis to Chicago the next day. My sister picked me up at O'Hare Airport and said, "You didn't need to come home. He's not going to die."
Wishful thinking. She would be proven wrong.
I got over to the hospital as often as I could. I didn't have a car but I took a bus when I could. One day, I came over there when there were no family members. The resident was there checking him out. He said, "This is my daughter, Eileen. She's a sports writer in Montana. She's a very good writer and I'm very proud of her."
Now, my parents were very sparse with praise. You were expected to get A's in school; you didn't get praised for that. My parents had been getting a free subscription to the Anaconda Leader courtesy of Dean, so for the first time they actually got to see what I did. They read my stories. I had given them copies of my stories in the past, but I guess it didn't click as much as it did when they saw it in the actual newspaper.
Those words surprised me, though. And they gave me such a boost of confidence that stayed with me all these years.
A few days later, Dad's port for dialysis was clogged again and the doctors couldn't do dialysis. The only way he could have it was to do it through a vein in his neck. It was very risky. My sister-in-law, Sue, was the family member at the hospital who was asked how the family felt about this. She said we didn't want to have that done. Dad never wanted any extraordinary measures. So he was moved out of ICU, to a regular room, and we waited for the inevitable.
A day later, Mom, me and some of my siblings sat with him while we tried to get some pain medication. He was in serious pain, but the nurse couldn't reach the doctor. He spent that evening in a lot of pain, mumbling to me to call the Sun-Times, tell them the hospital withheld his pain medication. I felt helpless. Finally, we said our goodbyes. Final goodbyes. He would die early in the morning the next day.
We had told the hospital to call my oldest brother, Ed, when Dad died, and he would call Mom. We didn't want Mom answering the phone and getting shocked by the news. That happened with my Grandma Briesch when Grandpa Briesch died, and she became hysterical.
Well, the hospital dropped the ball. Fortunately, I was staying with Mom and heard the phone ring first. The nurse didn't want to tell me first, but I told her I had to tell my Mom. And so I did.
I hugged her and we cried a bit, then I walked with her to the phone.
I have included this in my Montana adventure because it shows how much of a family I had in Montana. When I came back after the funeral, my editor insisted on running my dad's obit. I thought that was strange, because nobody in Anaconda knew my dad; I had only been in town a few months. But Wally said we always ran obits who were related to people who lived here, so why not me, too? So I wrote his obit.
People in town started contacted me after that. I got sympathy cards. I had written a column about my dad, too, and people reacted to that. One family invited me to their Father's Day cookout.
I went to that gathering and there was this big Irish setter/golden retriever mix dog hanging around outside the fence. The dog wound up following me home. I called it Lady at first, because it reminded me of my sister's dog, Lady. I kept it for a few days and took it to the vet; it was actually a male. So then I called it Sox, after the White Sox.
A few days later, I let it out at night to go to the bathroom and it ran away. I figured that was the last I'd see of Sox. My editor's wife, Margie had two cats that had had litters of eight kittens each. She wanted me to take a couple. I had never had cats, but I was lonely. I thought, why not.
And that began my love of cats. More to come, of course.