My Life-long Struggle With I.B.S.

Tags

Abdominal pain, Diarrhea, Health, Intestine, Irritable bowel syndrome, Mental Health, Stress, Symptom

It Comes, It Goes, It’s Unpredictable

Type “A” personality, that’s me, not by choice, rather by nature’s design.  Well, some of it might have been “learned” as a method of survival in a large family. I learned to keep my mouth shut rather than stand up for what was right… or even for “my” rights. I “internalized” everything.

  Even as a child, my reaction to stressful events in the home or at school was to cram up.  Where other people might eat during stressful situations, I was too wound up; eating was not a comfort. 

As I grew into my teen years, my frequent abdominal cramps were exhausting me.  I made an appointment with the family doctor who diagnosed Spastic Colon and prescribed Donatal.  All these years later, I cannot recall for how long I actually took those little pills, but I do know, they worked wonders for the time that I took them. 

My stress levels must have decreased as I married right out of high school and began my own life.  Even with starting a family of my own and all of the financial struggles that went along with it, my stress levels never caused my IBS to reach the intensity where I sought the doctor again… during that stage of my life. 

Growing older and expanding my circle to include friends who “partied”, I found that I enjoyed the occasional/social whiskey sour or wine at gatherings.  My IBS still seemed under control.  Could my IBS really have been caused by stress? 

Thinking back, it was not until my husband died unexpectedly, leaving me with four children, that the spasms returned and have been with me off and on (more “on” than “off”) over the past twenty-five years.  Recently, within the past year, the problem has intensified to the point of seeing the doctor and being prescribed another anti-spasmodic which helps a little bit, but it’s not the answer to my long-term problem.

I have been analyzing my stress level, which seems low right now, and eating habits; I am hoping to discover what foods may be responsible for my condition since I do not believe that stress is causing my current flare up. 

This part of my blog is where I will be keeping a journal of what I eat, how I am feeling and hopefully eliminate the causes for this frustrating disease. 

“Chow” for now!

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When I say, “I can’t”, I mean, “I have no choice!”

Tags

Cake decorating, Carpal tunnel, Carpal tunnel syndrome, Conditions and Diseases, emotional, faith, fortitude, God, Median nerve, Stephen Hawkin, Telephone line

Copyright holder - Unknown (please identify)

“…I’m just calling to let you know that my latest employment endeavour didn’t turn out…”  Silence shouted its disappointment through the phone line in response.

“I couldn’t be a cake decorator, my hands were going numb, my back was hurting… I saw the writing on the wall, I could not do this job long-term.  I just wanted you to know…”

Again, silence shadowed the phone line.  It was a familiar silence to me, one I knew all too well by name – ‘disappointment’.

Eventually, a voice transmitted, “Well, I just want you to know that I will NEVER wish you luck on a job again and that you should just stay home.”

“Yep,” I agreed, knowing that I was NOT going to ‘stay home’ and NOT  ‘never look for a job again.’

At 58 years old, my body has suffered injuries and aging.  I can move dirt, I can lift boxes, I can do many things, but my hands are limited through carpal tunnel to the point of being absolutely, totally useless after repetitive, daily actions.

I can still move a mountain… S-L-O-W-L-Y.

I can move souls through my truths.

With my carpal tunnel, the morning pain is the worst, imagine the feeling of swollen, tingling, numb, bee-stung hands on the end of what my brain recognizes as my arms, this was beginning to be my norm at this ‘cake decorating’ job. I knew my limitations.

I needed to listen to my body, not my critics.  I needed to applaud my efforts rather than my failures.

I chose to identify with my abilities rather than my disabilities.

I will never accept a position as a cake-decorator, pianist, or… or, I’m not sure what else may aggravate carpal tunnel, but, if I indulge in another adventure which aggravates it, I will be sure to let you know.

Meanwhile, I am taking this opportunity to shout to the world, “I  CAN”… it just might take me a little longer and when I slide in –  to that home base with my last breath, I guarantee you that my body is going to be all used up and my last breath will be “YES”!

Thank God (even though he doesn’t believe in God), that Stephen Hawkin’s family didn’t tell him to “…just stay home…” when his body began to let him down.

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BURGABOO

Tags

Alpo, burgaboo, carnivour, Chicago Tribune, Cooking, Dinner, Home, Meal, Recipe, recipes, World Cuisines

The majority of people I know happen to be carnivores, so, I didn’t give it a second thought that my new husband was carnivorous too.  I was raised in a home with six siblings, both parents worked, yet dinner was always home-cooked.  Depending upon what my mother had planned for dinner, she would either cook dinner the night before, or have me start dinner when I arrived home from school.  More often than not, it was my responsibility to start dinner because her commute from downtown Chicago would bring her home close to 7 p.m. and that was too late to start cooking for the hungry brood.

Through the latter years of grammar school and throughout my high school years, I learned the basics of cooking.  There were no fancy meals; after all, we were a large family of middle-to-low income and meals-on-a-dime were one way to ensure that all three of my brothers would be able to attend college. 

Sunday meals were typically a roast beef.  Roasts are easy to make, nothin’ to it!  The best part was that the meat could be stretched for another meal the next day by making beef hash.  I rarely remember cooking chicken dishes; maybe chicken was more expensive… hmm?  I do remember that Mom would sit and cut out recipes from the Chicago Tribune.  Most of the recipes were hamburger-based (ground round). 

Photo Courtesy Library of Congress 8c04206v

I don’t recall anyone complaining about the food we ate…. Until the infamous “Burgaboo” recipe found its way from the newspaper to the dinner table.

Burgaboo was the first time I can EVER remember anyone wanting to boycott eating, but I do remember at least three of the six of us, wanting to spit it out.  My older brothers were teens at the time and would eat ANYTHING, including Burgaboo… heck, their appetites were so ravenous, that the mean old dog of ours probably had to guard her Alpo dog patties from them!  Maybe that’s why she was so mean?  Anyway, Burgaboo looked like leftover vomit, absolutely, unappealing in the visual sense.  The best I can recall, the one and only mouthful I ever took of it tasted like vomit too.  I ran to the garbage, spat out my mouthful, and went to bed hungry.  A punishment I gladly welcomed considering the alternative of having to eat that garbage.

Some of Mom’s other culinary delights seemed funny coincidences, for instance, anytime we had hot dogs and beans, WGN TV always played Tarzan movies.  I wondered if maybe Mom planned the week’s dinners by looking through the TV schedule first – you know, “Oh, Tarzan is on Thursday night that means we’ll have hot dogs and beans!”  Another dish we ate according to the regularly scheduled movie of the week was “The Creature from the Black Lagoon,” when we always ate some kind of tuna casserole… hmm… tuna, black lagoon…

When I grew up, I hand-copied many of Mom’s recipes, feeling that I had a good collection, especially since I already knew how to cook; it also helped that I handed out recipe cards and SASEs to all the women who attended my bridal shower, asking them to mail to me their favorite recipe.  Burgaboo was not among any of the recipes sent back to me, and I did not copy it from my mother’s collection either; it had mysteriously disappeared from her recipe scrapbook during my high school years.  I was feeling particularly daring, prior to one of Mom’s grocery shopping days and before she would sort through her recipes to make out her list. I stole the recipe from her notebook, tore it into a thousand pieces, and flushed it down the toilet.  I honestly felt like a HERO!  My younger sister and brother applauded my bravery and the fact that they would NEVER have to eat Burgaboo again! 

Ah… but my moment of elation would end soon enough when Mom was looking for the Burgaboo recipe as she wrote out her grocery list, “What happened to my Burgaboo recipe?”  Silence seemed to be golden amongst my conspirators until my big-mouthed younger sister decided that it would be even more fun to see my mother inflict her wrath upon me.  A price I was willing to pay.  The recipe was lost to the ages. 

Occasionally, I do a Google search to see if maybe somewhere out there, someone else, had cut out that recipe and thought it good enough to share with the world.  Actually, I was curious to see a list of its ingredients, wondering what had made it so vile.  Nope, not even the internet can bring back that loathsome recipe, I can’t find it anwhere. 

I saved the culinary world and other young children from Burgaboo!

~~~

A Picture’s Worth — Post a Day 2012

Tags

Blog, Business, Copyright, Daily Post, morguefile, Photograph, Photography, Stock photography

Today’s topic at The Daily Post addresses copyright license and the use of photos in your blog as well as links to stock photo collections.  Personally, I favor two stock image sites:   http://www.sxc.hu/  and  http://www.morguefile.com.

I have used Stock Xchng for websites that I have built as well as using photos for Photoshop alteration examples in my work.  The site is easy to navigate and offers photos from amateur photographers, who typically allow one to use their photos as long as credit is mentioned. There are also professional images which can be purchased for use.  Any time I have used images from Stock Xchng, I always contact the photographer, explain how their image will be used and ask if they would like a link back to their personal site.  I always credit the photographer with the initial work, that’s just proper etiquette.

Photo copyright Phaedra Wilkinson via MorgueFile

Another site which I have used, although to a lesser degree, is Morgue File, and no, the site is not full of morbid photos, to the contrary, the photos are professional quality with an incredible variety of subject matter (see photo at left as an example).

Hopefully today’s little post gave you two more sources for stock photography.  Happy Blogging!

Update: – for some reason, the link I’ve added to Phaedra’s name in the caption is not saving.  Thank you to Phaedra Wilkinson for allowing me to use her photograph in this post.

The Ugly Child

By eight years old, Sarah wondered why there were no pictures of her in the family photo album.  I can only think it was her Virgo nature, which caused her to ask her mother ‘why’, and her mother responded, “… because you were too ugly…”

Sarah grew up trying to emulate her older sister, Karla, whose eminence was of a natural beauty with flawless bone structure, and coloring.  Sarah, on the other hand, was plain, ugly, less than ordinary, even strange to some extent due to her sensitivities and ugliness, ”You were an ugly baby, we couldn’t affor to take pictures..”

Sarah seemed not to fit with the perfect family of her beautiful sister and two brothers.  It did not help that her Uncle was a beautician who gave her fine hairs chemical permanents to make her appear “better.”

…Years passed by, Sarah’s presence had always been absent from family photos and movies save for brief glimpses of the ‘ugly’ child running in the background… she survived and became  the true “Ugly Ducking” story, unfortunately without the happy ending.

Beauty meant nothing to Sarah  other than what she consumed in her nostrils, air, vision, and touch… not in the mirror.. a ferrel spirit without home.

Behold, Sarah grew to be beautiful, sexy – even – in the eyes of man… many men.  She exuded an effervescent personality to those who did not know she was ugly…  It was her private secret and she sought to be accepted…prove her worth.  Beauty was such a big part of her parents’ lives, wasn’t it?  She learned to be accepted for her flaws, that which she ‘gave away’.  That which she thought was ‘worth something’… that which she was never taught was of value…. her very soul, her very self, her “ugliness”.

If you teach a child that they are ugly, or disabled, or stupid, well, come on; parents of children in the 50′s had a different attitude than of today.  But, this post is not about ‘today’, it’s about tomorrow.

You see, “ugly” was a label by them that could not see … true “beauty” is for those  who understand hope.

Sarah’s prayer to her mother:

“Be at peace lovely lady, I wish I knew you,

The secrets you felt compelled to shroud,

The kisses you never spent…”

I wish you knew me Ma!

The Ugly Child