BODY WARS: Progress Report from Weeks 2-3

Well, I gained one pound back. Sigh.

This is probably due to me trying to figure out how to eat out and still follow the gastroparesis guidelines without busting a gut with too many carbs. My work schedule forces me to eat out at least twice a week - no easy feat for someone with a very restricted diet to begin with. According to most nutritionists, a good diet should fall within these parameters:

Carbohydrates: 45%-65% of your diet
Fat 20%-35% of your diet
Protein 10% to 35% of your diet

My carbohydrates tend to range from 50%-65% by default. I have managed to lower my carbs closer to 50%, but my fat intake has gone up to the 30% range. Oddly enough, the extra fat hasn't hurt my stomach "as much as it is supposed to," but it definitely isn't helping my diet. In order to get the extra protein the doctor says I need, I have to eat more meat, and even lean meat has fat in it. Ditto for soy products. Don't get me started on the dairy problem; let's just say I have always been a bit lactose-intolerant. I don't think I am going to win this one. I did not tolerate meat products very well to begin with - no juicy steaks for me!

I have started weight training again; this has had both positive and negative results. The positive is that, as far as weight and reps are concerned, I have been able to pick up where I left off FIVE YEARS AGO in the computer system at the YMCA. Yea! The bad news is I have had to reduce my days at the gym from 4 days to 3 days a week. My body aches constantly, and my bum knee is getting too "chatty" with my other knee - now both of them hurt! I tried reducing my weight levels, but then I did no real work because the weights were too light for me.

The Fitlinxx computer system hooked up to the weight machines has bells and whistles to nag you about form, speed, and full reps, which can be both annoying and helpful at the same time (it is controlled by sensors embedded in the weight equipment). I really hate the noise that goes with "You have reached the top of your range!!!!!" Doo-be-doo-DA--da DA! I keep expecting the baseball organ music to chime in....So I block the noise with my earphones.

Yes, I go to the Y. I used to go to a regular gym and work with a trainer out in Milpitas, but my scheduled tutoring appointments are located across Silicon Valley in Cupertino. The 24 Hour Fitness nearest to me (the only gym near my house, in fact) is full of very scary lurkers and weirdos. I prefer to go to the Y, where even the old ladies are comfortable; I time my workouts to coincide with their mass geriatric appearances in the late morning so I don't feel like such a blubber butt. I also try to finish my workouts before the beefy "cut" San Jose Firefighters arrive wearing their adorable dark blue muscle Ts with the names of their units emblazoned across their backs; I also avoid the skinny-Asian-girl wave that seems to accompany the firefighters' arrival (hmmmm....coincidence?). I know I can't compete.

The Day the Space Shuttle Blew Up

We were late.

The other fourth grade teacher had set up the television in the classroom next door, but we had not yet filed into her classroom to watch the launch. In spite of what current naysayers claim about public apathy towards the NASA space program, to us, it was going to be a day of excitement. Our Weekly Reader had always been chock full of articles about space exploration, and we had done an extensive unit the year before on the nine planets. I had read everything I could about the "Teacher in Space" program; 321 Contact had run a small spread about Christa McAuliffe in its science-for-children magazine, and there had been numerous interviews with the aspiring space teacher in the local media.

Mrs. M. lined us up in a row and ordered us to get ready to leave. It was an unusually cold morning in central California, so we bundled up carefully to go outside to get to the other teacher's classroom. Then, something strange happened.

Mrs. H., the teacher who had the television, left her class unattended for a moment, and raced up the external stairs to our classroom. She pulled Mrs. M. aside and spoke to her a low voice. Mrs. M. looked stunned, and sank down behind her desk. We stood at the door, ready to launch and very confused.

Finally, the much-shaken teacher spoke one simple sentence, "The Challenger blew up."

Immediately from the back of the room, an unmistakably male-child voice piped up, "AWESOME!"

The teacher glared at the miscreant (a special education student, if I remember correctly), then ordered us to hurry out the door.

The new media played the footage over and over again as we watched the events unfold; we watched the trail of debris streak across the sky, over and over again. We listened intently as the reporters gave a play-by-play of the events surrounding the shuttle launch and failure. Oddly enough, no one seemed overly traumatized by the disaster. Being children, we never even considered the implications of the space disaster. I privately wondered what happened to the teacher who had gone up in space; I would ask my mother later about what happened to her.

Our teacher brought us back to our classroom and tried valiantly to set up a television set, but ultimately failed in her technical endeavors; the best she could do was a snowy, grainy picture on the set, and we quickly lost interest in trying to make out what was happening. Classroom life went on.

At the end of the day, I went out to stand in line to be picked up as usual. The principal stood by the construction cones that marked the traffic lanes as she usually did, calling student names through the electronic megaphone (a device much in favor with yard teachers in the 1980s). I watched for and waited eagerly for my mother's familiar, Kermit-green station wagon, but my name was never called. Two or three students were still waiting with me after all the children had left, but even they were finally called out to their respective cars.

I stood out on the black-top pavement silently fuming, alone and confused.

Mrs. W., the principal, came over and gently took me by the arm. We walked to the office together, and the secretary looked up at us, stunned. Then, she smiled.

"Your mother just called us. You will have to wait in the office for awhile."

"Well, where is she?" I whined.

The principal and the secretary whispered a bit, then turned back towards me.

"Your mother is with Mrs. G. Mrs. G. is having her baby today."

My face brightened. "My mom is her birthing coach," I told them, proudly.

The two administrators looked a bit flummoxed by my reply, but quickly recovered.

"You may sit in the office until your mother comes."

I sulkily plopped down on the office chairs. I was really annoyed for two reasons - first, that my mother was late, and second, that the administrators thought I shouldn't know about birthing coaches. It had always irritated me, especially in childhood, when people assumed I was stupid. Actually, I had known the "facts of life" since third grade, when a wonderful documentary called "The Miracle of Life" had aired on PBS. My mother and I had watched it together and engaged in several fascinating conversations about the scientific reality behind where babies came from and just how they got out of their mother's bellies. I have never felt awkward about discussing the facts of life, and for that, I can thank my mother.

Scenes from the end of the film flashed through my mind as I sat there, wondering how Mrs. G. was doing. I couldn't imagine Mrs. G. doing what the mother in the film had done, especially as the film ended with a rather graphic birth scene (God bless the mother who agreed to let the cameras in on the "business" end of birth).

I then thought about the teacher in space. Visions of Jetson-like ejection seats filled my imagination, but I knew, in my heart of hearts, that she hadn't survived. How would they find the bodies? I wondered. I knew the shuttle had pieces had probably landed in the ocean due to the softly continued play-by-play commentary of the shuttle disaster on the office radio. What was she thinking when she fell into the sea?

At five-thirty, my mother finally came and picked me up. Even the principal had left.

"Mrs. G. had a C section. The umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck twice, so they had to get her out."

"Ohhh." I paused. "Did you know the space shuttle blew up?"

"Yes."

We were silent on the way home. My mother's face looked drawn and tired.

"The baby is too early, " Mom commented.

I wondered if Mrs. G. had seen the shuttle explode while she was waiting for the baby. She had.

"They are calling the baby Laura. She is a very tiny preemie. We will have to find special clothes for her."

I thought about this for a moment.

"Well, she can wear my Cabbage Patch Kids' clothes." I had just gotten a Preemie Cabbage Patch Kid.

No one spoke for the rest of the journey home.

This last weekend, I went to a wedding reception for the "baby." As I watched her standing next to her sweet and loving new husband, the events of the explosion kept sneaking through my mind. How amazing is it that life left this earth on the same day that life began on this earth? The baby struggled very hard at first, to live, but she ultimately won the battle. She grew into a bright little girl and a beautiful young lady.

I was a little saddened also, watching her cut the cake with her new groom. The unwelcome thought that the baby I once held in my arms will join her life with another before I do - if I ever do - gave me pause for an excruciating sense of loss. My arms ached- a reminder that my biological clock will start winding down shortly, no doubt- but only for that moment. There are moments when life seems to pass us by; we become spectators of our own circumstances and never really get a chance to live as we would have chosen.

But she has. Her life was not always easy, but she survived. I sincerely wish her and her groom the greatest blessings on their happiness. May they value each and every day that they are given together in life and love.