How NOT to Sexy Part II

After this weekend, I think I can safely confirm that gastroparesis is definitely NOT a sexy disorder.

I went out on my first date in three years. Yes, I know that is a long time, but I have always been one to have long dry spells...usually followed by a deluge of offers. In Korea, I made the astounding discovery that a girl COULD have three dates in one weekend...Unfortunately, at the time, I "chose" the wrong one to stick with. Sigh.

Alas, there was no deluge this time, but that is to be expected when your belly bloats out to the rough equivalent of an eight month pregnant soccer mom (i.e. relatively toned elsewhere). I have had more "feeling gross" days now than I ever had when I suddenly gained 80 pounds (without any provocation, I might add) my early twenties. But I digress. Gastroparesis does not make one feel exactly frisky or interested in the opposite sex; in fact, it makes one queasy at the thought of "intimacy," if not downright seasick. I mentioned this to one of the nurses who saw me early on, and inquired as to why I hadn't had any children "at my age."

As things happen, I randomly met a research biologist (long story there), who asked me out for dinner. I accepted without thinking things through too much; we had talked before extensively about medical research, and I had mentioned in passing that I had a chronic medical disorder that was being researched at Stanford. We agreed to meet at a local chain restaurant for dinner on the following Saturday. Unfortunately, I made several key mistakes in my Saturday, which resulted in a date that will never be forgotten. They were:

1. I was due for my medical massage on that Saturday morning. This entailed a jaunt over the mountain to Watsonville, which is 90 minutes each way. This also meant that I would be a bit shaky on my feet afterward; the massage therapist always manages to shake loose whatever my digestive system is holding on to and to purge the toxins in one massive "screamer" episode in the bathroom. This can occur within one hour of the massage, or one day, but it is always guaranteed to arrive at inopportune moments. What I should have done is reschedule.

2. I ate an unfamiliar food for lunch. As it it turned out, the half sandwich I ate was harboring hidden fat, according to the nutritional information I later pulled up on my iPad. Excessive fat can be agonizing for a gastroparesis patient, as it slows things down even further. I was in very poor condition until an hour before the appointed meeting time; I took a long, long, walk to "shake things down, " which appeared to work, at least at first.

3. I was late for my date. My father, who had driven me to my appointment (I have problems driving over mountain passes), left something in my car, took my keys to retrieve it, then forgot to return them to me. This would have been no big deal, except that he and my mother had gone out on their anniversary dinner. Fortunately, they arrived home just in time, but I was delayed ten minutes, which would have been fine if I hadn't blown right past the freeway entrance in my hurry to get out of there. I had also made a point of "don't be late!" to my date - I hate being the late person, and my pet peeve is late people. So I basically made myself look dumb (which was gently commented upon!).

The dinner itself was lively and entertaining; we had a good chance to get to know one another. He did look a bit startled when I only ordered soup, but I gently reminded him that I have a digestive disorder and therefore a restricted diet. The dinner seemed to sit well with me as we chatted about various things. We went outside and walked around, and finally sat down in his car. The moment was right, things were sweet...He leaned in for his close-up, and then...it happened. A completely unmotivated wave of nausea swept over me...I cringed back. He stopped and looked at me, puzzled. The nausea passed, and he tried again.

The anticipation of a sweet ending to a nice evening, plus and uneasy stomach is not a combination of physical sensations I would recommend to anyone. Perhaps one set of sensations set off the other, or maybe they converged, or maybe there was something else at work in that moment; whatever it was, it was one of the most unpleasant convergences of sensations I have ever had - Come-to-me-my-love and No-not-tonight-honey-I-have-a-headache definitely do NOT  belong together in the same body at the same time.

And then, to add insult to injury, the electric storm broke.

Waves upon waves of electrical shocks swept up and down my digestive tract, pulsing up to my throat, then down to my bowels, then up again. It was like an electrically-charged hand was scraping the inside of all of my internal organs. I doubled over in pain, grasping my stomach, hoping and praying that I wouldn't lose control. When this happens, I never know whether I will vomit or lose bowel control - sometimes, it's both - so I was in a bit of a panic, as you can imagine.

I told my date I suddenly wasn't feeling well. "It's not you, it's me" voiced itself through my clouded brain, but that didn't seem to be an appropriate response. At first he didn't seem to believe me, and even seemed to take it as a personal rejection. Finally, something in my tone of voice and my doubled over stance (you think?) convinced him I was genuine. He helped me to my car, and offered to follow me home to make sure I was safe. I gently rejected his offer, but promised to call him when I got home.

I kept my promise and called him when I reached my house, but I knew by his tone of voice he was not happy. He said he would "call me sometime later,"  but I knew he wouldn't do so. And he hasn't.

I was up most of the night after that. The electrical storm continued for a few hours more, but ultimately resulted in nothing. I finally finished "purging" the released toxins the next day, but it was too late by then.

I am a bit disappointed at my body's betrayal, but I know it is probably a good thing; a man who can't handle a girl at her worst is probably not tough enough to stomach (ha!ha!) the chills and thrills of a gastroparesis patient. The gastroparesis forums are full of stories of men who give up and walk out on their sick wives and girlfriends; I can't imagine GP patients having a very active sex life, especially if they are female (ahem- think about it).

I am, oddly enough, perfectly fine today - almost normal in fact. I even went to the gym, and got in a good workout- best I've had all month, in fact. I am not one to wait by the phone for a call that will probably never come, yet part of me does feel I owe him an explanation.

BODY WARS: Arrrgghh!

I have been working steadily towards my goal of losing at least 20 pounds by the end of this year. I have been hitting the gym 2-3 times a week (depending on my wacky schedule), trying different foods to get better nutrition, and tracking my calories. With the exception of one day, a day on which I "pigged out"("pig out" for me equals normal portion sizes for a normal person) and ended at 1850 calories, I have maintained a balance of 1500-1700 calories a day. I am noticing my legs are beginning to tone up nicely, but I think I need to up my strength training on those arms a bit to get results.

So, have I lost any weight? NOPE - plus 1! How does that work?

My Stanford doctor says that the weight gain is probably due to the side effects of my medicine, as well as complications from the gastroparesis (starvation mode again). She did caution that if I couldn't lose the weight, I would have to go off the medication...which pretty much means Ensure and/or feeding tubes. My regular GI doctor also commented negatively on the weight gain. Oh yeah, and I am getting dumped by him onto my so-called primary care physician because I am now listed as "chronic"....doctor-speak for "we can't help you anymore because we don't know what the hell to do for you." That, and my assigned primary physician doesn't like white women very much; reverse discrimination is alive and well in Northern California.

I am looking at ways to become more physically active; unfortunately, I end up stuck on my butt for 6 hours or more STRAIGHT while tutoring (with no breaks). By the time I get home, I am so mentally exhausted I don't even want to move. Sitting on my butt never much appealed to me at any time of my life; I think one of the reasons I thrived in Korea is that I had to walk everywhere...and I loved it! Here, I have to take my car everywhere, as the "city" of San Jose is actually one freakin' huge suburb. I do occasionally walk to the local pharmacy, but I get strange looks from many people on the roads when I do this.

As for the weight problem, it is now confounded by the GP problem. I am having a nice little flare up of symptoms and have been existing on eggs-and-toast, noodles, and soup for the past five days. I am really beginning to loathe eggs in particular. I am actually quite uncomfortable as I sit here typing. I have been uncomfortable all day. The actual nausea comes back when I work out, but I fight through it as best as I can.

Prayers and well-wishes are much appreciated.

PEOPLE: The Storytellers

The Last Great Storyteller? (Garrison Keillor)

The fine art of storytelling is fast becoming a lost art; anyone who has ever tried to teach high schoolers the merits of Hawthorne's short stories or the humor of Huck Finn's adventures knows that delayed gratification often means no gratification at all. Stories are still told, but they are also so easily forgotten. Today's story becomes tomorrow's old news, and the world moves on. It is up to us, then - the storytellers - to keep the stories of our lives and experiences, in all of their pathos and hysterical laughter, alive for the future generations.

I am the product of generations of storytellers.

Our family is considered by many to be a bit eccentric, and perhaps even a bit odd, but the truth is, things "just happen" to most of us.

And it is contagious.

My mother and I both have the gift of getting random strangers (at the grocery store, bank restaurant, etc.) to open up and tell us their entire life stories. We have met many people and heard many stories throughout the years from the people we have met - some friends, some ships that pass in the night - and it is this "gift" that makes us unique as a family, I think.We all appreciate the value of a good story, whether it be our own, or that of a stranger. Moreover, we love the art of telling a good story.

Of Danish and Scottish stock, the family members from both sides of my family relish gatherings as a chance to tell the latest happenings in our lives, discuss the happenings of other people's lives, or occasionally, discuss the doings of long-dead relatives, some of whom were not exactly, shall we say, "mainstream" in their time. My father's side of the family (Scottish) relishes stories of the absurd, especially when it involves the more colorful characters in the family. Weird things just tend to "happen" to them (apparently, I am the representative of that honor from this generation).

• There is the story of a perfectly healthy 18 year old girl (great great aunt?), who suddenly dropped dead on the street...on the day she was picking up her mourning dress from the dressmaker to attend her sister's funeral (who died from childbirth complications).

• There is the story of my great-great grandfather, who married one girl (the sister who died from childbirth), then married her cousin shortly after she died - both cousins had the same name, causing rather vocal arguments at family gatherings about how we are all related. This man also left us a detailed journal of his "Three Years in the Phillipines," documenting and telling yarns about his experiences in the Spanish American War. He died of the family curse (colon cancer) at age 39, but what a life he must have lived! 

• There is the story of a whole generation who never got married during their childbearing years, save one - it is from this woman that I am descended. 

• There is the story, forever untold and unknown, of a breach in the family, which caused one branch of the family tree to leave the expansive family homestead (now Toro Regional Park) and settle further North in Watsonville/Eureka Canyon.

My mother's side of the family (Danish, with a dash of Scotch), on the other hand, likes storytelling for the sake of storytelling; we relish the drama of daily life. I have yet to sit down to a family dinner where even the adventures and scrapes of the family cats do not feature in the dialogue. Sometimes, it is just small talk, but other times, interesting stories surface from the family history, like the time Grandma and Grandpa Chipps found out that they were pregnant - well into their forties ("I didn't know whether to shoot myself or my husband, " my grandmother always commented). My mother likes to tell stories of her childhood growing up on a ranch in Nebraska, then moving as a teenager to semi-rural Santa Clara Valley; I myself can actually remember the apple and cherry orchards that used to clutter the landscape of San Jose well into the 80s.

My grandmother, who lived a long and fruitful life, was a woman of few words, but when she spoke, people listened. When I asked her one day about why she married Grandpa (who could be painfully shy), she paused, thought a moment, then replied, as if she was a bit surprised, "Well...he just kept comin 'round....and I sorta got used to 'em. "

As she receded further and further into senile dementia, bits and pieces of stories from the past surfaced in Grandma's ramblings and conversations with "people who weren't there." She often mistook me for her sister Seena, who she sometimes muttered to under her breath. I discerned over time that she and Seena had maintained a very strong love-hate relationship, and I also got the impression that sometimes Seena could be a bit rebellious against convention and her sisters' approval...in that order. 


Our family storytelling quirk, as it turned out, got the last laugh of Grandma's full and rich life.

In the final week of her life, Grandma had slipped into what appeared to be a coma and was quietly sleeping, the oxygen machine clicking rhythmically to her breathing. My cousin and I stood vigil next to her, and softly chatted to each other. We talked of many things, but soon the subject of my adventures in Europe surfaced. I told the story of a young man who had traveled with our party though Venice, Florence, and Rome, and nearly driven us crazy all the way through Italy. I told my cousin about how all he wanted and talked about was a Versace shirt from Florence. He had combed every upscale store he could find, and at last had found the ideal shirt. It was a white dress shirt. The young man had then proceeded to preen and pose as if he were a Calvin Klein model in his new shirt. To me, it was just a white shirt. Our group had then hoofed it to a small cafe to recharge. Young Calvin Klein lifted his cafe to his lips..."and proceeded to tip the contents of his coffee cup down the front of his new shirt..."


A sudden hissing sound interrupted out own stifled snorts of laughter. We looked over in astonishment towards our grandmother, and saw that she was there, in Florence, with us, silently laughing. She could not speak, but lay there beaming at us with her eyes and softly chuckling. The night nurse heard us and came into the room; she seemed genuinely surprised to see Grandma awake and responsive. The nurse quickly checked the chart. Then, she  brought in a spoon and a bottle of Ensure, which she proceeded to feed to Grandma. Grandma obediently opened her mouth like a child, her blue eyes twinkling. Then, she lay back down, and the nurse tucked her charge in for the night. We left soon afterward, at about 2:00 in the morning.

Grandma died three days later without ever having regained consciousness.


By telling this story of storytellers, I have perhaps bored some readers, but hopefully caused others to think about their own history. As a teacher, I strongly urge young people in my classes to find out all they can about their family history so that they have something to hold onto when times are difficult. 

"We are not makers of history. We are made by history." Martin Luther King, Jr.

BODY WARS: A New Start

Here's to a better year that last year! 

2011 Resolutions:

1. To lose at least ten pounds.
2. To start my own business OR find gainful employment (I would prefer the latter).
3. To update my blog at least once a week.

My resolutions are rather modest this year, as I am realizing that I am NOT Superwoman. I am actually quite discouraged when I think about it too much. Fortunately, I am a fighter, not a quitter!


2010 was a year of disappointments, if I may be brutally honest. I am still "underemployed," changes are afoot where I AM employed, and my fitness dreams became a crash and burn when I seriously injured both my shoulder and knee in separate incidents. I am still single, still suffering from gastroparesis, and still looking for a new career. SO what's in  2011 for me?

1. To lose at least ten pounds. This is a much more modest goal than I expected to make. My good doctor at Stanford has told me that people with my medical condition either a) waste away to skeletal proportions or b) blow up like a fat slug (of course, she was much more tactful than that!). I appear to be in the"b" category. My metabolism "looks" normal in my blood work, but the doctor says my metabolism can still be in "starvation mode" without showing up in standard tests. I need to keep eating regularly and make my workouts even more moderate.

The truth is, I have been overweight since I turned 19, even though my food intake and exercise were similar to what they are now...with more fresh fruits and veggies of course! I was actually underweight through my childhood and teens, and got horribly teased about anorexia (I refused to eat the greasy cafeteria food, and instead brought my own healthy lunch to school). This appears to be a family tendency. I once met an actual eugenics professor in Korea, who told me, "The Scandinavian curse is real, young lady. You all look like supermodels in your teens, then PPPTTTHHHH [he puffed out his cheeks and gestured a rapidly expanding waistline] in your twenties."


2. To start my own business OR find gainful employment. There is no work in Silicon Valley for teachers right now; they are getting laid off left and right. Adult ESL AND public school ELD programs are being cut from local school districts... in one of the most ethnically diverse areas of the United States. I have looked into other endeavors of employment, but my skills are very strongly canted towards education and international relations.

I am instead considering starting a non-profit vocational English center in the South Bay to deal with the loss of all of the ESL programs, especially for adults. Of course, I have no income to speak of, no capital, and no connections as of now, but these are areas I could at least begin to work on. I will also take a class on grant-writing.

3. To update my blog at least once a week.
I certainly got off track in this area - got caught up in several life mini-dramas (and they WERE dramas!) and therefore, got momentarily sidetracked. I will sincerely make an effort to continue writing regularly.