Throwback: The Lost Weekend

A psychologist I saw during my exceptionally troubled adolescence once told me that I would be a "late bloomer, perhaps in my thirties," and as luck would have it, she was correct in her estimation.

But neither of us could have seen the consequences of her prediction. As it came to pass, seven years ago, I left my flowering place with both a defective body and a broken heart.

But I did not leave of my own accord. Nor did I leave as a full-bloomed flower. No, I left a weak, broken, and much trampled on briar rose, full of prickles among the sweet. I left because there were no options left for me. I left because my mortality caught up with me.

Leaving my horrible job and even more horrible housing during my last few moths in Korea was at first, quite exhilarating. When I moved back to Seoul from the sordid rural community I had been living in, a great burden was lifted from me. No more military jets coursing directly over my head at all hours of the day and night. No more hookers and johns harassing me as I walked by the anmas ("happy ending" massage parlors) and dog-meat soup restaurants to get to my squalid little apartment building. No more random and whimsical demands from ill-placed administrators. No more apartments falling down around my ears. No more.

Who wouldn't be happy?

And, for a glorious few weeks, I was - madly, ridiculously, inanely - ecstatic about my new living situation and a new job where my years of experience were actually respected. A bit of nausea and light vomiting on the first day of the job? No problem, it is probably nerves, or something I ate. Never mind that I was not prone to stomach problems from nerves. Well, no matter.

I started going to the gym regularly, and enjoyed it for the first time in my life. For once, I was seeing RESULTS from my hard work. I watched the needle on the scale drop rapidly week by week as I continued my regime.

Never mind that I was only eating one meal a day, which sometimes wouldn't stay down. Never mind that every meal ended with electrical current zapping through my intestines and stomach, doubling me over with the pain. Never mind that I had to suddenly excuse myself during class on several occasions to void the food that refused to stay down. Never mind that I was occasionally prone on the floor of the bathroom, wondering why I couldn't keep enough food in my stomach to give me "just enough strength to teach tomorrow." I would just push through it, as I always did.

But, inevitably, one day I couldn't.

I remember very little of my last few weeks in South Korea.

I remember going to a well-intentioned, but as it turned out useless doctor, who did his best to diagnose the mysterious illness that prevented me from eating. Fatty-liver? I was a bit overweight, but not anywhere near obese (or a drinker). Pills for that. Acid reflux? Upper endoscopy, without pain meds or sedation. Inconclusive, but pills for that. Continuous nausea? Pills for that - completely ineffective.

I remember the doctor asking me three times to take a pregnancy test, even though there was no possible reason to suspect pregnancy as a cause of my malaise and primarily in-the-morning sickness. I remember getting angry at the implications made by the doctor, because all Western women have loose morals, right?

I remember the doctor asking me if I had been through any stress recently. Well, yes, I had. I had moved from rural Korea back to Seoul. A sweet romance had been cut short by a sudden deployment back to America. Tears had coursed down my face, adding to the misery from my constant nausea and weakness. The doctor yelled at me for getting emotional, then hurriedly scrawled something on his pad. "I will give you something I give women whose husbands have cheated on them."

HUH? I must be imagining things, I thought. He hooked me to an IV, then moved me to a curtained alcove. I woke up four hours later.

I took the prescription and stood in line at the pharmacy. A batty old Korean woman suddenly burst in to the pharmacy and began yelling at me in Korean for a good ten minutes. I gazed at her through bleary eyes, not comprehending. She moved like she was going to grab me, but a young man blocked her. After a few nasty words said in my general direction, she left. The other Koreans in the pharmacy gave me a wide berth, as the pharmacist hurriedly passed me my pill packets.

In Korea, you never know what medication you are getting because they are dispensed in "doses" which are separated in perforated plastic bags for each time you are supposed to take them. If the pharmacist is feeling helpful, which is not very often, he or she might write "AM, NOON, PM" in permanent marker on each bag. But that is all the help you get.

I took my first dose of medication and waited. And waited. And fell asleep.


I remember waking up and sensing, in the far right corner of my bedroom, a presence in the air. It was not a physical presence or entity, but I could feel myself moving towards...something warm. Oddly enough, I could also hear Julie Andrews singing "Feed the Birds" as I moved towards the presence.

NO.

I stopped moving.

Oh well, I guess I am having a really interesting hallucination - no problem!

And I slept.

I woke up on the floor of the bathroom. Ah, so cool, I thought.

And I slept.

I woke up in my bed. I made a cup of tea and sat at my kitchen table.

On the table, there was a plane ticket, but I had no idea where it came from.

And I slept.

I called my family. Several times. I only remember actually calling one time, but my family now assures me it was several times. In the middle of the night.

And I slept.

My family, meanwhile, began making plans to get me out of Korea.

That Sunday, I visited a hellfire-and-brimstone Southern Baptist church in Seoul. I remember talking rapidly to the startled pastor, but not what I said. I think I asked for prayer.  I remember nothing after that - not how I got home, not what the pastor said - nothing.

I called a few members of my home church for help with navigating the Korean medical system, people whom I had come to love and who I thought might be willing to assist me, but no one responded to my phone calls.  The pastor of the church kindly recommended going to a different doctor at a good teaching hospital.

I came to my senses on Monday morning, with what seemed to be a wicked hangover. I made an appointment with the American doctor at the teaching hospital - I believe his name was Dr. Linton. He took one look at me, and asked me to hand over the pills I had been prescribed. He shook his head when he saw the excessive amount of pills and the dosages I had been taking. "You are extremely over-medicated." He hooked me up to an IV for replenishing my fluids, then sent a medical resident periodically observe me while I sweated out all the medication I had been on.

Later that night, curious, I read all the printing on the sides of my pills and researched them on the Internet. There were two extremely strong liver function pills, a few herbal remedies of various kinds, an anti-inflammatory, a full dose of Paxil...and a half dose of Xanax.

I returned to the hospital the next day for another IV infusion of fluids, as I still could not eat. I had not really eaten a full meal for almost two months, in fact. I underwent several more tests, but the diagnosis was still unconfirmed. I had severe GERD, complicated by a helicobacter pylori infection,  complicated by chronic gastritis. I was so weak at this point, I couldn't really comprehend what he was saying, "You might want to consider returning to America."

I returned to my apartment that evening. I looked around at my warm, but well-maintained Korean style apartment. It was the first apartment I had ever called my own. The November air had turned chilly outside, but the ondol heating beneath my floor warmed my feet as I settled in for the night. There is nothing so satisfying as ondol heating in the winter, I thought. Or Korean style porridge. Or a hot sweet potato from a street vendor to carry for warmth.

I didn't want to think about leaving the life I had finally learned to love. Not when I had struggled so long to find my place in this world. Not when I had tasted true happiness and contentment for the first time in my life. Not while I still had life in my body...but what kind of life? Clearly, I could not depend on my friends, my doctors, or my family so far away.

Up until this moment I had never NEEDED to depend on anyone.

But time was running out. It was time to do the inevitable - or die of stubbornness. The plane ticket winked at me on my kitchen table. I had a brief flashback to waiting in a lobby at a travel agency. Maybe, on a subconscious level, I had known that this was the end of my journey.

I called my family that night and told them I would be home for Thanksgiving. Permanently.

November 25, 2014: Gratitude

During my listening and speaking class today, we found that there was some time left over - a very rare occurrence in MY class. To fill the last five minutes of class, I started a group conversation about Thanksgiving traditions. I rather casually mentioned that Thanksgiving is a day when some families go around the table before or after the meal and name one thing in their life for which they are thankful; I also mentioned that many of the Christian families offer thanks to God for all His blessings on this special day, just like our traditional tale states that the Pilgrims did during that first harvest.

After I dismissed the class, one of my more thoughtful Middle Eastern students - a true old-soul-in-a-young-body gentleman - stayed after class to chat, as he often does. We often get into deep discussions about abstract ideas and meaning of life topics, so I was expecting something profound as usual - which it was, but not in the way I expected. He politely asked me to clarify what I had so off-handedly mentioned about giving thanks:

"Teacher, you said that Christians give thanks to God on Thanksgiving. Why only this time? We give thanks to God everyday."

I gently explained that, of course, we give thanks at other times. But then I started thinking. Do we? How much of this manifests itself in our prayer life? Do we give thanks at other times? 

We could learn a lot from our Muslim friends - to give thanks every day for each day of life we are given.

Through my conversations with my Muslim and Near East students, I have come to a greater understanding of the God of Abraham, and I see certain passages in the Old Testament in a new light as a result. Of course, the Christians are covered under the NEW Covenant, but we can also see traces of the Old Covenant among the peoples who still follow the ancient traditions of the near East. I have had some interesting discussions with my students, and I am still amazed and inspired by their absolute reverence for the Creator of All Things.

And their Gratitude.

November 14, 2014: The Reality of Winter

I played with the cats today at the local animal shelter. A sweet, but "cage-crazy" tabby called Azalea kept me company for at least 30 minutes. She kept up a cat monologue the whole time, and I felt extremely distressed for this animal, who has been there for 30 days and just wants a human companion. Actually, I think she would make an excellent companion for a senior citizen who lives alone.

Eventually, she calmed down, and even began to chase me around the room - picture, if you will, a chubby-cheeked brown tabby cat chasing an overweight middle-aged woman around a small room - and then plopped on my lap. When she finally settled down and seemed calmer, I put her back in her cage. She hissed, spat, and glared at me from the corner of her cage, making irritated cat noises the whole time. "BITCH!" she seemed to screech. And I felt oddly guilty.

But I also understood her. I am also feeling my cage right now - snarly, grumbly, and generally pissed off at this week. When I am working, I generally feel at peace (this week was the exception though), but then I come home to nothingness. Most of the time, the nothingness is a relief - I am an introvert, after all - but it can also be numbing, and even sad. This is why I prefer living near major cities, where there is always something to do. Here, there is a pretty good chance of getting snowed in - the nearest real city is 2 hours away.

The extreme cold and lack of sunlight isn't helping either. Truthfully, when I left California, It hadn't even occurred to me that I would have to deal with the physical reality of winter weather in a smallish university town. But I've made my home - such as it is - here and will have to learn to deal with it. I think the hardest thing will be spending Thanksgiving alone, but I will likely volunteer at some soup kitchen to keep my mind off things.
Sincerely,
The California Exile

June 22, 2014: Dallas Hospital Adventure, Student Edition

On Friday night, I volunteer, along with another teacher, to accompany a group of our international students into Dallas to go see an art exhibit and street festival. The bus ride is uneventful, aside from the second bus’s air conditioner mysteriously quitting. I am on the first bus, so I only hear about the other bus later. We arrive at the art museum and began queuing up to get tickets for the exhibit. Actually, because the new activity coordinator is a little inexperienced at “cat herding” international students, I step in, using my best teacher voice. In spite of our best efforts, some members of the group “escape” to buy dinner before we can give them their tickets, causing much confusion when they arrive later. We get the remaining students lined up (more or less) and begin counting heads. As I confirm the ticket purchase with the coordinator, she mentions that there is “kinda-sorta” an emergency call – a student has passed out from the heat but is now conscious and talking. I offer to go check him out, as I have the most updated first aid/CPR certification, and the coordinator needs to deal with the stragglers. The other teacher accompanies me. When I get to where the student is staying, he is sitting on the ground, outside the museum in the heat. One student is feeding him half of a Kit Kat bar, and the other student is holding a bottle of water; I caution the student with water to only let him sip it - it is not ice water, thankfully - but that turns out to be unnecessary. He seems a bit dazed and confused, but assents when I ask if I can touch him (as Red Cross protocol demands). His roommate says that the student had not eaten that day and had stayed up all night studying for a composition exam. I touch his forehead, and to my surprise, discover that he is cool and clammy. I instruct his friend to keep a cool, wet paper towel on the back of his neck to keep the intense summer heat at bay. He is able to say his name, date, and day of the week. He then starts trembling all over. By this time, a security guard is on the scene, and the security guard and I lift him gently and walk/carry him inside. As we lower him to a seat, he blacks out again, and his eyes roll back in his head. He starts trembling again, but his breathing is normal. The shaking – fairly mild at this time - continues, so I have a student hold his head gently in the correct position for clear breathing. In between seizures, his eyes remain at half-mast and stare in different directions. The security guard calls an ambulance. When the ambulance arrives, the student is really beginning to have a bigger seizure. I ask his friends if any of them are Level 5 or 6 – high enough English to translate if needed. His roommate and another friend volunteer to go with him as translators. I send his roommate with the ambulance, and his other friend goes with me in a taxi. The paramedics tell us to go to Baylor Hospital. What they don’t tell us is which Baylor Hospital to go to- there are three. The first taxi we hail refuses to take us – I got the impression he doesn’t like Arabs - but the second taxi knows exactly where to go. In the ER, the agent has some difficulty finding the young man, who has an unusually long “foreign” name. Eventually, the clerk locates him, and we go to his ER cubicle. He is in full seizure when we get to the hospital. In between the first two seizures, he is able to “appreciate” the cute nurses fussing over him, but can’t really speak or think clearly. The doctor expresses some serious concern over his condition, and the decision is made to move him to the ICU for “life support.” It takes three hours to get a bed, and he continues to have seizures throughout the night. During one seizure, the student becomes quite delirious, muttering “go away!” in Arabic and pulling at his IVs. He then starts crying, still not in his right mind. I cautiously lean over him to reassure the poor boy, placing one hand on his forehead, like a mother would if her boy were suffering. This is quite out of character for me, as I hate touching people I don’t know, but it seems to be the right thing to do at the moment. He suddenly grabs onto my other hand firmly …and promptly blacks out again. He has exceptionally long fingernails, so every time I try to pull my hand away, he digs into my hand with his nails. He doesn’t let go for 30 minutes, and my arm falls asleep. Finally, he relaxes into a deep slumber, and I am able to retrieve my hand. When he wakes up again, he is quite clear-headed. I re-introduce myself. “Do you know who I am?” He thinks hard, then smiles a bit, “Mom?” I explain that I am a teacher in his program. He is silent for a minute, then asks for “Miss Patria Teacher. I like her.” A few moments later, he says, in English, “I can’t control my body.” I tell him what has happened, but he doesn’t remember any of it. He goes back to sleep, but starts shivering again. The nurse brings a warm blanket, and this time, the shivering stops. Not a seizure. He turns on his side and begins to snore gently. His two friends are fairly calm during the episodes, and I am really proud of them for dealing with the situation as well as they did. They are both only 19. Actually, one of them really can’t deal with the medical procedures at all, but he always returns to the room once the medical staff leaves. The other one stays by his side, makes some phone calls (as do I), and finally connects with the patient's father through the Oman embassy. Two hours later, the orderly from ICU comes down to move him. “Como estas, Mr. Al******?” I gently explain that he isn’t a Spanish speaker. “Does he speak English?” “Yes. Well, as a matter of fact.” I guess he could pass for South American. Honestly, I am so used to dealing with people from other countries that the thought hasn’t occurred to me he might be mistaken for someone coming from a different country. He is a nice looking boy, I think a few minutes later, as I pray silently over him. I haven’t noticed before, but he has very chiseled features, with strong and regular bone structure visible under his tawny complexion; he also has a rather nicely shaped nose. A bit on the thin side, but he is still a teenager, so that may change. No wonder the nurses like him. I go up to the ICU with the patient to assist with answering the attendant’s questions. I chat with his friends quietly for about an hour as he settles in. We have one of those deep, serious conversations one tends to have at 3;00 am in a hospital room – Buddhism, Henry the 8th, and silly wars fought over camels, if I remember correctly. At 4;00 am, I leave the hospital, his two companions remaining as sentries in his room. I take a taxi back to the town I live in and have a delightful conversation with the driver from Ghana, who offers to go back for the boys later. I crawl into bed at 6am and do not wake up until 2pm.

July 10, 2014: Trying Times

As of July 31, I am homeless. As of August 1, I am jobless. God is laughing at me. My student reviews are "higher than average." All except for three rather unmotivated students are passing at a "higher than average" GPA and overall rate. My students actually show up to class regularly, which is an ongoing battle for almost everyone else. The Big Boss eviscerated my teaching and ranked me "fair" to "poor" in most categories. Granted, he saw me on a suckish day. I followed the previous teacher's lesson plans, as advised and actually required, even though I didn't feel terribly comfortable with the idea of using "stations" for teaching beginners - ESL teachers will know what I mean. He first said I didn't explain enough, then later said I over-explained. Whatever.  My students are still fasting, and also happen to be passing around a bad summer cold - which I now have - that has caused them to drop like flies. Their energy level is pretty low, and Tuesday was actually the worst day of class ever. Oh, and did I mention we still have no functional air conditioner in the classroom - in a warmer than usual Texas summer? We all STINK at the end of a class, especially one poor young man who has gotten severe gas and diarrhea from Ramadan fasting; I let him sit by the window and run to the bathroom as necessary. The A/C issue has been reported many times, but no one has come to take care of it. The Big Boss has offered to observe again, my other class this time. I will take him up on the offer, but only to prove I don't suck. Some of his criticism was just, but it couldn't be helped due to the trying situation. I DID have some issues that day - which reminded me of some of the ridiculous teaching methods expected at a certain for-profit learning center -  but they have resolved now that everyone is back and actually doing their homework. The irony? My students were very energetic today and had a blast. Not incidentally, they learned something. We almost got yelled at again for too much noise!

July 17, 2014: How to Convince Your Students You Are Crazy

So, a rather shy student student was frantically trying to get my attention during a rather chaotic "educational activity" (game). There were people scrambling around the room, and this student is rather soft spoken, so I didn't hear him at first. Finally, he whistled at me as I went by - like you whistle at an animal, not a cute girl, to be clear - and made the universal "come here" hand wave. Without thinking much about it, and in the spirit of the game, I walked over, and BARKED at him "Arf! Arf!"

He stopped, stunned...then apologized profusely!

The other students razzed him a bit, but he took it pretty well.

August 11, 2014: To Be a Comedian

When something tragic happens to a person, he or she can get angry, get sad, or find the humorous side later. Even soldiers in war-torn countries make light of their situations with what we call "gallows humor," as they do in the movie WALTZ WITH BASHIR. Comedians tend to be people prone to "laugh at it later." But all those "laters" do eventually add up to a whole lot of "nows," and then there IS no funny left, only oneself. Some of the funniest people in the world are also the saddest people. A comedian is often the slightly eccentric individual who finds the humor in the most tragically ridiculous life situations - death, innocence lost, insufficient parenting, and poverty can all seem humorous in a certain light. These are the characters that Mr. Williams played - a doctor who used humor to deal with the fact that most of his patients were dying, a sad little man who has lost his childhood and sense of wonder, an embittered professor dealing with the loss of his wife, a man trying desperately to win back the family he has lost. This is the true man that many never noticed - a man trying to cope with some kind of loss, inner demon, or tragedy in the only way he knew how - through humor. What happens to a human when there is no humorous side? What if there is nothing left to laugh about? What if you lose the ability to laugh at yourself? What if all people see is the Pagliacci mask that you portray to the world? What if no one ever sees that you are hurting? The genius of Williams is that he showed his pain through his laughter, at least, to those who were watching closely. It should be no surprise to his most intuitive observers that he was a deeply unhappy man. RIP, Robin Williams. La commedia è finita!

September 15, 2014: A Delegation of Nations

I think I startled a Yemeni scholar today by shaking his hand. Actually, he took it pretty well, which I appreciate. I get the impression that they are kind of conservative in that country.

There is a delegation of international teachers and scholars on campus. They are from the most random countries you can think of... I am completely fascinated! I hope I get to meet some of them. They are here to learn about American teaching styles and education - its through some kind of government outreach program, I think. If I am wrong, I will edit this post tomorrow;)

Actually, I am just honored to MEET someone from Yemen. I have several students from Panama as well, which, oddly enough, some of my Saudi students seem to find fascinating. There are also Iraqi, Emirati, Omani, Brazilian, Chilean, Swiss (he's a watchmaker!), and Senegalese students.

How often does THAT happen, meeting and working with people from so many different corners of the earth? This is why I love my job and cannot give it up. I may have had to give up travelling...for the time being, at least, but at least I can still experience other cultures.

2011 - A Year in Review

As I try to sort out "the rest of my life," it occurred to me that writing is an outlet I tend to return to time and time again. Even if no one reads my writing, "putting it out there" ensures that at least I have spoken, even though the tree has made no sound when it has fallen through the forest of trees. I won't lie - I WANT to be heard. I spend way too much time alone - not by choice, but by the limitations of this new body I have been given.

2011 was quite challenging physically and emotionally, but I think I came out on top, at least in some aspects.

THE GOOD :)
The Job: Prospects are actually quite good. The learning center I was working at went under after the owner underwent an absolutely brutal and unfair divorce. Fortunately, I was hired for 30 hours of teaching at Olivet University, a seminary which trains Chinese students for missions and the church. My students are some of the best and most interesting people I have ever taught, as it happens. The program is very new, so the administration still has a large learning curve, but the slightly chaotic, last minute change atmosphere doesn't bother me too much. I will also be teaching a class, "Teaching Asians at Home and Abroad," at UC-Santa Cruz Extension. This is an intensive TESOL training program for serious ESL teachers, not a fly-by-night online TEFL scam, so I must always be on my toes. I am hoping there is full time work (with benefits) in my future, so cross your fingers.

THE NOT-SO-BAD:/
The Body: The Body is still not functioning as it should, but it is functioning at least at a basic level. My legs still get me where I want to go, and my feet don't particularly hurt, even after five hours of solid teaching. I will return to the gym this month to get my "base" training back up to speed. I was firmly rejected by CrossFit gyms, where I was assured even 80-year-old-grannies could do what I could not... on par with taking PE with the special ed kids in elementary school (due to "delayed motor skill development") - that is, total HUMILIATION! I received another "rotten egg" lecture from my "girl stuff" doctor - I am now in the "advanced maternal age" category, and Dr. N offered, during this same visit, to introduce me to a round of fertility doctors. Sigh. My gastroparesis has flared up a few times, but the flare ups are getting less intense, though they are still quite inconvenient. My figure is starting to "bag and sag" in strange places - my "baby face" will not last much longer, I'm afraid.  All that said, I will NOT go out with a fight...Aja! Fighting! I think I'll join a hiking club (too many psychos in our local hiking park) and start saving for a mountain bike. I miss hiking so much...

THE UGLY:(

The Love Life: Kaput. Done. Finished...for now. The relationship ended "not with a bang, but a whimper." Mr. M (who featured in How Not to Be Sexy, Part II - he DID call back, and we dated for several months) turned out to be incredibly self-centered, short-sighted, and emotionally immature. I usually don't date "younger" for this very reason - it has only worked once for me, and this was NOT it. There were also some cultural things that didn't work for me - Mr M was very tight-lipped about his cultural background, but I pieced the clues together and I have deduced that he was Sudanese. I am not overly feminist, but I do expect to be treated as an equal - he really hated when I stood up for myself and my beliefs. He stood me up one too many times (didn't bother to call)...and that was that.

I do try to be optimistic, but the truth is "the one that got away" was "the one." We only find a "soul mate" once in a lifetime, but the Master of the Universe chose to take him away from me. Three years later, he turned up in my world again, but in the cruelest twist of all: "Thou hast made of me an adulteress." Everyone that comes after will always pale in comparison, but maybe it is time to "settle." It is one of the greatest ironies of life that once a woman has grown up enough to know both what she can give and what she needs in a relationship...the ocean of possibility is no bigger than a puddle. My biggest and ONLY fear, like many single women of "advanced maternal age" (mid 30s) is to live alone and die alone - as we watch our friends, one by one, get married, have children, and chase their "happily ever afters." No one's life is perfect, but spending that life always fighting completely alone to just stay alive is just plain exhausting.

2011 was a year of learning about what I could do and what I couldn't - I gained a bit more self-respect, but lost a little more faith in humanity. I am facing the New Year with strength, if not enthusiasm. That has got to count for something.

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.

BODY WARS: The Disappointment

I get to start from scratch again.

I was doing very well on my exercise program, but then a "series of unfortunate events" scuttled my fitness efforts for awhile.

EVENT 1: I hurt a very important target muscle - my trapezius muscle on the right side, to be exact. I was doing a simple rowing exercise, and suddenly lost my grip on one side. The other side of the weight machine jerked forward, taking my surprised arm with it. The pain did not set in until the next day. I ended up taking seven days to recover. Man, that thing hurts when it "goes out!"

EVENT 2: I went back to my regular work-out routine the following Wednesday. As I trudged away on the treadmill of doom, I began to suddenly feel lightheaded. Instead of stopping, however, like a normal person would, I kept going. Then I began to black out. I caught myself just in time as my knees buckled. I dragged myself to the locker room and sat with my head between my knees. One of the side effects of my medication is a general inability to sweat properly, so I attributed the incident to overheating (we were still having a late season heatwave, with temps around 95). I decided to start fresh on the following Monday.

EVENT 3: Wouldn't you know it, I had a serious gastroparesis flare-up over the weekend. Although these incidents are becoming more rare, they are still horrible to go through. I basically had to go on a liquid diet for five days, causing general weakness, malnutrition, and the peculiar desire to curl up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor for a few days. Whatever triggered this, I have no idea.

Exercise (heck, even breathing) in this condition is pretty much near impossible. Think of a closed soda bottle as being your stomach. Now, start shaking up that soda bottle, but leave the cap on. That is gastroparesis. The stomach does its thing, churning and breaking down food, but it does it too slowly. Food is going to go UP if it can't go down...

In my case, the gastroparesis tests showed I am doing my digesting job at a fairly normal speed, but then the food gets "stuck" near the exit point of my stomach. Basically, the system of valves is not working properly. It does not appear to be a mechanical problem, but more an electrical/nerve problem; I am being treated for the nerve problem with a very low dose of the antidepressant Nortryptiline.

I went back to my routine workout, but began "seeing stars" again. I tried to restart my cardio during the next two weeks. I varied my speed and incline, but I had pretty much the same results. And I had yet another flare up last week. This time, I have taken the entire week off; hopefully, a complete body rest will work things out.

The bloating that accompanies gastroparesis is back - this is great fun when clothes shopping, as I can range anything from a size 12 to a size 16, depending on how bloated I am on that day. I hope to start fresh next week again, but it all depends on how well my stomach does this weekend.

My diet is back to heavy carbs until my flare ups cease-and-desist. Carbs, whether we like them or not, are the baseline on which we depend for energy to survive. Still, I would rather not see anymore pasta bowls, oatmeal, soup, or egg-and-toast meals for a very long time!

ON THE POSITIVE SIDE: I have not regained any of the lost weight!:)

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.

BODY WARS: Progress Report from Week 1

I have just completed my first week of diet and exercise training. I learned a few things in the process, which I would like to share with my minuscule, but faithful audience:

1. The gastroparesis dietary restrictions are HELL when you are trying to lose weight.

After consulting my doctor, I have gradually been increasing protein and limiting carbs to 50-60% of my diet. I am experimenting with tofu and soy milk to increase my protein intake, as meat products can sometimes cause great discomfort for me. Even before gastroparesis, I was not a big meat eater, so this is no real stretch. I will also be eating at least one "peanut butter popsicle" (peanut butter on a spoon - one of my mother's greatest "jokes" to get us kids to eat healthy) a day to avoid the carb trap associated with bread products. I am still trying to make 1400-1600 calories a day, which can be a bit challenging at times.

2. The running program I have set for myself seems to be doing OK. I did notice that I tend to run on the sides of my feet; it is quite involuntary, and I can't seem to correct it. My right knee joint has also been complaining a bit much, so I may have to go back to wearing a brace.

3. I have lost TWO pounds this week...I think. Our bathroom scale is a bit temperamental, so it could be as little as ONE pound.

Happy eating!

BODY WARS: A Big Mystery?

I saw my GI Specialist at Stanford today, and we discussed diet. The reason I am gaining weight seems to be a more complex issue than I thought.

Problem 1: Too many carbs. The problem with the gastroparesis restricted diet is it tends to be high in carbs. Those of us who suffer from this disorder cannot process fiber or fat very well (if at all, in some cases). This excludes pretty much every vegetable unless it is pureed or cooked to death (baby food, anyone?). I can tolerate some raw fruits (watermelon, berries, grapes in moderation), but so far, most raw vegetables reduce me to a vomitous puddle on the floor...except I absolutely refuse to vomit. The problem with cooked vegetables is...I hate 'em!

Solution: Replace carbs with protein. I will be adding more protein through using tofu and Boca Burgers, which are generally well-tolerated by functional (meaning, fairly well-controlled) gastroparesis patients. I just switched to soy milk yesterday, but it still sometimes upsets my stomach.

The doctor also suggested Jenny Craig meals, with modifications.

Problem 2: Nortriptyline. This is the name of the medication which is helping me face eating every day; it was part of a medical trial (the NORIG study), and it happened to help me a great deal. The medication belongs to the second-generation antidepressant class, but the very low dose I am taking does not register as helpful for depression; instead, it works on the nervous system that controls digestion (which, oddly enough, works with the same chemistry as the brain). Unfortunately, one of the big side effects is WEIGHT GAIN. Bingo!

Solution: None, really. If my weight continues to mysteriously skyrocket, I will have to go on another medication...and the other medications tend to have even weirder side effects and are not always effective.

Problem 3: My cardio workout is practically useless for weight loss. I knew this going in, so I am more interested in increasing my stamina in order to run a 5k. I feel so bad, however, for those heavy middle age ladies who come to the gym, run like mad, and then go home expecting to have lost weight. It doesn't work that way, but I think this is a more "recent" finding (although I have known this for years through experience).

Side Note: I personally think stationary bikes are completely useless in particular; you seem to expend a lot of energy on a monotonous task and then have nothing to show for it. This is why I prefer treadmills and elliptical machines - at least you feel like you are getting somewhere. I also love playing with the settings and speed. I have discovered that the speed marked as JOG, for example, is actually RUN for me because I have such short little Dachshund legs! The speed marked as WALK is way too slow for me. In fact, no one I know walks that slowly.

Solution: Weight training. The good doctor suggested I try weight training again. This is just what I wanted to hear. I love weight training and I sorely missed it. Because of my extremely poor coordination, I have to stick to weight machines - you don't want to see what happens with me and free weights! I will also likely take some kind of group exercise class just for fun.

I will post my results of Week 1 by next Monday.

JOURNAL: How NOT to Be Sexy

I suffer from a relatively rare gastrointestinal disorder known as idiopathic gastroparesis. Gastroparesis is exactly what it sounds like - a paralyzed stomach. It is "idiopathic" because the doctors can only guess at the cause; in my case, it appears I picked up a stomach virus in Korea that attacked the nervous system in my gastrointenstinal tract. As a result, I suffer daily from morning nausea, occasional vomiting, postprandium fullness (feeling full after a couple of bites), and, ahem, lower gastrointestinal distress. It is not a fun or sexy disorder, and there are times I sincerely wish to die from the pain. Oh, and I make a great after dinner companion - let 'er rip!

Usually, the symptoms dissipate after about two years, but they didn't in my case. Instead, I enrolled myself in a clinical trial at Stanford University. The Stanford trial worked in my case, and my symptoms are under control, if not eliminated completely. In fact, I have been feeling tolerably well the past couple of months. Of course, finding full-time work in an economic depression is another story.

So, where did the fun begin? This could probably have all been prevented if the almighty rural university I worked for in Hwaseong-si had heeded my request for human-grade housing - you know, functional plumbing, standard electricity, a location NOT next to a run-down dog meat farm that smells like dog shit, or the red light district that smells like booze, vomit, and stale sex most of the time (they "air out" the establishments once a week). You know its bad housing when even the college student who moved your furniture in for you calls it a shit-hole. But I digress.

Now, I find myself on the horns of a new dilemma. Most people with gastroparesis LOSE weight drastically. At my low point, when I was subsisting on saltines and yogurt, I weighed 147 pounds. I am 5'2". Yes, I lost a pretty measly 20 pounds, even when I was literally starving to death (and losing my hair, by the way). As soon as I began to eat almost-normal portions, and I do mean almost-normal portions, I shot up to 174 pounds, 8 pounds heavier than I started! How does that work?

It is a GOOD day when I can intake 1500 calories; my average is 1300-1400. According to my calorie calculator, I should be maintaining weight at the very least, not gaining weight. There is absolutely nowhere where I can change my diet; I am severely restricted to low fat and low fiber, which means a high amount of easily digested carbohydrates. Unfortunately, carbs have always been my mortal enemy; I was brought up to eat healthy food (not much processed food or fast food appeals to me even now). I allow myself one doughnut a week as a treat, but that's it!

The fact is, however, I AM STILL FAT! I have joined the YMCA, and I will be hitting the treadmill three times a week in addition to my twice a day, 3o minute brisk walk. I am also looking into a few group exercise classes (shudder shudder). I am, quite honestly, at my wits end. The truth is, I have NEVER had an easy time losing weight. Back when I was rich (hah!), I worked with a personal trainer twice a week. Over the course of a year, I lost a mere ten pounds, but I did gain quite a bit in muscle mass! The trainer kept insisting I was straying from my diet (I wasn't), and we went around in circles for quite some time about it. I finally gave up.

SO, here are my current stats:

WEEK 1:
Height: 5'2"
Weight: 174 (yikes!)
Size: 12-16 (!), depending on what

I figure I need to lose 36-40 pounds to look proportionate; I think the BMI calculator is a bit off in my case, as I am a big-boned, big-chested, and abysmally short Viking lass (from both sides of the family).

Korean Dramas 101: What to Expect

Note: All video clips below are linked from Youtube. No infringement of any kind is intended.

So, what should you expect if you decide to try watching a Korean drama?

Within my last blog on the subject, I presented a breakdown of the four main genres of Korean dramas. Here are some of the positives and negatives about Korean dramas in general:

PLOTS

The Good: Korean dramas are usually very strong with developing characters, navigating the complexities of family bonds, and working through realistic behaviors in any given situation (ie. Korean drama characters typically do what a person with their particular personality type would do). Some of the camera conventions, such as lingering on a character's body language or face for long periods of time, can in fact strongly enhance viewers' understanding of motivation, emotion, and consequences. The plots also take time to develop, which makes for a more interesting viewing.

The Bad: Korean dramas are not usually very strong on original or thought-provoking plots. You will not typically see plots dealing with profound or complicated social issues, for example. You will see complicated love triangles, scheming relatives, and odd subplots. This tendency is mainly due to the remnants of Confucianism in Korean culture, which values hierarchy and knowing your place in the world.

The Ugly: Korean dramas are not usually written to their conclusion ahead of time, with all the disorganization that this may imply. In order to find out if a drama is good, one typically has to view at least the first four episodes, as sometimes even the writer doesn't quite know what the story is going to be about yet. This also means that Korean dramas contain a lot of "filler" episodes, random (and sometimes misplaced) slapstick comedy moments, and, if the drama is particularly poorly written, lots and lots of flashbacks accompanied by bad K-pop songs.

ACTORS

The Good: Korea has produced some fantastic actors lately. Most Korean entertainers do not limit themselves to one style of entertainment - many actors, in fact, easily transition between singing, modeling, and acting; this tendency allows for extreme flexibility in what the entertainer is capable of doing. A good example of this kind of actor is an entertainer known as "Rain," who has appeared in Korean dramas (romantic comedy and melodrama), Korean movies, and American movies (Ninja Assassin). The Korean-style of acting feels very Method-based (think Brando and Depp) rather than polished. This actually works in Korean dramas very well, most of the time, allowing viewers to engage more fully into the emotional story taking place. Tears are real, laughter is deep, and chemistry is genuine.

The Bad: The fact that Korean actors are also entertainers can also work against them. Some singers really should stay on the stage rather than try to act. Enough said.

The Ugly: Two words - military service. The solid acting careers of leading men is often derailed by the mandatory two year military service all Korean males must face. Some actors recover, such as Seo Ji-Seop, but others are never heard from again. Female actors are held to very high moral standards, and any misstep in an actress's personal life can be personally and professionally devastating.

CONVENTIONS

The Korean sense of humor, at least in Korean dramas, tends towards slapstick and toilet humor. Fortunately, most of the actors in these dramas seem to be gifted with perfect comic timing, which can make for a very entertaining evening. What may be more difficult for American audiences to stomach is the national obsession with toilet humor. Whereas in American films, restrooms are sacred, Korean entertainment makes use of bathrooms as a natural, and mostly humorous, place to have a conversation. Men have conversations (and the occasional - ahem - staring contest) while standing at urinals, women have conversations in toilet stalls or family bathrooms, and poop is always funny.

Here is a classic and hilarious example:

Bathroom Scene, EP. 9 (from My Lovely Samsoon)

On the flip side, tragedy and pathos in Korean dramas always ensures plenty of tears and hysteria in certain scenes. American audiences may be overwhelmed by this convention at first; we are not used to seeing people truly "lose it" or bawl their heads off, except perhaps in some wacky independent feature films. Having lived in Korea, I can say with some confidence that generally speaking, when someone loses it, THEY LOSE IT, earning Koreans the rather apt title of "the Italians of the East":

AP Footage of Korean Parliament Brawl 2009

Finally, viewers may be surprised at the lack of sexual content in television. Aside from being a sad commentary on our own society, this is mainly due to the conservative nature of Korean audiences. Adultery, lust, and one night stands may be alluded to, but most Korean dramas prefer not to "pollute the air" with unnecessary displays of passion. Sex scenes, when they occur, tactfully fade away from the action at hand and focus on windows, doors, or a light in the house going off. Kissing scenes are, by-and-large, chaste, and the anticipation of "the kiss" can actually be quite sweet and well worth the waiting:

"Kiss Me" Montage from Youtube

Enjoy the show!