Linnetontheleaf

Week 5 of the liquid diet regimen. I’m now so bored with the choices, often I don’t even care if I eat or not. Last night, I opened the fridge door, surveyed my options apathetically, and shut it again. Another cucumber-yogurt smoothie? How about a mug of hot broth laced with truffle oil? Total meh. Later when I finally felt the stirrings of true hunger, I whipped up a low-carb shake of cocoa, stevia, peanut butter and coconut milk. This diet is heavy on sweet things, which I quickly lost my taste for, but at least something like this provides a decent quota of calories and protein, so I can forget about eating for a while.

Believe me, this is a strange state of affairs for someone whose daily life once revolved around the preparation, consumption and sharing of meals. At first I viewed this development in mundane terms — I’m indifferent to food at present because it is unappealing — but I gradually realized there’s a much grander way to look at it: temporarily at least, this experience has released me from my attachment to food. (I call it attachment rather than addiction, because the relationship has never been unhealthy, just intense!)

It’s also provided me with a new window into the ascetic practice of fasting. (Intermittent fasting has also become popular as a health and weight-loss regimen, of course.) Untroubled by bodily yearnings, adherents describe a blissful, superhuman state of clarity, confidence and serenity. (Fasting supposedly changes brain chemistry, increasing levels of catecholamines, neurochemicals such as dopamine  which elevate mood and reduce anxiety.)

Maybe I’ll never reach blissed-out fasting nirvana, but I do recognize that my current apathy is probably for the best right now, if the alternative is to be racked with unquenchable cravings. Never thought I had an ascetic bone in my body, but maybe I do.

Yesterday I had a setback which ought to conjure up that kind, comforting voice I wrote about last time, for I need it more than ever now. A few weeks ago, the surgeon had hinted I might get the main wires off in just four weeks, but after yesterday’s x-rays, he decided that wouldn’t be possible after all — the break hasn’t knit back together, so he put the wires back on, for another two weeks.

The truth is, though I’m usually fairly optimistic by nature, I’d never really allowed myself to hope I’d get so lucky as to get out of the wires early. He’d hardly looked at my mouth that day, so I didn’t see the basis for such a claim, apart from his faith in his own expertise. I also figured it might be better not to get my hopes up, so I wouldn’t be crushed if it didn’t happen — so I was more or less resigned when I heard him cluck in annoyance as he studied my latest x-rays. The fracture, neatly reassembled into a tight-fitting package when he first installed the wires a month ago, had somehow worked itself loose again.

Needless to say, I left the office discouraged, wondering why we’d expect the next two weeks to achieve what hadn’t happened in the previous four. I was especially dismayed when the word surgery came up. (Really, after all this?) But that’s the last-ditch solution when immobilization fails — expose the joint from the outside, in front of the ear, and install metal plates to pull the separated edges back together. (No more airport metal detectors for me!)

My bargain with the universe: if it’s just another two weeks in wires and on liquids, I can handle it. But in three week, we plan to be in New Orleans, among my favorite cities, and it would be too cruel to be unable to eat there! If it were just my family, I’d consider postponing, but this time we roped in friends to join us. I buy trip insurance at this stage of my life, but they probably do not — so it seems that I must go, regardless of my condition. Worst-case scenario: this doesn’t work and I need surgery right away — missing  my own trip and messing up our friends’ vacation as well! That would be hugely sucky and I am trying not to let such bleak thoughts cross my threshold of my consciousness.

ONE GOOD THING ABOUT YESTERDAY: I got to brush my teeth! and I am here to tell you, when you haven’t brushed properly in a month, it’s practically orgasmic. Perspicaciously, I’d actually thought of this ahead of time — ‘if I have to get the wires re-installed, I’m going to ask to brush my teeth first.’ And I did. Honestly, it hurt — my jaw was dreadfully stiff after a month of immobility, but I managed. I lovingly, diligently focused on every surface which has been inaccessible these last four weeks — the back walls of every tooth, the tops of molars, up and down, the roof of my mouth, and my tongue (which has felt like it had a stringy bit of food clinging stubbornly to it for days, despite frantic rinsing). I cannot express how satisfying this was, after weeks of being grossed out and disturbed by the fact I couldn’t adequately clean my mouth. So glad I thought of this; it should make it easier to endure the coming weeks!

Does anyone know this phrase any more? It was often repeated in my family, where stoic endurance was a highly prized virtue. I came to find it irritating, and tried to delete it from my lexicon, but it has raised its annoying head again in connection with my broken jaw.

After a few weeks of summoning uncharacteristic sympathy with my wounded self (though not outwardly demonstrative about my physical discomfort, psychic damage, etc.), I’ve gradually reverted to the well-trodden paths of my youth, and castigating myself with frequent vicious, hateful recriminations. ‘Grow up, you stupid baby!’ my inner bad cop hisses. ‘You’re not dying! What a drama queen — your namby-pamby bullshit makes me sick.’ I won’t even quote the worst of it — I really do reserve my meanest streak for myself.

Maybe we all do — do you? When I actually stop and listen to what I’m spewing, the accusations and tone seem almost insane to me. I would never say such things, in such voice, to another human being. Yet most of the time, I’m helpless to stop. I’m like the stereotypical abusive parent who claims ‘this hurts me more than it does you.’ I hate my harshness, but seem convinced it’s for the best. After all, surely I can’t be trusted to monitor myself without these iron knuckles at my throat. Even after a few years of therapy, I don’t know where I got such twisted notions. But at least I can see them now, and hear the undeserved cruelty of that scolding voice. I wish I could hear an answering voice, a kind and comforting one. Really, don’t we all deserve that?

The main wires in my mouth may be removed as soon as next week! (Fingers crossed, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up in case x-rays indicate the fracture isn’t yet as healed as it needs to be.) I’ll still be restricted to soft foods for another THREE MONTHS but just being able to open my mouth will be a massive relief. I’m also warned that my jaw will be weak and sore at first, so chewing even the softest pablum may prove painful and tiring, but I’m still looking forward to it immensely!

I’ve learned a few things being on this liquid diet; check my earlier posts about devising palatable smoothies and trying to pack them with sufficient calories and nutritional value. For instance, yesterday I made a pretty nifty chicken soup, with homemade stock  and caramelized vegetables. But once it went into the blender to be reduced to drinkable sludge, it lost much of its interest — and so did I, once my hunger was assuaged.

I had never quite realized how much of food’s appeal is simple sensory pleasure. I was unaware of how long I continue to eat past satisfying my hunger, simply because food tastes good and is fun to eat! But dinner is a drink, one drink is, inevitably, much like the next — be it cucumbers whirled with yogurt or butternut squash with silken tofu, or my homemade chicken soup. And if there’s no point beyond merely satisfying hunger, you find it takes a surprisingly few sips to be sufficiently sated. No wonder people lose weight a diet like this, even when they’re dropping pats of butter or glugs of heavy cream into their concoctions. (Yes I do that.)

I’m curious what eating will be like in the future, with this new awareness. Will I be newly , acutely conscious of my appetite, and stop eating, as I now do, as soon as I realize I’m no longer hungry? Or will food seem so miraculously delicious, varied and thrilling that I never stop? I wonder!

Another burning question, recently posed by a friend — what will be the first thing I eat? Many of my go-to foods will be off-limits for a while — no crispy salads, no steamed vegetables (unless overcooked!), no crunchy nuts; I’m not even sure I’ll be able to handle a tender piece of meat. So: how about a fluffy omelet overflowing with sharp cheddar?

When the accident happened, it seemed so earth-shattering that I overestimated its impact. At first I couldn’t guess when I’d get back to the office, or how long it would take me to make all the other adjustments anticipated. It seemed that my life ‘before the fall’ would differ dramatically from life afterwards. As a result, I fantasized that maybe my recovery, which I thought would consume me longer, might serve as a good rehearsal for retirement, as I’d need to seek other diversions if I weren’t going to the office.

And indeed, it was a bit like that for a few days, as I devoted myself to activities I rarely have time for — I spent a morning applying wood oil to my bamboo counter-tops and an afternoon culling seven cartons of books from my sagging shelves. I practiced my Christmas ukulele, and I painted a long-planned watercolor picture of my house.

But things reverted to the status quo with surprising rapidity. Rather than consume me utterly for days, my recovery very quickly faded into the background of my life. Yes, I’m still hyper-aware of the hardware store in my mouth; the liquid diet is a bore and a pain, and being unable to clean the inner surfaces of my teeth, my tongue, etc. becomes an increasingly unpleasant obsession — but I’m a grown-up; I don’t complain much; I have a job to go to and chores to perform, so somehow, life goes on. What free time? What retirement activities?

Funny thing, I don’t know whether this is a plus or a negative. I guess adaptable organisms generally survive better than those who aren’t able to acclimate to change, so it’s a beneficial trait, evolutionarily speaking. But do we always want to return to normal as quickly as possible? A different sort of benefit accrues when we consider milestones thoughtfully rather than racing past them at top speed. I remember the days just after 9/11, when we all swore we would never take our serene lives for granted again — a commendable aspiration; how long did it last?

So, not only did I miss out on my retirement rehearsal; I also forfeited an equally important life lesson. I rushed myself back to my routines because I was scared not to — if I didn’t get right back on the horse that threw me, I might become paralyzed by my fears. But perhaps in my haste, I never fully felt or processed the qualms that assailed me in the first days. I might have been better served to sit with those fears just a bit, and to learn that I could master them.

I still avoid going past the corner where I fell a few weeks ago. At first I avoided the entire block, afraid to come across the shattered glasses I left lying there, or the blood from my split chin spattered on the pavement. Lately I’ve been able to pass by on the opposite side of the street, but still haven’t set foot on the very sidewalk where I fell. I’m not sure when I will be able to.

But the other day, I came close enough to the scene of the accident to make an upsetting discovery. Because I fell right underneath one of our town’s many beautiful street trees, I’d assumed that I must have tripped over a sloping slab of sidewalk, a commonplace hazard, of which I’ve long been conscious.

But guess what? The sidewalk where I fell, at that corner, beneath that tree, is almost completely level. No roots have muscled the pavement up from its bed where it might be caught by an errant careless toe on dark evening. What did I trip over? What caused me to lose my balance? How could I have been moving confidently forward one moment, and crashing to earth the next?

The unanswerable questions inspired by this discovery haunt me. They undermine my confidence and fill my imagination with terrifying visions — future falls, inexplicable accidents, unpredictable environments where flat sidewalks trip me up,  where I’ll ever feel confident or safe again.

Most of us probably remember an elderly relative who feared falling. Certainly I do: ‘falling and breaking a bone,’ as she always put it (in air quote tones) was among my mother’s chief worries. How puzzling this was to me as a child! What’s so scary about falling?Like all children, I did it every day, nearly always scrambling up unhurt, in blithe and blissful ignorance of the great terrors the world held for my elders.

Now I am an elder myself, a massive adjustment. Will I ever walk past that corner again without shuddering? Will I ever feel completely at home in the world again?

I think I’m hitting the wall on smoothies. As I mentioned before, sometimes ingredients, when pulverized and blended together, seem to alter in flavor, and combinations which sound tasty are decidedly not. Broccoli sprinkled with Parmesan cheese is delicious — so why isn’t blended broccoli and parm?  I’ve also gotten sick of even my successful combinations, such as the liquid salads I’ve been having twice a day, in a way I never got sick of salad in a bowl. The crunch and other textures keep one’s palate interested; all that additional interest goes away when the ingredients are liquefied.

So I’ve gone back to the smoothie cookbook, Pinterest, etc. for some new ideas to see me through the rest of this sentence. Upon further reflection, it now seems to me that smoothies are sort of meant to be sweet; the savory ones are just not as successful somehow. Too bad, because when I’m hungry, sweet isn’t what I want. And for pre-diabetic me, all sweetness must come from artificial sources, which I usually prefer to limit.

But an ‘Irish coffee’ morning drink (made from coffee with heavy cream, vanilla, coconut milk and stevia — no whiskey!) has made a pretty good breakfast this week. And I’m also experimenting with a cocoa-peanut butter smoothie, which seems promising.

On the savory front, high fiber V8 (high carb too but probably worth it in this diet) with chia or hemp seed powder is okay, if you don’t go crazy with the seeds, which overpower the nice tang of the vegetable juice with a heavy, muddy taste. But I’ve got to give the liquefied salads a rest!

Chew

Eat solid foods

Eat with any utensil (other than drinking from a cup)

Enunciate clearly

Yawn

Cough

Brush your teeth properly

Floss

Raise your voice

Sing

Whistle

Lick your lips, lick a stamp, lick a spoon, lick anything

Access your tongue (do you ever wet a finger on your tongue to turn a page or pick a nit off your clothes? Not happening)

Bite your fingernails

Press your lips together, as when blotting lipstick

Dissolve homeopathic remedies under your tongue — even these tiny pellets are too large to fit through the narrow opening between my upper and lower jaw. Similarly, no gum, mints, chewable vitamins or antacids, etc., etc.

Two weeks tomorrow since the accident, and I am still pathetically nervous walking around outdoors. I nearly tripped over my toes walking to the train in the city tonight, and my heart leaped to the my throat as I relived that terrifying moment when I hurtled downward to the pavement at speed, as if hurled from a great height. I’ve lost four pounds on this stupid diet, and my face looks different — haggard, careworn (though truth to tell, my battered chin is healing much faster than I could have hoped).

Like my fellow boomers, I was never going to grow old, and I have stubbornly tried to keep the years at bay, with some success until now. I have nearly always had fewer health complaints than most of my contemporaries, although perhaps I was just too proud to share them. But falling seems a  well-demarcated border — I feel that I have now crossed a frontier into a new country. I am now older at least, if not officially old.

Just before the accident, I was finally starting to think concretely about retirement, probably later this year. It’s long been a dream of mine to visit India, a trip which requires ample time so I’d postponed it until my post-work life. And just recently, I’d contentedly begun to research a trip — one of my great joys; sometimes I think I like the planning and anticipation nearly as much as the actual travel. I am very thorough — I read books, I surf the net, I hang out on travel boards and read everything and ask questions.

One theme kept arising, on the part of older travelers like myself — ‘is this too taxing a trip for someone my age? At my age, must I book a full-service package to be sure I can manage the demands?’ And so forth. Three weeks ago I’d skimmed these questions with nonchalant detachment. Sure, I might have a touch of osteoporosis and might not be as flexible as I was a few decades back, but I’d never felt unequal to anything I’d assigned myself.

Now, inescapably, I do. The word ‘diminished’ arose unbidden and has lingered in my mind as the best descriptor of the psychological impact of my accident. I hate it, but there it is. Have I left India too late? No, that’s too bitterly disappointing — I’ve long cherished this retirement capstone as a deserved reward for all my years in the workforce. I must get over this. I will!

It took a while, but gradually I got pretty pissed off about this liquid diet BS. Over two years ago I relinquished almost all carbohydrates to keep my blood sugar in check — no desserts, breads, pasta, rice, potatoes, fruit — even most beans are off limits. I now eat little besides protein foods and vegetables, and it’s worked like a charm; I lost weight and my blood glucose stays normal because I don’t challenge my compromised pancreas with carbs. Also, I’m almost never hungry, since protein foods are so filling. (The only time I get hungry is when I’m disinterested in all my ‘legal’ choices, due to the monotony of the diet.)

That was a huge adjustment for a semi-vegetarian who’d obediently followed the USDA’s food pyramid and whose diet centered on ‘high quality’ carbs such as brown rice and my own whole wheat breads. But I managed, without too much bitching and moaning, and no longer give it much thought.

Of course, that is permanent — unless I go on insulin, I’ll never again enjoy roasted potatoes or a slice of pizza (once specialties of mine, which I did to perfection). And I’m only stuck on the liquid diet for a month or six weeks — but about 10 days in, it began to seem like the greatest injustice imaginable. After all I had already given up, it  seemed downright cruel to limit me even further.

Another consideration is that if I’m not prepared at all times and places with my Nutribullet concoctions, I will not be eating at all. Low carb alone was hard enough, but there is nothing at a fast food place or a deli or even a restaurant which I’m allowed on a low-carb liquid diet. Pretty damn limiting.

It’s not just the diet either — it effects everything which food and meals mean to us. I miss eating with my family — even if I am sitting alongside them, with my mugs of liquid salad and peanut soup, it fails to feel like a real meal to me. It limits my social life too, since so much socializing is done over food. I’ve attended a few parties and met friends for dinner (theirs, not mine!), but it’s inescapable that these occasions are greatly impaired if you cannot share the food.

Nor had I appreciated the extent to which meals provide a rhythm and structure to our days. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not one of those people who ‘forget to eat’ or anything absurd like that; I’ve always loved good food, but I didn’t realize how it broke up the quotidian with its rewarding little rays of sunshine. Now that I can no longer eat them, I see how much I looked forward to reaching the office each morning and peeling my simple hard-boiled eggs for breakfast! And sitting down to a plate of meat and vegetables each evening was a daily landmark of pleasure and sustenance. Not special meals by any means, but oh I miss them desperately. Drinking a glass of V8 and protein powder may nourish the body, but not the soul.

I wonder how I’ll react when this ends — will I go absolutely berserk and eat everything in sight? I almost worry that my pleasure sensors will be permanently stunted by deprivation, and I’ll never enjoy food again! I’ll keep you posted.