Linnetontheleaf

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.

I was right to be concerned about managing a liquid diet on a low-carb regimen (due to pre-diabetes). Most commercial preparations are impossibly high in carbohydrates, and the first one I tried spiked my blood sugar to nearly 300. Most commercial soups, which could be diluted to drinkable consistency, share the same carb-laden liability. Clearly I was going to have to figure out how to make my own protein drinks. My endocrinologist referred me to a nutritionist, who had some good advice and ideas for me. It still hasn’t been exactly easy, and I know I’m going to be bored out of my mind before this is over, but here’s some of what I’ve learned ten days in —

I am not surprised to read that most people on a liquid diet lose weight, up to 20% of their body weight. The food isn’t very interesting or appetizing; you stop looking forward to meals, and you stop ‘eating’ (i.e., drinking) the moment your hunger is assuaged — where with real food, you’ll probably keep going because it tastes good. Thus, I try to pack my drinks with as many calories as possible — heavy cream makes a good liquid base, though I’m warned real dairy products go off faster in smoothies than soy, almond and coconut milk do. (Not much of a consideration for me as I only make a serving or two at a time.)

Unpulverized solids are your enemy when you must eat like a whale, squeezing planktonic concoctions through the ‘baleen’ of closed teeth. Tiny unpulverized granules drive me crazy because it’s so difficult to clear them from my mouth. The Nutribullet 900 is my new hero, as it powers through everything I have thrown at it (in it).

Some things that sound weird are actually quite tasty — I am surprised at how much I enjoy a liquefied salad, for instance. I know it sounds appalling, but honestly just spring mix/arugula/spinach with some vinegar and salt is surprisingly good.

..and that’s fortunate since it’s difficult to get sufficient fiber on this regime. Protein powders made from chia and hemp seeds are helpfully fiber-full, if you can handle the carbs, but I find they make my drinks taste a bit muddy.

What about protein? Heavy cream and the protein powders supply some; I’ve also blended cream cheese into hot broths and high-fiber V8. The nutritionist had a surprising suggestion — toddler meals! — but when I went to buy them, I realized that was an expensive way to buy (essentially) potted meat, and would probably be under-seasoned for baby palates. Instead, I tried a can of tinned chicken, which with some broth, blended up into a smooth, savory, protein-rich drink.

I got a smoothie ‘cookbook,’ which seems laughably oxymoronic as there is no cooking involved — no technique at all — just lists of components. But I might not have thought of some of them, so it was useful. However, I think I got a little too creative there for a while, dumping in all kinds of ingredients hoping to produce a tasty blend. After a few duds, it dawned on me the flavors of blended, mixed foods behaved differently than ingredients in a casserole, which maintain some sort of individuality. It turns out that fewer components yield a better product!

One of my more successful ‘creative’ experiments was the addition of truffle oil to my savory, soup-like smoothies.  Normally I’m not the world’s biggest truffle fan, but I think I’m enjoying it now because it somehow makes the drinks taste like real food. It also adds some calories.

I assumed it would be quick and easy to prepare these meals, but not really — it’s more time-consuming than I expected to assemble ingredients (some of which need preparation), blend them and dole them out to serving mugs for dinner and containers for office lunches. And since you need to use the same equipment over and over, perhaps you’re washing more as well.

Gratitude seems to me the foundation of a satisfied life, as it makes you conscious of blessings which might otherwise pass unnoticed and unsavored. So I have always tried to cultivate this kind of mindfulness.

As the word spread of my accident among my friends, a series of wonderful offerings, gifts and messages began to pour in. Friends gamely took up the challenge of thinking up  ‘legal’ (i.e., low carb) liquids I might enjoy, or just as usefully, prepared meals for my ‘regular diet’ family. I received a dazzling bouquet of spring flowers and a dish garden of succulents. Office friends, remembering my interests, sent a bird jigsaw puzzle, among other thoughtfully targeted pastimes. A sweet cousin on the other coast, seeing my Facebook post about borrowing a blender, sent me a deluxe Nutribullet, and old friends across the continent commiserated and wished me well.

I have read that people who have confronted even dire adversity lovingly supported by their family and community often later describe these episodes as net positive — they would not wish to have missed the adversity, as their experiences gave them such a warm sense of their friends’ and neighbors’ kindness and solicitude. I can believe it — I certainly wish I had not broken my jaw, but maybe it was almost worth it to savor the concern and affection of my family, friends and community.