The Door

At the end of my suffering, there was a door. It was heavy oak, and there was no handle on my side. I stood for a moment, not sure what to make of it. I wasn't where I was supposed to be. The memory was fading--I had been going in for surgery, and Peggy was there, holding my hand and talking to me. It got fuzzy after that...lights, and sounds, but then that all faded and I woke up here.

I don't hurt now, so that's good. They must have got the cancer. I'm not hungry either, which seems odd. Wasn't I hungry for a while? Something is not right. I look around, and I call out for her, but she's not here. Surely they wouldn't have moved me without letting Peg know? And why would there be a door here, anyway?

There isn't anyone around, and since I can't open the door from this side, I give it a knock and wait. Before long, the door opens, and light pours in. I didn't realize I was in the dark, but now as the light floods me, I stand dazzled. "Hi, Son. I'm so glad to see you again."

I immediately recognize her voice. It's been so many years since I've heard her speak that I openly weep. "No, Tim, you don't need to cry. I'm so glad you're here." She wraps her arms around me and draws me inside and closes the door quietly.

"Why am I here, Mom? I was with Peggy." I think about her, and I wonder if she knows where I am.

"You're starting your new journey today, Tim. Peggy will be along later, and you can see her then. You each will travel separately for now. I'm here to help you on your way."

I love my Mom, and I'm so glad to see her, but I feel like I left something undone. "But what about Peggy? How will I know when I can see her again?"

"You'll hear her knock. That's how I knew to come to the Door now--I heard your knock, and I knew it was time for our paths to join once again." She took my hand in hers, and smiled at me. "Are you ready, Tim? We have places to go."

I know she wouldn't lie to me. I turn away from the Door. "I'm ready."

The World is Changed

This is Galadriel's opening monologue from the Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring movie.

(I amar prestar aen.)

The world is changed.

(Han matho ne nen.)

I feel it in the water.

(Han mathon ned cae.)

I feel it in the earth.

(A han noston ned gwilith.)

I smell it in the air.

Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.

Thinking about the movies and even the book will now be forever entwined with my memories of him. I have been a lifelong LOTR fan, having read the book multiple times since I first discovered it in elementary school. I was nervous and excited about them making the trilogy. I wanted to see the story told on the big screen, but I was worried that they would mess it up. From my perspective, they did a glorious job.

The movies came out long before I met him, but once we met, they were something I wanted to share with him. He was never a fiction reader--he found it tedious. But he loved movies, and I was sure this was a series he would love.

But he didn't. He gave me endless grief about how long they were, how slow they were, how silly the multiple endings were. He told me all the time that the story could be made in one movie.

Despite his disdain, he supported my love for the story. He bought me beautiful new bound editions of the books to replace my much-loved and much-worn copy. Whenever I wanted to do a LOTR movie marathon, he set aside whatever chunk of time it would take for me to get my fix.

My world is changed now. What once was is now lost. But I remember--grief is everywhere.

I cannot hold

We met
Laughing and blushing
fresh world, new words
discovery ahead.

We married
fall leaves
promises made
hands entwined
paths joined.

We tarried
built lives
shared days
carried burdens
arms encircled.

You fell
from my grasp
what I have loved
I cannot hold.

Colors

White lights and white clothes and white sheets, and your not-quite-white pallor as they worked on you. So many of them worked on you. The doctor called me and warned me—wanted me to have a heads-up before they walked me in there. I am glad he did—it gave me a couple of minutes to put my brave face on, to suck in a breath and push back the panic and the fear, so I could focus on you.

Blue eyes, rolling in your head, desperate as you gasped for air, as they worked on you, trying to get you breathing. Talking to you, calming you down so you knew I was there. You quit flailing, you focused on me, and I told you it would be all right, they were taking care of you. I held your hand the whole time, lying to you yet again, knowing nothing would ever be right after this.

Red monitor, flashing codes and numbers and lines, showing your desperate fight to keep going. Your body thought it was worth fighting on, even though the battle was already lost.

Brown wood, shrouding you from me forever.

Gray.

Hereafter kind

"Let me be to my sad self hereafter kind."

~Peter Pouncey, Rules for Old Men Waiting: A Novel

Kindness towards myself used to be a rare commodity. I knew all of my faults and weaknesses, none better. Growing up at school I was mocked and ridiculed for my weight, and as a defense mechanism, I started being the one who was unkind to myself. It was a way of saying "Yeah, I know you think I'm ugly and fat, but I've already said it so you don't have to."

Over the years, I have tried to move away from that mindset. I have tried to realize that regardless of what I look like, I am valuable and have worthwhile contributions to make. There is no point in stabbing myself first so that the wounds others inflict would seem like afterthoughts.

But grief has brought me to a place where I need more kindness. "Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing." I have known sorrow deeply and repeatedly. I have spent many years with grief as my companion, showing me the deep things inside myself: fears, doubts, and remorse. But I have also discovered resilience and empathy.

So kindness for me looks like honest reflection. Seeing in myself everything that is there, both the things that I am ashamed of, and the things that I am proud of. Seeing them equally and unflinchingly, and being tender towards myself. Seeing myself as someone worth caring for, worth taking time for. Knowing that there is no such thing as perfect, but that I can work towards better.

Kindness looks like naps when I'm tired, reaching out to my family when I am scared. It looks like patience when I make mistakes, and compassion for the worn-out woman who is trying her best to make it through this chaotic time.

The Shadow of Love

I enter the room. I have been here before, been with her, but she never invites me. I have to let myself in. Things look different than I remember--she's gained some weight, her hair is different, but I know her well. I have taken her on this journey several times, and I linger around every moment of joy, waiting out of sight for my cue. I am in the dark, for I am the Shadow of Love.

People think I enjoy this journey of pain that I take them on, as if I'm some monster. I am beautiful, if they could only see, but vision is limited in these dark places. There may be a glimpse--an errant beam of light ahead on the path. But they never look at me in those moments--they run on ahead, desperate for the light and the warmth it brings. They never look to see that I bear the face of Love, for I am her Shadow.

This one--she thought she knew me. We have walked this path before, on longer and shorter journeys. She even tempts herself with moments contemplating what life will be like when the ones she loves are gone. The tears she sheds are the pools in my lands, but she hastens to dry them and stop the flow before they can become rivers.

I do not revel in this journey, but I know that it cannot be bypassed. I wait for her, reaching out my hands to touch her, but she shrinks from the shadows I cast. I would show her the resting places--the cool, dark hollows where the heat cannot burn, but she fears the darkness I am cloaked in.

On each journey, she does come to know me better than the time before. In the time we're together, she learns how the road winds, where there are pits and fissures, and which ways are straight. I put my arm over her shoulder, showing her how the depth of my Shadow matches perfectly to the depth of her Love. We are partners, she and I, as much as it pains her to know this. If she wished to be rid of me, she could--I would never darken her door again. But I am the Shadow of Love, and I follow where Love is. If I am gone, she will not love. She will not make that choice, I feel--she is a lover, this one, and she is in too deep. 

My journey with her never really ends. The paths start to meander, the light spreads and the path is easier to tread. But I remain in the shadows, prepared to walk the path again when those moments hit; the light hits just right and she remembers, and the shadow falls and she is with me again. I never leave her, but I love her, for I am the Shadow of Love, and I follow where Love has gone.

Scent memory

We didn't argue about much, but there was one thing we disagreed about constantly: his use of cologne. He loved cologne, especially fancy designer colognes. It made him feel put-together and polished, and he never left home without a squirt of cologne. In fact, I could come home from work hours later and smell his cologne on the dog, since he would give her a cuddle before he left for work.

I, on the other hand, had opinions about this. I don't really have anything against a nice cologne, but it should definitely be kept at a minimal level--something that can be smelled when someone gives you a hug, but not something that follows you in a trail as you walk through a room.

I would argue with him, telling him that he was working in a small therapy office and it was overwhelming. I said people have perfume allergies. I told him people would assume that he was covering himself up because he wasn't clean.

And that was the big point for me--I liked how he smelled without any addition. His own natural scent was clean and fresh and never offensive. I didn't like him covering himself in something fake-smelling, when he himself smelled so good to me.

I now have his cologne in his drawer. It reminds me of him because he loved it, not because the scent itself is pleasant to me. I wish I could have bottled his natural scent and kept that with me. The dogs sleep on his pillows now--it is the last of his natural scent in the house, and they bask in it. I wish I had their sense of smell for a day so I could soak it in the way they do. Part of missing his hugs is missing his scent. I have pictures so I can see him, I have recordings so I can hear his voice. I will never get to smell him again, and that's a grief I would never have anticipated in this morass of missing him.

Thus you will live in the desert.

Life before death was green and verdant, with shady places to rest from the heat. Make no doubt--there was heat, for our star burns brightly, bringing life and death to all landscapes. But there was respite--cool shade to escape the burning, green grass to soften the path, and bubbling brooks to sing songs to my soul.

Now the heat is unbearable. The sand scratches and scrapes. The view blurs as the heat radiates back off the ground. Life in the desert is dependent on precious water---hard to come by, and harder to hold. Many things go underground to survive, and so do I. I bury the tender, living part of my heart beneath whatever soil I can scrape up: platitudes, busy-ness, distraction, numbness. I walk in the heat of the scorching sun with my heart buried deep for safety, waiting for a day far-off, when gentle rains may come and bring it to life, ready to bear fruit again.

Thus I will live in the desert.

What doesn't show

The duality is what surprises me. There are days when I am an Easter chocolate bunny. Wrapped up shiny on the outside, but an empty shell inside. A void of howling wind nothingness. The opposite of presence, a complete vacuum.

Other times, I am a black hole,infinitely dense and drawing all things inside me, full of darkness so complete the light cannot escape. I am frozen within, unable to thaw, to breathe, to live.

Then someone says "You're doing so well through this," and I think "How can you not see the eternal emptiness that has taken my soul?" How good must my mask be to keep them blind to this truth?

I am not the person I used to be

There was a time when my days made sense. The ebb and flow was as steady as the tide. I knew my role, I knew what was expected of me, and I flowed easily between work and leisure, duty and pleasure. The days now are disjointed, requiring more than I have to give. I jerk and stutter between roles, and have had to step into new roles where I have no skill.

There was a time when my nights made sense. The dark was peaceful, the bed beckoned me to its embrace. Now the night is fearful, full of unknowns and terrors. I do not look forward to repose, as tears dampen the pillow night after night.

There was a girl who was carefree. She was loved, and she loved. Now she is alone, facing the once anticipated future with dread and disinterest.

I am not the person I used to be. Death took the light away, and the grey remnants hang in tatters of what was once a beautiful tapestry.

Waking up the blog

I walked away from this blog a long time ago, and many things have changed in the meantime. I met someone, we got married. We rescued two dogs. We bought a house. He started a business. And then he died.

I thought I knew what grief was. I lost my parents many years ago, and I've lost beloved pets too. Aunts and uncles have died, and I've hurt, and cried, and mourned them all.

But losing your partner is so different. Everything is touched. What I watch, what I eat, where I go, what I do, when I do it, who I talk to, the questions I get asked, what my responsibilities are. I sleep differently, if I'm lucky enough to sleep. There isn't any corner of my life that he didn't touch.

Obviously, his presence is gone, but his things remain. Some I had no qualms about--not the least sentimental about socks. But shirts--yes.

I will start writing this month, to memorialize him, and to process my grief. I don't want to forget what he was like, or what he meant to me. I wish I had another chance to tell him.

The Sea (or, Thank God for the Internet)

Many years ago I had an audio cassette recording of ocean sounds called "The Sea", produced by The Nature Recordings Reference Series. I LOVED that recording! I played it every night as I was going to sleep, and it helped my hyper mind calm down and unwind, helping me cut my usual 45 minutes to fall asleep into a much more reasonable 15 or 20.

Of course, as often happens, good things don't last. I can't exactly remember what brought about the demise of my beloved tape, but I certainly got my money's worth. I have tried many other nature recordings over the years, but nothing was quite as peaceful and relaxing as "The Sea."

So it was to my great delight that as I was going through some of my stored-away craft items I found the cassette tape box and insert for "The Sea." Enough years have passed, and the internet has exploded with tremendous power for finding things, so I decided to give it a shot.

To Google I went, which led me to Amazon, which provided me with a seller! And not just a seller, but a CD seller. O Joy! No more risk of ribbon destruction! I can get a digital copy and put it on my iPod and lull myself to sleep with my beloved ocean sounds once more.

I just found it, and just ordered it. I hope the seller doesn't delay (a used item from a third-party source, of course--"The Sea" is long-since unavailable). I'm looking forward to my ocean dreams again.

The Last of Lost

Last night, the season finale of Lost aired. I've been following this show since the beginning. As an avid reader, I am fully aware that all good stories must have an ending, and I am very glad that the creators of Lost got to schedule the ending of their show so they could pace out their ending. That doesn't make me any less reluctant to end a story, though, so it's no surprise that today is somewhat a day of grieving and mourning for me.

I'm not going to debate whether that ending was well-paced, or whether it was the best series finale of all time. There are plenty of other blogs and websites that will go there. For what it's worth, I was not entirely sure how I felt immediately after watching the episode, but having a day to reflect on and process my thoughts, the show definitely won me over, and I feel Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse really pulled off an amazing feat.

I know that the debates will go on for several more weeks, with bloggers and critics debating the strengths and weaknesses of the episode, as well as the series. For me, the loss is more personal.

Lost hit the airwaves a few months after my divorce. I was living with my sister, and continued to do so until early last year. Lost was a joint viewing experience for us. Even after I moved out, we would text or IM during the commercial breaks, asking and answering questions, commiserating or cheering for the scenes we had just seen.

The day after an episode was a glut of online reading and theorizing. I was a fan of spoilers (though I avoided them for the series finale), so I would feed her some spoilers at her request. We would rehash shows and debate what it all meant. The hiatus only slowed this by about half, as we both looked forward to each new season with great anticipation.

So now all of the new shows are over, the story has been told, and barring the few special extras on the upcoming DVD release, we have received all of the answers that we're going to get. Everything else is left up to our imagination. I'm sure people will continue to discuss and debate this, though in ever dwindling numbers.

Like all good stories, I was held captive. I waited for each new installment, and trusted the authors to get through whatever rough patches there were. I knew that I would like the end, because I had so enjoyed everything that led up to it. I am grateful for the story that they gave me.

They also gave me something that I hadn't looked for, something which the end of the show can't take away from me: the experience with my sister, six years of a common interest that kept us talking and speculating and sharing a story that resonated with us both. Thank you, Lost, for telling your tale, and allowing me to add an unexpected chapter to my own story.

My Diet: Truth and Lies

I'm back to my "diet" again. I don't like calling it a "diet" because it's really just my new way of eating. But since I'm losing weight, "diet" seems appropriate. I have made some modifications based on a new book I read (Primal Blueprint by Mark Sisson.) It is still a low-carbohydrate/higher fat lifestyle, but he incorporates a lot of other facets of your life. Also, I don't feel as guilt-ridden for "off" days as I did with Atkins. Sisson takes a more realistic approach--aim for perfect adherence, and you should reach 80%, which is still significant success.

I got off track for a while at the end of the year. I had planned to be good, to stick with it regardless of the temptation. But we got to Thanksgiving and I got a little off there, then each day it was easy to just go a little overboard. Not horrendously so, but enough to keep me from losing weight. I lied and told myself that I'd get back on board after Christmas, but then New Years came, and I had a temporary job and was commuting for a few weeks, and that made it hard to get back in the swing of things. Then it was Valentine's Day, and my dear, sweet boyfriend bought me TWO POUNDS of my favorite Sees Candy. TWO POUNDS!! Custom...all butterscotch squares. Who can say no to butterscotch squares? I can't!

I lied to myself about the candy. I told myself I would only eat one piece each day, and that way it wouldn't have much of an impact. HA! It was gone in 4 days. So I have to acknowledge that, at least for now, I am an addict. I cannot have sugary things in the house, because I cannot stop at one bite.

The good news is that I really didn't do too badly (besides the candy snarf). I had lost about 15 pounds before Thanksgiving, and between then and mid-February, I regained 3 of them. But since I got back on track, I have dropped another 9. I've lost enough now that my clothes are really not fitting well. I don't have money to purchase more, so I need to figure out a creative solution. Of course, that's the kind of problem I'm glad to have--not the "no money" problem, but the "clothes too loose to wear" one.

Holidays and holy days

So Christmas is past for another year. Now that I'm older, it doesn't have the same excitement it used to have. Don't get me wrong...I love to receive presents, and I got some cool stuff this year. And I love to give presents...if I can find something unique that speaks to me of a specific loved one, then I squirm with anticipation while they open it. But even just buying ordinary things is fine, because I know that they are appreciative people.

But when I was a kid, gifts were magical. We were not well-off, so Christmas and birthdays were hotly anticipated events, chances to tap into wishes and dreams that you normally put on hold, kept hidden inside because you knew it could never come to pass. But twice a year, you had a chance to keep your hopes up, because maybe, just maybe this time you would get your hopes fulfilled. It happened sometimes. Not always, but enough to keep you dreaming inside.

My sister's birthday is on Christmas day, so her two days collided. I always felt bad for her, because she had to go for a whole year to wait, and then had to share the spotlight with a holiday. It was almost the same for some of the rest of us...my mom's birthday was around Thanksgiving, and my brother and I are 2 years/1 day apart, so we always shared a birthday celebration. But that's really nothing compared to sharing your birthday the Holy of Holies like my sister did.

So mom always made a special effort to split the day in two. First half would be Christmas, with all of our frenzied rush to open gifts and play with toys and run around like lunatics. Then the second half was birthday--a cake just for her, gifts wrapped in birthday paper, the whole thing.

But now we're adults. Mom passed too many years ago, and things aren't the same. Her joy at watching her kids grow got transferred to watching her grandkids, though they hardly have any memory of her. There's no "need" to keep up the tradition, but there's no need to stop it, either. So this Christmas I coordinated with my other siblings and we arranged all of the party info without my birthday sis having to do any of the work. We brought food and drinks, we brought birthday-wrapped gifts for her and her son (whose birthday is two days later, so now they're sharing a party!), and the holiday became a holy day.

Not necessarily holy in a religious sense, but it was set apart, unique. There is a reverence that is exclusive to those who have known and loved one another as long as we have. Faults are known, but not held against. Laughter is deeper because the jokes have a long history. Tears can be shed without shame, because they come from the same well we all have long drawn from.

Then again, maybe that is the religious sense--to know and be known, no pretense or artifice, and to be loved through and through. I'm no theologian, but I know this was a holy day, and it had nothing to do with the cultural trappings of the holiday. I am blessed.

Hug me

I have a Facebook account so I can keep in touch a little more frequently with family and friends. It's a really great resource, and I am happy to get to hear what's going on in the lives of people that matter to me. Normally, I'd have to wait till Christmas get-togethers for some of these updates.

However, there is one aspect of Facebook that I'm struggling with. That is the hug/heart issue. This is probably not as much of an issue for guys, but I'm a girl, so I guess it's assumed that I would be grateful to get a hug or a heart. Isn't that a feminine thing to do? All warm and fuzzy and showing your appreciation.

I hate it. It's just does not ring true for me. People that I don't hug in real life send me hugs. Hearts made out of flowers? Please. I guess I'm not a good representative of womankind, because it's really hard for me to tolerate.

So far I just cautiously ignore them. But I have one friend who hasn't caught on and continues to send them. I am not sure how to handle it...do I e-mail and tell her "Thanks, but no thanks"? Do I block the application? (That's what I did with Farmville requests--what a relief!) Do I continue to ignore them? I don't see her very often, maybe 2 or 3 times a year, so I don't have much of a chance to say anything to her. I've only had a profile there for a couple of months.

I'm not completely anti-social. I'm nice to people, I respond to their posts, and in person I inquire after their children and families and remember what matters to them.

But online--wow, it just doesn't feel right to pretend that those cutesy little hugs and hearts mean anything to me. My sister has a friend who was sending her a heart-a-day for a while; I teased her pretty mercilessly over it. I guess it's kind of like Christmas cards--it can become an obligation rather than a treat. "Oh, Mary sent me one so I have to send one back."

Maybe that's the root of it--I hate feeling obligated to respond to someone else's efforts to be friendly in a way that feels untrue to my personality. I don't reach out and hug my friends every time I see them, so why would I do that online? I don't send cards or flowers on a whim (my closest real-life analogy for those hearts.) Wouldn't in seem disingenuous to do that online?

On the other hand, maybe I just suck at being a friend to women. Thank God for men!

Special Delivery

I'm hanging out at my brother's house again today. Why, you ask? Let me tell you...

I was here yesterday to sign for a package. He often has to travel for work, and many times I have stayed to dog-sit for him. This time, his girlfriend was going to dog-sit, but she had to work during the day, and he has a package being delivered that required a signature. (A Christmas gift for one of his kids, but shhh! Don't tell!)

I got to his house at 8:45 a.m., just shortly after he left for the airport. No problem, just hang out with the dog, the day is mine. I've had deliveries before--they usually show up around 10 or 11 a.m., so I figure I'll get home later that afternoon.

So I wait. And I wait. I read all the graphic novels I've brought with me (which are really his, loaned to me). I play with the dog, I play on the computer. Talk to my boyfriend as he gets ready for work. And I wait.

At 4 p.m., I decide maybe I'll just kick back on the recliner and nap a bit. Dog at my feet, blanket on my cold toes, I nap off and on, waking every time I hear a car driving past, looking out the window to see if it's the delivery driver.

My brother texts--any news? Nope.

My boyfriend texts--where are you? Waiting.

My brother texts again--well? Nope. Got a tracking number? Can you verify that it went out for delivery today? Not with him, unfortunately. He lets me off the hook, but I know he won't be home for several days, and he'd feel better if he knew it was signed for. So I stay.

8 p.m., no package. My boyfriend decides to drive out and hang out with me--I'm going to spend the night and be here again for the next day, hoping to catch the delivery guy. In the meantime, I have a package back at the apartment that didn't get delivered because I wasn't home. D'oh!

Down, down, down

So after reading Good Calories, Bad Calories by Gary Taubes, I decided that I had found the answer I was looking for. It was not the amount of calories that I needed to concern myself with as much as it was the source of the calories. Knowing that I am a carbohydrate junkie, I knew that it would be difficult to apply the evidence to my own lifestyle.

The book doesn't specify a specific diet to follow, it just presents the overwhelming evidence showing that obese people can get their weight under control by severely restricting carbohydrate intake. Reading the types of diets that the various researchers had applied in their studies and found successful at weight loss for obese people, I decided that I needed to start some type of low-carbohydrate diet and see for myself.

The best known diet (at least where I'm at) is Atkins. I know a few people who have used the Atkins plan and lost weight, but none of them had as much to lose as I do. Still, it was the best known and best supported plan in my area, so that's what I started.

It has been exactly four weeks, and I have lost 14 pounds. I know that the first week was mostly water weight, which is fine--I have a tendency to bloat anyhow, so it was nice to actually see my ankles again. However, I know that I am now losing fat. I can see the results in my body, how my clothes fit, how my body feels.

I do not go hungry on this plan, and I mostly don't feel "cheated". Of course, as a life-long sugar addict, it is a challenge, especially with Halloween just behind me. But seeing the numbers on the scale consistently reducing is a strong motivator. Feeling my clothes loosen is a constant reminder of my goal. I discussed it with my sister and she started Atkins around the same time. She's down over 7 pounds, though she's not quite as strict with her regimen as I am--she still eats nuts, for example, which I am holding out on till I am nearer to my goal. (She doesn't have as much to lose as I do, so her flexibility makes sense.)

The main struggle is much more of a mental issue than any physical side effects. I do not physically crave the sweets and breads that I used to enjoy, but I emotionally miss them. That sounds pathetic when it's stated so bluntly, but it is true. I was used to eating whatever I wanted that tasted good to me. Now, I still eat things that taste good (Hello, Cream Cheese!), but I purposely avoid certain items that, while very tasty, have not been very good for my health and well-being.

It helps a little to know that every time I don't eat the sourdough bread that I love, that I'm actually choosing something better for me: normalizing my blood sugar and reducing my weight. Still, it would be easier if my boyfriend was on this journey with me. He needs to lose weight, but he has not yet decided to take the plunge, so his meals still contain foods that I am avoiding. It can be hard to be around him at meal time, so I mostly keep my eyes on my plate, or at home I'll do a puzzle or read so I'm not distracted by the roasted potatoes and sweet corn. And chocolate is banished...I don't have the willpower to not eat it when it's here.

Maybe in time, the emotional craving and dependence will lessen as I adapt to my new eating habits. That is my hope. To anyone struggling with their weight and feeling hopeless, please consider reading Good Calories, Bad Calories. I cannot encourage you strongly enough to absorb all the evidence contained therein--it is revolutionary in light of our culture's obsession with the low-fat, low-calorie, high-intensity workout "solution" to the problem. I am exercising no more than I was before, and the weight is coming off steadily, without being hungry or buying specialty foods or mixes or concoctions.

Good Calories, Bad Calories

I am overweight. I have been overweight my entire life. I was the only baby in the hospital nursery to gain weight before going home. It is so much a part of who I am that I don't really think about it all that often, until it's time to buy clothes.

But I am with a man who wants to marry me and have children with me. Knowing that made me re-evaluate my size and its potential impact on my possible future children. This fact combined with my increasing episodes of arthritic pain have made me realize I need to get my weight under control.

One of the reasons I've never lost weight is I hate dieting...I hate being hungry, I hate thinking I can never have food that I like. I know this is a big issue for most dieters. So I wasn't really sure how I was going to approach my required new weight-loss regimen.

Then I was catching up on articles from the Advice Goddess, and I found this post, mentioning the book Good Calories, Bad Calories by Gary Taubes. I bought it the next day, and spent three days reading it. Don't get me wrong...normally I could read a book that size in one day, but this book is so fact-heavy that it took me a long time to work my way through it.

It is eye-opening and provocative, and probably the most encouraging book I have ever read as a fat woman. It is SO nice to see in black-and-white that it's not just "my fault", I'm not just "lazy" and I'm not lying about how much I eat. I have many slim friends who eat significantly more than I do, and who never struggle with their weight. I know many who also are not nearly as physically active as I am, yet they never deal with the excessive weight I do.

If you are overweight, or you love someone who is, I urge you to read Good Calories, Bad Calories right away. I will post later about my new diet, but for now know that I have applied the principles in this book and for the first time in at least two decades, I have started losing weight.

Twelve Years

In the early morning hours of August 30, 1997, my world was turned upside down. I had just been married about 8 hours prior, which is enough to turn anyone's world on its head. That meant moving to a new home and becoming a step-mom. Again, plenty of upheaval. And I had just begun a new job less than 90 days prior--again, major shifts in my world.

But nothing compared to the call I received the early morning hours of August 30, 1997--the night my mother passed away. She had just been at my wedding those few short hours earlier. The last thing I had said to her was "I'll see you tomorrow, Mom. I love you." We weren't leaving for a honeymoon, since money was tight, so I would have been able to see her. In fact, I did see her, though she didn't see me.

My mom left us with one piece of advice that sets us free--she said "When I'm gone, don't feel obligated to come to my gravesite--I won't be there." So even though it's the anniversary, I feel like it's my choice whether I go to the cemetery, because I honor her memory every day. The things I say are so influenced by who she was that I lose track sometimes of what originates with me and what she instilled. Whenever I see extended family, they comment on just how much I look and sound like her.

So here's to you, Mom: You were the best, and even after 12 years I still miss you every day.