Touching Base….

Hi to everyone!

I started this post complaining about the food, but that is a lower priority now.

Here I wrote a long, bitchy paragraph about food without salt, but I erased it after talking with my  sister, M.  My safety and my health were the first reasons to think about assisted living, along with isolation,  Those are top priorities,  and I have trouble sometimes remembering them

I decided to concentrate on going home, and not into assisted living — the food here sucks, mostly, and they won’t give a tiny packet of salt, even only once a day.  Breakfast is okay, I guess, (I eliminated eggs all together.)  From there on, none!  I can’t eat much of it, and salt substitute is awful.  On the good side, raw carrots are okay.  Any suggestion would be wonderful, please.

More, but really I wanted to say, “Thank you,” for cards and comments and visits; those mean so much to me.  I’m often too tired to respond, but please remember I love you all, and each contact is so pleasant, I smile for the rest of the day.  Thanks so much!

Please, continue your kind patience with me.  I hope to be feeling better soon, and I am working hard to do that.  My love and greetings to all of you, with hugs for all.



Progress.  A worthy goal, for sure.  A reward in itself — say I was trying to lose weight, and actually did.  Not only would that progress be satisfying, but I would feel more encouraged to maintain my goal and the methods I choose to pursue it.

I cannot begin to count the number of times I have pledged to lose weight, changed my eating plan, and jumped to the scales every morning to see if I accomplished anything.  My self-esteem, in fact my entire effort depended on seeing that lower number — a completely ridiculous measure, as I understood, from early in my adult life, that diets don’t work everyday — that there are plateaux any body reaches where the scale may not change for days.  I set myself up to fail, each time, knowing that I was doing so.

Furthermore, I learned, in 1978-79, that weight loss is not a reliable measure of health.  I stopped taking insulin that year, in order to lose weight.  It worked.  In fact, I lost almost 100 pounds.  I thought I looked great — thinner every day; what I didn’t see was the sallow shade of my skin, my skin-and-bones body, my sunken eyes and flat hair.  I came very close to dying at the end of that period, but I started again within weeks of leaving the hospital.  My then-husband, A., gets major credit for stopping me before I went too far.

This story is far back in my past, and of course, no amount of self-flagellation can change it.  I offer this history in contrast to what is happening now.  In the last few weeks, I have pursued better health, rather than a lower weight.  I no longer use the scales, daily.  Most days, I don’t even think about my weight.  I am far more interested in the number of times I used the stairs, rather than the elevator, or walked from a parking lot space, rather than being dropped at the door.  I am making progress in all the right ways this time, and the change in my mood is near-amazing.

No more stress, or self-denigration, or near-bipolar swings from celebration to mourning about my progress, or lack thereof.  I start down the stairs first thing in the morning, and walk out into another day of — dare I say it? — my healthier life.