I’ll Skip the Resolutions, Thanks

I used to envy people who made New Year’s resolutions, but I’ve come to accept that linking personal improvement to changing calendars doesn't work for me. It no more insures I’ll stick to the plan than a false deadline would (think fiscal cliff). My best chances for follow-through come when motivation is strong. Case in point: it’s the first weekend in January and my plans to begin a blog on New Year’s Day are now underway. Had it been a resolution, I’d already be falling behind.

Like so many, I want to read more, write more, lose weight and spend more quality time with friends and family. But if making resolutions on New Year’s Day were even half as effective as pledges made any other day of the year, I would have been a millionaire at age 30 and have a series of best-sellers on the market today. So I’ve learned to accept myself unconditionally, for this much I know: resolutions, like birthday piñatas, were made to be broken.

Instead, I choose to begin the new year by building a gratitude list, or as my mother would call, “counting my blessings.”

Several years ago, we were carrying significant debt that was keeping me awake at night. One June morning, after we’d determined there would be no resources for a vacation that summer, I drafted a plan to pull us out of the hole and left for work with a promise on my lips to begin that very day. Waiting half a year, until January when we were struggling with holiday debt, would have prolonged our agony. Instead of making resolutions that year, I chose to build a gratitude list, beginning with the progress we’d made on our goal to reduce our debt and improve our financial health.

If you consider that making resolutions is a way of incorporating hope in our lives, it makes perfect sense to start with the good that already exists.  Since the holidays began, online and television sources have bombarded us with ideas on how to lose weight and enjoy better health in the new year. These are admirable goals. But before I decide what to do differently in 2013, I must start by giving thanks for the relatively good health I enjoy and the simple fact that I was able to toast the New Year with friends and family. Having said good-bye to several acquaintances far too early this past year, it’s hard to be upset about the extra ten pounds that kept me from wearing my favorite skirt on New Year’s Eve. “Be careful what you wish for,” my mother also says.

Gratitude lists compel us to examine our lives with a critical eye and identify the good instead of focusing on what we think is lacking. It’s easy for me give thanks that my husband survived his third heart attack this year and that my daughter successfully completed her college degree. It’s a little harder to be grateful that a new home is being constructed across the road, blocking our view of the southern sky after twenty years of privacy at our country home.  But when I consider that a lovely young couple will be moving in this spring, and reflect on options the new land owner might have chosen – a strip mall or low-cost housing subdivision, for starters – gratitude is an easy choice.

Certainly the ancient Babylonians had good intentions when they introduced the world to the idea of making new year’s resolutions. When they broke out a new clay calendar, Babylonians resolved to please their gods (and, presumably, their creditors) by returning borrowed items and repaying debts. Some were probably grateful to their gods for the  means by which they were able to  repay those debts. Similarly, today’s financial experts suggest we resolve to pay off credit card debts in 2013 and step up our retirement savings. I receive daily e-mails from a national home improvement chain urging new year’s resolutions that involve updating and beautifying our home.  Re-painting rooms and replacing door handles may happen this year, but only after I’ve dutifully recorded my gratitude for our warm, loving, mid-century home with its outdated fixtures and odd configurations, along with the working computer with Internet service that brings me fodder to turn daydreams into reality.

Picking a date on the calendar to make resolutions fulfills our innate need for traditions, but I prefer to make them when the need presents itself, not because it’s the start of a new year.  Resetting my internal compass comes naturally if I’m in tune with what is happening around me, the needs of others and of my community. When I’m listening to my body and know it’s time to hit the treadmill, lay off the desserts, and drink a calming cup of chamomile tea, there is a much better chance of success than if I resolve on January 1 to do these things daily.

And when are grateful for what we have, the path is cleared to pay forward the blessings we enjoy, and simply to be ourselves.  With that my gratitude list begins, along with pens, paper and tape to build a scroll, Babylon-style. No false deadlines here.

It's After Labor Day. Are You Wearing White?

I’m anything but a fashionista. My closet is lined with seasons past, off the rack. But like any good Southern girl, I was brought up with a healthy respect for the number one fashion rule: wear no white after Labor Day.

My earliest dress-up memories involve little white gloves with pearl buttons and white patent shoes, Sunday best attire that must have been a nightmare for my mother to keep clean at our rural Florida home. She added a white pill box hat to her ensemble. In those days, Labor Day meant no more white shorts, shirts, shoes, dresses, slacks, jackets, and anything else that might qualify as a fashion faux pas until the dawn of Easter Sunday. Meanwhile, we opted for other colors, except black, typically reserved for funerals.

These days, I am proud to be liberated from such nonsense.

I live in northeast Oklahoma, where today, one day after Labor Day, heat indices are expected to hit 110 and record temperatures are predicted through October. Because of an extensive drought, we remain under a burn ban. I don’t leave the house without a jug of water, and avoid going outdoors, except under duress.

To be denied lightweight white clothing would be cruel and unusual punishment in these times. So that little custom about packing away white clothing after Labor Day can take a hike.

In fact, it already has, according to one friend who says the rules changed in the 1980s. I’m embarrassed to say that, in traditional non-fashionista style, I continued to spend  Labor Day evenings tucking summer wear into plastic clothes bins well into the ‘00s.  Only a few years ago did I abandon this habit. Liberation came to my fall wardrobe in the form of white capris on Thanksgiving Day. It was 90 degrees in November. Just how long can we keep up traditions that don’t fit the way we live?

I owe this awakening to a college student whom I never met but whose white shorts inspired the “aha” moment that made me question the fashion guidelines learned from my mother and aunts.  It was an unseasonably warm autumn day. Fortuitous was I to grab the last parking spot in the lot nearest my office after a late lunch. “Doesn’t she know the rule?” I wondered as the co-ed in white shorts hurried past my car. I reached for my seasonally correct black wool-blend jacket and trudged onward through the day.

It was then I noticed that there were violators all around me. Someone in my office was wearing a white t-shirt; another had on white slacks! And I remembered seeing the president’s secretary in a white linen jacket earlier in the day. I hung up my own jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and pondered the women’s liberation movement that was supposed to have freed us to be ourselves. Did that include making our own fashion rules?

As a college student during Gerald Ford's administration, when many of us wore non-conformity as a badge of honor, wearing white after Labor Day didn't warrant discussion. It simply wasn't done. I’ve no doubt my dorm mates would have heckled anyone in the halls who slipped up and wore white bell-bottoms to class in September.

But like a lot of other rules and traditions, no-white doesn’t fit in a post-911, global-warming world. On my day of awakening, as I noticed friends and co-workers who are fashionistas breezing through that hot, humid fall afternoon dressed according to the weather and not some outdated rule, I felt like the Equal Rights Amendment of 1973 had finally passed. 
 

As it turns out, the no-white rule traces back to a time when the wealthy fled crowded, industrial cities when the school year ended for vacation homes where cool, white clothing was preferred. From a practical standpoint, it reflected the hot sun and better suited their leisurely summer activities. So the rich owned separate summer wardrobes distinguished by the color white, from the tips of their fedora hats to the toes of their patent leather shoes.. Socially, it signified affluence, in contrast to those who remained to toil in their year-round grays and browns. Labor Day – a Populist holiday, created in tribute to the workers who made these annual pilgrimages possible – signaled the official end of summer. And so those who stepped off the ferry or detrained from the Orange Blossom Special conveyed status to those left behind, bedecked as they were in white before their transition back to the real world and colder weather, darker colors and heavier fabrics.

Fast forward past the Great Depression and World War II to a country of baby boomers whose birthright included summer vacations in automobiles that took them to all manner of magical places. As Americans caught the travel bug, family summer wardrobes took on a casual, comfortable look previously reserved for the privileged. People on vacation required lighter, cooler clothing that's easy to wash and wear. What better than white?  And so the masses, too, marked Labor Day with a wardrobe change as school started and work schedules returned to normal. We were following a practical tradition.

Enter fashion designers whose mission it was to define the rules by which the well-dressed should abide. Seasonal wardrobes became more distinctive (in places other than Florida, where in theory we could, and often did, wear the same clothes year-round) to support the burgeoning ready-to-wear industry. To display any degree of fashion sense, it was imperative to pack away white on Labor Day and introduce darker, more autumnal colors on  racks and backs. Even in tropical Florida.

An informal poll of friends and family reveals most of us are independent thinkers when it comes to the clothes we wear. Give us simplicity, comfort over style, practicality over fashion, and forget about rules whose time has passed. If you aren’t making your own rules, you’re falling behind the times. That makes us fashionistas, one and all.

So here’s to wearing white, or any other color, after Labor Day.  And that’s how it should be.

Flood to Drought: One Extreme to Another

The rain came to our house last night, a minor setback for the drought to end all droughts. While this one isn’t over yet, heavy rain and wind, followed by steady, ground-soaking precipitation the likes of which we’ve not seen in months, restored hope that better weather lies ahead, as my husband optimistically observed.

But an animated map of dry weather conditions across the U.S. shows a swath of deep burnt orange dipping across northeastern Oklahoma, signifying“exceptional drought” according to the map’s legend. [www.cnn.com/interactive/2012/07/us/drought/index.html]. Most of western Oklahoma is as bad or worse, and the governor’s decision to issue a statewide burn ban has finally given the two of us common ground upon which to agree.

The order came not a moment too soon: for weeks, the dry grass in our rural Cherokee County yard appears to have simply dissolved and settled into the cracked earth intended to sustain it. Trees droop and drought-resistant ground cover planted decades ago is brown and locust-eaten. The vegetable garden was pulled up by the roots weeks ago. Ornamentals near the house are kept alive with occasional watering, but fold their leaves to conserve life forces against mid-day heat. August is usually too hot to mow, and the yard typically grows so wild the cat gets lost in the weeds. This year, the lawn tractor is garaged till further notice.

This morning our foliage reaches to the sky in a celebration of temporary relief, but newscasts continue to show images of cracked ponds and decimated corn throughout the Midwest. Farmers are pulling up corn to feed cattle or selling livestock for which they have no feed.  Minutes before the storm passed over our house last night, CBS Evening News aired a segment showing levels at Lake Tenkiller, a few miles from here, seven feet below normal. In a worst case scenario, weather forecasters say real relief may not come until spring.

And if that isn’t enough to earn worst drought status since the Dust Bowl, consider this: according to CNN, the drought in Louisiana has lowered the Mississippi River to a level that allows saline water from the Gulf of Mexico to wash upriver. Officials 90 miles from the mouth of the river are advising citizens to expect salt in their drinking water. Not a health hazard, but certainly a predictor of where this drought is taking us.

With the river level lower than normal, barges are moving more slowly and carrying less cargo, which means it costs more to transport goods. As the saying goes, that’s where they get you: our wallets will feel the pinch as transportation costs rise. Fox News reports one barge carries the equivalent of 70 semi-trucks on the highway, based on shipping industry estimates. Adjustments to how much a barge can carry to accommodate low water levels will ripple across the economy like skipped rocks on a stagnant pond.

So far, water levels on the Mississippi have not affected barges that travel the McClellan-Kerr Arkansas River Navigation System in Oklahoma. According to KOTV News, Mississippi craft have shifted to a 9-foot draft (that’s the vertical distance between the barge’s waterline and its keel). Those passing through the Port of Catoosa maintain an 8.5 foot draft. While this doesn't make the drought seem any less severe, we can take comfort in river traffic continuing as usual, right?

  

Earlier this summer, I picked up a copy of “Rising Tide,” the story of the 1927 Mississippi River flood that revolutionized  America's approach to utilizing her major waterway. The book enjoyed a surge of popularity following the historic Mississippi River flood of 2011. Author-historian John M. Barry traces the changes that led to channels that guide the river’s traffic, and the modifications that allow commerce to continue flowing in dire times like these.

In 2011, as we watched homes and agricultural lands disappear beneath Old Man River, history confirmed that eventually the water would recede and we'd move forward to deal with the damage. Here in northeast Oklahoma, we faced a similar scenario on a smaller scale: floodwaters covered the basin of the scenic Illinois River. Images of Highway 10 slipping underwater, homes covered to their rooftops, water lapping the wooden slats of historic Combs Bridge contrast today with  exposed gravel bars in mid-river that haven’t seen the light of day in decades and places along the highway where the river narrows to the point that it simply disappears. But if we've learned anything, it is that one extreme gives way to another. In due time, we'll be mowing yards and heading for higher ground. 

Turning Over A New Leaf

The outdoor farmer’s market in Tahlequah has officially opened for the season. Last fall, I pledged to turn over a new leaf this year and buy our vegetables and plants, along with soaps and other organic products, from local farmers whenever possible.  The time has come to make good on that promise.  

Herein lies the challenge: for me, venturing into town on Saturday morning has typically been reserved for parades, other special events, or picking up a birthday cake from Morgan’s Bakery. Until now, I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve darkened the sidewalk during farmer’s market. Despite its central location in Norris Park, a charming and unique venue, the lure wasn’t enough. After all, I could get the same items at our locally-owned grocery store during the week, right?  Why bother with a special trip downtown just to buy lettuce and tomatoes? 

Two good reasons: first, farmers invest their time, energy, and money to create products intended for our consumption, and they do it well. My green thumb extends only as far as the perfect combination of climate, quality seeds, and daily maintenance will allow.  Second, when we buy local products, we’re supporting our neighbors and friends. Enough said. 

But back to the lettuce and tomatoes, and the issue of Saturday morning: garden variety iceberg lettuce pales beside the greens offered by our local vendors, and rightfully so. Kale, spinach, turnip greens, and bok choy hold more nutritional value and taste better. When tomatoes are in season, the same holds true.   

So this week, for the first time, watercress will grace our dinner table, in salads, sandwiches, and maybe even soup. If you’re a seasoned farmer’s market patron, and by implication a healthy eater as well, you’re probably not impressed yet. So visualize, if you will, this salad bowl at our house from a year ago: green outer leaves of iceberg lettuce, tomato wedges, and sliced cucumber. Baby carrots, radishes, or green pepper with sliced boiled eggs meant the culinary muse had entered the kitchen and we were having Cobb salad with Waverly wafers. Break out the ranch dressing and balsamic vinegar, and call it a healthy meal.  

Culinary motivation on my part has never been a point of pride, but I’m certainly not alone. According to a 2009 report by the Pew Research Center, nearly half the American work force is made up of women, and 75% of American mothers work outside the home.  While among their ranks, I experienced firsthand the low priority of meal preparation at the end of a long day. It’s just too easy to serve quick, simple meals comprised of frozen or processed foods; it’s even easier to swing into a fast food drive-through on the way home.

I blame this oblivion on America’s pervasive twin evils, lack of awareness coupled with apathy. When we don’t fully comprehend the impact on our bodies of the food we’re eating, we can’t see the benefit of alternatives. Metaphorically speaking, it’s easy to stick index fingers in both ears, wave the hands, and sing, “Lalalalala….” until all the food is gone. You know what I’m talking about. 

So why turn over a new leaf? 

For me, it came in stages. First, I retired from the local university after forty years in the work force and had more time to plan meals. I would like to claim an upswing in the quality of our home cooked food, but the only significant change in the kitchen during the first year was a fresh coat of paint on the cabinets.   

Then last fall, my husband suffered his second heart attack (discussed in my blog, “Heart Attack Rule of Seven”).  During his recovery, Dan enrolled in a three-month cardiovascular rehabilitation program at Tahlequah City Hospital, where we met a clinical nutritionist, James Newman, who would challenge how we thought about food. 

Until then, I regarded food as a means for staving off hunger, providing nutrition (especially protein), and a means to socialize with friends. At our first meeting, Newman presented persuasive evidence that food is medicine. He posed the million dollar question: were we willing to make radical changes in our diet that might control…maybe even reverse…the coronary heart disease that caused the blockages that led to my husband’s heart attack? The answer was easy; there’s no question about making dietary changes when it involves the health of someone you love. And I knew that whatever food I prepared and put on the table, my husband would eat. 

The next step was trading hamburgers and pizza for portobello mushroom steaks and quinoa. It may sound difficult, but Newman encouraged us to think in terms of a lifestyle change rather than dieting. He referred us to the book by Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn of the Cleveland Clinic, “Prevent and Reverse Heart Disease,” which now sits dog-eared and stained from frequent use on my kitchen counter. I never knew how many plant-based and grain options there are in the world. Newman also suggested we “sample the rainbow” in our local produce department. With only two people to prepare for, we can try different things in small quantities. Our refrigerator shelves are lined with greens in a variety of shades and shapes, potatoes in every color, cauliflower, broccoli, bok choy, chard, squash, and a variety of other fruits and vegetables. Seasonings include fresh herbs from our garden and a variety of vinegars and Braggs Liquid Aminos, a lower-sodium alternative to soy sauce.  By the way, did you know turnip greens come alive with a spritz of rice vinegar? 

Recently, I saw a clip from a national late night show in which Bill Clinton credited the Esselstyn plan with restoring his well-being after a heart attack and surgery last year. Closer to home, Newman has shed more than 300 pounds and will tell you that his cholesterol level is down to an impressive 107.  In fact, Newman’s success is noted in several online journals, where he is recognized as an authority on healthy eating.  

Yes, this has the appearance of a vegan lifestyle, and no, we are not strict adherents; we stick with the plan about 80 percent of the time, giving in to the temptation of fish, a juicy T-bone steak or an ice cream sundae now and then. I don’t anticipate we will ever completely forego animal products, but the important thing is to stay on track.  

One thing we discovered early on: eating a plant-based and grain diet means what we consume is more filling and holds higher nutritional value, thus we eat less. Combined with exercise, we’ve each lost a few pounds (my husband more so than I) and feel better overall. That’s motivation enough to stick with the plan. 

So, strolling through the Saturday morning farmers market has become an adventure, a weekly foray into trying new foods, supporting local farmers, and visiting with friends and neighbors. And you’ll still find me patronizing the produce aisle at our hometown market, scoping out the leafy greens and shopping the rainbow. Meanwhile, think I’ll whip up some watercress soup.

Heart Attack Rule of Seven

Two weeks ago, my husband returned home after suffering a heart attack.

This was not his first "episode," as a friend called it, nor is it likely to be his last. Late on a Tuesday night, I drove my husband to the hospital and the following day physicians inserted a  heart catheter through Dan’s right femoral artery to see how his heart was functioning. Skillfully, they tackled the offending blocked arteries with two stints and a balloon. Thanks to this intervention, blood now flows freely. His mind is clear, he feels better, and he has healed well from the procedure. Fortunately, doctors say, there is no evidence of damage to his heart.

Dan has a condition known as arteriosclerosis. Fortunately, other blockages doctors saw during the heart catheterization are not as severe. But these roadblocks in vital arteries have plagued him for nearly three decades.  At age 35, he underwent bypass surgery, followed by angioplasty fifteen years later, and a heart attack at 55. This summer, he underwent an endarterectomy to relieve a blocked carotid artery. The bypass and stints of years past remain intact, and thanks to advances in medical science, doctors can see precisely what is happening in my husband’s heart and hopefully get the jump on any future heart ailments (and what they don’t know about his heart, our daughter and I can tell you).

This was our wake-up call: he’s re-committed to a heart healthy diet, although we would have insisted before this happened that we were already eating the right things.  His doctor prescribed medication to prevent blood clots and keep existing blockages from worsening. And he’s signed up for cardiac rehabilitation at a local hospital, with monitors and medical personnel on-site, a much more comforting scenario than walking the treadmill on our back porch.

And so we breathe a deep sigh of relief: he dodged another bullet.

As the shock of the experience wears off…and no matter what the outcome of a heart attack, it’s always a shock….I’m left with deep gratitude for the gift of life, made bittersweet by this keen awareness: his heart attack happened right before my eyes, and I did not recognize the signs. Truth is, people don't always keel over like they show in the movies.

For several days, Dan had complained about heartburn that ebbed and flowed, regardless of what he ate. Antacids didn’t help. He’d been stationed at our kitchen bar, tackling the year-end finance report for the local chapter of a veterans organization, and grew increasingly frustrated by two line items that wouldn’t balance. About 9 p.m., he got up to take a shower and talked about going to bed early so he could resume work in the morning with a fresh mind. That's when he mentioned pressure in his chest that started in the afternoon;  nitroglycerin failed to relieve the symptoms, and now he was noticing pain. And then he rubbed his back in the spot directly behind his heart.

This small movement triggered a memory: several years ago, a friend of ours tossed and turned all night long, then told his wife he couldn’t sleep because of discomfort in his chest and a pain in his back. She phoned their daughter, a physician, who told her to call an ambulance. He was having a heart attack.

Calmly, I asked, “Should I drive you to the hospital?”

“Sure,” he said, as though I’d asked him if he wanted a cup of hot chocolate before going to bed.

I dressed quickly, settled the pets down for the night, and we headed for the Veterans Administration hospital 30 miles away, his primary care facility. Along the way, we avoided the reason for our trip, and instead talked about a bluegrass festival we planned to attend the following weekend and the need to complete that pesky financial report beforehand.

I am a denialist, married to a denialist. The glass is always full, even when it’s only half full. We were each certain he’d be treated and released in a matter of hours, and we could get on with the business of life.

At the hospital emergency room, they took his chest pains seriously.

 Moments after our arrival, Dan was hooked up to monitors, x-rays were taken, and the results of blood tests were being awaited. The doctor on duty that night took a special interest in his case; his cardiac enzymes were high, she noted, and his blood pressure shot up to 200/100 – excessively high, even for a guy who consistently suffers from high blood pressure, despite a wide range of medications. The pain in his chest didn’t respond to nitroglycerine administered intravenously. She immediately ordered an ambulance that would transfer him to the nearest heart hospital, 45 miles away.

It was 2 a.m. when I trailed off down the turnpike, a legal distance behind the ambulance running lights and sirens down the dark, deserted road.  In our destination city, I was pulled over for speeding. Holding my driver’s license up for him to see, I did a poor job of hiding my agitation as I explained to the officer that my husband was in the ambulance he’d seen go by a few minutes earlier. To my everlasting gratitude, he offered directions to the hospital parking lot, wished me luck, and cautioned me to slow down. I found Dan in an emergency room bed, waiting to be admitted. A few hours later, he doctors confirmed he’d suffered a “small” heart attack.

As it turns out, Dan is believed to have experienced a series of small heart attacks before the symptoms seemed severe enough to warrant attention. Neither of us wanted to admit a connection between "heartburn" and his chronic heart condition. But now I know, from talking with his doctors and nurses, that there's no such thing as overreacting when a heart patient experiences unusual signs of pain or distress.  And so that brings me to this Heart Attack Rule of Seven, shared in the hope that bits of wisdom gleaned from lessons learned might someday save a life:

Rule 1: Be suspicious of heartburn that can’t be traced to food. If it gets worse or doesn’t pass in a reasonable length of time, the person may be having a heart attack. Assume this possibility in someone who has a history of heart issues, and work backward to a warm cup of milk and good night's sleep.

Rule 2: Don’t ignore sudden or unusual back pain located directly behind the heart. Dan suffers from chronic back ailments and had been sitting on a kitchen bar stool while working on the financial report, so it was easy to assume the pain was positional.  We all know what happens when we assume.

Rule 3: Keep a fresh supply of nitroglycerin tablets on hand at all times. They expire after 90 days. The bottle on our shelf was two years old. Of course, the good news was that he hadn’t needed them; unfortunately, that meant we didn’t refresh his supply on a regular basis. Don’t be a denialist.

Rule 4: Call an ambulance. Do not drive yourself or the patient to the hospital. It frightens me to realize I was driving my husband down a dark highway while he was having a heart attack.  Paramedics are equipped to administer immediate treatment en route. If I had a quarter for every doctor and nurse who offered this advice, I’d be drinking a Starbucks latte.

Rule 5: Consider every substance that enters the body in terms of how it will affect the heart. Just call me the Food Nazi, but no longer will I downplay the sodium and fat content on packaging. We’re cooking from scratch now. It tastes fabulous and is better for his heart. We may indulge sparingly with foods not on the healthy list, but never at the expense of reviving old habits.

Rule 6: Substances that enter your body include nicotine. After spending 48 hours under medical care, without taking a dip of chewing tobacco, Dan could have used a nicotine fix. His discharge orders indicated he should stop tobacco, and an enterprising nurse brought us articles that indicated nicotine was bad for his heart because it constricted blood vessels and could also be contributing to his high blood pressure. He hasn’t dipped in two weeks. His blood pressure is closer to normal than it has been in years. Enough said.

Rule 7: Live each day to the fullest. Carpe diem and all that implies.

Next time: Struggling with the heart healthy diet, one day at a time.