Walking for a Cure

My dear friend in Seattle, WA, will walk 60 miles in three days this coming September, to raise money for breast cancer research. Her Aunt passed away last month at the young age of 50; breast cancer was the cause. Please visit her page and donate. Help her reach her goal.

My mother is a breast cancer survivor and has been cancer free for over seven years. She used to go for radiation treatments on her lunch break, then return to work in a busy, high-stress office environment. My mom is sixty-seven years old , but runs an office like a young university graduate. She is a strong, determined woman, who by the will of God discovered she had breast cancer when it was in its early stages.

At age 35, I have already had a base-line mammogram and sonogram, and will continue to do so each year. Not every woman has the means to do this, however; we must make our health care affordable and accessible! We must put ourselves first on our lists.

Go view my buddy's page. Each one of us can contribute to finding a cure for breast cancer--this taker of mothers, wives, and daughters.

What's up with my ZIES ?

I see that those posts I kind of pour my heart and soul into are the ones that receive fewer comments. The ones with topics like "camel meat at the Safeway rocks!" however, really get you all talking. That's something to ponder, no?

I took myself and my left tonsil to the doctor yesterday. Oh, wait, that's not a tonsil--it's a raw, holey, chewed up piece of something that cannot possibly be doing its relegated function of preventing illness. The following activities performed in Jordan seem to make me sick, bar none:

1. digging in the dirt/planting things
2. sweeping outside
3. dusting furniture/cleaning out from under beds
4. standing at Little League games watching my kid, as the field of dreams dust blows into my eyes and nostrils

So I see a correlation here; I know I have allergies and I know that whatever evil microscopic creatures may lurk in the dust/dirt here are far more menacing than any mite or dust ball I may have encountered in the U.S. But it's been six years! You'd think I'd have tried to build up some immunizies. That's right, immuniZIES.

Last night at the doctor's office, our exchange went a little like this. Perhaps there has been a wee bit of embellishment for comedic effect, perhaps not.

Dr.: How you feeling?

Me: Like I have rocks in my throat. It hurts.

Dr.: You having fever or general pain in your body?

Me: No, just my throat. I'm having my regular April allergies, too.

Dr.: Yes, you, I remember you, you have asthma. You had that fever of 40 last time.

Me: Right.

Dr.: Ok let me take a look at your OH MY LOOK AT THAT! (calls my husband over) Look at that throat! This is big, big infection. (my husband peers in; he is captivated)

Me: (after recovering from holding my mouth open with the tongue depressor for over a minute, gag, cough) The thing is, this is like the fifth throat infection I've had since December. Could you give me a strep throat test, please?

Dr.: Strep? What strep? This is not strep.

Me: How do you know?

Dr.: This is virus. I think virus. You have virus, I am sure. I think you been drinking too much cold drinks and eating the ice cream.

Me: (laughing) No! I have not been eating ice cream.

Dr.: You sure? I think you been drinking many cold drinks. (looks at husband, who shakes his head in disagreement)

Me: I promise, I have not.

Dr.: I will give you something, you feel better in two days.

Me: What will you give me?

Dr.: You need antibiotic.

Me: You just said I have a virus. Why would I need an antibiotic?

Dr.: Because you need. You need profilaxis. You see you need this because maybe from virus your body has low immunizies, you need make stronger immunizies, increase your antibodies, you know.

Me: OK. Do you think I should see an ENT?

Dr.: (waving arms madly, chuckling) Noooo, no, no, you don't need. You just need to drink hot, every thirty minutes, hot milk, hot tea, hot coffee, hot soup. Understand? Ok you feel better.

*end of exchange

I know what a throat infected with streptococcus looks like. I know that is what I have, because after just one dose of the antibiotic, the pain subsided, and today I am sitting upright. I am not sure why the Jordanian Medical Schools choose to disregard throat swabs and/or petri dishes as bona fide medical science. I want to know what keeps attacking my throat. I'm one of those "get to the bottom of the medical mystery" folks. I'm all about prevention. Here, it seems, doctors are more about the quick fix.

I am not a hypochondriac, either. I laugh at hypochondriacs and their Tomfoolery. (That word deserves a capital "T," so I can pay homage to my relative named Tom.) I am not one of those who could ever feel the need to feign an illness just so three days of food-encrusted dishes could pile up in the kitchen. I was so completely unable to move yesterday--unable to get up and walk across the room to fetch the remote, thus being forced to watch two hours on the life and times of Kathie Lee Gifford. Who in her right mind would inflict such punishment on herself?

I just finished stacking the last of the washed insanity we call cups and plates, creating a dish pyramid so perfect, so balanced, that the removal of so much as a spoon or saucer could send it all crashing back down into the sink. I know you know of what I speak.

Soup time.

On Ownership

I told my sister yesterday that I am in one of those funks where I feel as if my life is not my own.

"Well, it isn't," she replied, frankly. I knew from her tone that she knew exactly what I meant, and I also knew that she was right.

There may be some religious chat coming up, so if you shy away from that, go do a crossword puzzle or something.

My life is not my own: the premise. Let's dissect.

1. As a rational human being who also believes in God, I know my life is not mine in the religious sense, because I know that one day this bodily form of mine will die, and my soul will reside neither in, nor on, nor around this earth. I am a visitor in this world and I belong to my Creator. He can take me when and how He sees fit. What I choose to do with this temporary life is the test, so in that regard, I need to try to be at the top of my game. I will (and do) surely falter. Often.

2. As a rational human being who also happens to be a wife and mother, my life is not my own when we speak in terms of time. I give most of my time not to myself but rather to others who need me. I am in a perpetual state of caregiving. I choose to participate in the raising of my kids and their well-being; I've known plenty of folks who, let's say, are completely 'hands off' when it comes to being a parent. However, this perpetual state has, on occasion, worn me down to the point where I ask myself, "Who am I, anyway?" This, I believe, is a danger sign, and is one of many. (others might be: mental breakdown, rage, repeated crying spells, snappiness, withdrawal from social events--I'm only speculating here, ladies)

3. As a rational human being who also thinks she is somewhat bright and has something to offer the world, these danger signs are 'wake-up' calls to let her know that she needs to reevaluate her life and try to assume some semblance of ownership. Six-day work weeks and absolutely no time for relaxation or self-indulgence, or just 'down time' where she does not feel inclined to be the best mother or wife or housekeeper, or the ability to tell herself that it is ok to be at the bottom of her game--these are the moments she must allow herself to have in order to regain the slightest bit of autonomy.

I have more on this but have decided to take a time-out for thirty minutes, until they all start pouring in the door, hungry.

Now, several hours later, I have returned to the helm.

4. As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, and semi-with-it-smart person, I acknowledge that I strive to maintain a deep and growing respect for my spouse. I do, however, believe that women, not men, are the glue holding most families together. As an esteemed teacher, Umm al-Khayr, once said, "Men need a steady supply of admiration and attention." I admire my husband on various levels, but most of all I admire his commitment to us, and in keeping his commitment, he must go out and face the ugly challenges of working. He is stressed, most of his days. He needs me to give him more than he is able to give me.
Sometimes I resent this. There are those oddball sort of men who say things like, "Hey honey, let me take all four of our kids and your best friend's five kids off of your hands for a few hours, so you and your best friend can go and relax--you know, get a cup of coffee, and unwind." (This really happened the other day at Little League; the brother who said this is not a phantom husband, he's real.) And when those situations crop up, I sometimes feel resentful.

5. Back to the glue part! I digress(ed).
As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, semi-smart person, and gatekeeper of spousal respect, I do not feel inclined to play the martyr. I do not want anyone, especially my children, to feel sorry for me or bend over backwards to point out how much I do, so I can say something smarmy like, "Oh, it's nothing." It is something; all that I do for everyone around me IS something, whether tangible (like a hot meal) or intangible (like listening to my pre-teen talk about her day). I do, however, need to emphasize from time to time that we women are the glue. THE GLUE. We are not typically the ones running off to start new relationships after divorce or death of a spouse. We seem needy because society has historically labeled us thus. But we women should know that our strengths far outweigh any neediness.

6. As a rational human being, believer in God, smart and respectful and glue-ish wife and mom, non-martyr, I must find those spaces to fit in that only belong to me. I must be stingy with my self-worth. I will not hop up on the auction block so that others may bid on my strengths. I must find my voice at the appropriate time and use it at the appropriate time. I must give of myself healthfully, not disparagingly, so that at the end of the day or year or decade, I do not see a shell. I must grow. And if the affirmation I seek does not come from others, I must find the means to affirm from within.

Ouch

I'm feeling puny, and my body has requested that I rest. I am listening (for once).

When this super-sized cold sore is gone, I'll be back in business. InshaAllah.

Don't Mind Me, I'm Just Antioxidizing

The slams against coffee I have heard and read lately trouble me. I love coffee--the way it tastes, the way it smells, the way it wakes up my senses in the morning, no matter what the temperature outside. I drink the stuff in moderation and am not the kind who, in Ramadan, cannot even get out of bed the first few days because of headaches or general grumpiness. As much as I love it, if I wanted to quit I believe I could. I'd switch to decaf, because it's really the taste and comfort of coffee that I love and crave.

I can blame and thank my mother for introducing me to coffee, sitting at a Waffle House, trying to rejuvenate our driving capabilities, while on a road trip many moons ago. The following year I went off to college with a Mr. Coffee 4-cup coffee maker, which really produces a mug and a half. I am a confessed procrastinator extraordinaire and a sometime overachiever wannabe. My first semester I took an overload of difficult classes (trying to prove what? I still am not sure) and I became known in my hall for staying up all night to type out the multiple papers that would be due at the same time. Mr. Coffee sat by my side throughout the ordeal. He never failed to brew on command.

It disturbs me to hear my children, who love to watch cooking shows, refer to any foods they see others eating or drinking as being nasty. I like to consume many things that perhaps are not mainstream American foods (or mainstream anyone's foods) , and am offended when someone says, "How could you eat that nasty stuff?" as if I am eating refuse. I won't chastise the Mongolians for sitting down to some steamed mutton dumplings that I may find repulsive. It's what they know, it's what they like, and who am I to try to survive a harsh winter out on the steppes of outer Mongolia, munching on caesar salad? Survival of the fittest, it is. The Mongolians know what they need to keep on ticking, and if that means drinking tea with curdled yak's milk and mutton fat, so be it.

In my reality, coffee helps keep me ticking, on both physical and emotional levels. Don't dis me coffee, chaps. If it's not your cup of tea (ha!), I surely respect that.

Here are some articles on the health benefits of coffee. I'm feeling persuasive.

Coffee and Antioxidants

Coffee, the New Health Food?

Coffee Perks

Those yet-to-be-found beneficial compounds in coffee

Moderation, Moderation

My Aunt

My dear Aunt Shirley, (pictured left), who is one of the kindest women I've ever known, was diagnosed yesterday with stage IV lung cancer. I am not sure how many years she smoked, but it was probably close to forty, since she is now seventy two years old. She has not smoked for nearly ten years. My mother (on the right) just called me to tell me to pray for her.

I will pray for her. I will also pray for the millions of smokers around the world who continue to wreck their bodies weekly, daily, hourly. All of you with friends or loved ones who have not caught on that smoking is going to kill them, please help them. Be kind, but encourage them to quit. If you are struggling to quit or even thinking about trying, do not give up.

May Aunt Shirley have strength as she faces this affliction, which is sure to be difficult. Her only sign of anything being wrong physically was chest pain; she was not coughing at all. The tumor in her lungs has grown from non-existent last year (her last x-ray) to the size of a tennis ball, today. I'd love to give her a hug, but phone calls and letters will have to do. She is such a lovely person, and I am very saddened by this news.

Save the Kids: A Reprise

I know I write about food and how I enjoy good things to eat quite often. My husband and children love a wide range of foods (well, except the almost six year-old, who currently prefers Arabic dishes that start with the letter "m"). Good food and good company go hand in hand; I love to cook and I love to feed others. However, I have battled with my weight at different stages of my life, including this one, and anyone who has weight issues, whether they be those thirty extra pounds, or one hundred and thirty, is someone with whom I identify. I really do understand.

I am not trying to make any enemies via posting what I'm about to write. Those of us with weight issues, who are adults, have made choices regarding our eating habits and commitments to moving our bodies or living a sedentary lifestyle. OK, some of us were born with the genetic predisposition to be large, some of us have hormonal issues such as thyroid or pituitary, and some of us are diabetic or battle with fluctuating glucose levels. We adults all have circumstances, and a history of choices behind us.

But what of our ten year-olds? What about those precious children we are raising who have not even truly reached puberty, but whose body fat comprises more than half of their weight? What about the kids who never go outside to play, who cannot touch their toes or do one single push-up or sit-up? Children who have never been taken on hikes or family evening walks, but rather are obliged to sit in front of some sort of entertainment box with a plate of microwaved crap because their parents are just too busy to deal with them? What choices has my 7th grader made about what goes on her plate at lunchtime or at dinnertime, except for those choices I have provided her?

I think that living in Jordan for the last six years has been great for my family in that we are away from the drive-in kind of life. I remember being a working mom in the US, when my workday was from 7:30 a.m. until nearly 5 p.m. The last thing I wanted to do after leaving work was to come home and cook. Many nights we ate pizza or fish and fries from a box or take-out Chinese. I do not apologize for those times because I did what I thought was right for my family at that time. But I made sure I interspersed those kinds of quick meals during the week with wholesome, home-cooked stuff, too.

All praise is due to God, my children got their father's metabolism. They are string beans and full of energy, mashaAllah. Looking back at my own childhood, I recognize that I was also a ball of energy and I was given the opportunities to be athletic time and time again. I am thankful that I took them and made physical activity an integral part of my life. It was not as if I sat down and contemplated, "to move, or not to move," because it was just the natural, feel-good thing to do. I attended public schools where P.E. was mandatory, every single day. Each year we took the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. There were perhaps two or three overweight young girls in my entire grade level, and virtually no overweight males. I can vividly remember sitting in Science class after P.E., and my legs pressing against that creaky old wooden desk seat would make these icky pools of sweat. It was yucky, yes, but looking back I am truly grateful someone--the system-- gave me the chance to make my heart beat fast.

If you never watched Shaq's Big Challenge, it is an eye-opening, moving show about a group of kids who are morbidly obese. I tuned in last night with my family. We were all moved to tears. The United States is on a fast track to being the first country where children's life spans will not be longer than their parents'. Heart disease will start showing up around age 20 in some kids; forget about the mid-life crises, because many won't make it past 40. We have let our children take over our households on so many levels. What parent cannot control what he brings home from the supermarket? Put the damn salad and grilled fish on the table, and let that be all there is. If they behave well, must we reward them with an ice cream? A pizza? What happened to a hug or a card or a sweet note in their lunch boxes? With all that we know about how the body works, why are we killing our children? Daily physical activity, increased heart rates and the kind of racing that makes you feel like your lungs are going to explode are not unnatural. They should be part of childhood and adolescence.

To end on a positive note, here's one of the success stories from the show. This kid's parents had to be in on the game, or he never would have made it.

As with anything--mental, spiritual, physical--we must begin with ourselves, purify ourselves, and be the right role models. Nourish those children, who are completely innocent, and teach them to want to take care of the gifts that their bodies are.

Some helpful links:

CDC and Childhood Obesity

Childhood Obesity Statistics and Facts

Kids and Fast Food, with other great links for kids' health

Overweight Teen, with BMI indicator for children and teens

Denise Austin Helps Kids Get Fit

Running to the Beat of a Different Cabbage

So I've taken up jogging/running on Lester, the treadmill.

When we bought him over a month ago, I promised myself I would walk at least four times a week for thirty minutes at a time. He's just too handsome to resist, and never leaves me unchallenged. He takes my breath away.

Both my husband and I, at some remote points in our lives, were quite athletic. He played soccer and basketball, lifted weights, and ran long distances. I, too, played basketball, as well as spent my summer days in the 102 degree Alabama heat holding girls' feet, with heavy-treaded tennis shoes in my hands, while lifting them high above my head, then catching them in my arms when they fell from a 12-foot height. (I'd catch the entire girl--not just her feet.) Rah, Rah, Sis-Boom-Ba.

There was a time during my courtship with my husband when I began to put on extra pounds (after he introduced me to things like stuffed squash, grape leaves, and baklaweh, or would bring me Taco Bell taco salads at 11 o'clock at night, whispering Arabic sweet nothings things like, "Eat, eat, it's good for you.")

Such encouragement and resulting poundage lead me to go on a year-long diet that set my eating habits in motion for the next five years. I was a picture of self-discipline with my "Oh, I couldn't possibly put mayonnaise on that turkey sandwich," or "No thank you, I won't be having dessert tonight."

Fast-forward to sixteen years and four children later--a time in which my willpower has hit an all-time low. I tried to join a gym in Amman two summers ago, but could not endure being forced to watch Christina Aguilera, Shakira, and Haifa Wahby while I exercised on the machines. Most days I would leave feeling sick and unfulfilled, not to mention having to deal with "trainers" who had never taken a fitness class in their lives nor who knew anything about how to help an asthmatic get a good workout without killing her. (The gym employees also dissed my love for avocado smoothies, telling me they were the culprits keeping me overweight. I vehemently disagreed.)

The first time, about two weeks ago, I ran for two minutes straight on the mill o' tread, and thought that was comparable to climbing a tall mountain peak. Then I stretched it to eight minutes, an accomplishment that merited a phone call to my sister. Then fourteen. Then yesterday, I ran straight for twenty-two minutes, without feeling like my sides were going to split open. I think I could have continued running, but I did not want to push a good thing. I find that covering up the timer on the treadmill helps me; I focus on a few of the bricks in my living room and play Nourhan Sharif's Arabic Rhythms, Volume One, on the iPod. My favorite rhythm so far is the "Malfouf," which in Arabic means "rolled up," "rolled up cabbage leaves," and also just plain "cabbage." Anyone interested in learning basic tablah rhythms should check it out. While I run, there are no skimpily clad women around me, gawking at me or sizing me up; I am in the comfort of my own dining room and can, during certain hours, watch my silhouette run along side me, as the drum beats on.

Ba da ba da da da ba da da ba da ba bomp.

Ad Nauseum, or Look to the Sheep

I know I have written about health and fitness before, maybe to the point of boring you. I apologize.

My husband was stricken this week with the same horrid throat infection I had two weeks ago. He left the house at 8 a.m. happy and bubbly, but returned at 5 p.m. shaking, trembling, and very out of sorts. His fever came on suddenly and he immediately began complaining of severe throat pain. Men are quite pitiful when they are ill--have you noticed?

Instead of letting him lie around for 48 hours (as I had done) hoping it would pass on its own, we immediately went to the doctor.

Oh, evil Jordanian bacteria! Why are your strains so fierce? Is it because of the widespread antibiotic abuse in this country? Is it because of the potent dust that blankets windows, floors, and carpets and lets you breed quietly? Is it because we are easy targets? Why?

Anyway, he is already on the road to feeling like himself again, after receiving proper treatment. The doctor's visit plus two injections plus a round of meds cost us around 37 JD, or $50. This may sound reasonable to anyone in the US or Europe, but that is 1/4 of most Jordanians' salaries. We are very thankful we can afford to get medical treatment when we need it.

In between my husband lying around moaning from his woes, we had a few discussions about our health. We made a commitment to each other to take care of our bodies, starting now. While I have already weaned myself off of my usual four cups of coffee per day and am now down to just one, I must also remove the other bad elements from my diet. Here in Jordan we have the opportunity to eat well and eat lots of the right foods, but we choose the easier way.

For instance, yesterday at the veggie market we bought some purslane, which (thanks for pointing this out to me, whoever you are) in Arabic is called ba'qleh. We bought khobeizeh, which is another green leafy thing that sheep like to munch on. We bought spinach. We bought ginger, which contains five natural antibiotics. (it's a magical root!)

I had to come home and pick and clean all of these greens, which took around two hours. While I'd rather have spent my time doing other things, I know it is worth it for my family. Washing this stuff is a pain, because everything grows in this sandy soil and now that it's winter, it is more like mud.

I prepared a beef curry with coconut milk and a caesar salad for dinner. Tonight we're having khobeizeh cooked with onion and olive oil, and a homemade pot of chicken soup. I'm trying to get away from needing to cook a meat dish every single night; I want to teach my kids to appreciate the great flavors in all of this food that does not have to be processed, filled, or packaged. So far, so good. I'm even thinking to start making Dr. Oz's green drink and see if I feel a difference in the mornings, since my energy levels are in arrears. Time for a poem!

Jack Sprat could eat no fat,

His wife could eat no lean.

And so betwixt the two of them,

They licked the platter clean.

I don't want to be Jack's wife.

Lost Days

I have officially failed NaBloPoMo. That's ok; I am accepting my defeat while also blaming it on some nasty bacteria.

Friday morning I woke up with a stinging headache, the kind that makes your scalp ache when you touch your hair. I took aspirin and went on with my day, thinking it would pass.

By 6 p.m. that evening, however, I was sitting at my my mother-in-law's with chills that struck through to my bones. I had to put my hands over my face to keep my jaw from rattling.

On Saturday I was so feverish that I felt as if I was in and out of consciousness. My big kids were putting cloths on my face and bringing me water. My husband washed 5 or 6 loads of laundry and my brother-in-law came by and took my kids to the supermarket. I was oblivious to all of this, trembling under three furry Jordanian winter blankets.

Yesterday my neighbor and friend came to check on me. I had not been to the bathroom or looked in the mirror. I told my son to bring me a mirror and a flashlight so I could look at my throat. I nearly passed out when I looked inside. It was ravaged, like a butcher had cut it up, swollen, and full of, yes, pus. My neck was poofing out on both sides. My fever had left me also oblivious to my infected throat.

She quickly got me in her car and off to the ER 24-hour clinic. I was put on IV antibiotics and given an injection, and an oral antibiotic. I was taken back at 11 p.m. by my husband for another round of IV and injection.

Today I feel like a human again. Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah.

This streptococcus is dangerous stuff. A little boiled ginger or some chamomile tea wasn't going to do the trick this time. Today is a day I am truly thankful for medical advancements.

Bon Apetit

Read here: The 10 Best Foods you Aren't Eating

I know I can get all of these items here in Jordan, easily, with the exception of:

1. Purslane--have I seen this weed in my garden? Has anyone every tried it? Jordan has lots of "weeds" that I enjoy eating, mainly khobezeh, whose English equivalent I do not know, and hawerneh, also whose English equivalent is a mystery to me. All I know is that they taste really good.

2. Goji berries--I've never heard of them. But I'm pretty sure that Whole Foods in Birmingham would carry them. Ah, Whole Foods. I could spend my entire pay check in that supermarket, if I had a pay check.

Sahtain wa A'afiya, or, "To your health twice, and good health!" (Sounds kind of redundant in English, now doesn't it?)

Now get to munching on some cabbage!

Cloudy Day, Prospects Better

I had kind of a rude awakening yesterday both at the doctor's office and in my own little head. I have talked about this for the past three years and everyone who knows me is probably sick to death of hearing me describe how I'm going to take charge of my life and be fit and healthy, once and for all! I think last year I had set for myself on this blog a 40-lb weight loss goal that was to be reached by last June or July. Last July I was in the US eating way too much drive-in food. What is it that goes wrong, over and over again, prohibiting me from doing what I know I need to do? The answer to that is complicated, but believe me, my spiritual soundness and my health and well-being go hand in hand.

We women are so prone to downward spirals, more so than men are. The thing is, once you say "F" it to whatever goals you have set for yourself, throwing in the towel, giving in, giving up--it is more comfortable to stay in that screwed up state than it is to work at whatever your goal was in the first place.

Maybe you are one who doesn't communicate with your spouse enough, because it is easier to stay glued to a computer screen. Maybe you are someone full of resentment towards this gal for something she did 10 years ago, or this guy for how he wronged you, or this parent for how he raised (or failed to raise) you, and you cannot let go of it, no matter how hard you try. Maybe you are 'x' number of lbs overweight and always feel like dog poo, but you know that everyone loves you and you look at yourself in the mirror, saying, "big is beautiful," although you hate your reflection. Maybe you have control issues, and you nag and pick at everyone around you, when you yourself are really the one out of control. Maybe, just maybe, you have a God-fearing and pious type of persona you show to everyone in your circle of friends, and they all admire you and praise you, but behind closed doors you are regularly ashamed of yourself. Maybe you eat your troubles away, or drink them away, or pill-pop them away, and blame others for your sorry state. It is so easy to blame and shame in order to boost yourself up. But believe me, that boost is fleeting and false, and you will really be sliding down another rung of the self-esteem ladder.

In my realm, I tend to blame some of the cultural backwardness I live with in Jordan for my woes. Yet I am a thinking gal, and I know that messed up cultural practices of those around me do not really affect my life. They only do if I allow them to. S0-and-so's tendency to backbite does not make me eat a piece of cake before bed. Mom-in-law's picking on the way I do this or that does not make me yell at my kids out of control-inspired anger. The two are completely unrelated. Yes, pressures here are different from in the US, and unless you've walked a mile in my shoes, buddy, you won't understand what I mean.

Anyhow, today I woke up to a windy and cloudy day, and that makes me happy. I'm tired of the heat, this Indian summer we've been having in November. I'm tired of the dry and the dust, and ready for the rain and the cold. I am ready to turn over that proverbial new leaf and really make a go at the changes I need to make in myself, wholeheartedly, by the will of God.

The Blues

I am older that Angelina Jolie, but younger than Cindy Crawford.
Jennifer Garner and I were born the same year; she is just three months my elder. (Bam! Pow! Ka-poooey!)
Goldie Hawn could be my grandmother.

I am not an old Arab lady, although in the Middle Ages, I might have qualified as way past my prime.

I do not have osteoporosis or diabetes, realities for which I am truly thankful.

I do not have to chop wood or carry water.

But I do not feel like my age, or my self. I feel like an alien has come and taken over my being, adding kilos of weight I am burdened to carry around, and sweeping waves of profound sadness through my existence, whose origin I cannot identify.

I feel haggardly and old, I feel tired and even ugly.

Did I sign up for this when I said, "I can't wait to get older?"

The Good MD

I found a doctor today who really sat and listened to me.

She did not give me a diagnosis before I sat down in the chair.

She was understanding and receptive.

I received no prescriptions from her, because she wants to run a gamut of tests before deciding on our next steps.

Good doctors are hard to find here.

TOTAL Nightmare

I read this and I read it again. This is completely unacceptable, inexcusable, and deplorable.

9 days...9 miserable days

Where are we? Bangladesh? The slums of New Delhi? The Congo?

I watched as Prince Hamzah hospital took three years to be completed. It's a marvel of construction from the outside. I kept telling my husband I thought that this was going to finally give a good name to public hospitals in Amman--this was the chance for the government hospitals to show they could step up to the plate and really be concerned with patient care.

I've heard nightmarish stories about Al-Bashir hospital, the most well-known public hospital in Amman, where my husband's favorite cousin, Ibrahim, was denied a blood transfusion two years ago. He had a lifelong battle with thalassemia, and his liver and kidneys were shutting down because he was in desperate need of a transfusion. They turned him away, telling him that the transfusion room was being used by chemotherapy patients, and he'd have to come back the next day.

Ibrahim's brother drove him back the next day, brought him into the waiting area for the transfusion, and went to call the nurse. When his brother (who also suffers from thalassemia) returned to the waiting area, Ibrahim was already dead. He was 32 years old and had been working to save money to propose to the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

My children's old tutor also told me about Al-Bashir, where she delivered her second son. She told me she was lead into a ward with 15 + women all in labor. No nurses were present to attend to the women, no IVs were administered to any of the women in labor, and the room was filthy. She said that when the pain became intolerable for her, she began to cry and moan. The only nurse who came into the room to check on them was a woman who went around, slapping them on their legs, telling them to "hush" or "shut up and quit crying." There were no doctors to be seen, and when it came time for her to push, she said she nearly had to catch the baby herself. They did not wash the babies who were born. There were no APGARS or procedures to weigh or examine the newborns. After five hours lying with her uncleaned infant, she was discharged from the hospital. She delivered the boy for 23 JD. Ya salam.

Private hospitals cost people money. Public hospitals, it seems, could possibly cost them their health.

The List

I have been thinking a great deal lately about why women let themselves get in a rut, or more specifically, recycled ruts.

I watched a segment on Oprah several years ago (two?) that featured country singer Wynonna Judd. Wynonna had gone through a divorce and had gained an inordinate amount of weight. She discussed how she had always been a "rock" for everyone in her life: her mom, her kids, her fans, etc., and while in the process of trying to please everyone, she "forgot to put herself on the list."

That expression carried a lot of weight with me. I wondered what place I held on the list.

Every once in a while I'll have an epiphany and make a conscious decision to change my life. It usually goes something like this:

1. Lose weight
2. Be nicer
3. Embrace my spirituality properly and practice what I preach
4. Model the behavior that I want my loved ones to model as well
5. Make my marriage the best it can be

And I do OK for a while--two or three weeks. Then it all goes back to suckeyville for another year or so, until I have another "a-ha!" moment.

I know what needs to be done. I know how to do it. I just choose not to, and I think it is because I routinely leave myself off of the "list." Umm Zaid wrote a post a few days ago and talked about stuff I've been thinking
about for several months now, because I've seen many of my dearest friends suffering in their personal lives, and much of the source of their suffering has come out of left field, leaving them completely shocked. Every woman has a story. Every woman has a painful story, doesn't she?

Does every man have a painful story? I think not.

We women exclude ourselves from the "list." We do this because it is our nature not to trouble our significant other, or for him to be able to focus on himself (usually career-wise), while we hold down the forts and man the guns on the battlefield. We birth the babies, raise them (mostly), cook and clean and wear holey pajama pants we bought from Wal-Mart back in 1994 when we were umpteen pounds lighter.

How many shirts do you have with a Clorox stain on them? How many times a week do you wear them? You think, "I need to go shopping," but you put it off, because the kids need this and that. You don't want to trouble anyone.

Then maybe you get to know other women who consistently put themselves first, before the house and husband and kids, and they seem to have it "all together." But do they?

Do any of us?

How many of us need to update our lists or hold a list-burning for the outdated ones we've let govern us for years and years?

Could it be...

Could it be that approaching age 35 means that your metabolism must suddenly come to a screeching, grinding halt?

My walking buddy and I finally made it up the "Hill of Death" on Thursday without practically choking up our insides. "That's progress," I told her. "We have endurance. We have stamina."

We've walked three weeks now, each morning, for 45 minutes straight. Dr. Oz said that after two weeks of doing his "diet" and walking for 30 minutes each day, that two inches should be gone from our middles.

I haven't measured my walking pal, but my middle is completely in tact.

I'm not one for deprivation, but I think something drastic is in order. My goal was April to be all svelt-like. April is almost over, summer is around the bend, and I'm right where I started.

Must re-think this whole strategy. Must stop eating piping hot pita bread and hummus from neighboring bakery and falafel stand.

Can't you just taste it?

Listen

Depression is not something to be snickered at or, especially in this part of the world I'm living in, completely disregarded.

Depression can make us do all sorts of horrid things. We neglect ourselves--mind, body, and spirit. We punish ourselves through this neglect and most likely, whether intentionally or not, punish those around us. While depressed, we just might let ourselves become so filled with rage that this rage has nowhere to go except outwardly, in the form of angry words or violent actions. Some of us gain inordinate amounts of weight while depressed; others of us wither away into skeletal forms of our former selves. Depression makes us ugly.

We might let ourselves become so sad that the tears seem to have no way of stopping, and a smile becomes a distant memory. We wake ourselves in the night with tear-streaked faces, having no recollection of how the tears began to flow or how painful, yearning sobs can come from deep within our chests and we cannot tell anyone exactly why--why has this sadness taken over?

Yes, we are even depressed while sleeping.

Doing the most mundane, simplest of tasks can seem overwhelmingly difficult. When we finally make it to the grocery store or the pharmacy or the KFC take-out counter, we know that the person taking our money can see right through us and can feel the desperation oozing out of our auras. With our depression we can spread blackness around, confusing the ones we know and love, because they know we are smart and capable, but cannot understand why we can't just buck up, pick ourselves off of the floor or couch or bed, and do what's right for the sake of our spouses or children or whomever.

Some of us are severely depressed yet stuck in denial, insisting that everything is ok. Others of us cry out time and time and time again, sending signals through our body language, our detachment with our surroundings--maybe some of us write poems or stories or even plays in an attempt to signal to anyone or everyone that we are not ok. Not at all.

Sometimes they listen, sometimes they do not. Sometimes they are afraid to take steps to help us because they do not want to step on toes or alienate themselves. It is better if they intervene, no matter how much we might hate them for it. Deep down inside, we want to take their hand.

Our depression might require medication. This medication is not a cop-out or a symbol of how much we couldn't cut it on our own and just work through our problems. Some of us take it, some do not. Some take it, get better, then decide that self-weaning is in order. This might send some of us into an abysmal spiral, where we find ourselves in a worse place than we were to begin with. And we don't know how to crawl out of the hole, ever.

Depression is a monster.

My heartfelt sympathies to the families of the victims in Virginia, and to the family of the attacker.

To be 18 again...

In You on a Diet they say that genetics plays a large role in whether or not we will be overweight later in life.

Dr. Oz says to take a look at your parents and grandparents at age 18, and take a look at what you looked like at age 18, and these images should give you insight into your ideal body type.

So, I found this picture of my Mom, circa 1959, at age 18. She was a vision of loveliness. I know my Dad was thin and trim at age 18 as well. And my Grandmothers.

But wasn't everyone relatively in good shape up until the advent of the Swanson's TV dinner??

My kids have gotten such a kick out of looking at this picture of their "Teta." It's from her yearbook, Jones Valley High School, class of '59.

Dar un Paseo

Tariq Nelson has a post about a recent study done on boosting brain power. The key to improving memory and attention is walking. Fascinating, and so simplistic.

The You On a Diet plan emphasizes walking for thirty minutes EVERY DAY, no excuses. You can even break it up into three 10-minute segments if you are not able to walk for thirty minutes at a time. This plan is really, really doable. Again, my overweight or out-of-shape friends, get this book!

Here's a timely quote:

"By trying the very thing that's designed to help us lose weight--a diet--we've created a no-win system of failure that spins us into a cycle of blame. And what's not to blame? The experts blame our societal fatness on free restaurant bread and meals with Mount McKinley-size portions. OR we blame our fatness on fast food (for the grease), magazine covers (for the unrealistic body images that taunt us to smear our self-esteem in daily fistfuls of cheesecake), sixty-hour workweeks (for making us sit down all day), cloud-soft recliners and reality TV (for making us sit down all night), sausage (blech!), or an intervention-worthy Velveeta addiction (double blech!).
But deep down in your gut (there, over by the sticky buns you ate two weeks ago), there's only one thing you blame for the size of your gut:
You.
You blame you."
p. 164, You on a Diet by Mehmet Oz and Michael F. Roizen

Time to end the cycle of blame, no?