Jeanne Faulkner

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Taking the Wheel of My Own Health Care

      

Our fortysomething learned the hard way not to hand any old doctor the keys to her health.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

Most of us grew up thinking that doctors had all the answers. My childhood doc prescribed penicillin for anything that ailed us. Got a cold? Penicillin. Sprained ankle? Penicillin. Not pills, either. He liked the big sharp needle in the butt. When I passed out a couple of times after getting these shots, he decided I was allergic to penicillin. I think it was needle-phobia flexing its baby muscles, not an allergy, but I've never tested with an experimental dose to find out. Passing out on the doctor's floor (with or without accompanying anaphylaxis) isn't on my list of must-do life experiences. We now know that penicillin won't do a darn thing for a sprained ankle (unless of course it's gangrenous), but back then antibiotics were the New Big Deal. Doctors prescribed them "just in case" for all kinds of inappropriate illnesses. Turns out they were wrong about that, and now we have supergerms.

I've spent lots of time with doctors over the last decade, and some have been flat wrong in their diagnoses, treatment and opinions. I've been wrong, too, in blindly trusting them and allowing fear to guide my health care. Here's my nasty medical story, the nutshell version. I found a lump, panicked, and took my boob to my primary care doctor, who knew of my sister's recent death from breast cancer. She referred me to Surgeon #1, who decided the lump needed to come out. Scared witless, I let myself be wheeled off to the operating room for a painful and messy procedure without benefit of proper anesthesia or diagnostic imaging. When I freaked out about the pain, Surgeon #1 dosed me with valium, rushed through the rest of the lumpectomy and demanded I calm down. Apparently, I said in the recovery room, "It feels like the lump's still there," an ominous statement considering the bandages prohibited me from feeling anything. Whatever Surgeon #1 dug out of my boob returned with a pathology report of "normal breast tissue."

A year later, after delivering my youngest daughter, I found another lump, this time in my armpit. My primary care doctor referred me to a surgeon again; on my request, a different one.

I asked around about Surgeon #2's reputation before I saw her. If I'd done a little research on Surgeon #1, I'd have heard about botched procedures and disgruntled patients.  Surgeon #2, though, was stellar. She ordered a number of tests and studies, which I flunked. Using careful ultrasound imagery and excellent pain management, she needled cells from my armpit and returned a pathology report with some very bad words: metastatic breast cancer from a tumor in my left breast at the same location Surgeon #1 had operated on. In the process of rushing to finish my painful surgery, and without looking where he was going (no ultrasound), Surgeon #1 missed the tumor and left it festering. Fueled by pregnancy hormones, it grew and spread to my lymph nodes. After several surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation, I've been cancer-free for almost 8 years.

I was pissed off at Surgeon #1. He did a lousy job and treated me like a head case. If he'd done the job I'd hired him for, the cancer would have been caught earlier and I'd have avoided chemotherapy. I tried to sue the jerk. An attorney said, "Sure, we could take your case, but since you haven't died yet, you probably won't recoup any losses. Do you really want to spend your time fighting this thing?" No, I didn't. I wasn't sure how much time I had left, and spending it embroiled in legal battles wasn't a Zen thing to do.

I've done my best to forgive the idiot, and learned some valuable lessons. Do your homework first. Don't rush medical decisions. Take time for research and choices. Demand good care and treatment. Find out what the standards of care are and make sure your doctor is following them. Turns out, blindly slashing at potential tumors without benefit of good anesthesia isn't standard of care. Huh. Who knew? I would've--if I'd taken responsibility for my medical care. Surgeon #2 knew. All the oncologists I've met since then knew. Surgeon #1 didn't. Why'd I go with him in the first place? Fear. Just dumb fear. And ignorance.

Since then, I've had doctors prescribe medications with side effects I couldn't handle. When I said, "Let's choose something else. That's not a good med for me," I've been met with varying doctor responses from "Well, it should work and you shouldn't have any problems" to "OK, let's try another approach." Guess which doctor I'll pick now: Not the should/shouldn't one. When told, "get this (bump, pain, mole) checked out immediately because it could be cancer again," I now know there's time enough for homework.

Surgeon #1 probably did the best he knew how to do. He wasn't good enough for me, but that was my problem, not his. My medical care and health are my responsibility. I'll never hand the reins over and expect someone else to drive my medical care for me again. Though I no longer blindly trust doctors, I've gained control and insight. I'll do the driving, thank you.

Still more

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Falling off the Exercise Wagon

      

Help! I've fallen off the yoga mat and I can't get up.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

It seems I've taken my slacker attitude a bit too far. I've fallen off the exercise wagon and it's only the middle of January. Sure, I've done a little walking, but not one speck of yoga in weeks. Why? Oh, I've got good reasons. Don't we all? None of us really intends to dump our New Year's resolutions. It just happens. And so easily. But here's the thing of it: I still hate being achy with arthritis, cranky from lack of exercise, and most of all (I believe I've mentioned this before), I hate it when my pants are too tight. So, here's my list of good reasons not to exercise, and my own personal pep talk to get me going again.

1.  I've had a ton of work and no time to do yoga.

Yeah, well, so what? When your bones creak loud enough that people in the next room can hear, you'll still have too much work to do. Doing yoga makes you creak less. Working a lot without working out makes you cranky. You feel totally sorry for yourself when you're overworked, over-stressed and under-yoga'd, so put down the computer and put on your stretch pants. You're going, honey, and that's all there is to it.

2.  My kids are home for winter break and I want to hang out with them.

Right, like their schedule of sleeping until noon is really cutting into your workout time. Sure it is. And how much are they going to want to hang out with you if you're stressed out, anyway? Go to the dang yoga studio, and for that matter, drag their butts out of bed and take them with you.

3.  The little kids have the flu and need their Mama to hold their hair and wipe their faces when they barf.

Uh huh--that's true. It's on the list of punishable parenting offenses to leave sick kids alone and neglected. That's why they offer yoga classes all over town at all hours of the day and night. You can go early, late … whenever an adult kid or spouse is home to do barf duty. Just to drive that point home, if you insist on neglecting your own health by cutting out the exercise, somebody's going to have to hold your hair. And that's not going to be pretty.

4.  Well, the holidays kept me pretty busy.

Yeah, but they're over. That excuse holds no water. Move on.

5.  It's really dark in the morning. I just feel like sleeping.

See excuse number 3: They offer classes all over the place all the time. Sleep if you must, but pull out the yoga mat and do a downward dog, doggone it. Being a sleepy slacker isn't going to cut it. Plus, there are other forms of exercise beside yoga.  Remember that new bathing suit you bought? Put it on and go for a swim. Those hiking shoes that haven't seen any new mud in months, so, go on, git.

6.  My neck aches, my hips are tight, I'm not sleeping well and I'm too tired to work out.

Duh, you big dummy. Of course you're hurting, inflexible and tired. You're lazy and likely to put on weight, too. Hmm, let's think this through. Could it be because you're not getting enough exercise? Remember how good you are at insomnia? It's your biggest talent. Remember how when you exercise you sleep better? And those tight hips? Yoga, remember? What's going on here? No exercise equals pain, stiffness and insomnia (and tight pants). It's not rocket science, missy.

7.  I just don't feel like it today.

So what? Quit your bellyaching, Eeyore, or you're going to be as fat as Pooh and stuck in your tree with a bunch of sticky old honey. Nobody likes it when you do that.   
   
There, now that I've chewed myself out thoroughly, I really am going to today's 1:30 yoga class. As God is my witness, I'll never be lazy again. I'll be flexible. I'll sleep like a dream. I'll be mellow, happy to be alive, healthy and not creaking like an old door. I'll also avoid worshiping at the porcelain throne because I'll boost my immune system. I'll be more productive at work because I'll be clearing my mind of stress and clutter and making room for creativity. Plus, I'm going to buy some new workout clothes so I'll be cute in class. That's always an excellent motivator.

 

Another one - very close to home

Another MyRegence column

Adventures of a Fortysomething:  Life Cut Short

      

When a life ends too soon, is it chance or the choices we make?

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

Let's try a little experiment. Go into the room you live in most. Maybe that's your kitchen, office or bedroom. Turn on the light and take a look around. What's in there that represents your life? Are there pictures of your family? Leftover crusts from breakfast? A stack of mail and newspapers? How about that noodle-necklace your daughter made for you? Your son's muddy cleats? Dirty laundry on the floor? Now turn off the light.

A friend of mine went out shopping recently and never came home. She was young by anyone's standards, physically fit and generally healthy. She had a massive heart attack and died. Just died. There was nothing the paramedics could do to save her. She left a family struggling to understand what the heck just happened to their world. Her children had waved goodbye from the couch and never saw her again. Done. Her light just switched off.

A young couple, married just a few years, ended up separating when their individual personalities and lifestyles proved too incompatible. He was young and carefree. She was intensely organized and focused on the future. He wanted to play. She wanted to work. They drove each other crazy. Then, one day, the phone rang. His middle-aged father had suffered a stroke and was severely disabled. The son settled in at his father's side, and during the course of a few brief but difficult months, he grew up. The young woman visited her husband often, helping with her father-in-law's care, but she took care of her husband, too. And she realized that life was fragile. It could be over in a heartbeat. Maybe a little playtime was important.

Overweight, exhausted and out of shape, the older parents of a preschooler sat down with their lawyer to draft their wills. Who would take care of their daughter if anything happened? It was unthinkable, but they knew they should plan for it. Just in case. Later that week, the mother visited her doctor, who informed her that her blood pressure was off the charts, likely due to her obesity and sedentary lifestyle. He recommended she lose at least 50 pounds and start exercising immediately. He wrote a prescription for blood pressure medication, and she took it to the pharmacy to fill. She grabbed a bag of Doritos and a Snickers bar at the cash register.

His mother died of a heart attack when he was 14. His father died of a stroke when he was 17. At 26 years of age, the young man had been without family for nine years--no siblings, grandparents, aunts or uncles. Heart disease ran rampant in his family, and no one was left except him and his soon-to-be-born baby. He was happy it was a boy because he didn't want his family name to end with him. He ran five miles every day, ate a strict vegetarian diet and never smoked or did drugs, like many of his college-mates had. The tattoo on his shoulder says, "Life's short. Live well."

An old man's funeral was attended by his many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They told stories of his wonderful life: flying the early planes, sport fishing for the big ones. He'd lived at the beach and in the mountains. He had traveled, done important work and still had friends he'd vacationed with for 60 years. Sure, he'd been wild in his younger years; wilder still in his retirement. He could have bought himself a few more years if he'd toned down that wild streak. Still, it had been a wonderful life. He'd followed the basic rules: eat right, exercise often, rest when you need to, do work you like, take care of your loved ones and go out to play.

What will happen when your light is switched off? No one knows when the bulb will burn out. We don't really know if a high-watt bulb burns that much faster than a low-watt bulb, or if it necessarily matters that the wiring's faulty. No one wants to think about the darkness, or about the lives left in the shadows by our absence. But we do know that a life well lived, which follows the basic rules, tends to cast a wide and brilliant glow that brightens the lives of many.

The rules aren't that hard to follow, and yet so many people think they can short circuit a few and it won't really matter. Others follow all the rules and burn out too soon anyway. But the odds are greater for a long, healthy life if the wiring and plumbing are kept in good working order. Random chance and family genetics play a part, but when you take care of yourself, your light is more likely to continue to burn brightly.

 

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Whew! Where've I been?

      

Once again, neglecting my blog.  I'll post a few of my columns from MyRegence today and catch up.


published February 13, 2008

             

Adventures of a Fortysomething: The Golden Rule of Marriage

      

You don't have to wrap yourself in cellophane to keep the marriage fresh.

 

 

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

As I sit down to write my wisest advice for a long and happy marriage, all I can think of is fancy face creams, my pretty new bra and the dress I'm wearing tonight. Maybe I sound vain, but I prefer to think of myself as a smart married lady. My husband's hot. He's funny, good-looking, interesting, well-employed and a great father who totally gets my sense of humor.

Who would he rather be married to? The lady with the gorgeous dress, pretty skin and great looking underwear who happens to be taking him to the symphony tonight or the one slumped in front of television reruns, wearing Winnie-the-Pooh sweats, an old stretched-out bra and with skin that looks like leather? Hmm, tough choice. Would he rather be married to the happy, healthy, interesting and funny lady who's pretty darn delighted with herself or the one who's cranky, disappointed, boring, unhealthy and totally out of fashion? Hmm, again, I say, tough choice.

I'm not saying women should dress up in cellophane and greet their husbands at the door with Jell-O salad and a smile. (That's so environmentally incorrect. Try waxed paper instead and suspend some Twinkies and Pepperidge Farms goldfish in the Jell-O--a classic construction called "ships in the harbor.) Keep the smile, though. If you get home from work and your spouse is genuinely happy to see you, that makes for a happy marriage. If Jell-O's not your thing and you find waxed paper abrasive, here's my tip for a good marriage: Be the best person you can be. That includes your appearance, profession, hobbies, habits and attitude. Oh, and pick a really good partner. Then treat each other really, really well.

My husband and I were too young to get married and didn't do any of the things experts say you should before getting hitched. I was 21; he was 25. He was a musician and I wasn't sure what the heck I wanted to do. We didn't own a house, had not a nickel to our name and hadn't finished school. We never planned the future beyond "after you're a famous rock star and I'm whatever I'm going to be; let's travel the world then have some kids." We didn't talk about what we'd do with our money and keep separate accounts--mostly because we didn't have any money. We just tossed everything we had into one pot and scrambled.

Experts advise discussing parenting philosophies prior to marriage. Nope, not us. We were too busy avoiding pregnancy to plan one. We didn't put much thought into how we'd stay married. Instead we treated each other thoughtfully and pulled our own weight. The odds were against us for a long marriage, but maybe the odds had nothing to do with it. We loved each other, chose kindness and blundered along as best we could.

Looking back, we could be in the divorced half of marriage statistics instead of 26 years into this thing and pretty darn happy. As life happens and we all hit some of that "for better or worse" stuff, lots of couples fall apart. We got lucky and followed our own Golden Rule of Marriage: Treat each other as you'd like to be treated. I'd like to be treated with respect, supported and loved well by a totally hot man. Except for the "hot man" part, I'd bet my husband wants the same thing.

In surveying couples young and old on marriage advice, the older couples talked a lot about work; the younger couples about play. The newlyweds were dewy-eyed with good intention, and clearly hadn't been through many of life's rough spots yet, but their advice was solid: Have fun together, treat each other kindly, create special rituals, and be appreciative of each other. It's sweet.

The older couples, and I include myself in this category, have been through some tough times together. Really tough. Life and death, illness, money problems, raising children, depression, addiction, aging parents and more. You know … life, the stuff that takes the edge off all that fun and sweetness. But by following the Golden Rule, treating each other lovingly, respectfully and carefully, we hang in there. We try to be our best and treat our partners as if they're the most important person in our world. 'Cuz they are.

Marriage isn't for slackers. Nobody's saying you have to be fabulous all the time.  Sometimes I'm a mess. I wake up with raccoon eyes as often as not and get the flu as much as the next gal. Sometimes I can be a real--ahem--witch. I didn't have stretch marks and creaky knees when I was a newlywed. Heck, there was that whole year where I lost my hair and sparkling demeanor while we did time "in sickness and health." Still, if you make an effort to be your best and follow the Golden Rule, it evens out the odds.

All we can do is our best, right? If our spouse does the same, we get lucky. Those newlyweds with their brand-new marriage licenses have the right idea. Be kind to each other. Have fun. Try not to take things too seriously. Don't nag. And my tip: Wear your nice underwear, put on your pretty dress and take him out to play.

 

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40something - the Carpet Cleaners

Another My Regence column

Adventures of a Fortysomething: The Carpet Cleaners

      

Having the carpets cleaned makes our fortysomething wax sentimental about pets, who wax sentimental about kids.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

It may be geeky, but I'm totally excited about this: The carpet cleaners are here! Hooray!  I love these guys. Sure, some of you are thinking, "Gawd, that's sad." But some of you are seriously jealous. You too dream of burly yet incredibly polite dudes who'll wash away all the residue of muddy paws, muddy shoes and a few cases of stomach flu that failed to hit their target. It's wonderful when dreams come true.

My dogs, our missing cat and a few mice were the real motivators for finally getting these guys out here. But first, some back story: We moved into our 100-year-old house ten years ago, knowing full well it needed a total overhaul. A rottweiler had done business with the 1970s orange-and-blue shag carpeting and I insisted on ripping it all out before moving our furniture in. Unfortunately, the wooden floors underneath were painted with splintery, chipped, lead-based paint. Refinishing them would release lead into the air my children breathe. Not so good for the brain cells and SAT scores. Specialists could refinish them in an environmentally correct way for a pretty penny, but considering the size of the previously carpeted area, we did the only thing we could--bought miles of cheap carpeting. Here's the evidence of my lunacy: I chose beige. Have I mentioned my kids and dogs? What the heck was I thinking?

My dogs are among the great loves of my life. They adore me, therefore I put up with their less-than-perfect behavior. Max, my ten-year-old Scottish terrier, is a sensitive soul whose main objective is guarding the puppies--aka my children. He follows them around, guards them while they play and sleeps by them when they're sick. He cries when we let them out of the car at their schools; staring at me disdainfully since I continue to drive them to that brick building where they go for hours unattended by a dog. Even after all these years, he just can't train me to keep the puppies in the den. I'm obviously the dumbest, most reckless b---- around.

When my college girls moved into their dorms (evaporating into the ether as far as my dog is concerned), Max was horribly upset and demonstrated his grief by peeing in the office. He felt bad about it but apparently not guilty enough to quit his secret rebellion.  My home carpet cleaning machine worked overtime. We Fabreezed until it gave me asthma, then turned to alcohol. Somebody told me rubbing alcohol worked like a dream at eliminating doggy odors. I dumped a whole bottle on the office floor and, sure enough, it worked ... for a while. We put a baby gate in front of the office door so the dog couldn't get in, and still he found a way. I lathered, rinsed, and repeated. We bought the poor old guy a kennel so he wouldn't sneak off to do his duty while we slept. I think he's secretly delighted with it--he finally has his own room.

Our 14-year-old porch cat went missing last month. Never civilized enough to live indoors, Molly was a wild thing--a one-girl feral beast that only liked my daughter. The rest of us just got in her way. Sure, she'd rub your ankles and purr, but she was just as likely to slash you with her claws. Over the years, she's battled raccoons and won. The dogs were terrified of her, practically wetting themselves whenever she hissed. We nicknamed her Gangsta. Worried she'd freeze in the winter, we constructed a cat-house from a laundry basket, cardboard and fleece and covered the whole thing with a space blanket (those shiny silver heat reflecting blankets that'll apparently keep you from freezing when you're lost in space). We called it Gangsta Molly's Disco Palace.

When my daughter went off to college, Molly spent less and less time at the palace and eventually disappeared. We're worried a raccoon with a vendetta may have taken out a contract, but prefer to think she's living with a single gal who'll finally buy her a velvet throne and let her live indoors despite her disdain for litter boxes.

I never realized, however, that she was providing a valuable service. Since she left us, we've found a few mice in the house. This totally freaks me out. I'm not so fond of rodents. I keep a tidy house, but lately I've been bingeing on cleaning supplies to sterilize any surface the little demons might have touched. The cupboards, closets, pantry and basement are clean and tidy. The appliances have been pulled out and dust-busted. The house is sanitized for our protection--all I need is the paper ring. Hiring carpet cleaners was the icing on the cake. The office no longer retains any lingering Max-stink. The barf stains are gone and, hopefully, so are the mice. Now, all we have to do is keep the dogs emotionally balanced. Poor ol' Max--I know how he feels. It's tough when puppies leave the den.

 

>> Email the editor

 

My Hippie Summer

The Regence Group            
published September 21, 2007
Adventures of a Fortysomething: My Hippie Summer

Our friendly neighborhood fortysomething decided to experience a mini version of the Summer of Love, sans body painting and patchouli, of course.
by Jeanne Faulkner

I spent my summer searching out my inner hippie. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but back in high school I had hippie inclinations. Where's that girl now? I decided to find out.

First stop: the new-age bookstore for some exploratory toe-dipping in the pond of spiritual writing. It was a quick dip. The new-age music and incense drove me out before I could purchase anything subversive. I blasted alternative rock afterwards to dilute the Enya/Yanni soundtrack. New-age music makes me violent. Before bolting, though, I grabbed Body and Soul magazine. Ahh, magazines--the candy of the book world. If you're not up to a heavy meal (Carlos Castaneda, Jack Cantor), candy is dandy.

My husband asked what I wanted to do for my birthday in July.  Without hesitation I blurted, "Go to Breitenbush Hot Springs!"

"Where the naked hippies are?" he asked. 

"Yeah, that place. Let's stay in the cabins, soak in the tubs and get massages. Without kids." I'd heard about Breitenbush through articulate, high-functioning friends with minimal hippie residue. They go annually and rave about the gorgeous setting, heavenly pools, gourmet vegetarian cooking, soothing yoga and massages. What's not to love? Hot springs are like baths in a meadow, right? "Except for all the naked people," my husband said.

We checked in on a bright Saturday and looked around. The strong smells of patchouli and Dr. Bronner's soap made me nostalgic. Sleepy guests clutched mugs on the deck. They'd warned us to bring our own caffeine "if you're into that." I am. We brought coffee. "No Alcohol, Drugs or Smoking" warnings were posted. Caffeine is the most elicit substance allowed. We'd packed the good stuff.

The lodge bulletin board listed the expected yoga and meditation classes. The "Dancing for Clarity" workshop seemed confusing until a bearded fiftysomething wearing a hand-woven loincloth twirled into the auditorium. Gyrating to the pulsing disco track laid down over Sarah McLachlan, he was soon joined by several other barely clad dancers who grasped hands and, apparently, danced for clarity. Mystery solved.

Further down the list were the words that bristled my neck hair. Birthing from Within's workshop. Ohmigod. I was surrounded by natural-childbirthers--not that there's anything wrong with that. Birthing from Within is an educational philosophy of breathing and relaxation techniques for un-medicated childbirth. I, however, am a labor and delivery nurse--part of the hospital establishment. That's right--I bat for the wrong team. Hospitals offer 24-hour accessibility to epidurals, the downfall of many a naturalist. My husband sensed my fear and horns sprouted on his head. "You wouldn't," I warned.

"Oh yes. I would. I'm gonna tell them you're a labor nurse. You're gonna get it," he said all sing-songy.

"If you tell, you're getting your own cabin."

He teased me about it all weekend.

Our massages were 90 minutes in heaven. My therapist was vigorous but intuited all the tight spots. She finished, though, with something weird. She brushed me off. Like I had crumbs. Brush, brush, sweep, sweep--all done. Not wanting to appear naïve, I didn't ask. Maybe she'd massaged all the bad vibes out and wanted to tidy up. Whatever, I loved the massage.

We headed to the pools and the Big Decision--naked or not? The resort is clothing-optional, but nobody chose clothes. My husband announced, "It's time. Drop your drawers." So we did, but with a discreet towel shimmy allowing a casual slip into the pool. We didn't look nervous or anything.

Our pool-mates soaked in all stages of modesty: some discreetly covered by water; others not. One trio was so tattooed they looked dressed. Another guy, about 45 and not in great shape, draped himself across a rock--legs in the pool but man parts on display. Geez. Where do you look? There it was, not three feet from me, and all I could think was, "Don't stare." I couldn't help peeking, though. They really do come in different sizes.

I'm self-conscious about my stomach and scar collection. I've had kids and surgeries, and I'm not a supermodel anymore. I'm fairly fit, but still…I like clothes. The pools, however, displayed the full spectrum of glory: poochie tummies, saggy breasts, hairy butts, scars, tattoos and lots of armpit hair. Before long, I relaxed; now I was self-conscious mostly because I'm a shaver and didn't feel "natural" enough. Still, despite all my "issues," I look OK.

The weekend passed quickly, and despite our cynicism about the "clarity dancers," we each had some insight later. As I did yoga and my husband ran, we realized we were also exercising for clarity. Just not in loincloths.

We wrapped my hippie summer at the Oregon Country Fair, figuring it would be fun to expose the kids to something different. Really expose! They had more nudists than Breitenbush. I was impressed by the breast painting--yeah, like face painting. Flowers, fairies, seashells. One woman was painted like a hot fudge sundae and her nipples were the cherries. So creative.

The heat and crowds made me claustrophobic. This time, the patchouli mixed with pervasive pot smoke. My college girls were amused and my adolescent son horrified. A guy wore one strategically placed sock like the Red Hot Chili Peppers used to. My youngest asked, "Where's his other sock, Mama?"

Here's what I learned from my hippie summer: I'm not one anymore. Patchouli reeks and incense gives me asthma. I like natural fabrics, but don't go for macramé or tie-dye. I stay dressed in public. I groom and wear makeup. And, OK, I'll just say it: I wax. I may have hippie roots, but apparently they've all grown out and been covered with styling products.

Another column from My Regence - Like a Rock

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Like a Rock

      

Our fortysomething's hubby is like a rock when it comes to his health, so why is some of that chipping away now?

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

My husband's been pretty lucky in terms of his health. Sure, there were a few back issues in his 30s, and the unfortunate incidence with the vasectomy (yeah, he was that guy--luckily a weeks-worth of antibiotics, pain pills and ice packs and he was all better). Otherwise, the guy's healthy. I'm the one who has all the issues--the history of breast cancer, the effects of delivering four big babies, the allergies, etc, etc, waah, waah, waah. I feel like I've done our family's time in health prison and therefore the rest of the clan should retain perfect health. That's fair, right? That's why it bugs me that my husband has a few recent health issues to deal with too.

He's been pretty good in terms of lifestyle. He was in his 20s in the '80s but really, other than a few too many martinis on a couple of occasions and a 10-year pack-a-day habit, he behaved pretty well. He quit the smokes before our first daughter was born and never picked them up again. He eats a healthy diet--vegetarian since dating me at the ripe old age of 22. He's been admirable about exercise too, ever since he turned 30. He's been a runner, a gym-rat and tried a little yoga (OK, that was funny). He even ran the marathon a few years back. His weight, like most adults our age, fluctuates a little, but he's good about pulling it back in line when it runs high. He doesn't drink much, and as long as we keep the cookies out of the house, he doesn't overindulge on sweets.

So why, then, the high blood pressure? Is it just something in the "as we age" category? He's just past 50. Stress? You bet. A couple of years ago he quit a job so stressful it about kicked his butt, but now he has a sweet job he likes a lot and does really well. Family issues? He has a really hot wife (oh yeah, that's me) and a pack of kids who adore him, including a second-grader who keeps him young. How many 50-somethings are still active tooth fairies? Our adolescent boy makes him play guitar and throw footballs, and a couple of college-age daughters keep him up to date in the world of music. Of course, he's had to live with me when I was sick. That was no fun. He's spent countless nights up with kids when I worked graveyard shift as a nurse, or when taking his turn when they cried till dawn with earaches. He recently taught one of our daughters to drive and, well, that was mighty stressful. Then there are the worries that come with dealing with aging parents (especially those that live and die with you). Supporting a family our size (even though we both do that) is no easy feat. Still, we've done just fine. Just garden variety realities of life.

Just like every man in the universe, he's reluctant to go see a doctor unless he already knows what the doc's gonna do. It goes like this:

I say, "Honey, you need to see the doctor about that cough you've had for two weeks."

He says, "Why? I don't know what he's going to do."

Me: "Right, you don't know, but he does. Just go. Then you'll get better before you cough up a lung."

Him: "Well, I don't think he can do anything really. I've had this cough for two weeks, what's he gonna do about it?"

Me again: "JUST GO SEE THE DOCTOR ALREADY! He's a smart man, he can cure a cough."

Him again: "OK, OK, you don't have to yell at me."

Finally, he goes to the doctor, gets some cough medicine and antibiotics for bronchitis and voila--all better. Big Surprise every time.

He's not the kind of guy who makes a big production out of being sick. Women love to rag on guys like they're babies. "You'd think he was dying when all he had was the sniffles." Nope, not my guy. He has to be pretty darn miserable to stay home from work, and even then he doesn't bring down the house with it. No drama, no whining, just a ratty, old T-shirt, a box of Kleenex and a day in bed. He sleeps it off, wakes up the next day and goes to work. No biggy.

I guess that's why I find his somewhat elevated blood pressure so disconcerting. He's practically perfect in every way, lives a healthy lifestyle and is a generally happy guy with a good life (and a terribly hot wife…did I mention that?). He's a rock. Why, then, shouldn't he have perfect health? If he can get high blood pressure, then anything's possible. How would we go on if something awful happened? I already took the bullet for the health of this family. And I'm all better now, so…we should be done with all that, right? In his truly non-dramatic manner, consistent with his title of Mr. Cool, he'd say, "Life happens. Just deal with it."

Oh yeah! That's right, isn't it? Sometimes, life just happens and your body does its best.  Sometimes it works like a well-oiled machine and sometimes it gets a little high blood pressure. Suck it up. Exercise a little more, drop a few pounds and take your medicine. Switch jobs to one that's not going to blow out an aneurysm. Toss in a little acupuncture and some vitamins and go on about your business. God I love this guy. So practical, so matter of fact. He's such a rock. I want his attitude--and his health history.

 

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Me and Gwynneth - MyRegence.com column

      

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Gwyneth and Me

      

Crop circles aren't just for conspiracy theorists anymore--at least not the kind you get at the acupuncturist.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

You'd be amazed how much I look like Gwyneth Paltrow these days. So, so much. It's truly remarkable, especially since I'm a little older and we're not related. Oh yeah, and I'm not blonde, or skinny or any of that. I don't have a designer wardrobe unless you count Isaac Mizrahi's Target line. Otherwise, though, I'm the spittin' image. It's because of the cupping. What's that, you say? Oh c'mon, you remember back when she was spotted at the Oscars in a backless gown with something that looked like crop circles all over her back. Well, that's me. I have crop circles, too. Me and Gwyneth.

I was at the acupuncturist's complaining that I was almost catching a cold--feeling kind of "virally." Slightly stuffy nose, tickle in the throat, could cough but didn't have to yet. I knew the cold was just a day away, but it hadn't slammed me yet. My acupuncturist, Clarrissa Smith of Jade Acupuncture, said, "I have just the thing," and she proceeded to heat up some glass orb suction cups that stuck like leaches to my upper back. She pulled them around my skin with such intense traction that it felt like a mobile hickey or a massage by vacuum hose. Clarissa says most of her clients love it, beg for it, practically fake symptoms to get it--like the cocaine of acupuncture. I thought it felt kind of weird--not painful or unpleasant, but intense, like a deep tissue massage that isn't exactly soothing. Then again, I've never been a hickey-cocaine kind of girl.

Smith describes cupping as "a method of stimulating acupuncture points by applying suction through a glass "cup" (imagine a tiny goldfish bowl) in which a partial vacuum has been created. Partial? It felt like a Hoover. This technique produces blood congestion at the site and stimulates it. Really stimulates it. It's used for breaking up fluid and phlegm stagnation in the lungs--like coughs, bronchitis and pneumonia--as well as for soft tissue congestion, such as with low-back, neck and shoulder pain. That all sounds like me in a nutshell.

An ancient Chinese practice, traditional cupping uses fire to heat and create suction in the cups. When applied to the body, the skin gets sucked into the cup. A fresh blood supply rushes up and improves circulation to the area. Again, I say, a lot like a hickey.

Cupping therapy has been further developed as a means to open the "meridians" of the body--the conduits through which energy flows through every organ, tissue and body part. There are five meridians on the back that, when opened, allow invigorating energy to travel the whole length of the body.

OK, you got all that? Good, because I'm still not clear what the heck meridians and energy flow are all about, but once again I threw caution to the wind and went on faith. With herbs and acupuncture, Clarissa's fixed me up as far as insomnia and allergies are concerned. At this point, I'll trust her with anything. If she says hickies will keep me from catching a cold, who am I to argue?

So, did it work? Darn right it did. I had to catch a plane the next day for Washington, D.C., and couldn't afford a cold. Along with chugging Airborne like a frat boy with a beer bong all the way across the country, I stayed well. The mild chest congestion cleared right up. My baseline airway constriction (lifetime asthma) went away, and all the virally symptoms went with it.

Best of all, when I wore a tank top that warm sunny day in front of the Library of Congress, some business-suit man (probably a congressman or senator or something) did a double take to check me out. Oh yeah, I turn heads. You bet I do. It's probably because I look so much like Gwyneth Paltrow.

I did it again just last week. I was whining about my hurty back and Clarissa suggested cupping. I hesitated for a moment because I was heading out to Breitenbush Hot Springs for the weekend and would be wearing a whole lot less than a tank top. Clarissa reassured me I had nothing to fear. All the hippies at the hot springs knew what cupping was. I have to admit, I was relieved to have my crop circles when I stripped down to dip in the springs. Everybody else had major tattoos, and without my hickies, I'd have felt kind of naked.

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Another column from My Regence

I write for the Blue Cross/Blue Shield Health & Wellness website (MyRegence).  Here's one of my recent columns. 




Adventures of a Fortysomething: The Making of an 'EC' Mom

      

All that our fortysomething has learned about being "environmentally correct," she's learned from her kids--sort of.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

Apparently, I suck. My carbon footprint is as big as Sasquatch's. I'm a gas-guzzling, plastic-hogging, carbon-spewing fiend that should be banished to the landfill for all eternity. This is what my environmentally correct (EC) high school- and college-aged kids have taught me about environmentalism. Everything they've learned about being EC they learned from their oh-so-enlightened friends and college instructors and, of course, from Al Gore. That's right--they've seen his movie, "An Inconvenient Truth." And I haven't. Therefore, I'm an idiot and they're brilliant. But, then, anyone raising teenagers knows that.

Frankly, I'm surprised at how lame I am. I thought I was doing pretty well. Sure, there's room for improvement, and as soon as I can afford a new car I'll buy a hybrid. But in a family of six, (two parents, two "adult" kids and two little kids), we only own two cars.  We also own six bikes, carpool, cluster errands and walk as much as possible. 

Recycling? We have six bins that we fill up every single week. We've been recycling long enough that we've worn out a bunch of them. It's true that once in a while I'll toss a dog food can inadvertently, but ever since my EC education--brought to me by my children--I've been working on that. My EC kids are all about recycling. They check the bottom of every box, bottle and can for the little recycling triangle and faithfully place them in the recycling bins. That's their part. Our part--since we suck--is to sort all the recycling every Sunday night and drag it to the curb for the garbage collectors to haul away. I can't remember more than once per kid when they've helped sort and haul, and that was only under duress. They certainly wouldn't volunteer for that particular recycling duty. But, then again, we suck and they don't.

This year I've purchased six water bottles--the good ones that can be reused countless times and withstand dishwashing. This was an attempt to decrease the number of disposable water bottles we pitch in the recycling bins. They're gone. All of them.  Where? Heck if I know. They went to that mysterious place socks wind up. Gone.

How about that carbon-spewing? Some of the biggest sources of global-warming gases come from animals raised for meat consumption. Methane (cow gas) and petroleum products used for grain production to feed these rootin'-tootin' cows (and to feed chickens, pigs, etc.), and transportation of said critters accounts for a whole lot of ozone-scorching trouble. Methane is reportedly 21 times more powerful a greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide. Anybody who's driven past a feedlot or dairy will attest to the truth in that.

I've been a vegetarian since I was 12. I've raised all my kids as vegetarians. My husband is a vegetarian. We do consume some dairy (except me and my husband, who eat almost none), eggs and fish. We eat whole grains, lots of fruits and vegetables (I buy locally and organic whenever I can afford it), and rarely do we buy processed foods. My kids have never eaten Hamburger Helper. I thought that raising them with a high level of meat consciousness, awareness of the food chain and teaching them that the products we buy and consume have an impact far beyond our home, was pretty EC. But since I'm not vegan, I suck.

My college-girl decided to "go vegan" for her first year in college. OK, I'm mostly supportive, especially since she eats most meals at the college cafeteria. There aren't that many times in your life when you can make a big statement about your diet and totally stick to it. For most of us, once we get busy with jobs, homes, families--y'know, lives--we forgo some of our idealism for practicality. I pointed out that if we boycott all products that come from animals, we fail to support EC farmers--the ones who do dairy right; the chicken farmers who treat their little egg-layers humanely and recycle the chicken poop. Another daughter intermittently declares herself "vegan-for-a-week." That means a whole lot of special shopping, meal planning and extra cooking. But hey, what do I know? I've only been a vegetarian for 30-odd years. Veganism is way more EC. Even if it does cause a lot more household methane with all those lentils and other legumes.

Let's talk about energy consumption. We buy the gas for the cars they use. We're the ones buying the florescent light bulbs and following the kids around the house turning off lights, unplugging appliances and turning down the heat. I got up in the middle of the night once this week, having gone to bed hours before the teens did. Sure enough, the family room, kitchen and porch lights glared away. I clicked them off and made a mental note to pay the electric bill--the one where we pay a little extra for "green" energy.

There's no doubt about it, I've got a ways to go until I'm totally EC. It's my goal, really it is. It should be all our goals. If you need any ideas as to how to be greener, try to find a couple of hours to watch "An Inconvenient Truth"--it's on my list of things to do this week. If I don't find the time, I'll just ask my kids. They'll tell me how it really is. 'Cuz they're EC and I suck.

 

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Gratitude and Chaos

I spent the past week working "unfortunate" labors - patients who stand very little chance of raising their baby well.  They live in horrible, toxic homes surrounded by angry, nasty people.  The cute element of having a new baby around will last about as long as that baby remains docile.  When that first sleepless night of nonstop crying happens - there won't be enough cuteness to go around.  That child will grow up angry and neglected - forever trying to either clear out or add to the chaos that is their life.  Jesus = what the hell is the purpose of that?  There are those who say, "every baby's a miracle"  and I say - maybe not.  Almost anybody can have a baby.  You need a license to have a dog.  But babies?  Have at it - free rein.  Have a ball. 

The flip side of working with crazy people is how clean and well-lit my own life is.  I've always known I'm an uncommonly lucky person.  I have everything - a great home, husband, family, children and really rewarding work.  Hell, even my dogs are better than most.  Much of the time, I'm really healthy and those times when I'm not - well, let's just not go there.  I'm lucky - damnit - and grateful for it.