Hello again, friends - it has been four weeks since my last episode - including a trip to New Orleans, miraculously incident free! (not that I didn't pay for my beignet splurge upon my return but I'll take it) - so now I write to share the latest tale of woe.
For lunch on Wednesday I had an apple, Granny Smith, with peanut butter. Nothing earth shattering about that. Then last night after hitting the gym I had a plain Granny Smith en route to play rehearsal. About an hour or two later I began to feel that tingly, nauseous-full feeling. Oh great - just what I need on stage. My costars will love it if I crap myself in the middle of a scene. Somehow I make it through and on the way home, a new sensation hits: burning in my guts that sort of resembles hunger pains but I know it isn't that. This only happens when something has irritated my bowels and they go all Harry Potter's lightening bold scar on me in warning of terrible things to come. I drive a little faster...
I don't sleep very well last night because of the discomfort and I awake, do Pilates as usual and make my smoothie, then I grab my weekly Friday morning Dunkin' Doughnuts brew and arrive at work. The feeling I get while seated at my deck can only mean one thing: girl, you better find a bathroom NOW.
What started out rather solid this morning with the first evacuation of the day before leaving the house became progressively less so. That old familiar liquid waste has paid me a visit thrice since arriving at the office. And the day is yet young! It is uncomfortable and labored and I have implemented my rice cake and applesauce regimen. But what a start to my marathon weekend...
I'm not sure if it is nerves, those damn apples, or a combination but really? REALLY? I throw my hands up to the heavens in surrender since I know not what hath caused this fury. It is disheartened each time it happens when you consume something seemingly innocuous like produce that you eat all the time anyway. A new brand of frozen yogurt? Sure, that'll probably do it, but not my standby snack. I'm pouting for a brief period before I make yet another trek back to the ladies' room to heed the call.
I must be very cautious tonight and tomorrow not to blow my six months' worth of training by eating anything but bananas, brown rice and plain chicken breast. That is all the fuel I need for Sunday and that is all I'm willing to gamble on, case. closed.
Until next time (that is to say post-Thanksgiving, I hope!)...
xoxo,
GG
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The saga continues...
Once upon a time in IBS land, there lived a young woman who, after working rather hard on three monograph mailings, went home very ill indeed. It had been just over a month since she felt the familiar rumblings of impending doom. She lay prostrate on the couch to no avail. Would relief ever come? She doubted the sun would shine once more. She then undertook a stretching and flexing regimen with Mistress Lara, Pilates Goddess to see if that would, in fact, loosen things up internally. Immediately afterward the young woman felt very good indeed. Yes, it was working! She decided to try a flushing potion of warm water and apple cider vinegar meant to promote healthy digestion. It tasted vile but perhaps it held the key to recuperation? No. No, it did not. Neither did the olive oil smoothie meant to flush the bowels. Would nothing save the young woman from her distress?
She could barely stand up straight, the discomfort was so great, and she nearly passed out on her way up the stairs after becoming increasingly light-headed. "I am no fainting tulip," said she. "I am WOMAN, hear me roar!" But she had to admit that she felt quite shitty and that roaring was the last thing on her mind. So she gathered all her strength about her to make a cup of lavender tea and draw a hot bath. If the heating pad didn't work, perhaps total submersion would? Alas, the bath made her even more lightheaded but after several trips in and out of the tub to stretch on the floor, she achieved a state of relative comfort in the soapy waters. This was very good indeed. Then, after the bath, the young woman received a phone call from her Phillies fan mother who proceeded to express her concern for her daughter, lamenting the fact that she was trying to do too much when under the veil of illness. "But no, mother," said the young woman, "I am trying every play in my book and nothing is working." The young woman wanted to throw the phone across the room and watch it splinter into pieces but that would have been imprudent. It wasn't her mother's fault - nor anyone else's - that she had had another flare up. In fact, it was her own desire to try the new frozen yogurt place that opened in town and perhaps it must be said that the young woman cannot experiment with new foods, though she may desire a change from time to time.
Her mother was only looking out for her well-being and trying to understand the nuances of the dreaded condition. She was resolute: there must be something that works to stop these symptoms! The young woman sadly informed her mother that no, in fact there is no cure and that home remedies are trial and error. Fiercely protective as always, the young woman's mother made her swear to keep a detailed food log and record all symptoms in the future as they present themselves. The young woman agreed, resigning herself to a highly regimented existence that was the only way to ensure no further misery such as last night's befell her again anytime soon. There would be no need for homeopathic laxatives or bodily contortions in the near future, that's for sure! And no more frozen yogurt.
***
Yes, GGs, sadly I relapsed overnight on Monday into the wee hours of Tuesday morning. I missed a day and a half of work while struggling to recoup. It was hell but I lived to tell the tale. Words of advice: do NOT try new things, as tempting as it may be because really that's just a recipe for an epic digestive fail. Stick to the known entities, boring though they may be, and you will find comfort in regulation (if not an exciting burst of culinary adventure.)
The culprit: Fruity Yogurt's Taro flavor mixed with extra tart, mochi and yogurt boba
The moral: Never again
In other news, the vinegar flush seemed to do the trick. I'll have to do more digging around other IBS blogs to see if fellow sufferers have had success with this ritual. Seems as viable as Kelly Clarkson's Canola oil pre-concert gulp which always struck me as particularly vile but hey, if it works for her...
Until next time - and here's hoping there are no flare-ups to blog about next time!
--xoxo,
GG
She could barely stand up straight, the discomfort was so great, and she nearly passed out on her way up the stairs after becoming increasingly light-headed. "I am no fainting tulip," said she. "I am WOMAN, hear me roar!" But she had to admit that she felt quite shitty and that roaring was the last thing on her mind. So she gathered all her strength about her to make a cup of lavender tea and draw a hot bath. If the heating pad didn't work, perhaps total submersion would? Alas, the bath made her even more lightheaded but after several trips in and out of the tub to stretch on the floor, she achieved a state of relative comfort in the soapy waters. This was very good indeed. Then, after the bath, the young woman received a phone call from her Phillies fan mother who proceeded to express her concern for her daughter, lamenting the fact that she was trying to do too much when under the veil of illness. "But no, mother," said the young woman, "I am trying every play in my book and nothing is working." The young woman wanted to throw the phone across the room and watch it splinter into pieces but that would have been imprudent. It wasn't her mother's fault - nor anyone else's - that she had had another flare up. In fact, it was her own desire to try the new frozen yogurt place that opened in town and perhaps it must be said that the young woman cannot experiment with new foods, though she may desire a change from time to time.
Her mother was only looking out for her well-being and trying to understand the nuances of the dreaded condition. She was resolute: there must be something that works to stop these symptoms! The young woman sadly informed her mother that no, in fact there is no cure and that home remedies are trial and error. Fiercely protective as always, the young woman's mother made her swear to keep a detailed food log and record all symptoms in the future as they present themselves. The young woman agreed, resigning herself to a highly regimented existence that was the only way to ensure no further misery such as last night's befell her again anytime soon. There would be no need for homeopathic laxatives or bodily contortions in the near future, that's for sure! And no more frozen yogurt.
***
Yes, GGs, sadly I relapsed overnight on Monday into the wee hours of Tuesday morning. I missed a day and a half of work while struggling to recoup. It was hell but I lived to tell the tale. Words of advice: do NOT try new things, as tempting as it may be because really that's just a recipe for an epic digestive fail. Stick to the known entities, boring though they may be, and you will find comfort in regulation (if not an exciting burst of culinary adventure.)
The culprit: Fruity Yogurt's Taro flavor mixed with extra tart, mochi and yogurt boba
The moral: Never again
In other news, the vinegar flush seemed to do the trick. I'll have to do more digging around other IBS blogs to see if fellow sufferers have had success with this ritual. Seems as viable as Kelly Clarkson's Canola oil pre-concert gulp which always struck me as particularly vile but hey, if it works for her...
Until next time - and here's hoping there are no flare-ups to blog about next time!
--xoxo,
GG
Friday, September 18, 2009
Oy to the World
Friends, I have returned! Did you miss my bodily witticisms?
Last Friday's procedure went off without a hitch, thank goodness. I feel quite happy to have the explorations over and done with. I was under for about an hour. The last thing I remember is the nice Lebanese anesthesiologist talking about scuba diving in the Red Sea and coming at me with a big syringe and then...nothing.
I came to as a nurse beckoned me toward the light, offering juice or water. But no, no: I needed to poop and I announced it suddenly, surprised at my own consciousness. She laughed at me and said, "I highly doubt that. It's the pressure but go on and pass that gas." No, lady. I NEED TO POOP. She then offered to walk me to the bathroom. In fact, I did leave a little souvenir in the toilet but it wasn't very remarkable. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was air. Even still...the urge did exist and no amount of wind-breaking was going to trick my mind into thinking it was just CO2 buildup!
Three biopsies and a few samples worse for wear, I left that office around noon. By Saturday evening I was recovering nicely. I even managed to eat some solid food after essentially 48 hours of clear liquids. [On a side note: I now understand the healing power of the cleanse. Granted Gwyneth's are not pre-op but still, they are quite effective in purging toxins of all kinds with a force to rival Victoria Falls. Remind me to do one before my next Red Carpet event.]
Things I learned:
*will never drink blue Gatorade again. I don't care if I'm in a fall-out shelter (a la The Road) and it's the last beverage on earth: after 2, 32oz bottles of it I would rather die dehydrated and happy than choke that nasty-ass syrup down.
*Miralax, when consumed by the bottle, if the equivalent of a fancy spa enema (for the low cost of $9.87) Frugal!
*4 Dulcolax pills + preexisting diarrhea = hilarity
*Italian Ice is gluten free
*White cranberry juice tastes nothing like red cranberry juice
*Just how many times can you go to the bathroom in a day? Survey says: 16.
Fun times at Digestive Healthcare Center. 9/10 on Trip Advisor.com.
So now we wait. And wait. And - oh yeah - if the invasion of my lower GI tract wasn't enough excitement for the week, how about a "full stool workup" to go along with that? Sign me up!
Three days of pinching one off in a plastic bathroom cup just strips the romance away. There's no going back when you become that intimately acquainted with your own waste, siphoning it off with little plastic spatulas into vials full of indeterminate, funeral-home-smelling liquids with tiny, illegible labels that appear to be screaming at you in Spanish (don't put it in your eye? what the hell? it's a TURD, for crissakes. Why would you want that anywhere near your ojos?)
The last day - the one that really upped the ante with four vials instead of three - was the day I couldn't bring myself to move, natch. So I got up extra early the following morning, ate some extra fiber, drank some hot coffee and did my Pilates tape. Yep. That did the trick, all right. One epic, healthy sample, fresh from the pipes!
I brought the nice Quest technician a neatly organized Starbucks bag full of meticulously shaken and stirred collectibles from the mixed up bowels of yours truly. They are "growing" as I type this so if any little larvae pop up in the next week, I'll let you know!
Stay tuned and happy eating!
xoxo,
GG
Last Friday's procedure went off without a hitch, thank goodness. I feel quite happy to have the explorations over and done with. I was under for about an hour. The last thing I remember is the nice Lebanese anesthesiologist talking about scuba diving in the Red Sea and coming at me with a big syringe and then...nothing.
I came to as a nurse beckoned me toward the light, offering juice or water. But no, no: I needed to poop and I announced it suddenly, surprised at my own consciousness. She laughed at me and said, "I highly doubt that. It's the pressure but go on and pass that gas." No, lady. I NEED TO POOP. She then offered to walk me to the bathroom. In fact, I did leave a little souvenir in the toilet but it wasn't very remarkable. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was air. Even still...the urge did exist and no amount of wind-breaking was going to trick my mind into thinking it was just CO2 buildup!
Three biopsies and a few samples worse for wear, I left that office around noon. By Saturday evening I was recovering nicely. I even managed to eat some solid food after essentially 48 hours of clear liquids. [On a side note: I now understand the healing power of the cleanse. Granted Gwyneth's are not pre-op but still, they are quite effective in purging toxins of all kinds with a force to rival Victoria Falls. Remind me to do one before my next Red Carpet event.]
Things I learned:
*will never drink blue Gatorade again. I don't care if I'm in a fall-out shelter (a la The Road) and it's the last beverage on earth: after 2, 32oz bottles of it I would rather die dehydrated and happy than choke that nasty-ass syrup down.
*Miralax, when consumed by the bottle, if the equivalent of a fancy spa enema (for the low cost of $9.87) Frugal!
*4 Dulcolax pills + preexisting diarrhea = hilarity
*Italian Ice is gluten free
*White cranberry juice tastes nothing like red cranberry juice
*Just how many times can you go to the bathroom in a day? Survey says: 16.
Fun times at Digestive Healthcare Center. 9/10 on Trip Advisor.com.
So now we wait. And wait. And - oh yeah - if the invasion of my lower GI tract wasn't enough excitement for the week, how about a "full stool workup" to go along with that? Sign me up!
Three days of pinching one off in a plastic bathroom cup just strips the romance away. There's no going back when you become that intimately acquainted with your own waste, siphoning it off with little plastic spatulas into vials full of indeterminate, funeral-home-smelling liquids with tiny, illegible labels that appear to be screaming at you in Spanish (don't put it in your eye? what the hell? it's a TURD, for crissakes. Why would you want that anywhere near your ojos?)
The last day - the one that really upped the ante with four vials instead of three - was the day I couldn't bring myself to move, natch. So I got up extra early the following morning, ate some extra fiber, drank some hot coffee and did my Pilates tape. Yep. That did the trick, all right. One epic, healthy sample, fresh from the pipes!
I brought the nice Quest technician a neatly organized Starbucks bag full of meticulously shaken and stirred collectibles from the mixed up bowels of yours truly. They are "growing" as I type this so if any little larvae pop up in the next week, I'll let you know!
Stay tuned and happy eating!
xoxo,
GG
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go-oh-oh...
I really DO want to be sedated.
Please.
Someone.
In preparation for delightful testing tomorrow, I have not been able to eat food since 8:00 pm last night. I went for an invigorating run: my first since Saturday (tragic, I know) and feasted on banana and peanut butter for my last supper. Today, it has been champagne wishes and caviar dreams all the while consuming 200 oz of clear liquids. Green tea for breakfast, water, water, water, oh did I mention water? - and two cups of coffee, then some more tea, and finally - when I was at my breaking point - white cranberry juice and Italian Ice. It is only quarter after 2 and I'm spent. Also, I have been evacuating my bowels like gangbusters. Puzzling to say the least.
Now lest my rant wear out its welcome, dear GGs please tell me how on earth someone with no food in their system is called to the loo thrice in the space of 30 minutes with epic squirts? How is this possible? Where is it coming from? All I can say is pity the poor soul (read: my father) who has to drive me to/pick me up from the facility tomorrow, making sure I don't crap my pants in public. I'm not above Depends. Honestly.
For those of you who have done it, you know there is nothing else on earth like feeling the urge come over you with nowhere to run. Then there's the faint gurgle and the sudden warmth in your drawers that confirms it: yep, you shat yourself or sharted or whatever. It happened. Get over it. (except you can't because it's probably the single most embarrassing occurrence you will ever have. Anyone, ah, care to vouch for this one?)
Additionally, for those who know the drill with any kind of "-oscopy/biopsy" there's an unpleasant flushing of the bowels that must occur, catalyzed by super-sized doses of Miralax shaken in giant bottles of Gatorade. I have yet to embark on this adventure but it makes me wonder: if I'm already quite free flowing at the moment, what in the name of holy Dulcolax s is going to happen to me when I put that on top of my current condition?
How very exciting-a futile experiment in the making! Can't wait to tell you all about it...
Until I come to, my friends -
xoxo,
GG
Please.
Someone.
In preparation for delightful testing tomorrow, I have not been able to eat food since 8:00 pm last night. I went for an invigorating run: my first since Saturday (tragic, I know) and feasted on banana and peanut butter for my last supper. Today, it has been champagne wishes and caviar dreams all the while consuming 200 oz of clear liquids. Green tea for breakfast, water, water, water, oh did I mention water? - and two cups of coffee, then some more tea, and finally - when I was at my breaking point - white cranberry juice and Italian Ice. It is only quarter after 2 and I'm spent. Also, I have been evacuating my bowels like gangbusters. Puzzling to say the least.
Now lest my rant wear out its welcome, dear GGs please tell me how on earth someone with no food in their system is called to the loo thrice in the space of 30 minutes with epic squirts? How is this possible? Where is it coming from? All I can say is pity the poor soul (read: my father) who has to drive me to/pick me up from the facility tomorrow, making sure I don't crap my pants in public. I'm not above Depends. Honestly.
For those of you who have done it, you know there is nothing else on earth like feeling the urge come over you with nowhere to run. Then there's the faint gurgle and the sudden warmth in your drawers that confirms it: yep, you shat yourself or sharted or whatever. It happened. Get over it. (except you can't because it's probably the single most embarrassing occurrence you will ever have. Anyone, ah, care to vouch for this one?)
Additionally, for those who know the drill with any kind of "-oscopy/biopsy" there's an unpleasant flushing of the bowels that must occur, catalyzed by super-sized doses of Miralax shaken in giant bottles of Gatorade. I have yet to embark on this adventure but it makes me wonder: if I'm already quite free flowing at the moment, what in the name of holy Dulcolax s is going to happen to me when I put that on top of my current condition?
How very exciting-a futile experiment in the making! Can't wait to tell you all about it...
Until I come to, my friends -
xoxo,
GG
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Nearly Incident-Free Excursion! (Three cheers for omelets.)
This GG returned to the homestead late afternoon on Labor Day after three glorious days in the clear when WHAM-O, poor Biff seemed to have caught the IBS bug. After nursing my dear one back to health, I, too, succumbed to the curse of the gurgles. Foiled again!
What had been an excellent, care-free weekend quickly devolved into the dueling toilet seats. Was it something we ate? But no! We - well, I had been so careful. In fact, I had barely had a real "meal" since the smorgasbord on Saturday. I was content to graze like a gazelle but even that was not enough to stop the wrath of IBS.
As Biff began to feel a bit better - poor thing, his pains laid him out flat with a heating pad! And he didn't even get a turkey leg or meat on a stick at Ye Olde Ren Faire - I realized my time had come: I took to the bed, crumpled in the familiar position of discomfort. I had a case of the death farts/burps for a good two hours before passing out from sheer exhaustion. Then sometime in the wee hours of the morning it hit me. I launched myself into the bathroom just in time to heave everything I had into the commode, face first. I'll spare you the rank details but let's just say it was reminiscent of that fateful train ride to hell and back.
(Nothing kills romance faster than epic ogre gas. I am thankful every day that I have found my ogre soul mate who can laugh his ass off while simultaneously dutch-ovening me in my own stench. Sheer kismet.)
The next day at work was no picnic. I could seriously have walked around with a tether to the ladies' room, that's how far away I was at any given time. Full on squirts all day, all night and boy, did they come on fast! I actually woke up twice during deep slumber to unload the bi-products of fickle digestion. This is absolutely NOT normal for IBS, or so my new GI tells me.
This morning was my follow-up appointment and I decided on a female doctor this time because, well, we're built the same way and I'm just more comfortable with her level of expertise. (She knows of what she speaks.)
Dear GGs, it looks like I have not escaped the experience of invasive testing after all. I have scheduled my procedures and will write back with details once I have them. My IBS could very well be IBS with further complications or it could be something else entirely. If there's anything to take away from this post, it would be the following:
*Don't settle for one doctor's opinion, just because he/she is the first specialist you saw.
*Recount your discomfort in as much detail as possible: if something sounds odd, a specialist will know. He or she needs to hear everything that's happened in order to know how to proceed.
*If something like nocturnal vomiting/diarrhea persists - call your doctor immediately. This is not normal, even for IBSers.
*Ask lots of questions and do your research beforehand so you can have a more balanced conversation with your doctor about what lies ahead of you. It's a long road made more comfortable by open and honest communication.
*Find someone who loves you, farts and all
(In all seriousness, this is crucial. You can't hide IBS, you can't control it, odors/sounds will
eek out and you will have to acknowledge the presence of gurgle guts so it might as well be
with someone with a sense of humor and compassion. Mine's already taken so find your own
ogre!)
What had been an excellent, care-free weekend quickly devolved into the dueling toilet seats. Was it something we ate? But no! We - well, I had been so careful. In fact, I had barely had a real "meal" since the smorgasbord on Saturday. I was content to graze like a gazelle but even that was not enough to stop the wrath of IBS.
As Biff began to feel a bit better - poor thing, his pains laid him out flat with a heating pad! And he didn't even get a turkey leg or meat on a stick at Ye Olde Ren Faire - I realized my time had come: I took to the bed, crumpled in the familiar position of discomfort. I had a case of the death farts/burps for a good two hours before passing out from sheer exhaustion. Then sometime in the wee hours of the morning it hit me. I launched myself into the bathroom just in time to heave everything I had into the commode, face first. I'll spare you the rank details but let's just say it was reminiscent of that fateful train ride to hell and back.
(Nothing kills romance faster than epic ogre gas. I am thankful every day that I have found my ogre soul mate who can laugh his ass off while simultaneously dutch-ovening me in my own stench. Sheer kismet.)
The next day at work was no picnic. I could seriously have walked around with a tether to the ladies' room, that's how far away I was at any given time. Full on squirts all day, all night and boy, did they come on fast! I actually woke up twice during deep slumber to unload the bi-products of fickle digestion. This is absolutely NOT normal for IBS, or so my new GI tells me.
This morning was my follow-up appointment and I decided on a female doctor this time because, well, we're built the same way and I'm just more comfortable with her level of expertise. (She knows of what she speaks.)
Dear GGs, it looks like I have not escaped the experience of invasive testing after all. I have scheduled my procedures and will write back with details once I have them. My IBS could very well be IBS with further complications or it could be something else entirely. If there's anything to take away from this post, it would be the following:
*Don't settle for one doctor's opinion, just because he/she is the first specialist you saw.
*Recount your discomfort in as much detail as possible: if something sounds odd, a specialist will know. He or she needs to hear everything that's happened in order to know how to proceed.
*If something like nocturnal vomiting/diarrhea persists - call your doctor immediately. This is not normal, even for IBSers.
*Ask lots of questions and do your research beforehand so you can have a more balanced conversation with your doctor about what lies ahead of you. It's a long road made more comfortable by open and honest communication.
*Find someone who loves you, farts and all
(In all seriousness, this is crucial. You can't hide IBS, you can't control it, odors/sounds will
eek out and you will have to acknowledge the presence of gurgle guts so it might as well be
with someone with a sense of humor and compassion. Mine's already taken so find your own
ogre!)
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The Importance of Being Earnest
Yes, it's a pain, but it's also a very smart idea. I'm talking about keeping a food log each day, for as long as it takes to establish a pattern/routine/safety dance. Do I love jotting down every piece of food that passes though my lips? Heck no! Most times I feel like one of those exorexics who keep fitness logs down to the tenth of a second and chronicle all calorie consumption obsessively. But that's not the point of the log: the point is to heighten your awareness of personal triggers and to keep the dialogue with your body open. It's as informative as it is exacting but guess what? Small price to pay for feeling good. What goes in must come out and wouldn't you rather it be just another trip to the john and not, you know, Apocalypse Now?
Here's an example from last weekend's entries (I take the good with the bad, the darkness with the light, the sweet with the...ok - you get it.)
Sunday - August 30
7:15 am Coffee
7:30 4 oz Kefir yogurt drink
8:00 4oz whey protein shake
9:00 am watermelon
*feel too full for typical pre-run banana (uh-oh...bad move)
9:54 am begin run (supposed to be going 8 miles)
chug 10 oz Gatorade - nausea commences about 25 min. into run
*(I now know that I cannot have Gatorade/G2 and run. It actually upsets a lot of people's
systems so I cross this off the list and move on.)
32 minutes in, 1 packet Espresso Love Gu - nausea diminishes within 10 minutes (this is the carb/electrolyte packet and it really does help.)
Side note: I continued running normally for the duration, but let me tell you, it was not a picnic. I literally thought I was going to eat it on the Schuylkill trail somewhere between Betzwood and Norristown. Poor Biff! He was just trying to get a normal training run in when GG struck me unawares! We're both training for the Philadelphia Half Marathon (81 days away!) and this kind of shitteous nonsense has happened before but never this bad. Did I overdo it a bit coming off two weeks of nothing but applesauce, bananas and soup? Maybe. But I really, really wanted to run and I wanted to do it fast. The great thing about IBS is that you can pretty much kiss all certainty and planning goodbye. (Just plan to be surprised, know what I'm sayin'?) SO kids, don't temp fate. Stick to your routine, even if you happen to be feeling strong at that moment, and hope that all goes smoothly.
Post-run lunch:
1 tuna roll, 1 California roll with brown rice, 1 diet green tea
Snack: 2:45 pm Dairy Queen - medium Reese's Blizzard (aka DEATH)
Starbucks iced macchiato - 6:00 pm (idiot...I guess I lost track of the time of day - caffeine after 3:00 pm is bad bad bad)
8:30 pm: trail mix b/c I'm still full from all that lovely dairy (almonds, peanuts, dark chocolate pieces, dried mango and apricot)
***Start feeling like hell around midnight. Relieve myself three times between 6 pm and morning.
Monday - August 31
6:00 am pilates
*feel gross when I wake up, bloated, queasy but sometimes stretching/using those muscles helps. This time it doesn't.
6:20 am: 3 tablespoons plain yogurt, 1 banana, a splash of soy milk, handful of spinach, 1 scoop whey powder (blend) - 8 oz shake
9:45 am Fage with Almond Agave Granola (huge mistake: this granola has oats. durrrrrr.)
10:30 am A bunch of purple grapes (thoroughly washed)
12:00 pm handful of cocoa almonds
Feeling weak, sweaty, dizzy, nauseous - overwhelmingly nauseous and...
1:15 pm - vomited (into my trashcan, at my desk. :Applause:)
***
Addendum: Remedy here was actually puking. I felt worlds better after 1:30 pm and sipped some chicken soup with rice and my strength returned.
***
So, you see, if you keep track of all this seemingly inconsequential minutia, then you can look back at your daily consumption and pinpoint where things took a turn for the worse. It happens. We all screw up (note the rumheaded trip to DQ and, to add dairy to dairy, Starbucks in the early evening. Guten timen.)
xoxo,
GG
Here's an example from last weekend's entries (I take the good with the bad, the darkness with the light, the sweet with the...ok - you get it.)
Sunday - August 30
7:15 am Coffee
7:30 4 oz Kefir yogurt drink
8:00 4oz whey protein shake
9:00 am watermelon
*feel too full for typical pre-run banana (uh-oh...bad move)
9:54 am begin run (supposed to be going 8 miles)
chug 10 oz Gatorade - nausea commences about 25 min. into run
*(I now know that I cannot have Gatorade/G2 and run. It actually upsets a lot of people's
systems so I cross this off the list and move on.)
32 minutes in, 1 packet Espresso Love Gu - nausea diminishes within 10 minutes (this is the carb/electrolyte packet and it really does help.)
Side note: I continued running normally for the duration, but let me tell you, it was not a picnic. I literally thought I was going to eat it on the Schuylkill trail somewhere between Betzwood and Norristown. Poor Biff! He was just trying to get a normal training run in when GG struck me unawares! We're both training for the Philadelphia Half Marathon (81 days away!) and this kind of shitteous nonsense has happened before but never this bad. Did I overdo it a bit coming off two weeks of nothing but applesauce, bananas and soup? Maybe. But I really, really wanted to run and I wanted to do it fast. The great thing about IBS is that you can pretty much kiss all certainty and planning goodbye. (Just plan to be surprised, know what I'm sayin'?) SO kids, don't temp fate. Stick to your routine, even if you happen to be feeling strong at that moment, and hope that all goes smoothly.
Post-run lunch:
1 tuna roll, 1 California roll with brown rice, 1 diet green tea
Snack: 2:45 pm Dairy Queen - medium Reese's Blizzard (aka DEATH)
Starbucks iced macchiato - 6:00 pm (idiot...I guess I lost track of the time of day - caffeine after 3:00 pm is bad bad bad)
8:30 pm: trail mix b/c I'm still full from all that lovely dairy (almonds, peanuts, dark chocolate pieces, dried mango and apricot)
***Start feeling like hell around midnight. Relieve myself three times between 6 pm and morning.
Monday - August 31
6:00 am pilates
*feel gross when I wake up, bloated, queasy but sometimes stretching/using those muscles helps. This time it doesn't.
6:20 am: 3 tablespoons plain yogurt, 1 banana, a splash of soy milk, handful of spinach, 1 scoop whey powder (blend) - 8 oz shake
9:45 am Fage with Almond Agave Granola (huge mistake: this granola has oats. durrrrrr.)
10:30 am A bunch of purple grapes (thoroughly washed)
12:00 pm handful of cocoa almonds
Feeling weak, sweaty, dizzy, nauseous - overwhelmingly nauseous and...
1:15 pm - vomited (into my trashcan, at my desk. :Applause:)
***
Addendum: Remedy here was actually puking. I felt worlds better after 1:30 pm and sipped some chicken soup with rice and my strength returned.
***
So, you see, if you keep track of all this seemingly inconsequential minutia, then you can look back at your daily consumption and pinpoint where things took a turn for the worse. It happens. We all screw up (note the rumheaded trip to DQ and, to add dairy to dairy, Starbucks in the early evening. Guten timen.)
xoxo,
GG
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
99 Problems and the Shits are 1: Leaving on a Jet Plane
I've got to set the stage a bit. There I am, five months into the new job, enjoying myself, living a well-balanced and healthy lifestyle. This is the TP, the turning point in my struggle with IBS and the beginning of the road that leads to an official diagnosis.
May 20, 2009 - 10:00 pm
I return home, triumphant from a victorious company softball game and a pleasant dinner out with my teammates. We ate at [unnamed iconic pizza joint in Princeton] and I ordered the meatball sub (6 inch, no cheese.) By this point, I have been seriously running since March - I've decided if my boyfriend can run marathons, so can I. I am in great shape, I'm building mileage slowly and steadily and I've been eating really clean, really well. I figured, ok...no healthy options on this menu so at least I can get the sub and not eat the bread - just the balls. Right? WRONG. So, so wrong.
The gurgles start around bedtime but I drink some water, think nothing of it. I wake up and I have a bit of the runs - fabulous. Oh well, I've got one-and-a-half days of work left before my vacation to Oregon with my best friend. I push through it. At lunch on May 21 we go to Thai food as a department. It was someone's birthday and a momentous occasion since we rarely dine together outside the office. I decide to be cautious and order some chicken with vegetables in brown sauce, thinking it will be mild on my stomach. Not so much. 3:00 pm rolls around and I am doubled over with pain. I'm cramping, gurgling audibly, farting all over the place and worse, having to run to the bathroom. (I am fond of the word "fart" in all its manifestations. Deal with it.) Then come the acidic, death-in-the-bowels burps. That's a big uh-oh for me because it means I am going to be sick. This is terrible but I stick it out. Only half a day to go! My flight leaves Friday around 6:30 PM so I have to leave work by 3:00 to get to Newark. Too much to do, too much to do...
Friday, May 22
I have been up all night heaving. I am melting, melting! I am going to choke on my own vomit or worse, void my bowels through my rear end. I check the commode each time I release more toxic waste out one end or the other to see if I've left any vital parts in the bowl. Nope. Nothing. Am I sure I did not just pass my intestines through my anus? The force at which the bile is leaving my system could easily rival that of Linda Blair. It is dreadful. But damn it, I have a trip to the West Coast and I am not about to give that up over Memorial Day Weekend. So I lug my suitcase and my heaving bones into my car, drive to work, almost hurl out the window on the way, and make it into the office in one piece.
I am told by several people that day that I look kind of gray. (Gee, thanks. I'll work on that tan in Portland.) When it comes time to leave for the airport, I board the Dinky with trepidation. My half-mile walk across campus has taken a lot of energy out of me and I am full-on nauseous. Oh God. I just might spew on these nice people next to me...I contain it for the six minute shuttle ride to P.J., rush off the car and into the bushes where I dry heave. No one bats an eye, I'm that stealth about it. Then I muster the courage to cross under the tracks to board the Northeast Corridor Line of NJ Transit. No sooner am I in the vestibule of the train that it comes over me. I launch myself onto the handicap row and spread out. The conductor passes through, looks at me, moves on. Clearly I am not some homeless bum. I had the presence of mind to clutch my ticket stub in my limp hand, J.I.C.
Before I know it, I have a travel companion. A tiny Princeton student clearly en route back to her native land with a suitcase bigger than her body perches RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I am too ill to be irritated but I should have warned her to step away. Her loss. She pops in her earbuds not a moment too soon. As the train lurches forward the sweats are upon me. I am caught up in an overwhelming feeling of volcanic churning just below the surface. I rip out my barf bag which I have stuffed into the front pocket of my suitcase, lean forward, open my lips and let loose the liquid hot magma gorge of Vesuvius. It is rank. Half of it misses the bag and lands squarely on my jeans and trickles down to pool on the gum-dotted floor of the car. Well shit. That's probably the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me. Barfing in a public place is bad - I'll write about the infamous Patti LuPone debacle in another post. (I am STILL fuming about that one.) But barfing on oneself takes the cake.
Tiny traveler doesn't look up. She doesn't move. What is wrong with people? I wipe my mouth, bust out the disinfectant wipes and go to work on my jeans. Then I think, well, this smells awful...someone is bound to get a whiff in the next car. We can't have that now, can we? No. So I pour water all over the slopped vomit like a tipsy sailor spills rum on deck. Drip drip splash and good - that's working, it's washing away...it still smells like puke but I'm not a middle school janitor with a bucket o' sawdust. I sprinkle some Purell to mask the odor and pull myself together. The conductor passes through and sniffs the air, wrinkles his brow, looks at me and I hand over my ticket, then he walks away.
30 minutes later we pull into the airport. I am supposed to meet not only my BFF but my BF who is on a layover in between flights. I call my friend "Thelma" who says she's still on the train out of the city. OK...I'm walking like a geriatric who's just had a hip replacement. I'm gurgling with pain still, everything churning about. There's still more bile to come. I can feel it rising up against me. Then, pathetic as I am, I call "Biff." He's there and says he'll come meet me at AirTrain. HURRY UP, I croak into the phone. I board yet another moving vehicle to take me to Terminal C. Some poor soul gets in my car. Not smart, dude. I may shit myself at any minute. The space-age capsule is hot in the direct sunlight. I am literally doing Lamaze breathing techniques and bracing myself - standing upright - against the rail to keep from passing out. Finally the twee little voice chirps "Terminal C" - thank you sweet Jesus Christ! I am delivered!
There's my darling Biff, waiting for me in his little Brooks Brothers non-iron shirt: crisp blue and hot as my sweaty brow and under normal circumstances, I would have leapt into his arms right there. Now I sort of shuffle squat off the shuttle as he hands me a giant bottle of Fiji water and takes my bag. I bury my head in his chest and groan, "I smell like vomit. I puked on myself on the train." He pats my head like one would, a small child who has just had an accident in public. He is so sweet and patient and sick as I am, I feel just a little bit better not to be doing this on my own. When Thelma gets there, she'll look out for me. But for now, we walk side by side to the Hudson News kiosk where I buy Pepto Bismal and Imodium to get me through the night.
And so it goes: the best of times, the worst of time...IBS is our constant companion.
-GG
May 20, 2009 - 10:00 pm
I return home, triumphant from a victorious company softball game and a pleasant dinner out with my teammates. We ate at [unnamed iconic pizza joint in Princeton] and I ordered the meatball sub (6 inch, no cheese.) By this point, I have been seriously running since March - I've decided if my boyfriend can run marathons, so can I. I am in great shape, I'm building mileage slowly and steadily and I've been eating really clean, really well. I figured, ok...no healthy options on this menu so at least I can get the sub and not eat the bread - just the balls. Right? WRONG. So, so wrong.
The gurgles start around bedtime but I drink some water, think nothing of it. I wake up and I have a bit of the runs - fabulous. Oh well, I've got one-and-a-half days of work left before my vacation to Oregon with my best friend. I push through it. At lunch on May 21 we go to Thai food as a department. It was someone's birthday and a momentous occasion since we rarely dine together outside the office. I decide to be cautious and order some chicken with vegetables in brown sauce, thinking it will be mild on my stomach. Not so much. 3:00 pm rolls around and I am doubled over with pain. I'm cramping, gurgling audibly, farting all over the place and worse, having to run to the bathroom. (I am fond of the word "fart" in all its manifestations. Deal with it.) Then come the acidic, death-in-the-bowels burps. That's a big uh-oh for me because it means I am going to be sick. This is terrible but I stick it out. Only half a day to go! My flight leaves Friday around 6:30 PM so I have to leave work by 3:00 to get to Newark. Too much to do, too much to do...
Friday, May 22
I have been up all night heaving. I am melting, melting! I am going to choke on my own vomit or worse, void my bowels through my rear end. I check the commode each time I release more toxic waste out one end or the other to see if I've left any vital parts in the bowl. Nope. Nothing. Am I sure I did not just pass my intestines through my anus? The force at which the bile is leaving my system could easily rival that of Linda Blair. It is dreadful. But damn it, I have a trip to the West Coast and I am not about to give that up over Memorial Day Weekend. So I lug my suitcase and my heaving bones into my car, drive to work, almost hurl out the window on the way, and make it into the office in one piece.
I am told by several people that day that I look kind of gray. (Gee, thanks. I'll work on that tan in Portland.) When it comes time to leave for the airport, I board the Dinky with trepidation. My half-mile walk across campus has taken a lot of energy out of me and I am full-on nauseous. Oh God. I just might spew on these nice people next to me...I contain it for the six minute shuttle ride to P.J., rush off the car and into the bushes where I dry heave. No one bats an eye, I'm that stealth about it. Then I muster the courage to cross under the tracks to board the Northeast Corridor Line of NJ Transit. No sooner am I in the vestibule of the train that it comes over me. I launch myself onto the handicap row and spread out. The conductor passes through, looks at me, moves on. Clearly I am not some homeless bum. I had the presence of mind to clutch my ticket stub in my limp hand, J.I.C.
Before I know it, I have a travel companion. A tiny Princeton student clearly en route back to her native land with a suitcase bigger than her body perches RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I am too ill to be irritated but I should have warned her to step away. Her loss. She pops in her earbuds not a moment too soon. As the train lurches forward the sweats are upon me. I am caught up in an overwhelming feeling of volcanic churning just below the surface. I rip out my barf bag which I have stuffed into the front pocket of my suitcase, lean forward, open my lips and let loose the liquid hot magma gorge of Vesuvius. It is rank. Half of it misses the bag and lands squarely on my jeans and trickles down to pool on the gum-dotted floor of the car. Well shit. That's probably the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me. Barfing in a public place is bad - I'll write about the infamous Patti LuPone debacle in another post. (I am STILL fuming about that one.) But barfing on oneself takes the cake.
Tiny traveler doesn't look up. She doesn't move. What is wrong with people? I wipe my mouth, bust out the disinfectant wipes and go to work on my jeans. Then I think, well, this smells awful...someone is bound to get a whiff in the next car. We can't have that now, can we? No. So I pour water all over the slopped vomit like a tipsy sailor spills rum on deck. Drip drip splash and good - that's working, it's washing away...it still smells like puke but I'm not a middle school janitor with a bucket o' sawdust. I sprinkle some Purell to mask the odor and pull myself together. The conductor passes through and sniffs the air, wrinkles his brow, looks at me and I hand over my ticket, then he walks away.
30 minutes later we pull into the airport. I am supposed to meet not only my BFF but my BF who is on a layover in between flights. I call my friend "Thelma" who says she's still on the train out of the city. OK...I'm walking like a geriatric who's just had a hip replacement. I'm gurgling with pain still, everything churning about. There's still more bile to come. I can feel it rising up against me. Then, pathetic as I am, I call "Biff." He's there and says he'll come meet me at AirTrain. HURRY UP, I croak into the phone. I board yet another moving vehicle to take me to Terminal C. Some poor soul gets in my car. Not smart, dude. I may shit myself at any minute. The space-age capsule is hot in the direct sunlight. I am literally doing Lamaze breathing techniques and bracing myself - standing upright - against the rail to keep from passing out. Finally the twee little voice chirps "Terminal C" - thank you sweet Jesus Christ! I am delivered!
There's my darling Biff, waiting for me in his little Brooks Brothers non-iron shirt: crisp blue and hot as my sweaty brow and under normal circumstances, I would have leapt into his arms right there. Now I sort of shuffle squat off the shuttle as he hands me a giant bottle of Fiji water and takes my bag. I bury my head in his chest and groan, "I smell like vomit. I puked on myself on the train." He pats my head like one would, a small child who has just had an accident in public. He is so sweet and patient and sick as I am, I feel just a little bit better not to be doing this on my own. When Thelma gets there, she'll look out for me. But for now, we walk side by side to the Hudson News kiosk where I buy Pepto Bismal and Imodium to get me through the night.
And so it goes: the best of times, the worst of time...IBS is our constant companion.
-GG
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