Shared Meal

Image Credit: Quinn Dombrowski via Flickr

I’ve developed a relationship with raw beets.  I’m not in love, at least not yet, but who knows?  Almost anything is possible.  I never imagined myself regularly eating beets, but I am. 

The goal is to eat one beet a day, raw, which I wrote about in an earlier post.

It’s not as hard to eat beets, as it is to take the time to prepare food and eat it.  I forget, but I’m getting better at remembering.  Having an appetite helps.

I baked a chicken yesterday.  I used coconut oil, which is another new addition to my diet, added some onions and garlic, along with a bit of sage that a friend gave me just the other day.   The whole day smelled of good food.  It was calming and reassuring. 

Later in the evening, I realized how little I had actually eaten earlier. Hunger struck me.  I was tired.  My son however was up.  He quickly made me a sandwich.  I think he enjoys the act of handing me a plate of food.  It is rather like a sacred moment when the plate passes from his hands to mine.

There was more to that sandwich than the physical nutrition.  I could feel the energy when I took the first bite.  It made me feel alive.  The images of my having prepared it flooded my mind, along with the way I had felt in the process.   Knowing I had helped prepare the food that was waiting for my son to make me that sandwich was pretty cool too.  There was love in that chicken!

My relationship with food has been difficult for a long time.  Eating has been a challenge.  It hasn’t always been that way.  I used to love food and eating it too.

In my thirties, I experienced a personal interruption in this essential part of living.  At first, I found myself not eating at particular meal times, with a particular person.  Eventually, I realized after losing weight without trying, along with parting ways with the person who bothered me so much that I couldn’t eat around him, that the reasons behind my abstinence from food ran deeper than my feelings about that relationship.

Memories of my grandmother’s modest but lovely dinner table started to frequently occupy my thoughts.  I remembered the good feeling of coming together for meals.  No matter what was going on, we sat down to eat at the same time every day.   I deeply desired that sense of connection to family and I guess, in a more expansive way, to community and our planet. 

I’ve talked to psychologists from time to time about the problem of not always being able to eat.   They basically each said the same thing, which was that they had never known anyone with the same reasons as I had for not eating. 

The most interesting approach to solve the problem was to write the benefits of eating.  I was seeing a fourth year resident at the medical school.  He was very bright and open-minded.

The best benefit of eating that I could come up with was that food would give me energy to walk my dogs.  In a daily journal, I recorded meals and checked off subsequent dog walks.  This helped for a while, but my problem didn’t go away.

When you lose the desire to eat and don’t get it back, something is wrong.  I learned in therapy why I chose not to eat at particular times, but a later tick borne illness added a new dimension to my relationship with food.  Nausea and other symptoms of post-infectious disease syndrome causes a loss of appetite.

I eventually met a therapist who had also studied anthropology.  She helped me understand an important part of my dilemma, which seemed simply about being human.

With time, especially as my son grew older and later moved out, I learned that I really don’t like eating alone.  I need a connection at mealtime.  I need other people. 

Having my son around to share meals with is a blessing.  I think I’m getting stronger too.  I hope he is.  He’s learned a lot about cooking.  

We need a cow bell, but for now, the wonderful aromas coming from my kitchen will do.

Thank you for visiting Dogkisses’s blog.

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PHOTO CREDIT:  MiriamWilcox via Flickr

A Taoist Alchemist has been working with my son and I for about four months.  He replied to an email I wrote while my son was in the hospital last year.  I wrote more than several emails during that time, but most of them carried the same message, which was that my family needed help.

I couldn’t believe it when he wrote me back.  He offered to help us and he has, in more ways than I could ever have imagined.  He quickly became crucial to the plan for recovery I was working on, which did get my son discharged.

The Alchemist is also a semi-retired Master Clinical Nurse.  He worked with the most severe cardiac patients in the hospital for about thirty years.  You’d never know by looking at him that he’s been around long enough for that history.  He has a youthful spirit and is in excellent health. 

He practices several modalities of holistic healthcare, including homeopathy, Chinese medicine and Oi-Gong.  The man has spent years studying these healing arts, along with nutrition and holistic healthcare.  Today he enjoys assisting people in prevention and recovery from just about any disease, including a stressful life.

The first time we met was to talk about my son.  Of course, this led to discussing my son’s childhood, background and me.  I was in his office for my own treatments shortly afterward. 

My toes had hurt for a while.  I kept waking up in the night feeling like somebody was pulling my toenails with pliers.  It was extremely painful! 

I briefly mentioned this pain, but I wasn’t there for the toe pain.  I was there to figure out how to help my son.  I was there because the energy I felt around this man evoked in me hope that my son could get better, possibly even well, which is not what psychiatry has told us for nearly a decade.

The Alchemist gave me a homeopathic remedy the first day I went for a treatment.  I told him that I hadn’t responded well to homeopathy in the past, but he said give it a try anyway.

The next day, the toe pain was gone.  It never returned like it was.  I’ve felt it on a much milder level, but only a couple of times.  They had been hurting nearly constantly and at one point, I recall being afraid of having to use a wheel chair if the pain continued.  The doctors said it was likely Rheumatoid Arthritis or Lupus.

I was surprised when the pain vanished after one treatment from the Alchemist.  I really didn’t know what to think.  Perhaps the homeopathic remedy worked.  Perhaps the energy the Alchemist carries is that of a true healer. 

I believe in healers.  I believe some people have access to energy that can heal sickness and disease.  Healing may not always look the same as the pain in my toes disappearing overnight.  Healing is a process and it takes time, along with a little determination, which brings me to the subject of BEETS!

“I want you to eat one beet a day,” the Alchemist said.  I cringed.  I’ve never eaten a whole beet in my life and that’s counting the obligatory servings I’ve had from the predictable holiday side dish.  I wasn’t sure I could do it.

“Can you make that face again?” the Alchemist asked me, laughing. 

“I don’t like the texture,” I told him.  “They are mushy,” and my face crinkled up again. 

“Oh, they’re not like that raw.”

“Raw?”

“Definitely,” he said.  “One raw beet a day for both of you.” 

“I want you to prepare this for your mother,” he then told my son.  “Do you think you can do that?” he asked him politely.

“Sure,” my son said enthusiastically.  He likes cooking.  He’s also pretty good at it.  Since he’s been living with me, we’ve split the chores.  His includes cooking and washing dishes.  (Yes!)

We’ve had some great meals lately.  I have more energy.  I still have chronic fatigue and pain, but some days, I feel good.  Some days, I have energy.  I do believe a beet a day is a good thing!

My son is doing as well as I’ve seen him in ten years.  He still has challenges too, but we both have a little more energy and many more reasons for hope.

Thanks for visiting Dogkisses’s blog!  Feel free to leave a comment.

Resources: Taoist Healing and Chi Nei Tsang by Dennis Lewis

Thank you my fellow bloggers, Lynda R. Cook,  Sue Dreamwalker from Dreamwalker’s Sanctuary and Paul Handover at Learning from Dogs, for nominating Dogkisses’s blog for the Versatile Blogger Award.

An Update on 12/29/11:  My genuine thanks goes to Deb, from Dorky Deb’s Blog, for also having nominated me for this blog.

I love awards!  I haven’t been the most attentive blogger over the past six months, so I really appreciate that folks remembered my blog.  With that said, I felt a call to write this post.  Thanks for the inspiration!

Now.  The Rules as listed on the recently created VBA blog.

• Thank the person who gave you this award. That’s common courtesy.
•  Include a link to their blog. That’s also common courtesy — if you can figure out how to do it.
•  Next, select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly.
•  Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award — you might include a link to this site.
•  Finally, tell the person who nominated you 7 things about yourself.

The blogs I am nominating for The Versatile Blogging Award are as follows:

Ash, from her blog, Wolfdreams (http://wolfdreams.wordpress.com/)  A true mountain woman, terrific writer and, strong survivor!

John Hayden at Dispatches from Consternation (http://lifeaftersixty.wordpress.com/)  John is a former newsman, blogging about politics, living simple and frugality.  I love his blog!

Leslie Sigal Javorek from IconDoIt  (http://icondoit.wordpress.com/)  If you’ve ever visited my blog before, then you may know that I absolutely love Leslie’s icons.  Much more than her awesome icons and art, Leslie is a survivor, determined not until she is ready and, a talented writer.  Go see!

Planet Jan (http://planetjan.wordpress.com/)   A blog by a witty and predictably funny teacher.

Barbara from My life, His Addiction (http://parentofheroinaddict.blogspot.com/)  A strong woman and Mother writing about the experience of her son’s addiction to heroin.  Moving and real.

Holistic Recovery from Schizophrenia by Rossa Forbes (http://holisticschizophrenia.blogspot.com/)  This blog speaks for itself, but is very well written and resourceful. 

Dorky Deb who is not dorky at all, but a true blogger with 100% of heart and soul! (I’m pretty sure Deb has received this award, which exempts her from another round of acceptance, but wanted to nominate her anyway, because I enjoy her blog and photography).

Pamela Spiro Wagner from Wagblog, (http://wagblog.wordpress.com/)  Pam is an author, artist and survivor.  She writes an amazing blog about life with schizophrenia/bipolar illness.  Take a tour “through Vision Therapy and narcolepsy, Global Warming and just about anything else that interests me as well!”

Rosemary from Seeking Equilibrium (http://rosemaryl.blogspot.com/)  A professional well researched and written blog about living with pain from fibromyalgia.  A long-standing favorite blog of mine!

Dominique at 4Walls and AView  An Airforce Vet, author and “prolific blogger” writing about living with ME and FMS.  Dominique has a strong spirit and clear writing voice.  Her blog inspires me for several reasons, but you’ll have to visit to see why.

Amanda McMillen at (Insert Something Witty) (http://mcmillenwrites.wordpress.com/)  I recently discovered this blog via a comment.  In her words, “Schizophrenic, writer, mother, and sometimes inspired to greatness,” I look forward to reading more of Amanda’s posts.

Forgive me for only nominating 11 bloggers for this award, but I promise, the ones I chose are interesting and definitely worth your time to visit. 

More Rules …  I’m required to tell you seven things about myself.

1.  I love fine chocolate.

2.  I’m a country girl in my heart.

3.  Clogging was a required class for fifth graders where I went to middle school.

4.  I take on the burdens of the world, but I don’t like being blamed for what is either not my  fault or out of my control.

5.  I love blogging and when I can’t, it makes me a little sad.

6.  If I am ever a bride again, I want a wedding dress very much like this one! (The bride in red. Open photo to view larger image and see how pretty!)

7.  I love dogs as much as I do people.

In Gratitude, with wishes that everyone is blessed with love, peace and joy!

Michelle, keeper of Dogkisses’s blog.

Two months had passed.  He was their, “model patient.”

He hadn’t read the patients’ rights literature.  He believed, as I did, that exercising those rights would only bring trouble.

“He’ll be our star,” the psychiatrist and social worker told us, referring to the transition unit they were recommending for him. 

The program on the unit sounded pretty good when they first told us about it.  As with much of what they told us, details were revealed later, after decisions had been made.  We soon learned that a patient normally waits (in the hospital) nine or more months to get in. 

The other part they didn’t tell us was that patients in that particular unit are more deeply under, “the motherly care,” of an institution.  The doctor and her team were as elusive about how long he would stay in the different unit, as they had been about how long it would take to get in.  After speaking with a few professionals, I learned they could keep a patient as long as they deemed necessary.  I understood this meant however long it took to convince the patient that he or she had to take medication, no matter what, every day for the rest of his or her life, aka, compliance.

A patient can say no to medication in a psychiatric hospital, but if the treating psychiatrist believes drugs are necessary, then almost always, medication it is.  

He took the medication.  He was quiet.  He went to classes, most of the time, except when the medication sedated him to the point that he could not stay awake.  He gained almost sixty pounds.  His blood tests changed from normal to abnormal.  He accepted gracefully, “No,” when he asked if he could take a lower dose or change medications.  He came back from the passes they gave him to go out with his family. 

Hospital psychiatrists basically have their own government.  If a patient says no to recommended treatment, the psychiatrist simply goes to the hospital’s court, which occurs weekly and presents his or her case to their judge.  The doctor usually has several other medical team members present; psychologists, social workers and nurses, to aid in the request for forced treatment.  The patient has the right to contest, and is given either a legal advocate or an attorney, but hospital judges almost always give the requesting psychiatrist permission to “treat” the patient.

We chose not to contest the necessary court hearings for a few reasons, the first of which was, that the social worker revealed only pieces of what they were asking for and ultimately, we believed we wouldn’t win.  At least, not until after I could come up with a solid plan to present to them.  A plan that would offer their patient, my son, equal and better “treatment” than what they had in mind for him.  We could only hope they would do the right thing, which was to help us in outpatient planning for treatment in the community.  I worked rather obsessively on creating, “A Plan for Recovery.”

It was amazing really.  All the things the psychiatrist and her colleagues came up with to use against him, some of which were fabricated stories with threads of truth either exaggerated, misinterpreted or grossly over-approximated.

“The county is getting tired of,” the social worker had said the first time we spoke.  I interrupted her.  I couldn’t help myself.

“Which county would that be?” I asked her.  My son had been tossed around in several counties since we turned to psychiatry for help.

“He’s been in the hospital,” and she grandly stated a specific number of times to justify why, “the county was tired.”  Even if her number had been correct, which it wasn’t, it was still relatively low according to what I had learned in NAMI’s Family-to-Family education.  I felt lied to in a way.  Betrayed. 

I’d taken the classes, which are strongly recommended by these same psychiatrists, hospitals and institutions.  What I had learned was the best thing to do for a loved one in a mental health crisis was used against my son.

“That’s not correct information you have,” I told her the next time she made use of the number she grabbed out of thin air.  Instead of looking for the accurate number of times he had been in a hospital, she divided her fictional number by two.  By this time, we were almost out the door, so I let her have her number.

I called a meeting with the psychiatrist and her colleagues to present an outpatient treatment plan, even though this is not how things are usually done in a psychiatric facility.  A family member can most certainly meet with the doctor and/or team of professionals caring for a loved one, but normally, social workers are responsible for outpatient planning.  They refused to help us with outpatient planning because they wanted him to stay.  They said if I wanted to come up with a plan, then they would listen, so I did.

“What if he doesn’t make it at this work-study job?” they asked me during the meeting.  “We’ve been informed that if he can’t make it on time, then he’ll be terminated.”

I reiterated to them that the ACT team worked with him for years and never even got him a job interview.

“This is a work-study job at a meditation retreat center,” I told the group of scrutinizing psychiatric professionals.  “He’ll be outside, learning carpentry, landscaping and building maintenance skills,” I told them.  I didn’t focus on the spiritual teaching that would be offered as part of the work-study job.  I was afraid they would come up with a reason that this wouldn’t be good for their patient. 

“We are afraid he won’t make it,” they kept saying. 

They should have said things like this several years ago, when I was asking for their help. 

They talked as if they expected the world to suddenly be perfect for my son, whom they had repeatedly neglected for many years.  The hospital didn’t have visits from anyone offering jobs in the community, much less directors offering one of their patients a much desired position that would nurture personal and spiritual insight, community involvement and meaningful work.

“He’s been sleeping in groups,” the psychiatrist said.  She was grasping at strings.  Very thin ones, I thought.  She looked over at her patient.  He was sitting at the end of the long table, obviously, without any confidence that he might get released from their toxic care.  In a righteous way the psychiatrist asked him, “How can you function in the real world if you’re falling asleep in our (interesting and stimulating) groups?”  It was more a statement than a question.

He looked around.  He didn’t have an answer.

They were giving him a dosage of medication that I had seen caused him to not be able to walk.  I had seen him staggering, falling against walls, half asleep in the middle of the night, while stumbling to the rest room.  Plus, they were giving it to him in the morning! 

I had asked my mother to be discriminating about what she said during the meeting, because they would use everything against us.  She had been quiet, although, I later learned she hadn’t heard everything, so maybe that’s why, but she responded in defense of her grandson’s rights.

“Maybe he’s bored in those groups,” she said.  “He won’t be bored when he gets out of here.  He can come to my house.  I have everything,” and with that conviction, she had waved her arms in the air, communicating the vastness of what she had to offer compared to the hospital’s unit the doctor was advocating.  “Y’all don’t have any of the things we have,” she added.

Mother looked at me.  I knew she wondered if she had said too much.  I didn’t think so.  My sister chimed in about that time, remarking on the weight he had gained from the medication and not exercising.  “I’ve seen what gaining weight does to people.  They get tired.  Uhh, he’s gained a lot of weight since he came here.  We can see that.”

I was glad they had come to the meeting!

“Which classes is he falling asleep in?” I asked.

The doctor didn’t know.  Her sidekick, the psychologist who wanted every single person he met to know he held a PhD, murmured something under his breath.

“Does he fall asleep in the Yoga class?” I asked, while they were still thinking.

They looked at each other.  The social worker shook her head no.

“He’s never liked lecture classes.  He likes hands on learning and experiential education,” I told them.  “He thrives outdoors,” I added.

I had told the psychiatrist, before the meeting, that I couldn’t understand how she could keep my son when he was not a danger to himself or others.  I hadn’t meant to say that, but when his liver panels continued to come back abnormal and his cholesterol and weight were rising like a flood, I became upset.

“It isn’t even legal.  What you are doing is unethical and illegal,” I told her.

We hadn’t spoken again, until the day of the meeting.  She still didn’t say much to me.  She did look at the photo I brought with me.  It was of my son, smiling, shortly before he was admitted to their hospital.  “He was much happier and healthier,” I told her, which he was.

My son was discharged shortly after the meeting. 

Thank you for visiting Dogkisses’s blog!

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