Author: Dr. Julie

I read an interesting article in the Wall Street Journal entitled The Death of the Diet (page R8 Thursday, January 2022).

The author describes the frustration of people who are sick of dieting and tired of failing. They are sick of being shamed for carrying excess weight and tired of the culture’s narrow picture of health which has been strung up in a beach body string bikini, BMI of 21… or less.

I get it. Health is more than BMI. Fad diets do not work.

I get it because I hear it every day from the clients we serve at Oregon Weight and Wellness.

I get it because I have lived it.

I was fourteen when I began my dieting career. Looking back, I was not even overweight. My BMI was 22. But I thought I was overweight because I was short waisted, had more muscle and more hips than my friends at the time, and therefore looked stockier than their taller, lankier, drink of water bodies.

Let’s see. My first diet was the cabbage soup diet. Remember that one? And all the weight loss it promised? I was sure I could be successful because there was a half a cup of vanilla ice cream on day three or something like that.

Well, little did I know, I hated cabbage soup. So that diet lasted all of two minutes.

Over the years of eating the Standard American Diet, bereft of essential nutrients and loaded with unessential antinutrients which made my cells unwell, I experienced slow steady weight gain, crossing back and forth into the overweight BMI category through my 30s and camping out there by age 40.

So, I did what every normal, red-blooded American does: counted calories, overly restricted, and started hating life.

I wanted rules and I wanted results. Immediate results. Thank you very much. Whatever the diet gurus who promised the most results at the time said to do or buy, I did it. If they said eating fat made me fat, I cut out fat. I bought low fat bars and shakes and meal replacements complete with pictures of the skinny woman I would magically become if I bought that particular brand.

I recall a visit to that haven of all nutrition knowledge, that emporium of rapid weight loss gimmicks: Wal Mart.  As I stood in line, my cart loaded with the bars and supplements and artificially sweetened candies, a friend I hadn’t seen in 20 pounds strolled up behind me and made small talk. How have you been? How are the kids? As she was rifling off the usual questions, I could see her eyes darting back and forth looking at me then looking at the items in my cart. With her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed, she held back her true questions. I felt humiliated. I never made that mistake again.

I never made that mistake again because the next trip I made for dieting fare was to the Wal Mart 30 miles away in a town where I did not know a soul.

I tried Slim Fast, Atkins, South Beach, and Weight Watchers. I tried challenges at work, at church, at home.   And up and down and back up went my weight. Up went my weight and down went myself image.

In 2014 I listened to a lecture by Dr. Robert Lustig which changed my life. Among other concepts, he introduced me to the idea that a calorie is not a calorie. And American calories have been hacked.

I came to understand that the Standard American Diet that I was eating from the time I left my parents’ house and lived on my own was not really food. It was ultra-processed, hyperpalatable, brain hijacking chemicals and food like substances. OK not all of it, but over 50% of it was. This standard American diet I was eating for years had caused my cells to become dysfunctional and caused me to be hungrier, overeat, and gain weight.

With dieting, I went from the frying pain into the fire. My brain could never escape the overstimulation of sugar, artificial sugar, salt, or seed oils that were scientifically engineered into the diet foods in order  to make them taste good or at least good enough to have the appearance of a reasonable  substitute for the pizza or whatever I was craving at the time but was white knuckling to avoid.

So why was I still feeling so deprived? Why was I never satisfied?

Because packaged, processed  food whether part of a diet or not, never satisfies. It can’t. It is not designed to satisfy. It is designed to make me want more. And I was in its grip.

Having dieted for over 35 years, at almost 50 years old, I rediscovered what I really wanted. Freedom.

Freedom from the clutches of processed food and freedom to be able to choose the real food that heals and not harms.

Why is that so hard?

Because I have been conditioned by a culture to want to eat the foods that don’t serve me well and ultimately are harmful to my health. Afterall, “ I deserve a break today.” “ I can have it my way. “I can have my cake and eat it too.” When I eat what I have been brainwashed to think I want to eat, my body does not function properly. And I might not gain weight right away, but I will eventually. Everybody will. Nobody can eat packaged food and stay healthy even if they have a normal BMI.

Without the tainting of the standard American diet, my brain and body want real food.  

That is the truth that sets us free.

Real food. Real food like beef and salmon and eggs. Like Brussel sprouts and kale and cabbage. Like avocados and olives and walnuts. Like berries and lentils and brown rice.  It has taken me eight years to get my brain back, my intuition back, my health back. Oh, I am far perfect in my food choices, but I have retrained myself to prepare, eat, and enjoy real food again.

Real food satisfies because it takes time for it to break down in the stomach, so it naturally reduces the hunger hormone made in the stomach. It takes time for the micronutrients to be absorbed in the small intestine, for the small intestine to release messages to the brain instructing the brain that it is full and satisfied.  Real food establishes a healthy gut microbiome which is essential for immune function, mental health, and weight regulation. Real food does all that and more. It sets you free from dieting.

Do you want to be free from dieting? Get out of the frying pan. And stay out of the fire.

At OWW, we offer an intuitive eating group and we help you learn how to want real food. To find out more, give us a call 971-273-7143

Well, I did it! I managed to wait until the last day of the year to write a final post for 2021. I can procrastinate with the best of them. I blame it on our recent snow. It was enchanting, mesmerizing and held me in an end of the year trance.

But what a year it has been. Our team at OWW has embraced the ongoing challenges of 2021, recognized opportunities, and made great progress.

We continued to use the online platform for our lifestyle groups with newly board-certified health coach extraordinaire Rachelle at the helm. With our growth in clientele, we needed an additional coach. Meghan Handy stepped up to the plate, is now leading some of our groups as well as building her own one on one coaching practice.

Rachelle and I started live streaming! We have a regular spot on Mondays at 12:30 on Facebook and are talking through Michael Pollan’s Food Rules chapter by chapter. It is light-hearted and fun but informative. We also have an occasional special guest which we always enjoy.

Many of you know, I had a scare in July with a post op complication requiring blood transfusions and a longer recovery time. Grateful for modern medicine, I was also impressed with how quickly my body lost muscle mass and strength. (No, this did not translate to weight loss; I gained fat!). No fair.

Practicing a little of my own medicine, I upped my protein and added strength training. Because I don’t push myself very hard, I hired a trainer to help me get back in the game. Having someone right there with me, not just showing me but telling me what to do, then adding constructive corrections, made all the difference.

While I was experiencing my own improvements, it became very clear that we needed a formal movement option for our program. I know we make SMART goals around activity and the coaches help implement them, but I wanted to do more.

Dr. Heidi organized an excellent zoom presentation about movement by a physical therapist to get us started. But with the ongoing and ever-increasing anxiety and stress from the seemingly never-ending pandemic, and understanding that learning new things is hard enough, let alone trying to incorporate new learning when chronically stressed out, first we needed to find a way to help reengage the parasympathetic nervous system, our rest and digest system.

Enter Melissa Hedstrom with her yoga program. Now before you decide that there is no way you would ever be flexible enough to put your leg behind your head, let me tell you that is not what yoga is. The movements in yoga help to build the foundation to access the healthy healing changes and behaviors we want to have and make. 

When strength, confidence, and balance come to the body through yoga, movement, alignment, breath, and relaxation, it directly influences the mental emotional health. Therefore, we are more likely to make those healthier choices and behaviors as the mind and body are more balance. Blood flow, lymph drainage, immune systems, vagal tone, brain waves all improve and increase likelihood of accessing change. It’s fascinating for sure and has been a great add to our wholistic approach to wellness.

We have seen our patients’ hard work pay off in improved health. Throughout the year, we celebrated so many wins and victories. Not only have they lost an average of fourteen percent of their starting weight (WHICH YOU MAY NOT REALIZE IS MORE THAN THE AVERAGE WEIGHT PROGRAM), more importantly, they have seen improvements in cardiovascular risk factors, decrease in fasting insulin levels, enjoyed more restorative sleep, decreased pain, increased mobility, better overall sense of wellbeing,  even stopped some prescription medications, including insulin.

Yes, it has been a great year. And we are not resting on laurels but have made big plans for 2022.

To start off we will be at the Salem Health and Wellness Expo on Saturday,  January 8^th . Come by our booth for a free body composition analysis, or sign up for a free 15 minute coaching session.

Meghan will continue our core group in January while Rachelle will add a lifestyle pillars group, focusing on group style coaching. I will contract with the trainer I mentioned adding this as an option to individualize our program to your needs. Meghan is creating a monthly newsletter to include regular updates, inspire and encourage. We really want to invest in our patients, strengthen the foundation of our services, and enhance the OWW experience.

And we have some BHAGs. For those of you not familiar with the term, that is Big Hairy Audacious goals. I hesitate to mention them for the same reasons you may hesitate to make goals: fear of failure, ridicule, pride. Let’s not let that stop us. We can work together to overcome those barriers and make 2022 the best year yet!

I give lots of advice about how to navigate scenarios that present challenges for healthy habits. Travel and caregiving are two. Have a plan. Take a cooler with healthy food for the car or plane.  Delay desserts. Indulge in fun ways that don’t involve food. Self-care is not selfish, and on and on. Easy for me to say.

Recently, I had the opportunity to practice what I preach on both counts.

My husband and I traveled to Oklahoma City in late September. Though it may not be a common vacation destination, it is where we had arranged for Kenny to undergo a hip replacement. Why Oklahoma City? Believe it or not it was one third the cost. (A topic for another conversation.)

Consistent with his usual frugality, my husband arranged our accommodations at one of the lesser expensive hotels, complete with handicapped facilities as recommended by the surgical center.

We flew in at midnight, scooped up the rental car, and GPSd our way to the hotel. Exhausted from trip, cramped airplane, claustrophobic masks, and in anticipation of surgery, we were looking forward to a comfortable, clean room and good night’s sleep. Unfortunately, this hotel delivered neither.

It was dark. It was dank. It was dingy. Instead of being greeted with that chemical clean smell, we were met with eau de ashtray. Obviously, the previous inhabitant smoked cigarettes and lots of them. Despite our disappointment, we started unpacking.

I stared at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth over the small, stained sink. You can do this. My inner self was mustering up the determination to tough it out for the sake of my husband. It’s for a short period of time. You’ve survived worse. There are people who would be over the moon to be out of the elements. This is what your budget can afford. I took a deep breath of the stale air and choked. My commander in chief chimed in. You will be disagreeable, depressed, and depleted trying to cheer yourself up every day. Not to mention, you will stink, and your clothes will stink, too. If you are going to care for your husband, you must care for yourself.

I walked out of the bathroom and  made eye contact with my husband who was seated on the bed deep in thought. Before I could get one word out, he blurted, “Babe, we are not staying here.”

I could have cried; I was so relieved.

Well, we did stay there that night. But stinky clothes in tow, the next morning we scooted out and scouted out one of the other locations on the list. Yes, they had availability. And to our surprise, the price was not much different. We made our way to the room and opened the door cautiously optimistic. It was like we died and went to heaven. Not just a bed and bathroom. But a suite with a kitchenette. We could cook our own food. Do our own dishes. Our home away from home would be comfortable. I did some quick math in my head and calculated the price difference of the rooms along with the cost of eating out every day compared to making our own meals. We may actually save money by being here.

Note to self: in the future when planning a week away, get a room with a kitchenette.

The surgery went smoothly. He had an overnight at the surgery center and was home by noon the next day. We were accompanied with several contraptions: a walker, a machine that compresses the legs to prevent blood clots, and an ice machine. It had been some time since I had waited on someone hand and foot. Water, pain meds, adjust pillows, meal prep, disrupted sleep to attend to needs that pay no attention to time of day.

It gave me a much better understanding of what many of my patients, many of whom are caregivers, go through not just for a week but every day. And it was challenging to attend to my own needs, to keep my usual routine going, let alone his.

My wins:

I found our favorite grocery store and bought real food. I did not buy junk, did not buy fast food.

I walked on the hotel tread mill every day.

I weighed myself on the scale in the hotel gym.

I allowed myself to buy water because the tap water did not taste good.

I kept my zoom appointment with my trainer.

My challenges:

I reverted to cream in my coffee ( I had been drinking it black to get a true fast)

I reverted to three meals/day and ate when my husband ate rather than following my recently adopted intermittent fasting pattern. I ate out twice.

I did not sleep well.

I only exercised half my usual time. And I sat. A lot.

I did not accomplish the work I brought or read any books.

I was not 100% in any category, food, activity, sleep stress management. Was I a failure? When I arrived home and looked at the number on my scale, I had a choice to make: Feel guilty and beat myself up for not being 100%. Or give myself grace.

In my experience, the former never leads to productive changes. But the latter allows me to examine the experience with honesty, ask good questions, and gain clarity.

Feeling guilty and beating myself up spirals down into an abyss of unhealthy choices. And that’s doubly hard to recover from . Giving myself grace helps me get back on track and more readily reclaim healthy habits.

Guilt or grace. What is your impetus for change?

Rachelle and I are having fun using Michael Pollan’s book, Food Rules, as a springboard for our 12:30pm Monday live conversations posted on Facebook .

The chapters are short, simple, and to the point. The concepts are readily understandable and for the most part, common sensical and non-controversial.

Chapter 1. Eat food. Of course, this begs the question: what is food? And this is a  fair question. Because we have been calling food like substances “food” for several generations now, some people may not know what real food is. The rest of the book helps people understand the real food concept.

Chapter 2 -Don’t eat anything your grandmother would not recognize as food.  

This is a particularly interesting chapter as I consider what I have learned about the evolution of food and the food industry in the United States. I think we would have to go back to my great, great-grandmother from the late 1800s though, to find people eating 100% whole and real foods. Processed foods crept into our food system about the turn of the century when people moved from the country, where they were growing and eating their own foods, to the cities where they bought food brought in.

With little to no refrigeration and no regulation of foods, products emerged to cover the taste of spoiled real foods. Heinz catchup is a case in point. According to what I learned from the History Channel, it was Henry Heinz who labored tirelessly to create a tomato paste to cover the taste of rancid meat. And it was also Henry Heinz who “lobbied for new food safety regulation so his competitors could no longer sell similar products with dangerous additives, even sending his son to meet lawmakers in Washington, D.C. His efforts were instrumental in the creation of the Pure Food and Drug Act which passed on June 23, 1906, and eventually became the FDA.”

The mid-day meal, also called luncheon meaning “thick hunk” (as in thick hunk of meat) used to be the largest meal of the day.  Once people started working in factories, they were not able to go home for this meal, so they brought their smaller lunch to work or bought it from the street vendors. The evening meal transitioned to the largest meal.

How has all this change in our culture, in our food, in our government agencies, etc. impacted our weight and health?

Historical tidbits like that fascinate me. Maybe because I am a questioner and wonder how in the world we got here? How did we ever come to think that refined muffins and cereal and bagels could replace good old free-range eggs and vegetables as health food? How did we become convinced that the pristine white Crisco that comes in a silver can from an oil plant was better for us than the tallow or butter from a real cow that ate real grass plants? When I walk through a grocery store today and eighty percent of what is packed in the shelves and aisles is processed and ultra processed, I wonder how did we stray so far from real food?

Was it marketing or misinformation or maleficence? Or maybe all the above?  Of course, it is a complicated question with complicated answers so many different forces at play.

But it is no wonder that we are so unhealthy with so many chronic diseases including heart disease, diabetes, and cancer.

We may have many opinions about how we got here, but we all can agree that we are not in a great place health-wise. And hopefully we can agree that food, real food, has the unique ability to nourish, and protect, and heal and restore our health. At Oregon Weight and Wellness, we teach people what real food is and how to make small steps to improve the quality of their food. Because when it comes to our health, we believe that real food RULES!

Please join the conversation, on Facebook, on Mondays at 12:30pm.

I am two weeks post op and post op complication and happy to report I am on the mend and back to work!

I have been thinking about everything that contributes to one’s recovery after an ordeal like a major surgery, from mindset to medicine to the mutual support of both family and friends. It takes a village, and I am taking nothing for granted. My kids and husband waited on me hand and foot. Diligent nurses called checking up on me. Caring friends and family cheered me with dozens of texts . I was put on several prayer lists which reached all the way to Michigan. My sister and sister-in-law vacuumed my carpets and scrubbed my floors. Even now, lovely ladies in my church body are delivering nourishing meals to my front door.  I appreciate everything and everyone and do not take anything for granted.

I particularly do not want to take my underlying health for granted.

Thankfully, I was a well person with a complication not a sick person with complicated comorbidities.

The ICU nurses who had the fortitude to march through the war zone of Covid and come out the other side were still ready and willing to do what they do best, save people in acute distress.  Nevertheless, they were glad for the reprieve.

Relatively speaking, my case was easy. It may have been a challenge to keep my blood pressure up, but my underlying cells were doing their normal healthy thing exchanging oxygen and glucose and minerals and electrolytes and not causing any trouble.

Still, I took full advantage of the state-of-the-art hospital bed with all its buttons that conveniently and passively lifted my bruised body without the pain of using my abdominal muscles overstretched during the life saving laparoscopy.

As I lay there, I contemplated those who had gone before me in that very ICU room. I was gravely aware that there had been patients so sick, their bodies so overwhelmed, that they had taken their last breaths in the bed I was lying in, having succumbed to Covid’s cruelty.

And what was unconscionable was that many times they were alone, one of several consequences of callous Covid.

I listened intently and with tears as the veteran ICU nurses recounted their stories: their meticulous donning on and off restricted PPE supplies, their ingenuity in reducing waste, their anticipation of a protective vaccine which would allow them once again to hug sons and daughters they had not hugged for months on end, the double binds they grappled with regarding rules and regulations and protocols and their patients’ dignity and humanity and their own compassion and integrity.

And here they stood, at my bedside, tending to my needs. Humbling.

In their combined 61 years of ICU experience, they had never seen anything like Covid.

It gave me a new perspective. Sobering.

Although never cavalier regarding the reality of Covid and having followed all the guidelines for clinical practice, I have questions. I wonder about the science behind masks and distancing and lock downs. I ponder about the necessity of vaccinating healthy children and young people who have already had Covid. I contemplate why organized medicine and government health agencies to this day have not waged an all-out campaign to encourage citizenry to improve overall health with real and whole foods and exercise and vitamin D and good sleep, all the lifestyle changes we focus on at Oregon Weight and Wellness.

Stay Safe was the main messaging.  What about Be Well.

I understand better now the push for everyone to be vaccinated against the infectious disease Covid. I encourage my patients who are at the highest risk, my mother who at 81yo is in a vulnerable age group, my sister who works in the ER, to get the vaccine. Yet I remain unvaccinated. Not in rebellion. Not without rational thought or looking at the data. Not with an indifference to my fellow man.  I need the data only time can give.

In the meantime, I will continue to wage war on chronic noninfectious diseases which have skyrocketed in the last fifty years with the onslaught of ultra-processed foods. Chronic diseases like diabetes, coronary artery disease and cancer are on the rise and show no signs of letting up.  And this is the reason America was in such a state of emergency. The statistics held true.  Sick people with overweight and comorbidities died from Covid, not well people.

Lest I seem self-righteous, I was once metabolically unwell, mostly because of a diet devoid of  high quality meats, vegetables (unless you consider Pace Picante sauce a veggie) and healthy fats and loaded with bagels and cereal and  Nutty Buddies  and milk shakes and a 72 oz/day diet coke habit. I have learned so much in the last seven years since transitioning from primary care to obesity medicine and I have endeavored to practice what I preach.

From my perspective the top chronic diseases represent one disease: poor metabolic health. By getting to this root cause, and helping people get healthier at the cellular level, we will more be more able to fight the next infectious disease which apparently is inevitable.

The message is simple but is sometimes hard to put into practice. Eat real food. Move your body. Go to bed before midnight. Take vitamin D.

These lifestyle changes afford the body the essential elements, the essential amino acids, fatty acids, vitamins and minerals for healthy cellular function, which means healthy immune function and healthy weight regulation.

In bold humility and with all the respect and deserved praise for the myriad of front-line workers, especially Pat and Lisa, even in the wake of delta variants, without blaming or shaming, I say with confidence and urgency, we do not have to put our communities, or our health care workers, or our government through the likes of Covid again.

We must do our part. We must be well.

Whatever barrier popped into your head. I don’t like… I don’t have time… I can’t cook…I can’t afford…My family won’t eat… etc., there is no judgement. We know change can be difficult. Give us a call at Oregon Weight and Wellness and we will help  shrink the change and get you on the road to better cellular health.

You may know by now that I recently went through a rough patch.  I am happy to report being very much on the other side of it.

Last week, I underwent a routine gyn surgery. I did not undertake the decision lightly and had several conversations with my doctor, maybe too many from his perspective. I might be considered one of those high maintenance patients. After six years of dealing with untimely, inconvenient, post-menopausal bleeding, and with the nagging concern for the big C looming in the back of my mind despite multiple benign biopsies, I sat firmly on the fence.

The deciding factor may have come after a mysterious phone call from my son, Jacob, early one April morning.  I was already at the office preparing for my clinic day when Jacob called somewhat out of the blue.

A long way away in Atlanta, Jacob is faithful about coming home every few months and calling me on a regular basis. In fact, he had recently coordinated his time off to coincide with Elena’s Spring break as well as Zach and Carol’s.  Only Zeke would be missing from our family gathering. That was not acceptable to Jacob; so unbeknownst to me, he orchestrated an elaborate surprise visit from Zeke to complete our tribe’s rendezvous.  

Even so, this Monday morning phone call was out of his normal routine.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked in that voice of motherly concern assuming he needed something.

“Nothing” he replied nonchalantly, “Just making sure you’re ok.”

I assured him I was ok. I was getting ready for the day, putting out fires. Stay ahead of the game was my constant refrain having studied under the master of being two steps ahead.  Always be prepared, my mentor’s boy scout motto echoed in my brain.

Jacob talked about nothing in particular. I would have grown impatient; but motherly intuition picked up on a hidden agenda.

“What’s up?” I gently nudged him, this time with my eyebrows furrowed and my head tilted.

His position shifted on the other end of his phone. I could hear him sit a little straighter as if to build up the courage to ask what he was really calling about.

“Have you been checked?” He questioned me very soberly.

“Checked for what?” I really did not know what he was getting at.

“Whatever they check people your age for. When is the last time you saw your doctor?”

I thought about it. Truth was, I only saw my GYN. I did not have a PCP. My last labs were all normal and I was relatively up to date on screening tests considering the recent Covid postponements. Still the bleeding had started again, not heavy, but it was constant these last three months.

“What brought this on,” I asked Jacob who has always been attentive but never overly doting. (That is Zeke’s job.) He explained that he had recently attended the funeral of the mother of one of his buddies. And that this was one of three buddies who had lost their mothers early to cancer in the last year. And he did not want to be counted in their ranks.

“Just get checked,” he ordered gently but firmly, and we ended the conversation with my promise.

That same day I called for an appointment and in short order the surgery date was set.

I was well prepared. I understood the risks. I felt confident and healthy going in, having paid particular attention to my diet the days and week prior to surgery, what I ate and what I avoided.

“It’s going to be the slickest surgery you have ever performed,” I teased my surgeon on the way to the OR.

The surgery did go smoothly and within an hour I was in recovery. It was the recovery that did not go so well.

My blood pressure was low and not responding to the usual fluid resuscitation.  I had lost some blood during the procedure but not an inordinate amount. The anesthesiologist added pressors to the treatment regimen; but still my blood pressure swooned. I was alert enough to know something had gone or was going awry. Skilled nurses swarmed my bedside and attended my vulnerable body.  I was vaguely aware of conversations about next steps: an arterial line, a central line, a blood transfusion. Every so often the questions “Are you feeling dizzy? Are you having difficulty breathing? Do you have pain?” came into my consciousness.

Well, I did not feel my usual self but then why should I? I had been poked and prodded and pushed and pulled.  I slowed my thoughts even slower and took a closer inventory, like the ultraslow motion of a Hollywood movie. Pushing away the pain I had anticipated from a surgical procedure and all its shrapnel, (I could feel the IV sites, the catheter, the area of incision) I decided, yes, I suppose it does hurt to breathe, under my diaphragm.

The veteran PACU nurse sounded the alarm. The surgeon acted expediently. A stat CT and my languishing vitals clarified the diagnosis. I had internal bleeding and was in hemorrhagic shock. I received two units of packed red blood cells and was taken back to surgery. A liter of blood was suctioned from my abdomen and the offending vessel cauterized. An insulin drip was started as my blood sugars were in the 300s from the stress and medications. An arterial line monitored for acidosis. Two IVs and a central line stood ready to avail me more fluid or blood should I need it. Every vital sign was carefully monitored in the ICU for the next twenty-four hours as my body ached toward recovery.

“Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.” I had been memorizing and reciting Psalm 23 as well as Psalm 139 and Phil 4: 4-9 the weeks and months leading up to these exact moments and now they were faithfully and irrepressibly flooding my mind. The verses were being infused into the core of my  being right along with the fluid, and blood, and medication. “The Lord is my shepherd.” “He makes me lie down in green pastures. ” “Be anxious for nothing.” “Let your gentleness be known to all men.” “The Lord is near,”

This past May during a visit with my sister-in-law at her West Texas home, I felt the conviction to try scripture memory once again.  Amy shared how she had experienced God in a radical way during one of her daily walks through wildflower fields thick with Bluebonnets and Indian blankets. A believer for as long as I have known her, the experience was a turning point in her spiritual life and she was not going back. A changed woman she logged time in God’s word and was eager to share how scripture memory was transforming and renewing her mind. I took her up on her exhortation and committed to memorizing not just verses but whole passages, something I had struggled with in the past.  

I can honestly say I did not fear for my life, lying there in that hospital room.  In those moments when something was very wrong, I felt at peace, apparently it was “the peace that passes understanding”. Even though it was serious, I was sure I was not dying. “All the days ordained for me” including July 9 and better yet July 10, had been “written in his book before one of them came to be.” I knew I could not rush through the valley like my usual impatient self would want to. I had to walk through it and experience each moment and know he was with me and know that he knew my anxious thoughts and I could not go anywhere from his presence that he had knit me together in that secret place and that I was fearfully and wonderfully made.   

I may not have come that close to death, but let’s just say I came as close as I want to come. And I am so grateful for modern medicine with all its annoying bells and whistles. I am grateful for skilled and meticulously observant nurses, surgeons and anesthesiologists. I am grateful for the generous people who donate lifesaving blood. I am grateful for the prayers and all the many pray-ers who are still praying for me.

I am especially grateful to God and God’s word and for the admonition to hide it in my heart. I will endeavor to meditate on it day and night. “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of  my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Happy Fourth of July, Everybody!

This Independence Day weekend, I’d like to address a weigh different kind of independence: an independence from the control ultra processed food has taken over us.

So many of us struggle with weight or losing weight and it is not because we are sitting at home eating bowls and bowls of ice cream. It is because ultra-processed foods have crept into our food supply over the last 150 years and have hijacked the delicate signaling hormones in the gut and brain and fat cells which short circuit their communication.

When we eat real and whole foods, the gut sends signals to the brain that there is enough essential nutrients and energy and the brain can decrease the drive to eat. When there is enough energy in storage the fat cells signal the brain that it does not have to search for food. There is a delicate balance of signaling that goes on between the gut and the brain and the fat cells and a healthy weight is maintained.

Enter ultra-processed foods and that signaling goes haywire. It’s s like the brain in using AT&T, the gut is on Verizon, and the fat cells are on old Ma Bell rotary phone. Remember those? Complete with that long cord that allowed you to walk around the entire house. Our gut/brain/fat cells may be trying to talk to each other but they can’t hear each other; so our bodies are constantly hungry, never getting satisfied. Our fat cells are in storage mode, not wanting to give up any excess energy. And so we gain weight.

What is the answer?

Declare independence from ultra-processed food!

But, Dr. Julie, it tastes so good (they are purposely designed to be crave-able) and they are so convenient, and I don’t have time to spend hours in the kitchen. I don’t even know how to cook. My kids won’t eat vegetables.

I understand. I truly do. So, let’s shrink the change. Start with one meal. Ask yourself: how can I improve the quality of the food I am eating one meal of my day?

My family started with breakfast. We stopped eating the sugary breakfast cereals and muffins and we stopped drinking orange juice. We started using a higher protein/whole grain pancake mix. We exchanged the sugary syrup for natural peanut butter and raw local honey. We found we had left over pancakes and and froze them for another day. We drank water.

We started small. It took time. Everyone in our family got healthier. To this day we are not perfect, but we have come a long way.

If you need support declaring independence from processed foods, give us a call at Oregon Weight and Wellness and you will be on your way to something weigh different.

We usually enjoy the third week of March biking, hiking and hanging with my sister and her family in Bend’s outdoor paradise. 2020 Spring break was no different. But last year the spring in “Spring Break” was in name only, as Bend’s vernal equinox was not so warm and inviting as usual. People were still bundled up in down jackets. Once pristine and white, now dirty snow drifts lined parking lots. Sidewalks were dusted with Winter’s last snow. Apparently, Winter did not want to yield itself to Spring.

I understand not wanting to yield.

Of course, this Spring Break was unusual and unyielding for other reasons. It was the beginning of the “shut down” here in Oregon.

My daughter, Elena, who also lives and teaches in Bend, joined us when her time allowed. I remember during one conversation she seemed particularly anxious, more anxious than I thought she should be, me being her mother and all. She was overreacting, I was sure, saying that the schools were being shut down and they were moving to online everything. Shut down schools, I thought, that would be crazy.

Incredulous, I recounted that conversation and my subsequent experience of empty shelves at grocery stores to my sister over a simple meal at a local burger joint. We were the lone patrons for the moment and laughed with the employee as he swept the runaway French fries off the floor. “You might be our last customers until this thing is over,” he joked, alluding to the imminent closure of all non- essential businesses.

“We heard that too,” my sister acknowledged, not as stunned as I was with the news.

“We are living in historic times,” quipped my 12-year-old nephew in a later rehashing of the discussion.

Shut down. Non-essential businesses. The words echoed through my brain. What does that even mean? For me? For my fledgling business that was probably considered non-essential? Is it that serious? Worse than the Spanish flu, worse than Ebola? So contagious and life-threatening that we must stop our normal way of life? Including kids not going to school?

My thoughts raced as we went to bed that night. I tossed and turned, nightmares crowding sound sleep. The next morning, I asked my husband if we could cut our vacation short and leave a day early. It was not fun anymore. I had to get back to the office. I had to get back to work.

The drive home was torture, for me and my husband. Poor guy. He couldn’t do anything right. If he drove the speed limit, I told him to speed up. If he sped up, I told him to slow down. If he tailed a car, I told him to pass. If he passed a car, I freaked. It was catch 22 with me in the passenger seat.

Monday morning came and I showed up at my office two hours early dawning the N-95 mask I had dug out of the plastic container where my husband stores his paint supplies. Unfortunately, it wreaked of moth balls. There’s no way I can wear this. I’ll faint, I thought to myself and checked my oxygen level to make sure I was even breathing.

I scurried from room to room, mask now on my chin. Do I wipe everything down?  Had Covid surreptitiously seeped in and blanketed every nook and cranny of the office?  How do I decontaminate? Would it be any different than my normal routine? I rummaged through the supply closet for more bottles of hand sanitizer and Lysol spray. Would this kill Covid? Should I even see patients? Do I change to telehealth? I don’t know how to do telehealth. What is telehealth? How is my business going to survive this?

The questions pelted me, one after another, without waiting for answers, like one of those tennis ball serving machines gone rogue. Then they turned circular like a whirling dervish. Lost in thought, immersed in anxiety, I had become dizzy and nauseated from the accumulating fog of bleach and moth balls fumes. I threw open the front door and sucked in a breath of fresh air.

There was a small pile of mail strewn on the floor in the entryway, having been dropped through the mail slot by a faithful mail carrier even in my absence. I picked up the envelopes and fliers and shuffled through them, one by one, relieved by the distraction.  A few bills, mostly junk mail.

An otherwise plain white envelope stood out. The size of a greeting card, it was hand-addressed to me with the words “personal” printed in the lower left corner, and “confidential” stamped directly beneath that. A pink ink stamp in the shape of a cable car flanked the left border and a similar pink Golden Gate Bridge stamp ran along the bottom. A blue postage stamp depicting a small white plane spelling out the word “love” with its entrails was postmarked in the upper right corner. March 09, 2020.  I stared in disbelief as I read the return address.

Corona. I blinked away the irony and read it again. Corona, CA.

It was a from a beloved college friend, Karen. We met and became fast friends freshman year taking many of the same premed classes. I thought about the last time I saw or talked to Karen. It must have been at least twenty years if not more.  We kept in touch after college with Christmas cards, letters, phone calls, even a visit; and then we both went to medical school. And as things often go, our busy lives went on their busy ways. College was thirty plus years ago and here she was looking for me.

“Dear Julie, I found you,” the letter read.  

Did I hear that correctly? I read it again.  “Dear Julie, I found you.”

“Don’t forget.” I sensed a faint whisper in my spirit.

The written words washed over me and the still small voice settled my soul. The God of the universe saw me. He saw me lost in my thoughts, immersed in anxiety. It was as if He stopped time to meet meet me in my space in the most intimate way to tell me that I was not lost. That I had been found.  He had found me. Thirty some years ago, he had found me. The message was so personal and confidential yet written boldly in the bright blue sky: “I LOVE YOU.”

You see, Karen was instrumental in me becoming a Christian. She was with me at the beginning of my walk with God.  

So her letter, from Corona no less, which had come to my office, not to my home but to my office,  in the middle of a pandemic, in the middle of a shut down, to me in that moment, in my fear and my anxiety, was a reminder of my beginnings with God, was a reminder that the God who was with me in the beginning was with me now, was a reminder that the God who created in the beginning was in control now, that he created the vision of the clinic, that he gave me the vision, and He who began the good work would be faithful to complete it.

Fear yielded itself to faith in that moment as winter had to spring. I finished my preparations and welcomed my patients.

Over a year has passed since that experience, and I am still standing, grateful and humbled. Its been a wild ride, a one-day-at-a-time kind of faith, lots of asking for help and seeking wise counsel and praying, not always knowing what is around the bend and hopefully, most of all,  encouraging and building others up. And yes, fear still crouches in the corners. Anxiety is not far behind. But I remember that moment – how could I forget – and the peace of God that transcends all understanding continues to guard my heart and my soul.