Author: Dr. Julie

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.

I have fond memories of my son’s high school football team’s after game rituals. Win or lose, they would crowd in together and call out attaboys to each other for great plays they observed each other performing during the game. It was always uplifting and a beautiful reminder of how people learn and grow best in an encouraging environment.

BJ Fogg’s confirms and expands on this concept of behavior change in his book, Tiny Habits. As a behavior scientist, he helps  people create change in their lives and dispels the myth that change is hard.

He talks about utilizing your existing habitual behaviors, neutral or healthy, as prompts to cue the next tiny behavior of the  new healthy habit you are working on. Design your life for small successes.

The key is celebration!

Celebrate any tiny success with a pat on the back or a thumbs up or a happy dance. It could be one of a number of things and he gives lots of suggestions. Shrink the change and then celebrate that you did it. Now why didn’t I think of that?

It’s not rocket science and it makes perfect sense. The author explains that when we celebrate the new behavior with an attagirl or boy, our brain releases dopamine which helps seal the new neuronal behavioral  pathway in our brain and that makes us more likely to do that behavior again. Anchor, Behavior, Celebrate. ABC. So easy and so rewarding. The book goes much more in depth than this, of course, and is extremely practical. It has become my new favorite.

Now to put knowledge into action.

I was in the healthy habit of walking on my treadmill in the morning and wanted to move my exercise outside.

But I just couldn’t seem to get motivated. I mean I was convinced of the WHY of it. I had recently reread all the benefits of being outside in the early morning at the break of day. The UV light from the sun’s rising penetrates the retina, stimulating the central retinal pathway, and sets the stage for the pineal gland to release hormones in a timely rhythm for the day.

The UV light stimulates the conversion of vitamin D in my skin and gives me energy. I can’t layer up though, I have to keep my arms and legs exposed. This would be hard for me because I don’t like feeling cold. But the cool air enhances mitochondrial machinery and helps the  body burn energy cleaner.

I believed the change was worth it. I had plenty of knowledge surrounding it. I wanted all the benefit. I just couldn’t seem to actually do it.

Then I learned about anchors and celebrations and about shrinking the change. What if wore more layers at first so I stayed warm and I just focused on getting outside in the morning? I don’t have to do everything all at once.

Mind blown! Shrink the change. How freeing!

Next step: find my behavior prompt. I always start the day with a cup of coffee blended with unsalted grass-fed butter. Yum! I take the last sip and put it on the counter.

After I set my coffee cup down on the kitchen counter, I pick up my car keys and say: “Atta Girl, Julie!”

I tried it for the first time a year ago at 6:30 am, just before day break.  I was not perfect at the outset and that was ok. I had to tweak the design several times and I did not beat myself up about that. I gave myself grace and time. And in time, I got myself outside, in the car, and down the road a mile to a safe walking path.

Maisie goes with me now and of course she loves it. The other day she got out her lane and so this happened:

Now that’s what I call skin in the game!

Our certified health coach, Rachelle Mathios, facilitates an online group class on lifestyle change. Find out more at oregonweightandwellness.com or give us a call at 971-273-7143.

I wouldn’t say I mind housework. I mean I actually get a rush of natural endorphins when I stand back and look at my clean house after dusting and mopping and sweeping and putting things back in their rightful place. It’s a habit drilled into me from childhood. This is the way we clean the house, clean the house, clean the house, this is the way we clean the house early Saturday morning.  I can remember singing that song as a kid. 

My enthusiasm for Saturday morning housework has waned over the last year, however. I got to thinking about it. What once brought joy had somehow become mundane, lifeless. Why? Something was missing, but what? I had not quite put my finger on it until I used the present my kids gave me this past Christmas.

For several weeks, the Roomba sat in its Christmas box, hanging on to the torn edges of red and green wrapping paper and looking conspicuously out of season. Admittedly, new gadgets intimidate me, especially artificially intelligent ones.

My son made me promise to try it before he trekked back to college in Montana. So early one Saturday morning, I took the first small step. I took it out of the box. To me this was a herculean feat and deserved celebration, something I learned about from reading Tiny Habits, by BJ Fogg. Celebrating even the smallest of victories paves the way to continued success.  I did a happy dance.

The next small step was reading the quick start manual to learn how to use the new gadget. I had conjured up all kinds of technical gymnastic hoops I would have to jump through to get the dang thing working. But this was way easy: PLUG IT IN.  The robotic vacuum went right to work, sweeping the living room, then the hallway, then the kitchen. Room after room, it kept on doing its job.

For whatever reason, this gave me a boost and I went right to work. Side by side, Geoffrey (that is the robotic vacuum’s name) and I worked together cleaning the house. I worked as long and as tirelessly as Geoffrey did. I even got into the nooks and crannies.  

And then it dawned on me. That something missing from my Saturday chores was support. Specifically, support from people. As a kid, I worked shoulder to shoulder with my four siblings happily cleaning the house until it shined. We even whistled while we worked. (At least that’s how I remember it.) And then as a mom, my kids and I cleaned the house together, every Saturday morning.

With my youngest child now off to college these last two years, the lion’s share of Saturday chores falls to me. Alone. By myself. And consequently, I have had less spring in my step.

But now that Geoffrey is helping, my mojo is back. I know it sounds silly, but I feel supported. I can do it. I am not alone.

Whatever the task is, most of us do better with someone else by our side. We need support. And there is no shame in that. That is just the way we are wired.  You have heard it said, “No man (or woman) is an island.”

Perhaps, until we ask for help, we stay stranded on our own “I-land.”

At Oregon Weight and Wellness, we provide the support people need to make lifestyle changes, big or small, in the areas of nutrition, activity, sleep, and stress management. We can’t do the work for you, but we can come along side and go to work with you. No shame. No judgment. Just support. A thoughtful question. A gentle reminder.  A helpful suggestion. An appropriate celebration.  Never forced, always with permission.

We also offer groups which are facilitated by our certified health coach, Rachelle Mathios. Nothing gives Rachelle more joy than to help people create their own vision and see that vision come to fruition.

The groups are structured around books that stimulate change. They offer support, encouragement, accountability, and coaching. Not surprisingly, the people who have had the most success have participated in our groups.

Maybe you are feeling stuck and not sure how to take the next step in lifestyle change. There is a way off your island. You don’t have to go this road alone. Give us a call at Oregon Weight and Wellness and we’ll get to work with you.

I had been looking for a location for my new clinic for months; but everything the realtor showed me was either too big or too small or needed expensive tenant improvements. And there never seemed to be enough parking. So when I drove out of the alley which serves my CPA’s office one sunny afternoon in October of 2019, I was pleasantly surprised to see a For Rent sign in front of this small, neat as a pin, newly painted house. It was within a mile of my previous location. It had been repurposed as an office with newly updated floors and paint. And the price was right! The icing on the cake was the six glorious parking spaces to the side of the building. Six!  Providence, I concluded, had brought me here. This was the place I was to unleash my vision.

Those six parking spaces that I was so ecstatic about in the beginning have become the bane of my existence.

Parking spaces collect leaves and sticks and debris from wind-blown trees. They collect garbage from passersby and neighbors, like cigarette butts and empty soda cans and fast-food wrappers. And when you are running a wellness clinic, you hardly want cigarette butts and soda cans littering your parking lot. So you clean it up.

And then there are people who park in the parking spaces who don’t belong there. In the handicapped parking space, no less. I called the landlord. He retained a towing company and posted a bigger PARKING FOR CLIENTS ONLY sign.

I really want to be a good neighbor. I truly don’t mind folks parking after hours or on the weekends. But shooing people out of the parking lot day after day so my clients can park there gets old.  At first, I knocked on their door, introducing myself, and politely asked my neighbors  to move their cars.  Over the ensuing months I had many pleasant conversations regarding their parking habits, and their trash, always ending with them saying how sorry they were and agreeing to be more careful.

Of late, I just call the towing company.

Last Friday, I was aghast to find a big pile of dog poop at the end the fourth parking space. I sat in my car, staring at it, feeling shat on. I couldn’t prove it was my neighbor, but it felt better blaming them.

I left the dog poop there. Instead, I parked in the third stall, to hide it from view.

It’s bad enough I have to clean up my neighbor’s trash, now I have to clean up their dog poop? It’s bad enough having to pick up after my own dogs; I’ll be dog nabbed if I am going to pick up after someone else’s.   It sat there all day and stared back at me, scoffing, as I left that evening.

Saturday morning, Kenny and I ran errands. I wanted to drop by the office to pick up the mail. And when we pulled up there sat the pile. I had the brilliant idea of Kenny running over it with his wide truck tires. Spread it all out, I thought. Maybe it would rain hard enough to eventually make it go away.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, as I popped inside to gather the mail.

When I came out, the pile was gone.  My husband had grabbed a shovel from the bed, scooped the pile, and got rid of it altogether.

Some moments in life hit you like a ton of bricks.

Kenny’s humble gesture was a picture of redemption. Redemption from the wrong done to me. And If I could accept this gift, I could let it go.

That’s what I want to show the people I work with at Oregon Weight and Wellness who find themselves stuck. Stuck in destructive eating patterns, stuck in a sense of failure, stuck in shame and guilt. Because sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes the stuckness stems from the pain of wrongs done to us and we use food to cover that up. At OWW, we want to come along side with grace and time, and humbly recognize that. We know we can’t right wrongs, but maybe there is a way to let it go and figure out a way forward.

It didn’t take much coaxing to get my husband to jump in the car and drive over the pass to visit our kids. Even the eight inches of snow dumped on Bend that Friday morning didn’t deter him.

We hadn’t seen our grandchildren in over a month. And pictures and facetime just don’t cut the mustard like a good old-fashioned hug. So with dogs in tow, we headed over the river and through the woods. It took a little longer than usual, traffic, ice, snow. Other people had the same idea apparently.

Undaunted, we packed a lot of fun into a little time. An evening romp in the snow, a hamburger barbecue, updates on six-month-old Marin’s new tricks and six-year-old Uriah’s first days back to real live in person physical school. Yes, we had some catching up to do.

But when Uriah invited me to join him in their hot tub after dinner, I was hesitant. I had finally thawed out after the snow play and was just barely regaining sensation in my toes. It wasn’t the getting in that I was concerned about; it was the getting out. Why exactly would I want to get cold and wet again?

Uriah was relentless. “Come on, Gigi,” he pressed, “It will be fun!”    

Clearly, my idea of fun was different than my grandson’s.

But then again, how can you resist those big brown eyes staring you in the face with wonder and anticipation?

Uriah chattered away as we sat in the 102 degree tub, jetted water massaging our backs. I could get used to this, I thought. He told me all about his new toys, his new puppy, the booger that had built up in his mask the first day back to school. And he explained that this was the first time he had been in the hot tub with all this snow.

For whatever reason and before I could take it back, I found myself daring him to get out of the tub, run across the yard through the snow, lay on his back in the snow,  and then jump back in the tub.

He looked at me with surprise, almost shock that I would come up with such an idea.
“That’s a brand new challenge!” he exclaimed. I could seem him thinking. He had never done that before.

No fear. No hesitation. Only excitement and a sense of adventure. And he was so matter of fact, not worrying if he would do it perfectly. With unshakable confidence he simply was up for giving it a go.

His words and his attitude struck me like a ton of bricks. A brand new challenge. A brand new challenge. I kept repeating in my mind. Yes, any change, goal, resolution could be looked at as a brand new challenge. And like Uriah, the emphasis could be on the process rather than a picture perfect outcome.

What brand new challenges was I up for in 2021?   

Live streaming my own interviews? Creating wellness programs for local small business? Implementing a new tracking platform? Adding a fasting group?

My mind was swirling with ideas and questions and more thoughts when Uriah’s sweet voice brought me back to the present.

“Gigi, Gigi, Let’s do it together!”

2021. A brand new challenge. Let’s do it together!

I have encountered a school of thought in the weight loss world that says no food is off limits and we should not label food good or bad. The reasoning is that if you label a food good or bad then you might label yourself good or bad if you eat that particular food.  And that’s not productive when you are trying to make changes for weight loss.

Things that make you go hmmmm.  Or is it just me?

To me this begs the question “What is food?”

I checked the definition online, and this is what I found:

“Food is any nutritious substance that people or animals eat or drink or that plants absorb in order to maintain life and growth.”

That seems like a good thing to me.

So tell me why I can’t I call food “good”?

Notice that there is no mention of food tasting good. I suppose individual tastes vary. However, I take exception to that not being part of the definition and offer my own: food is edible organic substance that has life giving nutrients and energy AND leaves me feeling full and satisfied (because it tastes good).

Maybe the distinction is not whether a food is good or bad but whether what it does to me, in me, for me is healthy or unhealthy.  For example, if I am allergic to peanuts and I eat a peanut and have an allergic reaction, that peanut is not healthy for me.

But isn’t healthy good and unhealthy bad? Hmmmm….

By the way, is soda food?  I really want your opinion on this.

Some things we include in the larger category of food don’t belong there and could actually be considered anti-nutritious.  Harmful even.

I can’t think of one nutritious or beneficial way soda supports life, can you?

And don’t get me wrong, I am not standing on any moral high ground looking down at people who drink soda. I was a soda drinker myself until my husband pointed out the harmful effects it was having on my health: headaches, fatigue, poor sleep, mood instability. At 72 ounces a day,  I was addicted. I loved everything about soda. The perspiring ice cold can, that crisp sound of the tab’s pop as I opened it, the first sickeningly sweet swig, the fizz tickling the back of my throat. Ahhhhhhh…….

I tried to go off soda many times. It was easy during my pregnancies. Because I was caring for another human being. But I went right back to it. And when my husband pointed it out to me and before I quit for good, I made many a secret rendezvous to the nearest vending machine under the guise of running a quick errand. Who was I kidding?

My kids knew exactly where I was.

I literally had to change the way I thought about soda to stop drinking it. For me, it was poison. Poison is bad for me. I would not drink arsenic, why would I drink any other poison?That worked for me. And I have not had a soda for seventeen years. Seventeen! And I have absolutely no desire for one. I am convinced soda is bad and bad for me.

But does that work for every body or for all unhealthy foods? Like cake or cookies or fill in the blank. Somehow we know that dessert foods are not healthy for us if we eat them all the time. And what is excess for one may not be excess for another.

The problem is that so much of our everyday breakfast, lunch and dinner foods have become unhealthy and can’t meet the criteria for food anymore. So can we just take the stuff that is disguised as food out of the food category and call it something different? Like food like substance? Or Frankenfood? Or ultra-processed food or junk food or unhealthy food?

Can we really call unhealthy food food? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Am I going in circles?

I suppose I am quick to label ultra-processed foods “bad “ because day in and day out I see the negative health effects that they have on myself and others.  I do not judge the people for buying and eating these food like substances, myself included. We come by this honestly.  For the past one hundred years our food supply has been hijacked and sometimes in the name of health. (Think margarine. Think cereal. Think food pyramid.) Since the end of the 18^th century, we have experienced an increase in sugars, processed grains, and processed oils. We have changed the way we farm plants. We have changed the way we farm animals.

With all the marketing, all the confusing messaging emanating from the USDA, ADA, AHA, etc, its no wonder people don’t know what real food is and think they are eating food. Food engineers get paid a lot of money to figure out just how much processed sugar, salt, and fat need to be put in their products to make them “hyperpalatable,” and “cravable.”  Ultra-processed food makes you keep coming back for more, never truly satisfying.

Real food does not do that. Real food provides the nutrients and energy you need, leaves you feeling full and satisfied and tastes good!

Let me suggest a different way of considering food without judging yourself, and ok, without labeling the food good or bad.

Is what you are choosing to eat helping or hindering you with your health and weight goals?

In today’s world, all foods may be permissible but not all foods are beneficial.