Preparing for Zepbound Like It’s a Baby Shower

 

In this post, Jean chronicles a week filled with medical busy work, sleep apnea victories, and the long, bureaucratic march toward starting GLP‑1 treatment. With her trademark humor and sharp observations, she turns frustration into storytelling — and even finds room for a cameo from “Dr. Cutie Pie,” her ever-charming sleep specialist. ...AL

 

It was one of those weeks where every waking moment felt devoted to either busy work or maintaining my body like it’s a vintage car that requires constant tinkering. Friday afternoon was a prime example: I spent 17 minutes and 12 seconds on hold just to report that yes, I did keep my follow-up appointment with my sleep doctor. This was in response to the medical supply company's strongly worded letter warning me that if I failed to show up — or failed to call to confirm I had shown up — insurance would not cover this very expensive odyssey I’ve been on since last December.

I was actually excited to keep that appointment, and not just because Dr. Cutie Pie looks like he wandered off the set of a medical drama where he plays the heart-throb who keeps millions of women and gay men tuning in each week. He’s also genuinely nice and extremely thorough. I wanted to tell him that except for the fact that my face looks like a relief road map every morning, I’m doing really well.

And wouldn’t you know — he has a “cure” for the puffy-face-with-ruts look. Witch hazel wipes. Not the fancy expensive, cosmetic-counter potions I’ve been trying. Witch hazel. I could have kissed him, but I didn’t want to smudge his imaginary TV makeup.

The good news is that treating my sleep apnea and hypoxemia has already changed my life. My morning bed no longer looks like I’ve been wrestling alligators all night. And I don’t dread going to bed, especially after learning at the sleep lab that I was quitting breathing 64 times an hour. Now, with my BiPap machine and my pseudo-astronaut headgear, I only stop breathing 1.5 to 2 times an hour — and when that happens, the Bi-in-the-Pap yanks the breath right out of my lungs and puts another one in like a tiny, bossy life coach yelling, “Breathe, damn it, BREATHE!”.

I’ve been 100% compliant with the machine, which is extremely important if you don’t want Medicare to stop paying for supplies then send you a bill for $1,000 if you don’t return the machine ASAP. And how would they know if you’re using it...or if you’ve strapped it to your dog? Oh, they know. The machine has its own Wi-Fi and sends a daily report to Medicare: how many hours you were hooked up, how often you took off the mask to pee, raid the refrigerator, or — in the case of my youngest niece — go sleepwalking down a flight of stairs. (She’s just beginning her own sleep apnea diagnosis journey.)

Back to that phone call: after my 17-minute hold time, I finally talked to someone, then left my apartment — and my phone — to go to lunch. When I got back, there was a voicemail from the same person asking me to call back Monday because they “need more information.” Busy work. Waiting around for a medical supply company to data-mine my brain may not technically fit the definition of busy work, but it sure feels like a stupid waste of time. They've called me four days in a row, now. Why can’t people do their job right the first time?

Speaking of which, here’s another example. Over a month ago, my Nurse Practitioner started the process to get me on the GLP‑1 drug Zepbound for weight loss. First she sent the prescription to my short-term pharmacy instead of my mail-order pharmacy. Then she forgot to include dosing instructions. Then I had to go through Prior Authorization, which is basically the insurance company looking for a reason to deny the drug. This back-and-forth took place through texts and MyChart messages and still isn’t over. But OptumRX assured me that one phone call from the NP is the last hurdle, and they’ve sent her two faxes. I sent her one message. We waited. Then they canceled the prescription when they didn't hear back from her. More calls and text messages and finally everyone is on the same page and the prescription is being filled as I write.

Since I’ve had a month to prepare, I’ve been nesting for this medication like a woman setting up a nursery. I bought the hardcover “bible” on GLP‑1 to learn how to get the best results and manage side effects. It’s not a miracle drug, not a quick or easy fix — I’ll still have to track my food — but the strange part is that everyone on the support sites say they track their food to make sure they’re getting enough calories, protein, and water. Every other diet I’ve ever been on required tracking to make sure I didn’t overeat. The drug stops the ‘food noise’ that goes on inside your head. If you experience it, you’ll understand what that term means. GLP-1 a natural hormone that our bodies product that tells us when you’re full and apparently on GLP-1 we listen.

I also bought a tracking journal specifically for GLP‑1 users. If you’re smart and you want good data to show your doctor so you can keep on the drug you should record everything: injection sites, calories, protein, water, side effects, and what goes out of your body — by mouth or… you know where. Like pregnant women who vomit at the smell of certain foods, some people on GLP‑1s do the same. So my pantry is stocked with ginger gummies and ginger tea. I’ve got high-protein snacks and shakes because apparently protein is key and they don’t mean red meat.

Just doubling my protein and staying under a 500 calorie deficit a day from what my body weight requires in preparation for this big adventure helped me lose six pounds in eleven days. Hopefully, when I finally get to do my first injection, I won’t be projectile vomiting. But if I stick with the program, I’ll get to see Dr. Cutie Pie sooner than my one-year follow-up because all my sleep apnea settings will need to be recalibrated. He’s confident I’m a rule follower and will do well on Zepbound. Did I mention he’s also a psychiatrist as well has a sleep specialist? He’s says there’s a lot of overlap regarding why we have sleep issues.

Surviving in today’s medical community requires equal parts patience, paperwork, and circus‑level flexibility. But if it gets me better sleep, a healthier body, and another appointment with Dr. Cutie Pie, then I’ll deal with feeling like I’m living in a full‑blown medical montage. All I’m missing is a soundtrack and a slow‑motion shot of me bravely opening the Zepbound box — when it finally gets here. Fingers crossed. ©

See you next Wednesday.

On Chin Hairs, Sam Hill, and the Stories We Collect

Jean has a talent for taking the small, ridiculous indignities of aging and turning them into stories that make people laugh, nod, and mutter “oh thank God it’s not just me.” In this piece, she tackles one of the great universal mysteries of womanhood after a certain age: the stealth chin hair. Along the way she wanders into euphemisms, Michigan history, hormonal betrayal, and the sacred friendship pact involving tweezers. It’s part rant, part folklore, part confession — and Jean at her silliest best. ...AI

How in the Sam Hill do whiskers on women over a certain age manage to grow three inches long before — with great embarrassment — you finally see them in the mirror? I look at my face with a magnifying mirror every morning. I wash my face every night. I see my face in between when I refresh my lipstick or wash my hands. Still, it’s always when I’m driving to an appointment or running errands that I’ll glance in the rear‑view mirror and see a foot‑long, gray chin hair waving at me like it’s hitchhiking. I swear these things grow overnight like they’re auditioning for the stage production of Jack the Beanstalk.

Someday I’m going to rear‑end someone, and when the police officer asks if I was texting, I’ll probably say, “No sir, but do you happen to have a pair of tweezers? I can’t get a mugshot taken with this mile‑long hair on my face.”

Turns out I’m not alone in this battle. One of my fellow residents here on my continuum‑care campus confessed recently that she has an agreement with her daughter: every visit includes a mandatory chin‑check. She hates to see old women with long, curly strands of hair bouncing up and down as they talk. Don’t we all? Especially when it’s on our own faces and we’re trapped in a car with a chin hair that’s trying to get us killed in an accident.

I’ve resorted to keeping a pair of tweezers in the car because there’s something about the light coming in from all angles that makes those stray hairs pop like neon signs. Not that it makes them any easier to grab. They like to play peek‑a‑boo in my chicken‑like wattles, darting in and out like they’re training for a covert ops mission. Yes, I know I could go to one of those fancy waxing places, but for one or two stray hairs, is it really worth what they charge?

And speaking of things that sneak up on you, here’s a tangent I promise is connected: did you know the “Sam Hill” in the “How in the Sam Hill…?” euphemism was an actual person? If you didn’t grow up hearing it the way I did, you may not know it’s basically a polite stand‑in for “what the hell.” It’s one of those versatile expressions that can convey confusion, exasperation, or disbelief. “How in the Sam Hill am I supposed to know that!” or “How in the Sam Hill did you do that!”

According to Google, Sam W. Hill was a 19th‑century surveyor and mine developer in Copper Harbor, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He was well known for his “colorful vocabulary,” which is a polite way of saying he swore like a lumberjack with a stubbed toe and a pint of whiskey in his hand. His friends and neighbors would retell his stories but substitute “Sam Hill” for the cuss words. From there, the phrase spread beyond the Keweenaw Peninsula and somehow survived all the way into the 21st century.

It amazes me how euphemisms born before radio, before TV, before social media still manage to hang on. Maybe the slower pace helped them stick? Maybe clever phrases had time to settle into the language instead of being replaced every three seconds by whatever TikTok is doing today. Or maybe Sam Hill was simply the 1800s version of going viral — just slower and with more flannel.

According to AI, the fine, wispy facial hair on the chin and jawline of older women is caused by “shifting hormone levels — specifically, a drop in estrogen alongside a relative increase in androgens during menopause.” I am well past menopause, but I was recently prescribed estrogen as part of my sleep apnea treatment, which begs the question: Why in the Sam Hill am I still growing chin hairs? Perhaps instead of applying the estrogen cream down there, I should try slathering it on my chin.

And why in the Sam Hill is it socially acceptable to poke fun at the biological realities of menopause? I don’t know who first said it, but I’ve never forgotten the joke about The Friendship Test: it’s about which of your friends will pledge to come to the hospital if you’re ever in a coma and pluck your chin hairs. I tried to Google the origin, but there were dozens of references in blogs and TikTok videos. So instead of going down that rabbit hole, I decided to vent about this First World Problem by writing about it too.

Aging hands us plenty of indignities, but it also hands us stories — and the older I get, the more I’m coming around to realize the stories matter far more than the stray hairs ever will. And if the day ever comes when I’m too old or too out of it to pluck my own chin hairs, I hope someone I love will lean over my hospital bed, sigh dramatically, and say, “Well, Sam Hill help us — she’s sprouted another one.” ©

See you next Wednesday!

A Kiss, a Memory, and the Long Road Between Then and Now

Jean has always believed that memory has a mischievous streak — especially the kind triggered by music. One moment she’s driving to the grocery store, minding her own business, and the next she’s dropped straight into a full moon‑drenched scene from the 1960s involving rum, steel drums, and a kiss that would age into something far more complicated than it felt at the time. What follows is her attempt to braid that long‑ago moment with the world she lives in now, and the distance between the two...AI

Music has a unique way of hooking us up with memories buried deep in years past. When a song manages to bring a vivid memory alive, you can’t help but marvel at our brain’s computer‑like ability to retrieve data our conscious self had long forgotten. That’s what happened to me on the way to the grocery store when Riley Green’s voice came over the country station singing, “...I know I can’t stand or sit, but if I was hammered, could I dance like this?...I ain’t as think as you drunk I am.”

I can count the number of times I’ve been truly drunk on the fingers of one hand. And all those times were in the last century — the 1960s, to be precise. There are different kinds of drunks, and I was a happy drunk, the kind who wanted to be on the move, dancing and singing. One particular time I was on vacation with another twenty‑something girl down in the Bahamas.

If you’ve been to the Bahamas, you might remember, as I do, the buttery‑smooth rum and the steel drums those notes rang like laughter as they tumbled through the warm air while the rum settled me into my happy place. As I remember it, it was the kind of intoxicating combination that loosened my world at the seams, making everything feel a little softer, a little friendlier — the perfect prelude to that warm, tipsy, rum‑drunk joy with a side of “I love you, man,” delivered to bartenders, strangers, and possibly a palm tree.

And to the Black taxi cab driver who delivered us back to our hotel that night. After he opened the taxi door and let us out, I gave him a long, deep kiss, much to his surprised delight and much to the disgust of my friend. Later she said she couldn’t believe I actually touched a Black man, much less kissed him shamelessly. And in a public place, no less! It was sometime after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was signed into law and before the Civil Rights Act of 1968 was passed, better known as the Fair Housing Act. But in my friend’s world, Blacks and whites mixing was still a sin.

Try as I might, I can’t remember her name or what she looked like, but I still remember that taxi driver’s sparkling eyes and wide, toothy smile as he enjoyed my drunken state as much as I was. 

It’s a sad statement about how limited my world has been that when I got home from that vacation, I’d have to fast‑forward to when I moved here, four‑and‑a‑half years ago, before I’d have real contact with Black people again. And those in my daily life, now, are all employees of my continuum care community — the wait staff, the cleaning staff, and our CEO. As a flaming liberal I, of course, loved having Obama as our president but that's not the same as actually talking with someone from another race on a daily basis.

When I see our very capable CEO at our monthly Dialogues, standing in front of my fellow residents, his skin as dark as the night, I can’t help noticing the irony: a Black man confidently leading a room full of old white people in a country where that simple image would once have been dangerous, even impossible. I sometimes wonder if he feels that history humming under the floorboards the way I do.

The universe has a way of pairing my life experiences so neatly that it often feels like a deliberate plan to call attention to something I might miss otherwise. When I got home from the grocery store with that feel‑good memory still lingering in my mind, I went to a lecture here in our all‑purpose room. It featured an Abraham Lincoln impersonator who put on a fabulous one‑man show about the Civil War.

There’s roughly a hundred years between when the Civil War was fought that ended slavery and my trip to the Bahamas, and over another half‑century between that trip and now. Still, I’ve always been proud of the fact that my generation has done so much to move race relationships forward — although I’m not sure Black people would see the progress in the same light as most whites do (not to mention the backtracking our current administration is attempting). In terms of history, it wasn’t all that long ago when a Black man would have gotten strung up to the nearest tree for kissing a white woman, even if he wasn’t the one who initiated it. Few days go by when I don’t see someone hug our CEO. I wonder what my long‑ago travel companion would think of that. Has she changed over the decades, or does she still hold onto the belief that races shouldn’t mix? Is prejudice so deeply ingrained in some of us that we can’t change?

I didn’t know where this post was going when I started, but somehow it feels like I’m at the end except for saying that sometimes a silly, rum‑drunk memory from sixty years ago can remind you how far we’ve come, how far we haven’t, and how strangely a single impulsive kiss can echo across a lifetime. And looking back now, I can finally see what I couldn’t then: the kiss was never the scandal. The scandal was the world that insisted it should be. ©

See you next Wednesday!