Cold Bathrooms, Warm Hoodies and Miracle Power of Honey

Some Fridays arrive with a clear topic in hand; others show up with a blank screen, a stubborn pocket door, and a foot wrapped like a mummy. Jean’s week delivered all three — plus a few medical mysteries, a sweatshirt that now fits like she borrowed it from a linebacker, and a maintenance man who unintentionally rescued her from writer’s block. Settle in for her latest dispatch from the continuum of independence, cold bathrooms, and the winding road of wound care...AI

How many times am I going to start a blog post by saying I’m staring at a blank computer screen without the foggiest notion of what to write about? This time, however, there’s a maintenance man on the other side of my apartment trying to fix the pocket door between my en‑suite bathroom and the bedroom. It only slides halfway and then gets stuck. And you’re probably wondering why it matters, since I live alone and privacy shouldn’t be a problem.

For one thing, I’m a creature of habit, and I’m afraid I’ll forget not to close it, get trapped in the bathroom, and die of starvation before anyone finds me — which isn’t entirely true. If I didn’t show up on Mahjong day to set up the tables, mats, and sets, someone would come looking for me. I may be wrong, but I think it takes longer than six days to die of starvation, assuming I got trapped on a Wednesday night. Although knowing my luck, I’d be the first documented case of someone starving to death in a bathroom with a fully stocked pantry twenty-five feet away.

But the main reason I need the door to shut is to keep heat in the bathroom when I’m taking a shower. This stupid apartment has no heat source in the bathroom except for a small heater on a timer that’s part of the ceiling exhaust fan. I’d add my own space heater, but there isn’t an electrical outlet anywhere except on the countertop — where the cord would no doubt end up in water and I’d die by electrical shock. My entire apartment is too cold for me. The heat ducts are close to the ceiling, so I can’t even stand in front of one to get warm the way I did in other houses where I’ve lived.

My favorite winter attire is a hoodie that says, “Yes, I’m cold! Me 24:7” sprawled across the chest. I put it on the other day and almost cried. I spent a fortune on that bulky sweatshirt, and after losing 40 pounds it totally engulfs me. It was already a size too big last winter but now my hands are completely covered, the body of the shirt is halfway down my thighs, and I have enough room inside to conceal an eight‑month pregnancy. It’s one of those situations where I’m both happy and sad at the same time — happy for the weight loss but sad that my favorite garment now makes me look like a toddler who wandered off wearing her father’s college sweatshirt.

I still have more weight to lose, so I’m trying not to buy anything new. Like most people whose weight has been up and down their entire lives, I had a stash of clothing stored away in a box labeled “Too Small.” They are just right now. So I’ll be okay until around Christmas, when I hope to be in new territory with a number on the scale I haven’t seen since I was forty. I thank the gods of science who developed Zepbound for that possibility, and I curse the gods of misfortune who gave me a foot wound that’s preventing me from walking my butt off — literally.

And finally, I found my topic to blog about: updates on my foot.

I’ve been to the wound center three times now, and I can actually see progress. And guess what they’re having me dress the wound with. If you said scoparium honey, you’d get the kewpie doll. AI says scoparium honey “is a unique monofloral honey produced by bees that pollinate the Leptospermum scoparium bush… produced mainly in New Zealand and parts of Australia where the native tea tree grows.” For wounds it’s “applied topically in medical‑grade gels to promote tissue repair and fight bacteria.”

But it’s a little more complicated than just dabbing it on. First I have to apply a cream that lessens the pain of cleaning the wounds (there are five) and let it set for ten minutes. Then comes cleaning the wounds with a cleanser that has “acid” in the title before it’s ready for the honey, followed by covering the wounds with a gooey, sticky infused gauze. On top of that goes a silicone foam dressing and enough tape to mummify my foot. At this point my foot has more layers than a wedding cake. But I still have to add a compression tube folded double over my toes and its liner. The foot doctor I was seeing before I started going to the wound center wasn’t even having me cover the area with anything but a cream.

As part of the hunt to figure out what caused — or is contributing to — the wounds I’ve had since May, the wound center sent me to a vein doctor because they suspected a “leaky varicose vein.” But the vein doctor said I have good blood flow going down to my feet and back up to my heart, and nothing that requires surgery. She recommended that I see a vascular doctor to rule out an issue in that department, even though she said that since I can walk 7,000 steps without pain, she didn’t think a vascular doctor would find anything. And since she seemed interested in spending Blue Cross and Medicare’s money, she also said I should see a dermatologist and an autoimmune doctor.

When I told the wound center doctor that, he made a sarcastic remark under his breath about her wanting to run me all over the place — which pretty much echoed what I thought. I didn’t tell him that she also thought he was wrong to tell me to cut back on my walking because, she said, “the ankle is like a second heart, pumping blood to our feet.” Don’t you hate it when doctors disagree? It’s like having divorced parents, except instead of arguing over custody, they’re arguing over my foot. Even though cutting back my walking has slowed down my weight loss, I’m sticking with his advice since I’m finally seeing improvement — which I never saw during the three months of going to a foot doctor twice a month. When I finally saw what Ms. Foot Doctor was billing my insurance company, I was flabbergasted. $326 each visit on top of what Medicare was paying her! Thankfully, I got smart enough to ask for a referral and I'm now getting a treatment that seems to be working. Whatever is causing the open sores, they went from one open wound to five under her care.

Circling back to where I began — because I read once that writers need to do that — the maintenance man is gone, my pocket door works great again, and I no longer have a blank computer screen. Now I need to save what I just wrote so I can do some proofing and editing later today. ©

Photo: When I was searching Etsy for a photo of my beloved sweatshirt to use up above, I noticed they were having a sale so I broke down and ordered another one — two sizes smaller and out of the plus size category! They have a no returns policy so if it's too small, then it will live in my closet as incentive to stay on the weight loss course.  

My First Big GLP‑1 Test: Surviving the Dessert Club Without a Banana Split

Jean wonders if willpower shows up in the small, unglamorous moments — the ones no one applauds, the ones that happen at a farm table or a dessert club or in the quiet recalibration of daily habits. In this post, she writes about a surprisingly triumphant Thursday: a slice of lemonade cake, a room full of banana splits, and the complicated business of changing her relationship with food while navigating the opinions, assumptions, and whispered commentary that swirl around weight loss. It’s a story about discipline, dignity, and the delicate art of keeping one’s own counsel... AI

I did it. I got through a meeting of our First Thursdays Desserts Only Club without ordering a HUGE banana split like everyone else. And I didn’t have to out myself as a new recruit in another group: those of us getting the GLP‑1 Zepbound shots for weight loss. There I was, surrounded by eight people all enjoying my favorite food group in the whole wide world, and I didn’t have food envy and I didn’t feel deprived. The only thing I felt was miffed that I got charged fifty cents more for my small slice of lemonade cake with strawberries on top — while the banana splits came with three gigantic scoops of ice cream, chocolate syrup, nuts, whipped cream, three cherries, plus a whole banana. I’d worried this challenge would test me beyond my ability to resist going off my diet.

I was also worried others would ask why I wasn’t indulging, especially since I was one of the two founding members of the group nearly a year ago. A couple of people even offered me some of their ice cream since I said I didn’t like the cake — that was my excuse for only eating half of it. That’s what Zepbound GLP‑1 does. It’s a natural hormone our stomachs produce that tells you when you’re full, and if you know what’s good for you, you stop eating when it makes that call. I haven’t been able to finish a meal since I started the shots two weeks ago. And the “food noise” in my head is entirely gone. To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that ‘you’re full’ message before in my life. As a child who had to sit at the table until my plate was clean I’m guessing that trained me not to hear it.

Still, you have to count calories every day while on GLP-1, but the strangely foreign part is you count them to make sure you’re eating enough calories and protein. Every time your weight changes, you have to re‑calibrate your DTEE (Total Daily Energy Expenditure), then deduct 500 from that number — that’s the number of calories you try to eat each day to lose two pounds a week. If you fall short, you’re burning muscle instead of fat.

I’ve lost 15 pounds in 27 days, but part of that was before I began the shots, just by doing the DTEE‑minus‑500 trick and doubling my protein. I’ve since been trying to triple my protein, but that’s really hard when I don’t cook my own meals and institutional food is high in carbs and sauces. I’ve also been walking every day and going to the gym every other day. For the naysayers who poo‑poo those of us on GLP‑1, thinking we’re taking the easy route, they don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s a tool, but it doesn’t make you lose weight without putting in the work of changing old habits.

The first sign that I’ve lost fifteen pounds is that it made my shoes — of all things — feel too big and my face look slimmer. The second sign was being able to get into a size‑smaller pair of blue jeans. So far one person has noticed, and when she asked if I was losing weight, I faked surprise and said, “What? Did you find some?” Everyone in the elevator laughed, and I added that I’ve been walking more. I don’t intend to lie (except by omission), but I’m not going to share what I’m doing if I can help it.

Why? Because I was sitting at our farm table when our tech guy went past — he’s lost 140 pounds on GLP‑1 — and I heard some unkind comments about how could “he let himself get so fat” and how he’s “cheating to lose weight.” Lots of positive comments were made, too, but you know how it is: you can hear twenty good things, but it’s the one or two bad things you obsess about. I think that’s human nature, or it could just be Jean Nature.

There are three of us in my Independent Living building who are obese, and I’m number three if anyone were to rank us from heaviest to lowest. I’m frequently at the farm table with the guy at the top, and the way others talk about him when he’s not there is awful. And while I’m probably 75 pounds lighter than him and 50 lighter than the woman in the number‑two spot, I imagine I’m the topic of a few snide, body‑shaming remarks as well.

It’s easy to see that he struggles with “food noise” in his head. He never leaves leftover bread or butter on the table. He’ll ask us all to pass them down so he can take them back to his apartment because he “doesn’t want to see it get thrown out.” I struggle with seeing food wasted too. A lot of us in my generation are in the Clean Plate Club because of those poor kids in China who didn’t get enough to eat.

Number Two in our little obesity club has a husband who is an enabler. He’s normal weight and she has mobility issues because of her weight, but when we have buffets he’ll fill up a plate of all the desserts because, he says, “he doesn’t know which one his wife wants,” and you guessed it — she eats them all. He does the same thing with the main courses. He’s a retired minister who lovingly looks at his wife through strong rose‑colored glasses. You can’t help but like the guy, but he’s killing her with kindness.

Not that we fatty‑fatty‑2x4s can rightly blame our weight on someone else, but the world and people around us do influence our choices. If I were going to make a true confession along those lines, I’d say I’ve always been a ‘closet eater.’ Whenever someone would say, “Should you be eating that?” or “Is that on your diet?” I would put it down — then later I’d find a way to eat in secret, out of resentment for the control that person tried to have over me. And in between the admonishment and the secret eating the food noise in my head was so loud I’m surprised others couldn’t hear it.

And there, dear readers, is the main reason I don’t want to reveal that I’m trying to lose weight. I don’t want anyone looking at my plates and saying, “Should you be eating that?” or “why aren’t you eating?”

Change is hard enough without an audience, and this stretch of my journey feels like something I need to protect. So for now, I’m keeping my little GLP‑1 secret tucked away like contraband in a spy movie. I’ll keep showing up at dessert club with an alternate choice besides the 695 calorie banana splits, pretending I’m just “not in the mood”,” while everyone else demolishes their architectural ice cream masterpieces. If the weight keeps dropping, people can assume it’s from all my virtuous walking or possibly divine intervention. And if anyone else asks if I’m losing weight — and they will — I’ll just shrug and say, “Yes I am and don’t tell me where you found it. I don’t want it back.” ©

This is my New Mantra

                               

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 ten pounds in fourteen 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.