Well, I'm so bummed about losing all my formatting, including the post summary style that I've been using, that I decided it might just be easier to start fresh:
New blog at http://jennifersavage.wordpress.com/.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
surf session #32
Bunkers. A beautiful swell coming in overhead despite the buoy's claim of 4 at 9. South winds all week feel so good, smooth the ocean into a dream. I'm tired from a late night involving whiskey and loud rock. Tomorrow's goal: take off on anything that comes to me, no matter how steep or late I think it is. My wave judgment needs some adjusting.
SF
I wanted to leave at 6 a.m. for our 1 p.m. appointment. Nick and I pulled away at 8:30 a.m. More rushed than I'd hoped, but traffic stayed minimal, as did our stops, and we walked into the clinic at 1 p.m. sharp. We spent the first hour-and-a-half discussing celiac disease and the endoscopy Nick will need. The doctor explained the procedure: Nick will be out, they'll use an IV and breathing tube, then slide a camera tool down his throat to view inside his intestines and take some tissue samples. Nick took the description in stride, reassured that he'd be unaware of it all. I, however, felt woozy.
Chelsea, already in the City with friends, walked over to the hospital from where she'd been having lunch on Irving. We waited around together for the diabetes appointment. An hour later, the assistant finally called Nick's name. Dr. Reed relayed his A1C level, 6.6, which is right on target, so that was good news. I'd been worried about those highs and how they can contribute to the development of serious eye, kidney and nerve disease.
At least we're not living in 1915. From "Starvation Treatment of Diabetes" (1915): “For forty-eight hours after admission to the hospital the patient is kept on an ordinary diet, to determine the severity of his diabetes. Then he is starved, and no food allowed save whiskey and black coffee. The whiskey is given in the coffee: 1 ounce of whiskey every two hours, from 7am until 7pm. The whiskey is not an essential part of treatment; it merely furnishes a few calories and keeps the patient more comfortable while he is being starved.”
After a total of four-and-a-half hours of doctors and waiting, we paid our $13.75 for parking and worked our way through traffic to our friends' house in the Richmond. And what would San Francisco be without indulging in the local cuisine? We ordered Chinese: hot-and-sour soup, garlicky flounder and shimp. Mmmmmmmmm. I'd considered trying to catch a show at Café du Nord per MD's recommendation, but funds were running low, so instead we watched Zoolander and snuggled into bed.
I met my brother for coffee in the Mission, then picked up Chelsea and Nick for breakfast. As is our custom, at The Crepevine back on Irving. Normally I'd get this Greek-themed concoction featuring kalamata olives, almonds, spinach and roasted eggplant, but I decided in favor of prudence for once and ordered a side of house potatoes. The kids chose sweet crepes – Nutella, chocolate syrup, strawberries, whipped cream, ice cream – that looked (and tasted, I discovered when stealing a bite) utterly decadent. We left Chelsea at K's house, then Nick and I drove through the drizzle into the sunshine of Marin, Sonoma, Mendocino. A stop in Willits revealed the famed Willits Skate Park, which lived up to its reputation as "really cool!" After about half-an-hour, some vital part fell off Nick's board, so off we went, finally rolling into Humboldt about 5:30 p.m. We're due to return in September.
Chelsea, already in the City with friends, walked over to the hospital from where she'd been having lunch on Irving. We waited around together for the diabetes appointment. An hour later, the assistant finally called Nick's name. Dr. Reed relayed his A1C level, 6.6, which is right on target, so that was good news. I'd been worried about those highs and how they can contribute to the development of serious eye, kidney and nerve disease.
At least we're not living in 1915. From "Starvation Treatment of Diabetes" (1915): “For forty-eight hours after admission to the hospital the patient is kept on an ordinary diet, to determine the severity of his diabetes. Then he is starved, and no food allowed save whiskey and black coffee. The whiskey is given in the coffee: 1 ounce of whiskey every two hours, from 7am until 7pm. The whiskey is not an essential part of treatment; it merely furnishes a few calories and keeps the patient more comfortable while he is being starved.”
After a total of four-and-a-half hours of doctors and waiting, we paid our $13.75 for parking and worked our way through traffic to our friends' house in the Richmond. And what would San Francisco be without indulging in the local cuisine? We ordered Chinese: hot-and-sour soup, garlicky flounder and shimp. Mmmmmmmmm. I'd considered trying to catch a show at Café du Nord per MD's recommendation, but funds were running low, so instead we watched Zoolander and snuggled into bed.
I met my brother for coffee in the Mission, then picked up Chelsea and Nick for breakfast. As is our custom, at The Crepevine back on Irving. Normally I'd get this Greek-themed concoction featuring kalamata olives, almonds, spinach and roasted eggplant, but I decided in favor of prudence for once and ordered a side of house potatoes. The kids chose sweet crepes – Nutella, chocolate syrup, strawberries, whipped cream, ice cream – that looked (and tasted, I discovered when stealing a bite) utterly decadent. We left Chelsea at K's house, then Nick and I drove through the drizzle into the sunshine of Marin, Sonoma, Mendocino. A stop in Willits revealed the famed Willits Skate Park, which lived up to its reputation as "really cool!" After about half-an-hour, some vital part fell off Nick's board, so off we went, finally rolling into Humboldt about 5:30 p.m. We're due to return in September.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
diabetes update
We're off to SF Tuesday and Wednesday. Nick's due for an appointment anyway, but the recent trend of high blood sugars needs to be addressed without delay. He's also in line for a blood test to determine if he has celiac disease. (No, no, no! I cannot incorporate a wheat-free diet into our lives on top of everything else!) (Of course, if I have to, I will.)
Books on diabetes I've read so far:
Real Life Parenting of Kids With Diabetes by Virginia Loy: the touchstone of optimism and success I needed. A serendipitous find at the library shortly after Nick's initial diagnosis. I bought my own copy recently.
Getting a Grip on Diabetes by Spike and Bo Loy: a book her sons, diagnosed with diabetes a year apart, wrote. Hers is the companion piece; we did it the other way, where this one provided the comfort and information to Nick that the mom's did to me.
Think Like a Pancreas by Gary Scheiner, MS, CDE: a book providing "the tools to successfully master the art and science of matching insulin to the body's ever-changing needs." Despite the accessible writing, the density of information makes me feel like I'm studying for a class when I'm reading it. Of course, in a way, I am.
When Nick's blood sugars stay within the "good" boundaries, taking care of his needs seems easy – but I know it's not. When he was away at camp, I was surprised how weird it felt to not have to measure carbs, to not have to be walking around with all the math in my head and supplies in hand. This is a real, palpable burden for him – even though because diabetes treatment has progressed so much over the past few decades, we're able to manage relatively easily.
I still have nightmares – what if we can't get his insulin? His syringes? He's forgotten to mention when he's low on test strips before (we go through those faster than anything, so I can't seem to stay ahead on the prescriptions), which suddenly throws us into crisis mode. He's left his diabetes kit places by mistake – so much to remember all the time! – which could have dire and immediate consequences. Jars me from any erroneous complacency, that's for sure.
But for now, we're OK. He's OK. I'm back into Thinking Like a Pancreas, looking for advice, and we'll be back at the doctor's for help next week.
We're lucky to have such support and resources. I should work toward making sure that's true for everyone.
surf session #30
Lots of surfing this week. Oh, how I love summer! The long days, the sweet little sandbars set up all over the place. Perfect for Kaylee, too, as she's been at surf camp all week. "Mom!" she'd start off each afternoon report, "The waves were so much fun! We paddled outside really easily. I made lots of drops!" She's been working on that – timing her pop up so that as she's catching the wave she separates from her board as it's sliding down the wave face. Too early and your weight slows the board down so that the wave goes on without you. Too late, and you end up on your belly, propelled forward – this is how everyone starts – and clambering to your feet from there. But if you pop up at the right moment, as your board drops away, you find yourself on your feet almost effortlessly and discover the little rollercoaster rush of whoosh! down the face.
Yesterday, I'd checked Bunkers in the a.m. – the only likely place given the minus tide, teensy swell and swell direction. From the overlook, I saw waves, but no people. The air hung clear and still, affording me a sharpened view from Patrick's Point to Table Bluff. Often a subtle fog haze blurs everything in the distance; the clarity of the atmosphere this week makes everything seem close, detailed, in focus. Stunning. A golden shimmer announced the onset of the sunrise. I had to make a choice: Hoof it out to the beach to get a better look and hope someone shows up to surf with? Or hightail it back home to for a long walk with the dog? I didn't have time for both. Something compelled me back home – probably the lack of a surf partner. Bunkers is one place I will not surf alone, superstitious as I am about it. But Sandy and I enjoyed our amble on the beach. I even took pictures.
The -1.62 minus tide revealed the whirls and ridges normally hidden under the edge of the sea, and resulted in an early morning river of sorts – Sandy took a swim while I waded across. The brightness of the day made 7 a.m. feel like noon. The exceptional weather inspired an exceptional mood, but I was reminded how much better all mornings feel when began with a walk, a surf. Outside provides a reality check against the made-up world of computers and TV and shopping, a reminder of what matters. I spent a lot of my walk being grateful for being here now. No matter all the various struggles and challenges – to be able to walk along the beach with a happy yellow dog on a day such as this? Life is good.
Life remained good throughout the chaotic radio day and into the evening. My conscience twinged a bit over missing Arts!Arcata, but I promised I'd do my own art roundabout over the weekend. Nick wanted to surf, which given the small swell, was a fine idea. We went out at Power Poles in even smaller surf than yesterday. Again, dozens of people on the beach. Again, a postcard sunset. Again, a fine, fun time.
surf session #29
Thursday: Overslept in the morning (perhaps that bottle of wine shared with a friend over last night's dinner?), but made it out to Power Poles in the evening. Prior, I'd taken Nick and his friend to Moonstone, where dozens of people dotted the beach, the ocean, taking in the unbelievable calm warmth of the day. To be at the edge of the ocean when the air is absolutely still is a rare and magical thing – to be experiencing that while also marveling at the heat is so uncommon in Humboldt County that miraculous might not be an overstatement. Especially considering the sun was out. To not surf would've been a travesty.
Clean, waist-high waves, easy paddle out, a few good friends in the water, a stunning sunset. We stayed in past 9 p.m., catching "one more" until night finally chased us out.
Clean, waist-high waves, easy paddle out, a few good friends in the water, a stunning sunset. We stayed in past 9 p.m., catching "one more" until night finally chased us out.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
surf session #28
Yesterday morning was the one I've been waiting for. The surf details, fun as the session was, don't matter nearly as much as the pleasant company, as much as the way the sun rose from behind a low-lying cloud, fiery pink and brilliant. The waves were nice, so nice, but it was the rainbow stretching southward that made me smile. All day long I was singing...
"Yes, I woke up this morning
A rainbow filled the sky
Well that was God telling me
Everything is gonna be alright "
– G. Love and Jack Johnson from "Thicker than Water"
"Yes, I woke up this morning
A rainbow filled the sky
Well that was God telling me
Everything is gonna be alright "
– G. Love and Jack Johnson from "Thicker than Water"
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
highs and lows
Is it the honeymoon period wearing off? Is it the new (lack of) routine that happens in the summer? Does his slow-acting insulin need adjusting? His fast-acting? Too much "quick" food? Not enough exercise?
Managing the diabetes is like some sort of ongoing science project. Nick's blood sugar levels have been running high. While this is not as immediately scary as low blood sugar, the high blood sugar damages his body in many long-term ways from eye problems to kidney and nerve problems.
My notebook is filled with entries such as this:
"9:12 a.m. 198, ate two pancakes (20g each) and a banana (15g), gave .5 unit insulin correction plus 2 units for food, adding a tsp. of jam to bump up the carbs 5g.
11:24 a.m. 79, feeling like he's dropping, so he had 4 oz. of juice.
11:40 a.m. 162, high because of juice? maybe insulin kicked in after food was burning off and that accounted for low? Drank 8 oz. water."
Etc. I could quit both jobs and do this full time. Maybe then I'd figure it out.
Except, of course, I can't quit anything.
Managing the diabetes is like some sort of ongoing science project. Nick's blood sugar levels have been running high. While this is not as immediately scary as low blood sugar, the high blood sugar damages his body in many long-term ways from eye problems to kidney and nerve problems.
My notebook is filled with entries such as this:
"9:12 a.m. 198, ate two pancakes (20g each) and a banana (15g), gave .5 unit insulin correction plus 2 units for food, adding a tsp. of jam to bump up the carbs 5g.
11:24 a.m. 79, feeling like he's dropping, so he had 4 oz. of juice.
11:40 a.m. 162, high because of juice? maybe insulin kicked in after food was burning off and that accounted for low? Drank 8 oz. water."
Etc. I could quit both jobs and do this full time. Maybe then I'd figure it out.
Except, of course, I can't quit anything.
surf session #27
South winds. South winds! Southwindssouthwindssouthwinds!!!
If only I wasn't completely and totally without any skill to speak of whatsoever.
Yeah, it was that kind of morning. What looked like a promising session of consistent overhead lefts started out with me pulled out past the red dolo, a good 30-yards further outside than anyone else. And when I say "good," what I mean is, I stayed in the channel too long, then couldn't paddle back toward the beach because I was fighting the outgoing current, so I had to paddle at an angle until I eventually rejoined the rest of the pack. Not fun. I understand how people might panic easily, suddenly alone, so small and distant from shore, paddling and paddling and going nowhere.
I did not panic however.
I did not have good luck with waves unfortunately either. Despite my efforts, I was not in the right spot at the right moment. This escalated when both R and I were caught inside a set wave. "Damn, still not out far enough!" I heard him holler as I stroked hard toward the building wave face. I almost made it over, but the top of the wave caught me, tossed me. Something pulled my leash tight. As I popped up for breath, I saw R's board, but not him, and realized he was tangled in my leash. I heard yelling, but before I could do anything, another wave broke on us. This time, R came up, too. "I'm sorry!" I cried. "Are you all right?" He assured me he was, asked if I was. I said yes, but really I thought I'd done something horribly wrong. The smart thing would've been to keep my chin up, find out what happened. Instead I paddled in, getting thrown over the falls on the way in a classic case of insult-to-injury, and slunk away.
Four years ago, I surfed a lot. I paddled out into bigger swells. I challenged myself. Some days, I got worked – but sometimes I caught waves that made everything else fall away. My confidence soared. And then, a series of morale-killers: witnessing the shark attack, breaking my leash in double-overhead surf, hurting my back. My back has never stopped hurting. My confidence has yet to return. Days like this do nothing to help. What if I've already had the best surf days I'll ever have? What if I'm never again going to surf as much or as well? I can't stand it.
If only I wasn't completely and totally without any skill to speak of whatsoever.
Yeah, it was that kind of morning. What looked like a promising session of consistent overhead lefts started out with me pulled out past the red dolo, a good 30-yards further outside than anyone else. And when I say "good," what I mean is, I stayed in the channel too long, then couldn't paddle back toward the beach because I was fighting the outgoing current, so I had to paddle at an angle until I eventually rejoined the rest of the pack. Not fun. I understand how people might panic easily, suddenly alone, so small and distant from shore, paddling and paddling and going nowhere.
I did not panic however.
I did not have good luck with waves unfortunately either. Despite my efforts, I was not in the right spot at the right moment. This escalated when both R and I were caught inside a set wave. "Damn, still not out far enough!" I heard him holler as I stroked hard toward the building wave face. I almost made it over, but the top of the wave caught me, tossed me. Something pulled my leash tight. As I popped up for breath, I saw R's board, but not him, and realized he was tangled in my leash. I heard yelling, but before I could do anything, another wave broke on us. This time, R came up, too. "I'm sorry!" I cried. "Are you all right?" He assured me he was, asked if I was. I said yes, but really I thought I'd done something horribly wrong. The smart thing would've been to keep my chin up, find out what happened. Instead I paddled in, getting thrown over the falls on the way in a classic case of insult-to-injury, and slunk away.
Four years ago, I surfed a lot. I paddled out into bigger swells. I challenged myself. Some days, I got worked – but sometimes I caught waves that made everything else fall away. My confidence soared. And then, a series of morale-killers: witnessing the shark attack, breaking my leash in double-overhead surf, hurting my back. My back has never stopped hurting. My confidence has yet to return. Days like this do nothing to help. What if I've already had the best surf days I'll ever have? What if I'm never again going to surf as much or as well? I can't stand it.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
surf session #26
For days I'd checked and double-checked the forecast. Decent-sized NW wind swell? Check. Local forecast for light NW winds? Check. Should be a decently fun day to road trip up to South Beach.
But, of course, with surfing, nothing's ever certain.
After the typical Saturday morning having coffee and a Trinidad Special (cream cheese, tomato, red onion, Larrupin's) bagel at The Beachcomber, we met our friends at Murphy's. After stocking up on Hav'a Chips and Ya-Yas popcorn, we trekked north. Gorgeous drive as always. We passed elk, daydreamed about buying property in Orick and kept sing-along music going the whole 60 miles. After an initial dose of Blue Oyster Cult ("Go, go, Godzilla!"), we switched to the live Devil Makes Three CD, considered Scott H. Biram for a moment, but he didn't really fit the happy summer mood, so we tossed him aside for Regina Spektor. (Don't get me wrong – I adore SHB's music.)
We hit Crescent City just after low tide. South Beach is typically a high tide break, but at least a dozen people were out in the waist-high waves – in the south wind. South?! Yes, south. Which at South Beach, is onshore. So much for the lucky day theory.
Undeterred, we took our friends to the Noll Surf Shop so they could rent some suits. That accomplished, we went back to the beach, decided to go for it despite the junky conditions and began the arduous process of deciding where to set up camp and then outfitting four adults and five kids in wetsuits, booties, gloves and hoods.
Eventually, everyone was ready. We headed out. I alternated between shouting out advice and promising the wind would turn. Not that our friends cared. This junky, blown-out day provided the first surfing experience of their lives – and they grinned the whole time. The clouds blew away within the hour. The wind never did turn, but the onshore didn't compromise anyone's good time. Chelsea surfed for the first time in a year; she laughed the whole time. That alone would've been worth it. The sunshine and good friends rounded out what was the most fun I've ever had surfing lousy waves.
We finished the day with the obligatory stop at Los Compadres, then returned home with a trunk full of wetsuits to wash out and heads full of happy memories.
But, of course, with surfing, nothing's ever certain.
After the typical Saturday morning having coffee and a Trinidad Special (cream cheese, tomato, red onion, Larrupin's) bagel at The Beachcomber, we met our friends at Murphy's. After stocking up on Hav'a Chips and Ya-Yas popcorn, we trekked north. Gorgeous drive as always. We passed elk, daydreamed about buying property in Orick and kept sing-along music going the whole 60 miles. After an initial dose of Blue Oyster Cult ("Go, go, Godzilla!"), we switched to the live Devil Makes Three CD, considered Scott H. Biram for a moment, but he didn't really fit the happy summer mood, so we tossed him aside for Regina Spektor. (Don't get me wrong – I adore SHB's music.)
We hit Crescent City just after low tide. South Beach is typically a high tide break, but at least a dozen people were out in the waist-high waves – in the south wind. South?! Yes, south. Which at South Beach, is onshore. So much for the lucky day theory.
Undeterred, we took our friends to the Noll Surf Shop so they could rent some suits. That accomplished, we went back to the beach, decided to go for it despite the junky conditions and began the arduous process of deciding where to set up camp and then outfitting four adults and five kids in wetsuits, booties, gloves and hoods.
Eventually, everyone was ready. We headed out. I alternated between shouting out advice and promising the wind would turn. Not that our friends cared. This junky, blown-out day provided the first surfing experience of their lives – and they grinned the whole time. The clouds blew away within the hour. The wind never did turn, but the onshore didn't compromise anyone's good time. Chelsea surfed for the first time in a year; she laughed the whole time. That alone would've been worth it. The sunshine and good friends rounded out what was the most fun I've ever had surfing lousy waves.
We finished the day with the obligatory stop at Los Compadres, then returned home with a trunk full of wetsuits to wash out and heads full of happy memories.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
wound up at the library last week
Elmore Leonard's "Maximum Bob" because I hadn't read him before, but like the movie versions of his books. This one in particular because the title amused me. Sort of a fun read, but lacking the dark depth or engagement of a Jim Thompson.
Kem Nunn's "Tapping the Source" because I'm a sucker for surf novels, awful as most of them are. This one, like his Dogs of Winter, is especially infuriating because the guy can write. Unfortunately, the sharp, vivid prose fails to compensate for the completely over-the-top storyline. I believe even the kitchen sink was in there.
Kent Haruf's "Plainsong" because I love that book and my dad never returned the copy I loaned him.
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