Jeanne Faulkner

Still more columns from My Regence

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Cutting Myself Some Slack

      

Go ahead, be a slacker. Just say no to a cluttered life.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

It's 6:30am, black dark on a Saturday morning. This is my day to sleep in. Nobody has to get to work or school, and after I let the dogs out to pee, I could easily slide back under the covers for another couple hours of zzz's. I could, but I don't. Too busy, yes, of course--any working parent is. The truth is, though, I value the quiet morning hours more than the sleep--those hours when even the dogs go back to bed and leave me alone. Alone. Ah, blessed solitude. There's no street noise, house noise or distraction. No one needs a glass of milk or wants to discuss the bills. I'm alone to greet the day in the best way I know: with a strong cup of black coffee and my own thoughts. This time is so important to me that I get up at least a half hour earlier than I need to just to have it. My husband is the opposite. He slams out of bed and is off to the races. Literally--he frequently puts on his running clothes and logs 4 miles before his first cup of coffee. That will never happen to me.

Several years ago I reevaluated what was really important to my health, wellbeing and life. With a houseful of young 'uns, a new baby and my aging father to care for, along with a stressful but rewarding job as a nurse and all that goes into owning a home, I got cancer. I did my time in the slammer--aka chemotherapy/radiation/surgery--then cleaned house on my life. It's the cancer cliché: You think, "sh--, what if it's almost over. What do I really want? What do I have to do to get it?" In the midst of ultimate chaos comes clarity. There was lots of clutter. Things were way out of balance on the work and responsibility side of the scale. The rest and play side--hardly any weight at all.

Since there was no chance of running for the border and abandoning my career and family, I looked at all the responsibilities that just weren't imperative, like belonging to committees, volunteering for extra stuff and hanging out with people I don't really like. In short, I employed my inner slacker. Instead of helping with the bulletin board at my kid's school, I said no. I never liked that duty, never liked making copies of spelling lists for the teacher, and particularly sucked at assisting in the classroom. I did it because I felt obliged. Some parents excel at this sort of thing--the room parents, PTA chairs and food drive organizers. God bless them. I love these parents and totally appreciate their investments of time, generosity of spirit and dedication to making my children's school a better place. I just couldn't join them anymore. I'd done my time as the über-mom classroom volunteer with my older children. I still make time to chaperone field trips. But take on scrip sales? Nope, not me.

I continued to slack off at work. Chair a committee for quality control? Nope. How about grabbing some extra shifts at the hospital? Nope. Overtime? Nope, nope, nope. Sorry, guys, the time had come to "just say no," though I'm forever grateful to those who say yes.

At home, there were countless opportunities to de-clutter; personal habits to change if I was going to maximize my health and wellbeing. Yummy glasses of wine--yeah, not so good for me after all. Late nights--nuh uh. Extra weight? Lose it. It came down to what was essential: my family, my health and the core responsibilities of my job. By eliminating the clutter, I added time to focus on those things. If I'm not crazy overbooked with committees, I really can exercise. If I don't consume hundreds of extra calories in my glass, I can lose weight. I can help my kids with their lives without all the extra distractions. I can read, another non-negotiable lifestyle essential. I can write, something I'd always had on my to-do list but never made time for. Turns out, writing has been very, very good to me.

Anybody who knows me now would say, "Who's she kidding?" She works two jobs (writing and nursing), has all those kids and her house is fairly tidy. She's as busy as ever. True. I'm not taking shortcuts on my family life, and that includes doing my part in making a living, keeping house and staying involved as a parent and wife. It also means nurturing my own interests. I love my work, my alone hours, my books and my morning coffee. I make time to exercise and sleep. It's not selfish. It's imperative. It's my life, after all. When it's all said and done, those are the things that hold value. That extra committee? Not so much. Though, once again, let me say thank you to those who say yes.

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Taking the Wheel of My Own Health Care

      

Our fortysomething learned the hard way not to hand any old doctor the keys to her health.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

Most of us grew up thinking that doctors had all the answers. My childhood doc prescribed penicillin for anything that ailed us. Got a cold? Penicillin. Sprained ankle? Penicillin. Not pills, either. He liked the big sharp needle in the butt. When I passed out a couple of times after getting these shots, he decided I was allergic to penicillin. I think it was needle-phobia flexing its baby muscles, not an allergy, but I've never tested with an experimental dose to find out. Passing out on the doctor's floor (with or without accompanying anaphylaxis) isn't on my list of must-do life experiences. We now know that penicillin won't do a darn thing for a sprained ankle (unless of course it's gangrenous), but back then antibiotics were the New Big Deal. Doctors prescribed them "just in case" for all kinds of inappropriate illnesses. Turns out they were wrong about that, and now we have supergerms.

I've spent lots of time with doctors over the last decade, and some have been flat wrong in their diagnoses, treatment and opinions. I've been wrong, too, in blindly trusting them and allowing fear to guide my health care. Here's my nasty medical story, the nutshell version. I found a lump, panicked, and took my boob to my primary care doctor, who knew of my sister's recent death from breast cancer. She referred me to Surgeon #1, who decided the lump needed to come out. Scared witless, I let myself be wheeled off to the operating room for a painful and messy procedure without benefit of proper anesthesia or diagnostic imaging. When I freaked out about the pain, Surgeon #1 dosed me with valium, rushed through the rest of the lumpectomy and demanded I calm down. Apparently, I said in the recovery room, "It feels like the lump's still there," an ominous statement considering the bandages prohibited me from feeling anything. Whatever Surgeon #1 dug out of my boob returned with a pathology report of "normal breast tissue."

A year later, after delivering my youngest daughter, I found another lump, this time in my armpit. My primary care doctor referred me to a surgeon again; on my request, a different one.

I asked around about Surgeon #2's reputation before I saw her. If I'd done a little research on Surgeon #1, I'd have heard about botched procedures and disgruntled patients.  Surgeon #2, though, was stellar. She ordered a number of tests and studies, which I flunked. Using careful ultrasound imagery and excellent pain management, she needled cells from my armpit and returned a pathology report with some very bad words: metastatic breast cancer from a tumor in my left breast at the same location Surgeon #1 had operated on. In the process of rushing to finish my painful surgery, and without looking where he was going (no ultrasound), Surgeon #1 missed the tumor and left it festering. Fueled by pregnancy hormones, it grew and spread to my lymph nodes. After several surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation, I've been cancer-free for almost 8 years.

I was pissed off at Surgeon #1. He did a lousy job and treated me like a head case. If he'd done the job I'd hired him for, the cancer would have been caught earlier and I'd have avoided chemotherapy. I tried to sue the jerk. An attorney said, "Sure, we could take your case, but since you haven't died yet, you probably won't recoup any losses. Do you really want to spend your time fighting this thing?" No, I didn't. I wasn't sure how much time I had left, and spending it embroiled in legal battles wasn't a Zen thing to do.

I've done my best to forgive the idiot, and learned some valuable lessons. Do your homework first. Don't rush medical decisions. Take time for research and choices. Demand good care and treatment. Find out what the standards of care are and make sure your doctor is following them. Turns out, blindly slashing at potential tumors without benefit of good anesthesia isn't standard of care. Huh. Who knew? I would've--if I'd taken responsibility for my medical care. Surgeon #2 knew. All the oncologists I've met since then knew. Surgeon #1 didn't. Why'd I go with him in the first place? Fear. Just dumb fear. And ignorance.

Since then, I've had doctors prescribe medications with side effects I couldn't handle. When I said, "Let's choose something else. That's not a good med for me," I've been met with varying doctor responses from "Well, it should work and you shouldn't have any problems" to "OK, let's try another approach." Guess which doctor I'll pick now: Not the should/shouldn't one. When told, "get this (bump, pain, mole) checked out immediately because it could be cancer again," I now know there's time enough for homework.

Surgeon #1 probably did the best he knew how to do. He wasn't good enough for me, but that was my problem, not his. My medical care and health are my responsibility. I'll never hand the reins over and expect someone else to drive my medical care for me again. Though I no longer blindly trust doctors, I've gained control and insight. I'll do the driving, thank you.

Still more

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Falling off the Exercise Wagon

      

Help! I've fallen off the yoga mat and I can't get up.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

It seems I've taken my slacker attitude a bit too far. I've fallen off the exercise wagon and it's only the middle of January. Sure, I've done a little walking, but not one speck of yoga in weeks. Why? Oh, I've got good reasons. Don't we all? None of us really intends to dump our New Year's resolutions. It just happens. And so easily. But here's the thing of it: I still hate being achy with arthritis, cranky from lack of exercise, and most of all (I believe I've mentioned this before), I hate it when my pants are too tight. So, here's my list of good reasons not to exercise, and my own personal pep talk to get me going again.

1.  I've had a ton of work and no time to do yoga.

Yeah, well, so what? When your bones creak loud enough that people in the next room can hear, you'll still have too much work to do. Doing yoga makes you creak less. Working a lot without working out makes you cranky. You feel totally sorry for yourself when you're overworked, over-stressed and under-yoga'd, so put down the computer and put on your stretch pants. You're going, honey, and that's all there is to it.

2.  My kids are home for winter break and I want to hang out with them.

Right, like their schedule of sleeping until noon is really cutting into your workout time. Sure it is. And how much are they going to want to hang out with you if you're stressed out, anyway? Go to the dang yoga studio, and for that matter, drag their butts out of bed and take them with you.

3.  The little kids have the flu and need their Mama to hold their hair and wipe their faces when they barf.

Uh huh--that's true. It's on the list of punishable parenting offenses to leave sick kids alone and neglected. That's why they offer yoga classes all over town at all hours of the day and night. You can go early, late … whenever an adult kid or spouse is home to do barf duty. Just to drive that point home, if you insist on neglecting your own health by cutting out the exercise, somebody's going to have to hold your hair. And that's not going to be pretty.

4.  Well, the holidays kept me pretty busy.

Yeah, but they're over. That excuse holds no water. Move on.

5.  It's really dark in the morning. I just feel like sleeping.

See excuse number 3: They offer classes all over the place all the time. Sleep if you must, but pull out the yoga mat and do a downward dog, doggone it. Being a sleepy slacker isn't going to cut it. Plus, there are other forms of exercise beside yoga.  Remember that new bathing suit you bought? Put it on and go for a swim. Those hiking shoes that haven't seen any new mud in months, so, go on, git.

6.  My neck aches, my hips are tight, I'm not sleeping well and I'm too tired to work out.

Duh, you big dummy. Of course you're hurting, inflexible and tired. You're lazy and likely to put on weight, too. Hmm, let's think this through. Could it be because you're not getting enough exercise? Remember how good you are at insomnia? It's your biggest talent. Remember how when you exercise you sleep better? And those tight hips? Yoga, remember? What's going on here? No exercise equals pain, stiffness and insomnia (and tight pants). It's not rocket science, missy.

7.  I just don't feel like it today.

So what? Quit your bellyaching, Eeyore, or you're going to be as fat as Pooh and stuck in your tree with a bunch of sticky old honey. Nobody likes it when you do that.   
   
There, now that I've chewed myself out thoroughly, I really am going to today's 1:30 yoga class. As God is my witness, I'll never be lazy again. I'll be flexible. I'll sleep like a dream. I'll be mellow, happy to be alive, healthy and not creaking like an old door. I'll also avoid worshiping at the porcelain throne because I'll boost my immune system. I'll be more productive at work because I'll be clearing my mind of stress and clutter and making room for creativity. Plus, I'm going to buy some new workout clothes so I'll be cute in class. That's always an excellent motivator.

 

Another one - very close to home

Another MyRegence column

Adventures of a Fortysomething:  Life Cut Short

      

When a life ends too soon, is it chance or the choices we make?

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

Let's try a little experiment. Go into the room you live in most. Maybe that's your kitchen, office or bedroom. Turn on the light and take a look around. What's in there that represents your life? Are there pictures of your family? Leftover crusts from breakfast? A stack of mail and newspapers? How about that noodle-necklace your daughter made for you? Your son's muddy cleats? Dirty laundry on the floor? Now turn off the light.

A friend of mine went out shopping recently and never came home. She was young by anyone's standards, physically fit and generally healthy. She had a massive heart attack and died. Just died. There was nothing the paramedics could do to save her. She left a family struggling to understand what the heck just happened to their world. Her children had waved goodbye from the couch and never saw her again. Done. Her light just switched off.

A young couple, married just a few years, ended up separating when their individual personalities and lifestyles proved too incompatible. He was young and carefree. She was intensely organized and focused on the future. He wanted to play. She wanted to work. They drove each other crazy. Then, one day, the phone rang. His middle-aged father had suffered a stroke and was severely disabled. The son settled in at his father's side, and during the course of a few brief but difficult months, he grew up. The young woman visited her husband often, helping with her father-in-law's care, but she took care of her husband, too. And she realized that life was fragile. It could be over in a heartbeat. Maybe a little playtime was important.

Overweight, exhausted and out of shape, the older parents of a preschooler sat down with their lawyer to draft their wills. Who would take care of their daughter if anything happened? It was unthinkable, but they knew they should plan for it. Just in case. Later that week, the mother visited her doctor, who informed her that her blood pressure was off the charts, likely due to her obesity and sedentary lifestyle. He recommended she lose at least 50 pounds and start exercising immediately. He wrote a prescription for blood pressure medication, and she took it to the pharmacy to fill. She grabbed a bag of Doritos and a Snickers bar at the cash register.

His mother died of a heart attack when he was 14. His father died of a stroke when he was 17. At 26 years of age, the young man had been without family for nine years--no siblings, grandparents, aunts or uncles. Heart disease ran rampant in his family, and no one was left except him and his soon-to-be-born baby. He was happy it was a boy because he didn't want his family name to end with him. He ran five miles every day, ate a strict vegetarian diet and never smoked or did drugs, like many of his college-mates had. The tattoo on his shoulder says, "Life's short. Live well."

An old man's funeral was attended by his many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They told stories of his wonderful life: flying the early planes, sport fishing for the big ones. He'd lived at the beach and in the mountains. He had traveled, done important work and still had friends he'd vacationed with for 60 years. Sure, he'd been wild in his younger years; wilder still in his retirement. He could have bought himself a few more years if he'd toned down that wild streak. Still, it had been a wonderful life. He'd followed the basic rules: eat right, exercise often, rest when you need to, do work you like, take care of your loved ones and go out to play.

What will happen when your light is switched off? No one knows when the bulb will burn out. We don't really know if a high-watt bulb burns that much faster than a low-watt bulb, or if it necessarily matters that the wiring's faulty. No one wants to think about the darkness, or about the lives left in the shadows by our absence. But we do know that a life well lived, which follows the basic rules, tends to cast a wide and brilliant glow that brightens the lives of many.

The rules aren't that hard to follow, and yet so many people think they can short circuit a few and it won't really matter. Others follow all the rules and burn out too soon anyway. But the odds are greater for a long, healthy life if the wiring and plumbing are kept in good working order. Random chance and family genetics play a part, but when you take care of yourself, your light is more likely to continue to burn brightly.

 

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Whew! Where've I been?

      

Once again, neglecting my blog.  I'll post a few of my columns from MyRegence today and catch up.


published February 13, 2008

             

Adventures of a Fortysomething: The Golden Rule of Marriage

      

You don't have to wrap yourself in cellophane to keep the marriage fresh.

 

 

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

As I sit down to write my wisest advice for a long and happy marriage, all I can think of is fancy face creams, my pretty new bra and the dress I'm wearing tonight. Maybe I sound vain, but I prefer to think of myself as a smart married lady. My husband's hot. He's funny, good-looking, interesting, well-employed and a great father who totally gets my sense of humor.

Who would he rather be married to? The lady with the gorgeous dress, pretty skin and great looking underwear who happens to be taking him to the symphony tonight or the one slumped in front of television reruns, wearing Winnie-the-Pooh sweats, an old stretched-out bra and with skin that looks like leather? Hmm, tough choice. Would he rather be married to the happy, healthy, interesting and funny lady who's pretty darn delighted with herself or the one who's cranky, disappointed, boring, unhealthy and totally out of fashion? Hmm, again, I say, tough choice.

I'm not saying women should dress up in cellophane and greet their husbands at the door with Jell-O salad and a smile. (That's so environmentally incorrect. Try waxed paper instead and suspend some Twinkies and Pepperidge Farms goldfish in the Jell-O--a classic construction called "ships in the harbor.) Keep the smile, though. If you get home from work and your spouse is genuinely happy to see you, that makes for a happy marriage. If Jell-O's not your thing and you find waxed paper abrasive, here's my tip for a good marriage: Be the best person you can be. That includes your appearance, profession, hobbies, habits and attitude. Oh, and pick a really good partner. Then treat each other really, really well.

My husband and I were too young to get married and didn't do any of the things experts say you should before getting hitched. I was 21; he was 25. He was a musician and I wasn't sure what the heck I wanted to do. We didn't own a house, had not a nickel to our name and hadn't finished school. We never planned the future beyond "after you're a famous rock star and I'm whatever I'm going to be; let's travel the world then have some kids." We didn't talk about what we'd do with our money and keep separate accounts--mostly because we didn't have any money. We just tossed everything we had into one pot and scrambled.

Experts advise discussing parenting philosophies prior to marriage. Nope, not us. We were too busy avoiding pregnancy to plan one. We didn't put much thought into how we'd stay married. Instead we treated each other thoughtfully and pulled our own weight. The odds were against us for a long marriage, but maybe the odds had nothing to do with it. We loved each other, chose kindness and blundered along as best we could.

Looking back, we could be in the divorced half of marriage statistics instead of 26 years into this thing and pretty darn happy. As life happens and we all hit some of that "for better or worse" stuff, lots of couples fall apart. We got lucky and followed our own Golden Rule of Marriage: Treat each other as you'd like to be treated. I'd like to be treated with respect, supported and loved well by a totally hot man. Except for the "hot man" part, I'd bet my husband wants the same thing.

In surveying couples young and old on marriage advice, the older couples talked a lot about work; the younger couples about play. The newlyweds were dewy-eyed with good intention, and clearly hadn't been through many of life's rough spots yet, but their advice was solid: Have fun together, treat each other kindly, create special rituals, and be appreciative of each other. It's sweet.

The older couples, and I include myself in this category, have been through some tough times together. Really tough. Life and death, illness, money problems, raising children, depression, addiction, aging parents and more. You know … life, the stuff that takes the edge off all that fun and sweetness. But by following the Golden Rule, treating each other lovingly, respectfully and carefully, we hang in there. We try to be our best and treat our partners as if they're the most important person in our world. 'Cuz they are.

Marriage isn't for slackers. Nobody's saying you have to be fabulous all the time.  Sometimes I'm a mess. I wake up with raccoon eyes as often as not and get the flu as much as the next gal. Sometimes I can be a real--ahem--witch. I didn't have stretch marks and creaky knees when I was a newlywed. Heck, there was that whole year where I lost my hair and sparkling demeanor while we did time "in sickness and health." Still, if you make an effort to be your best and follow the Golden Rule, it evens out the odds.

All we can do is our best, right? If our spouse does the same, we get lucky. Those newlyweds with their brand-new marriage licenses have the right idea. Be kind to each other. Have fun. Try not to take things too seriously. Don't nag. And my tip: Wear your nice underwear, put on your pretty dress and take him out to play.

 

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