The Daily Procrastinator

I firmly believe in the power of the placebo effect.

I am 97% certain (margin of error =/- 3%) that Airborne, Emergen-C, echinacea and any number of other supplements and herbal remedies don’t do a damned thing for you.  And yet, here I sit with a citrus-flavored effervescent drink fizzing beside me.  Why?

Because in every cold there is a pivotal moment.  In some cases, it’s that terrible moment of realization that you don’t feel quite right.  In others, it’s the day that you realize that you’re the only one in the office who isn’t half-dead.  It’s the feeling of inevitability.  It’s way too early for NyQuil, or even Tylenol.  It’s a horrible, powerless feeling, and you just want to do something to make you feel like you have some element of control over your body.  This, I believe, is why Airborne and its compatriots exist.

And so I sit here, confident that thanks to this magical little cocktail, I will have a great day and wake tomorrow feeling good as new.

But because I’m also a realist, I’ll be stopping at the drug store to buy some NyQuil and tissues.  Just in case.

Do you remember when you first heard the story of Nadya Suleman, the mother of the octuplets?  The first news that we heard was that they thought there were seven babies, and suddenly, mid-delivery, they discovered that there was an eighth baby hiding out in there.  Wow, quite a story, right?  Women everywhere were shaking their heads and thinking that there was no way in hell that they would ever want to be in a position where they were giving birth to the equivalent of a full litter, especially since multiples tend to be premature and have health problems.  How on earth could any one couple take on octuplets?

But then we learned more.  There was no couple; she’s a single mom.  And this wasn’t a fertility drug mishap where too many eggs fired off at once.  This was a deliberate placement of twice as many embryos as recommended for a woman her age (six were placed; two embryos split into twins).  In a woman who already had six other young kids, one of whom is autistic.  An unemployed woman who lives with her mom.  I mean, short of the kids being the spawn of some alien life form, the story could not possibly get any more bizarre.

And while the public turned on her, and the media exposed every strange corner of this woman’s life, one thing echoed in my mind: this is going to ruin reproductive medicine for other women, all because this woman and her wild card doctor went too far.

Tiny fingers.

Over the years, I’ve had several friends who’ve undergone reproductive therapies, ranging from fertility drugs right on through to IVF.  When it works, the result is nothing short of a miracle: a beautiful baby when nature alone wouldn’t allow it.  But even under the best of circumstances, the process is brutal, gut-wrenching and physically, emotionally and financially draining for the couple involved.  I’m worried that going forward, access to reproductive treatments will be limited, possibly taking away one last option from someone who so desperately wants it.

I’m hoping, for the sake of those other women, that the public will be able to distinguish between Suleman and the vast majority of women undergoing treatment.  I don’t want to see the reproductive rights of responsible individuals curtailed just because of one woman and one doctor who pushed things too far.

The question isn’t really whether I spend my money on organic products.  The question is whether I buy into the organic theme.  And lately, I’m just not sure.

I’m an avid farmer’s market shopper, but as I make my buying decisions — $1 more per basket for organic vs. conventional strawberries, $1.50 more per pound for organic apples — I find myself hesitating.  Am I shopping at the market for organic produce, or am I shopping there because the items are fresh-picked and better quality than what I can get at my local supermarket?  More often than not, the answer is quality.

That’s not to say that I’m not concerned about pesticides.  When I grow my own veggies at home, I’m very careful to not use chemical solutions to fight against the wee beasties that may be trying to eat my sugar snap peas and tomatoes.  Yet somehow, when the pest battle happens at a corporate farm, I’m less concerned about the results.  Out of sight, out of mind?  Naive, yes, but I’m fairly certain that I’m not the only one who feels that way.

Still, I’ve been strangely attached to organic milk, for reasons that I can’t quite explain.  I’ve been fairly mindlessly picking up my organic milk each week, assuming that there was some sort of great benefit to it, but this week I finally caught a glimpse of the price difference.  My organic milk was 117% more expensive than its conventional counterpart.  117%!  No wonder they keep the organic milk in a separate refrigerator.  Did I really need milk that cost twice as much, especially when most, if not all milk here in California appears to be labeled  rBGH-free?  And why am I so weirdly fixated on organic milk when I don’t apply the same standards to cheese, yogurt, sour cream or ice cream?

There’s ongoing debate about the health benefits of organic vs. conventional, but it seems to me that the biggest distinction comes in the final paragraph of this article from WebMD:

“From these studies examining the differences between organic milk and regular milk, it seems clear that the diet of the cows may be one of the most important factors. Most organic cows are pasture-fed as opposed to grain-fed, and it’s their natural diet that leads to superior quality milk. So, it’s not simply organic milk that holds the prize, it’s organic, pasture-fed milk that does the body better.” [italics mine]

My milk doesn’t tell me anything about what the cows were eating.  Are they grass-fed cows?  How much grass do they have to eat before they’re considered grass-fed vs. grain-fed?  Is my organic milk any healthier than the stuff that costs half as much?

Next week, I’m going to read the labels and see what I can learn about my cows’ diets.  If I can’t find any useful information, then I’m going to be saving a few dollars on next week’s grocery bill.

To the woman at my gym:

I’ve been watching you ever since you first came to the gym last Fall.  You looked so terrified, so insecure, and after your first session with the trainer, you looked ready to cry.  But you came back, again and again, and each time it got a little bit easier.  I’m incredibly proud of you.  Because as hard as it is for the rest of us to get our butts to the gym, I know that it’s even harder when you’re obese.

It doesn’t help to tell you that you’re not alone.  The CDC estimates that about one-third of the U.S. population is in the same boat as you are.  But there’s a difference between you and them: you’re doing something about it.

I’ve overheard you talking with your trainer.  I know that you have no expectations of being supermodel skinny, but that you’re making the effort because you want to be healthier, feel better and live longer.  You’re reducing your risk factors for heart disease.  You’ve already reduced your cholesterol level more than 50 points, your blood pressure is finally in the healthy range, and while your BMI isn’t where you want it to be, you’re getting closer every day.  And while I know that you were probably starting out at something close to 400 pounds, and have a long way left to go, I want you to know that someone sees how far you’ve already come.

I’m particularly inspired by you because my own mother fought a lifelong battle with obesity.  She wouldn’t have set foot in a gym because she would have been embarrassed to be seen in her workout clothes.  It would have been easy for you to feel the same way, following her path of fitness walking before dawn when no one could see.  But my time as an owner of a Pilates and yoga studio taught me the value of exercising with someone, for variety, interest and when all else fails, guilt.

The holidays came and went, and you kept working hard.  You didn’t fall off the wagon after everyone else’s New Year’s resolutions had been forgotten.  I know that it hasn’t been easy for you, but I want to tell you that your efforts have not gone unnoticed.  You look great.  You look happy.  And I’m very happy for you.

Keep up the good work.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.

– TallGirl

(Note: Today is National Wear Red Day for women’s heart disease awareness.)

This isn’t a post about Valentine’s Day or romances gone bad. This is the story of women, heart disease, and the importance of taking care of yourself and being an advocate for your own healthcare. This post was going to be poignant and personal, but sometimes personal is too hard to write.

Here are the basics that you need to know.

The Statistics

· Eight million American women live with heart disease

· Six times as many women will die from heart attacks as will die from breast cancer

· The rate of sudden cardiac death in women in their 30s and 40s increased by 30% in the last decade

· Because the symptoms aren’t as obvious for women as men, heart disease is more likely to kill women.

Don’t ignore symptoms.

For women, heart disease doesn’t present the same clear-cut symptoms as it does with men. There’s no crushing chest pain, no tingling in the left arm. Women are most likely to experience:

· Unusual fatigue

· Sleep disturbance

· Shortness of breath

· Weakness

· Indigestion

· Anxiety

· Dizziness

The Risk Factors

· Diabetes

· Overweight

· Smoker

· High blood pressure

· High cholesterol

Why I’m writing this

Five years ago, my mother died after a heart attack. She was 55 years old. She went to the hospital after experiencing shortness of breath for weeks, which she thought had triggered an anxiety attack. In reality, she had extensive blockages in the three main coronary arteries, and had neglected her symptoms for so long that her heart was permanently damaged.

Know your risk factors. Know the symptoms. Visit your doctor for routine check-ups. Ask for second and third opinions, and listen to them. If my mother had followed these basic steps, I wouldn’t be writing this today.