I know there's something going on. . . .

January 17, 2011


Monday morning weigh in.

As with every Monday morning, I reflect upon what I've eaten during the past week.

Wonder if this will be the week I'm told I haven't lost anything.

Or worse, gained some of it back.

Let's see. . .

Sunday to Thursday were the standard three meals plus three snacks a day.

Very good.

Friday, out for dinner. . .should be okay, because I made good choices.

But it was hard.

A test of my resolve.

My ability to avoid the things I am not supposed to eat.

But Saturday? 

Ummm. . . .not so much.






As usual, I was late getting to the nursing home.

The challenges of being a one car family.

I called my mother around 4.30, also as usual, to remind her that I'd be there for dinner, as usual.

No answer.

Not a good sign.

Pulling up to Pine Grove, I didn't see her sitting in front of the large window, waiting for my arrival.

Also, not a good sign.

I work hard not to disappoint my mother.

My theory: I've done plenty disappointing in the past, there is no need to continue.

In fact, truth be told, I'm probably still making up for all the past disappointments.

And there have been some doozies.

Concerned this was going to add to the list of disappointments, and thus make the making-up list longer, I hustled my pappies into the dining room, stopping long enough to remove my boots and put on slippers because in the winter they don't like it if you track water, snow, ice, mud, into the nursing home.

It's hell on wheelchair traction, apparently.

And a bitch to clean up.

Rushing into the dining room, I scan quickly amid the sea of white and grey hair for my mother.

No Mum.

Again, not a good sign.

Finally, I accept the inevitable.

My mother has already had dinner and returned to her room.

Sh**.

My empirical conclusion was confirmed by a nursing home employee.

"Were you supposed to have dinner with your mother? Because she was sitting in front of the dining room doors at 4.30 and she never said anything about you coming."

So, possibly upset mother.

Hungry daughter.

I did the only thing I could do.

Pizza in Mum's room.





In her room, I apologize (also as usual) for not being there sooner.

Oddly enough, she wasn't upset.

Because I certainly expected her to be.

Normally she would be.

I wondered for a minute if I was even in the right room, or with the right mother.

We watched the news while I ate pizza, the main meal item for this particular Saturday.

Nursing home meals provide a weekly, complex conundrum for me.

I was brought up to eat what is served.

And I realize the nursing home dining room isn't a restaurant.

Which means I have to be very careful what I eat when I'm there because what's on the whiteboard menu is what there is to eat.

Saturday night:

Beef barley soup.
Pizza
Assorted Desserts.

No soup by the time I got there.

But lots of pizza.

And assorted desserts.

Assorted desserts is code for these-are-all-the-desserts-that-remain-from-the-last-couple-of-days-along-with-the-standard-pudding-and-jello-so-help-yourself.

Unless there is left over pie or cake, I'm usually pretty good.

But pizza. . . .

There is nothing about pizza, even if it is homemade, that is remotely okay for me.

I love pizza.

And I haven't had any since I started SFL.

But it was all they had.

I was hungry.

Pizza it was.

But one piece, please.

Right?

Wrong!

Because as soon as the kitchen staff saw me they piled pizza on a plate and had it ready for me to take to Mum's room.

Four pieces of hot, cheesy homemade pizza.

Brimming with veggies, so there was at least one redeeming quality.

But also brimming with processed pizza meats.

Ah, there's the rub.

As if the cheese and homemade crust wasn't enough, the pizza was laden with pepperoni.

Processed food has been the most important item removed from my standard eating fare.

Next to anything containing flour that looks remotely like bread.

I eat almost nothing that comes out of a can.

Or can sit on a shelf for 15 years and still be good.

As soon as I saw that plate, I was in trouble.

Logic would dictate that I ask for two square slices to be removed.

But I didn't want to insult the kitchen staff.

They're nice to me.

And I want to keep it that way.





In Mum's room, I sit on her bed and start eating the pizza.

She's watching me.

And I didn't want it all.

Mum knew this.

We were brought up to eat what was in front of you, and not waste it because there were children all over the world who would be glad for what was on our plate.

Sure enough, "you're going to finish that, right?"

Yes Mum.

Under her watchful eye, I finished the pizza.

Big mistake.

Stephen picked me up at 7.00, and we stopped at Victory for our weekly veggie and chicken spree.

We eat A LOT of veggies. . .fresh and raw as well as cooked. 

Veggies are one of those things I could eat all day long if I wanted.

But I am trying to learn moderation so I limit myself to a bag of baby carrots and a celery bunch per day.

(just jokin' :)

While I was pawing peppers and testing tomatoes, I noticed I was feeling jittery.

Antsy.

Anxious.

Edgy.

Fidgety.

I was snapping at Stephen.

Ready to ram my cart into the back of the legs belonging to the couple pondering the poultry.

Annoyed with another couple taking forever to decide whether or not they wanted the .99 cent broccoli.

Her: What do you think of this broccoli honey?

Him: I don't know what do you think?

Her: Well, it doesn't look too bad, and it is .99 cents.

Him: I agree. But if you don't think it's okay. . .

Her: I don't know, do you think it's okay?

Him: I think that whatever you think is fine. . .

I felt like snatching the broccoli from her hand and beating the two of them with it until nothing remained but a few little bits that had fallen to the floor during the onslaught while yelling, "MAKE A DAMN DECISION!!!!!  ITS BROCCOLI NOT A CAR! HURRY UP AND LET SOMEONE ELSE FAWN OVER IT FOR 45 MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, there's nothing unusual about that. . .standard grocery shopping operating procedure that is.

But the edginess and being fidgety?

Even Stephen commented on it, in his typically kind, caring manner:

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

I stopped.

If Stephen, who is usually oblivious to my moods, probably a survival tactic, is commenting on it, there must be something going on.

Pondered what was happening with me.

And then, like the apple falling out of the tree, the lightening striking the key, I had an epiphany.

Pepperoni.

Processed meat.

Coursing inside me like a malevolent and sinister virus.

Forcing me from my usual sunny and cheerful demeanour into a rancorous and vicious many-headed hydra.

My body was in shock.

What was I doing?

What lead me to consume such dastardly foodstuffs?

One, hunger.

Not much of an excuse.

Two, my mother's watchful eye and her belief in not throwing out good food.

Much harder to avoid.

Next time I miss dinner, I'll bring my own.

Lesson learned.

The processed meat parade that coursed throughout my innards will not be in vain.




Title Lyric: I Know There's Something Going On by Frida (formerly of ABBA)