Doing the Covid thing…

Disclaimer: I’m suffering from a bit of brain fog, so if the below post doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, I apologise in advance…

After a year of being careful and socially distancing and all that good stuff, covid has finally arrived in our home. I’ve had this feeling right from the start of the pandemic, that before all this is over, every single one of us will be touched by this diseased whether directly or indirectly. Everyone will know someone who has been seriously ill. Everyone will know at least one person who maybe didn’t make it. In a way, I’ve been waiting for this, which might have been the biggest reason I’ve felt so out of sorts mentally all year.

It all started two weeks ago when my husband developed a low fever. We didn’t think anything much of it, because we were (mistakenly) under the impression that covid caused a high fever. It doesn’t.

After a few days of that, he got tested, and it came back positive. My test came back negative at that time. Fine, no problem, we’re young and relatively healthy, so instead of thinking too much of it, we contacted our doctor, who gave us a list of medicines for him to take and instructed that everyone at home should self-isolate to stop spreading it further to other family members. We live with my elderly in-laws, who had luckily already received their first vaccine a month earlier.

For the medical nerds out there this is what my husband was prescribed: Ivermectin, Doxycycline, (3 days each), Favipiravir, Dexamethasone, Paracetamol, Aspirin and a bunch of vitamins and Zinc. Yes, it’s quite the list.

Camping in my home office, away from my husband, was the hardest thing ever. It made me so anxious to know he was right there, but I just wasn’t allowed to be around, so I couldn’t make sure he was ok. I felt that if only I could *see* him, I’d know.

His symptoms were relatively mild, until the side effects of the medications kicked in, and even more medications were required to get that under control (he developed dyspepsia and constant hiccups). We were advised to get baseline blood work done, which revealed quite a few abnormal results, so that was a concern as well and he’s a lifelong asthmatic, so we knew we had to be careful.

But, the medicines we got were the best we could get, and apparently it would take time for this thing to pass, so we could do nothing else except wait. That’s what we did. We waited, in stasis. Just about twenty feet apart. I only saw him when he occasionally stretched his legs outside, or I had to come in fully masked and holding my breath in order to use the bathroom.

Still no real symptoms for me except a mildly raw throat, and a general feeling of something being wrong, which both of us put down to seasonal allergies and anxiety. It wasn’t that. I tested positive 3 days later, with a temperature of 99F, a headache and some mild post-nasal drip.

And so I moved back into the room, thrilled that at least we were together and I could keep an eye on him. My blood work came back largely normal and I did not get the mountain of drugs that were prescribed to him.

But my feelings of relief that at least our individual isolation was over did not last. On day 9 of his symptoms, he got worse.

The fever, which had subsided for a day or so came back even higher. The cough became more persistent. His oxygen levels were starting to fluctuate a bit. The doctor ordered a follow-up blood test which revealed that the infection had gotten worse. I have to add that our doctor is absolutely amazing and I don’t know what we would have done without him. He took time out during his lunch hour at the nearby hospital where he works and examined my husband, putting his own safety and health at risk, just to satisfy himself of what was really going on. He was not happy with what he found.

We had him admitted with covid related pneumonia on our doctor’s advice. His blood test results (CRP and liver markers) were terrible. Though his blood oxygenation was quite alright when he reached the hospital. I feel this is in part thanks to the comprehensive cocktail of medicines he’d received up to that point, and the strict discipline with which he’d been doing breathing exercises since his initial diagnosis.

No visitors or outsiders are allowed inside the Covid ward at the hospital. And because I’d already tested positive, I stayed in the car rather than enter the emergency room as well. I didn’t want to expose anyone else unnecessarily. We’re lucky to have phones and internet and all, or else things would become unbearable pretty quickly.

It’s day 3 now of his hospital stay, and finally things seem to be looking up, beit slowly. His oxygenation dips down occasionally but not so much that he has to be put on supplemental oxygen. His CRP reading skyrocketed until yesterday, but is showing a downward trend today. His liver function is still very abnormal. Luckily his CT scan came back “not too bad”. Whatever that means. Not to bad generally, or not to bad compared to people seriously ill with Covid? His fever has finally broken on day 12 of the disease.

And I’m still at home, alone in our bedroom and away from everyone else and even the confused and heartbroken puppy, because I might still be contagious. My symptoms are mild, mainly just a headache, a runny nose and burning eyes. Fatigue is setting in and my brain, which is normally full of ideas and stories feels like a pool of drying cement.

I would have liked to be part of the way through my next book by now. Instead, I’m sleeping roughly 16 hours a day and staring blankly at my phone the rest of the time.

Counting the days and hours until my husband comes back home.

This isn’t a joke. Please wear a mask. Take all precautions. Get vaccinated. Nothing is fullproof, but at least you’ll know you’ve done what you could.

x, Lorelei

So, I went to therapy…

*Cross posting with my newsletter*

It’s been a while since I wrote to you all. I haven’t posted on my blog, I haven’t sent out any newsletters, I’ve just been sort of getting swept up in all these other parts of my life that didn’t have anything to do with my writing. It’s not the first time this has happened, and I can’t promise it will be the last time. It’s been a bit of a struggle, to be honest. If you want to know more, then read on…

The lockdown which started at the end of March didn’t help. The constant fear mongering in the media; the daily changes to the rules and advice, all that was enough to drive anyone up the wall. On top of that, my mother-in-law’s health has been keeping us all on our toes.

I wrote in my last blog post about her short stint in hospital due to sodium imbalance. Though we were all back home in time for the lockdown, things were far from over. Due to her ongoing health issues and in large part probably also the major upset in her daily routine due to the lockdown, she suffered from depression throughout the first couple of months of the lockdown. For me, the main surprise in all of this was that her depression did not even manifest as being in a bad mood, necessarily. We were all in a bit of a mood, to be fair. For her, she has just been ill constantly. If it’s not the stomach, then it’s a toothache, if it’s not the toothache, then it’s a dibilitating headache. Throughout there’s been nausea so bad, she couldn’t eat, so we were trying to coax her to eat smaller meals throughout the day, because otherwise she would just not eat anything, which makes everything even worse. After a few weeks, she ended up showing signs of vitamin deficiency as well, for which she’s still taking a big pile of supplements. And even when things were fine for a few days, she would be so fearful of the nausea returning that she still refused to eat.

It was almost constant. For going on three months, I would wake up every morning already exhausted, worrying about what would go wrong next. Only once things started to open up a little bit around May/June, and she saw a few doctors about it who put her on mood stabilisers did things improve. That’s not to say things are perfect now. Up until last week, she’s had recurring headaches, for which we’ve seen a bunch of specialists. (The latter concluded it was still depression/stress).

So yeah, it’s been hard. And I’ve found myself defeated, with nothing left to give. My marriage has suffered. My own health has been giving me trouble. (Yeast infection that refuses to go away, anyone? Ugh. I’d never even had a yeast infection before this year!)

And in all of it, there has been no room for writing. Basically no room for any mental space or activity that would allow me to recenter myself and figure out what I should be doing next. My writing – although difficult and frustrating at times – gives me a sense of satisfaction in life which cooking meals and cleaning the kitchen does not provide. Without it, I’m lost. But every time I sat down and tried, I found myself frozen and unable to start.

For me, it all fell apart sometime over this last month, when I would burst into tears without knowing why or how to stop it almost every day. I’ve never felt so low in my entire life.

I’m an introvert, you see. I need my space and time apart from people just to function. But there hasn’t been a lot of time for that lately. As a result, I’ve been crabby, impatient, short tempered and still utterly exhausted.

So in the end, my husband and I ended up having a massive fight. The kind that makes you wonder if everything is going to be over forever. And during the aftermath of that fight I booked an appointment with a relationship counsellor nearby, because I didn’t know what else to do.

On the day, I was nervous and also a little excited. I knew that going to counselling by myself wasn’t a perfect solution, but my husband just wasn’t going to go, no matter what. If I couldn’t change ‘us’, at least I could figure out myself, right? That’s all I could aim for.

I arrived exactly on time, was greeted by a receptionist who asked me questions about myself, my life, and what I was struggling with. That nearly made me cry again, because I couldn’t express what was wrong, exactly. I just knew I was deeply unhappy and things in my marriage weren’t going so well. She emphasized that next time, my husband should definitely come, to which I told her that that was not going to happen… She said something about today being a consultation and if necessary I would be prescribed a test, which would cost extra. Whatever. I just wanted answers, so I agreed to everything and sat down.

And then I waited for the therapist. They gave me a bottle of water. I finished it.

And I waited. They gave me a cup of tea. That finished soon enough as well.

And I waited some more.

I’d carried a book, just to pass the time – you might have already read it, but if not, I highly recommend it: Come as You Are by Emily Nagoski PhD.

Half an hour turned into an hour, turned into one-and-a-half hours. In between I would ask the receptionist how much longer. She’d say: “Oh, only about five to ten minutes more. I’m sorry, we’re really busy today.” And I’d open my book again and carry on reading.

But right around the one-and-a-half hour mark, I lost it. Another patient had come in after me as well, and had been waiting for about half an hour already when I finally got up. I told the receptionist if they didn’t have time to fit me in today, they should have given me an appointment for another day. I got a bunch of apologies and assurances that this wouldn’t happen again, and it was just a really busy day. She rebooked me for the following Monday and once again ensured that they’d make time for me and shuffle some other patients around. (Okay, so then they’ll screw some other sucker instead? Nice!)

I reached home nearly two hours since I’d left. My husband of course wanted to know what had happened and if it had been helpful. I barely got a sarcastic AF remark out (“It was super enlightening, I learned so much about myself.”), before – you’ve guessed it – ugly-crying my eyes out.

In the end, I suppose I did learn something. I enjoyed the book I’d read in the waiting room, and that I was never going back there. Indeed, I cancelled the rebooked appointment shortly after. Instead, I decided to take the money I would have spent on that session, and bought some more self help books.

Even now, I’m still wondering if I should try someone else, or I should just forget about the whole thing.

At least my husband was there for me when I came home. He was kind and compassionate and let me cry and complain as much as I needed to. And although he wasn’t in favour of therapy anyway (he wouldn’t even go, remember?), the words “I told you so” didn’t pass his lips even once. In turn, I’m trying not to be so snappy and impatient all the time. We’re doing better than we were last week.

Oh, and we’ve taken up cycling together. Exercise is an anti-depressant too, isn’t it? Let’s see how that goes.

So yeah, this is my post-lockdown update. The one time I went to therapy (or tried to).

How are you doing?

2019: The Year of Health

Where has the year gone? Spring feels like only yesterday, and yet it’s already October.

If you’ve read my previous blog post about the topic, or my Lorelei Moone newsletter from April/May you’ll already know I’ve faced a few challenges this year. Not that last year was any better, it was worse, actually, but that’s a story for another time.

I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions or lifechanging plans. If I can just stay on track with my writing, without neglecting my family or letting the house turn into a pig stye, that’s usually good enough for me.

Nevertheless, now that even October is running away from me, I feel like taking stock of what I’ve achieved, personally, so far. I’m not talking about my productivity and my career. I’m talking about my health.

Nothing to give you a big kick up the arse like a brand spanking new health condition you didn’t have before. Especially if it’s one that you’ve been conditioned to think only happens around “middle age” or later, and you’re not quite there yet on paper. (I might enjoy “old lady” things like canning and baking, but I’m only 33, dammit!)

So, since my unexpected hypertension diagnosis in April, what have I been up to and how successful has it been? Let’s analyse…

It’s all about the lifestyle, baby.

I fear I may have become that sort of person. Even our family doctor has started to tell people that I like to read about “alternative medicine” nowadays. Perhaps he’s started to suspect I’m about to turn to homeopathy to cure all that ails me and stop paying him his consultation fee.

Am I turning my back on modern medicine? Absolutely not! Far from it, in fact. I don’t believe sugar pills and endless dilutions of water are the answer either. But I do think that my lifestyle these past few years could have been a lot healthier than it was.

I’m a stress eater, always have been. While some of that is definitely down to conditioning (Hi, mom! *waves*), I can’t exactly pretend that I’m not to blame as well. I know better than to reach for a packet of biscuits to get me through a stressful first draft. Doesn’t mean I can always resist the temptation, though.

Has my decade long usage of hormonal contraceptives made me gain weight  as well (either directly or indirectly)? Yeah, for sure. But I did eat a ton of sugar to make it happen. Nobody forcefed me. I did it all myself, and enjoyed every mouthful of it.

Phase 1: No Room for Denial.

So, the first catalyst was obviously the blood pressure thing. I couldn’t afford to ignore my problems any longer. I start taking daily medication to get the hypertension under control. And because I suspected hormone levels were to blame, I quit my hormonal contraceptive immediately. Dr. Google told me to expect that it would take about 6 months or so for my hormone levels to normalise and my body to get used to the new IUD. That would be about now.

While I can’t say that my periods have become any easier or less painful (which is what supposedly happens once your body gets used to the IUD), perhaps there is a little truth to it. Exactly a year ago I already tried to lose some weight. It was a complete failure, and not just because of lack of willpower. The pounds just didn’t want to budge at all no matter how hard I tried, and my hunger and cravings were off the charts.

That has changed now, thanks to:

Phase 2: The Mindset Shift.

I didn’t want to make things too hard on myself right from the start, so I completed this year’s annual Germany trip to visit my mom without worrying about diets and weight loss. I enjoyed all the culinary delights Germany had to offer, and ended up gaining about 1.5kg overall. Not great, but not a disaster, as it turns out.

The real work began once we returned home; I committed to make real changes to my life and myself. I picked a weekend when the hubby was out of town to kickstart my wellness journey. Having read about the benefits of fasting (and experimenting with various forms of intermittent fasting since 2013), I knew what I wanted to do: my first ever water fast.

For those of you who don’t know what that is; it really is as simple as it sounds. You consciously decide not to ingest anything other than water for a set period of time. I decided to try 3 days for my first attempt (72 hours). It was tough, I won’t lie. But not as tough as I thought it would be. And the health benefits are supposed to be amazing. Once your body uses up all the energy from your last meal, it’s supposed to enter into “autophagy“. That’s when the body starts to repair itself. It’s meant to do wonders for your immune system and even has the power to cure health issues like hypertension.

I managed to make it 85 hours, before having a small glass of diluted fruit juice. Not because I couldn’t carry on or was particularly hungry, but because the hubby was back and I really wanted to enjoy a nice meal together after spending three days apart.

While my 85 hour fast did not magically cure my hypertension (believe me, I got that checked out immediately, only to be disappointed), it did do me a lot of good. For one, I felt super focused. My concentration levels were better than ever; I didn’t feel the constant need to procrastinate that I normally do. My body felt lean. My skin had cleared up and tightened (bye bye, arm flab and double chin!) and the sugar cravings I have lived with for years were completely gone. And, bonus: I lost about 2kg. Just like that. In 3 days.

It was a great success and I used this triumph to motivate me to make a more permanent change.

After a week or so of eating normal – beit smaller and healthier portions, I began:

Phase 3: Not a Sprint, but a Marathon. 

Water fasting helped me break my dependency on all things sweet and carby. I already knew from personal experience as well as anecdotal evidence from friends that carbs lay at the root of all my weight gain issues. But going low carb wasn’t an option for me permanently. Been there, done that, and failed already. I simply can’t sustain it; it’s too hard for me.

So what I did instead was turn again to my old friend, intermittent fasting (specifically the method called Alternate Day Fasting; ADF). I knew it worked, because back in 2013 (after Dr. Michael Mosley’s BBC documentary on the topic came out, as well as the first edition of his book, The Fast Diet), I’d successfully done it. I fondly remembered how easy it was back then to restrict myself one day, only to be allowed any food I wanted the next. And my tendency to snack and go overboard with sweets and biscuits was mostly cured after just one month of sticking to an alternate day fasting schedule. Easy choice, right?

Armed with fresh enthusiasm and determination (and a big chip on my shoulder for having resisted food for a whole 85 hours already), I dove right in toward the end of July. From the 22nd of July until today, the 18th of October, I have stuck to largely this schedule: 500 calories on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and unrestricted eating the rest of the week. This variant of Alternate Day Fasting is called 4:3 (4 eating days, 3 fasting days every week). I may have exceeded the 500 calories once or twice during this time, but I’ve been about 95% consistent.

The results speak for themselves.

I’m at a weight I haven’t been at for years. I feel better and more energetic. I still get to eat sweet stuff 4 days a week and sometimes I even go overboard. And I’ve lost a total of about 7.5kg. I went from a 30.5 bmi (obese) to 27.6 (overweight).  While I’m not even halfway yet, I know I can keep this up forever if I have to. It’s much easier to say “not today” when faced with sinful food you know you’re not supposed to eat, rather than say “not ever”. To me, a life without cake is not worth living. (You can quote me on that!)

And the best part? This week I had my 6 month check-up with the doctor, since my hypertension diagnosis. And he’s cut my medication dosage in half. Success!

With a bit of luck and determination, who knows where I’ll be in another 6 months’ time? Eventually, I hope to be off my medication entirely, and at a normal weight for my height and bodytype. I want to be able to look in the mirror and see “me” again, and fit into all those old clothes I’ve had to hide away for years now. Phase 4: Don’t fall off the wagon again, woman! (AKA: Maintenance) is in my sights.

Eventually I’ll get there. I’ll update the blog when I do.

Recommended reading:

The Fast Diet by Dr. Michael Mosley and Mimi Spencer

The Obesity Code by Dr. Jason Fung

Of women’s health and choices

I said I would start blogging occasionally, so here I am. With a topic I’ve dealt with in my personal life for a while, but only really decided to tackle a few months ago. The catalyst? Being diagnosed with hypertension. If you’re on my Lorelei Moone mailing list, you’ll already know about this last part.

I’m 33 and I have high blood pressure. Sure, my weight isn’t what I want it to be, and I have too much of a sweet tooth, but I have always been relatively healthy. Or so I thought.

I’m also married and do not have (or want) children. Birth control has been something I’ve always had to think about. For more than half my life I’ve been using hormonal birth control methods. Save for the implant thingy, I had tried just about everything and found that every single one I had tried, was basically shit.

We all know about the potential side effects, right ladies? We know we might get cranky, we might get fatter, develop pimples we didn’t have before, etc. For me, a major side effect was that my libido became non-existent. It doesn’t matter what I did, I just wouldn’t want sex. Ever. I realise that this is a weird thing to admit when you write what I write.

All the methods I had tried threw my hormones off. But what’s the alternative, really?

Six or so years ago, I got really fed up with my birth control and went off it for a while. They gave me a “cap” to use instead. What a load of rubbish that is. Condoms sound great in theory, but once you’re used to what things are supposed to feel like naturally, it’s hard to go back to those. I know some people successfully monitor their fertility to prevent pregnancy, but I wouldn’t know where to begin and was never given the knowledge or tools to track any of that. And having had an unwanted pregnancy before, I would rather not risk going through that again.

Well, once the hypertension diagnosis came in, it came as a shock to me. I was so ashamed of myself. Sure, when you’re taking the pill, your GP will want to check your blood pressure perhaps twice a year or so. Heightened blood pressure is a known side effect, and yet I always thought it wouldn’t happen to me. Certainly not at this age.

But it did. And now I’m taking pills for it every day.

That same day I got my diagnosis, I made a decision. I couldn’t go on like this. I wouldn’t accept that I would be on medication for the rest of my life. I decided to quit my birth control immediately. As luck would have it, my period had just come on. I insisted that along with blood pressure pills, I would get a prescription for a non-hormonal IUD – something I had shied away from all these years, because I’d never heard a good thing about them. I was told that because I was on my period, this was the right time to get it inserted.

Spurred on by shame and desperation, I went for it.

Without going into too much detail, it was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. Afterwards, I had to see the doctor again for aftercare instructions and nearly passed out in her waiting room.

Now, 4 months later, my periods are still brutal. At least one day every month the cramps are so bad I can hardly bring myself to leave the house. This was something I had never experienced before. If there’s one thing hormonal birth control is very good at, it’s lessening PMS and period cramps. If my period was coming at an inconvenient time, I could simply postpone or skip it. That, obviously, is no longer an option.

And yet, I’m glad I did it.

You may wonder why. I can share a few reasons with you right now.

  1. I am done for the next 10-12 years. No condoms, no caps, no pills to remember to take. As long as the string is still there, I’m protected.
  2. I’m taking control of my life and my health. If the hypertension was caused by the contraceptives I’ve been taking, perhaps I can reverse it. Even my consistent weight gain over the years, I’m hoping to undo now. Estrogen can make you ravenously hungry, so it’s harder to keep your diet in check. And so on.
  3. I feel like a real woman. And I don’t mean that in any mystical, floaty sort of way. I have my sexuality back. Like a frog, slowly being boiled in a pot of water, I hadn’t noticed all the parts of myself that had gone missing. All the things I hadn’t truly felt all these years.

Sure, it’s annoying to deal with painful periods. But pain can be managed. Hot water bottles and ibuprofen are my new best friends during those days.

And I’m pretty sure that if men were the ones getting pregnant, there’d be a whole lot of better methods of prevention out there. But what can we do? These are the cards we’ve been dealt as women.

So yeah, I’m glad I took the plunge. The only regret I have is that I didn’t do it sooner, before the hypertension issue had even come up. Would I have done it, though, if someone had encouraged me years ago? Probably not.

I knew it would hurt, though I did understimate it. For future reference, when a doctor casually asks you about your pain threshold before a procedure, fucking brace yourself!

But, childbirth hurts a lot more. And when you don’t want to become a mother in the first place, it’s going to be even worse.