Wellington · Living

This entry's taken some time in getting written, but then, I've got plenty of excuses. For one, I haven't had any caffeine in a week. For another, the story kept changing, and some of the bits were a bit too scary to talk about at certain points, for fear of creating a panic, or at least too many "OMG Bill" responses to be answerable. The short version is, I'm in some physical distress, but OK, mostly annoyed at this point, with one nagging set of conditions that apparently no one's got a sure answer for, but we're going to assume it's this one thing and see what happens over the next six weeks.

After six doctors and I've lost count of how many nurses and other medical professionals, I can only say that for sure I have a pretty bad case of acid reflux. The rest of the issues are most likely due to a nerve pinched by a complicated scapular muscle chain reaction across my back, at least that's the latest working theory. The rest of the issues include such fun as the back right side of my neck going numb to the touch, and said numbness slowly expanding down my right shoulder, then to my right tricep. I get lightheaded, and my sense of balance gets "off kilter": not room-spinning dizzy, but enough vertigo that moving my head suddenly will make me lose my balance. That, and even watching rapid 3D turn/spin movement will make me nauseous, which kinda killed playing WoW. Then all that fades away over thirty minutes or so. Repeat the whole thing when I next least expect it, but usually (but not always) after I've eaten.

I had to go to the emergency room twice in a week, the last including a CAT scan, and both times the doctors had nothing to tell me except I wasn't having a heart attack, pulmonary embolism, or stroke, or something major enough for them to deal with it. I still haven't seen my actual primary care physician: first appointment I could get with her is on Patriot's Day. But I've seen enough doctors that I'm no longer in fear of anything major being wrong: all the major stuff has been double checked. (By the third EKG, I learned to tell the next doctor coming along that yes, I am feeling pain in my chest, but WE'RE SURE IT'S MY ESOPHAGUS. They've ripped enough of my chest hair off in those same spots, thanks.)

I missed work the latter half of the week before this last, and half of last Tuesday. I haven't been on WoW since... I think briefly the Friday night before last to cancel raid. My weight training regiment is in tatters, and won't be going anywhere for four to six more weeks. I haven't been in a fully horizontal or prone position in eight days. But really? It's the boredom that's killing me. That and the dietary restrictions of the acid reflux. What hot drink do you drink when you can't even drink tea, even decaf, even boring herbals? Chocolate's right out, no milk products either, coffee: hell no, alcoholic drinks: absolutely not. All fruit juices are out, not that you want to heat those. Seltzer's OK, but who heats seltzer? It snowed on April Fool's Day, and I couldn't figure out what drink to have to warm back up my core. Finally I just drank cups of hot water. It was sad.

The course of treatment for acid reflux, until it's been around longer than two weeks, is taking a pill for fourteen days, just like anyone could see on the side of a box of Prllosec from your local CVS. Mine's going to be taking a little longer than that, because the Omeprazole turned out to not react well to being taken too close to my required daily Levoxyl. Not one doctor, including the one that gave me a Omeprazole prescription (despite it being non-prescription medication), all of whom knew I was on thyroid medication, saw that drug interaction until the doctor on Tuesday had to figure out why I'd gone four days of medication without the reflux getting any better. But hopefully it will be under control before my birthday. And before the Pinkberry opens in Harvard Square.

Treatment for the (we hope) pinched nerve? Don't do any kind of weighted scapular retraction of any kind, and hope it goes away in four to six weeks. But then, it's only the working theory anyway. Maybe the next doctor (to be seen in a week) will tell me it's something different, and I have to lie horizontal while drinking hot coffee.

Oh, and as a note for the Fabulous E: I have dodged drinking your old nemesis barium twice. And will go on dodging it as long as I can: stick a metal tube down my throat, but don't make me drink barium.



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I may need to change the title of this Livejournal of mine to "Wellington Living Large." I now weigh 225 pounds. And mostly good weight, although my waist could use a trim. Two hundred and twenty five. It's a number I have a hard time believing; I keep trying to roll it over in my head to make it stick, or thinking it's just a mistake of the scales. But it's no fluke: I've weighed it for over two weeks now, and that included a week off from everything in Colorado doing a ton of fat-burning nordic skiing. So it's not just going to disappear. Which is what I still believe, in spite of everything, it will do if I'm not vigilant. I don't know what your craziest, against-all-logic belief is, but mine is a *surety* that I could lose five pounds overnight if I don't do everything in my power to prevent it.

Small break for the usual disclaimer and apology: I am sorry for talking about this in front of folks out there have a hard time losing weight. My whole hyperthyroid existence is jealousy provoking, I know well by now. I don't mean to rub it in or be offensive. Let's all bond on how hard weight *control* is, k?

The funny thing is, that belief in losing five pounds overnight had a basis in fact. For decades of this life of mine (and it has been several, sigh), I've been 6'3", and nowhere the frell near even the bottom edge of the average weight range for my height and frame. According to the insurance companies' measuring systems, and as is obvious to anyone looking at my long arms, I have a large frame. The dead middle average for large framed 6'3" guys is apparently 190, plus or minus 13 pounds. I used to despair of ever weighing 180 pounds. I remember I was lazy in college once for a week and skipped breakfast, and lost ten pounds without trying. It was only like seven years ago, when I was in my mid-thirties, that I got to 190. My head still doesn't get it. I'm reading this post I wrote in 2006 when I got to 200 the first time, and my reaction for 225 is pretty much the same, but with a number I couldn't have believed was ever possible for me back then. Total disbelief. Man it's hard to reprogram your internal body image. 200 pounds is a lot. It's a tenth of a ton. 225 is a tenth of the old British ton, the appropriately named "long" ton. No way I'm that large. No way I'm *over* the upped end of the average weight for my height. No way I'm a "large" guy. Uh, except that I am.

As per usual with me, it takes an annoying, aggravating effect for me to believe the truth. I won't believe the good effects, but the bad ones I never argue with. Well, as of today I only have one pair of jeans that fit. I was trying to put on my last pair of straight-leg jeans, and I ripped 'em. What brought it all home is that these were normal-waist jeans that still fit in the waist. The split happened in my hamstring/hip area. (Or, in Jock, my "hammies".) In the interest of full disclosure, I did do a hard "300" workout a hour before attempting to put on the jeans, so I was pumped (and, hours later, still am.) But still: I can apparently never wear straight-leg jeans again. That's straight leg, not "skinny": I gave those up a few years ago after having spent all my life wearing them. It's apparently Relaxed/Loose-Fit jeans from now on. IF I CAN EVER FIND ANY.

An hour of shopping on line (the only place to find my inseam), and I found three pairs. One at the Gap, one at Levi's, and one at Old Navy. All the most crappy boring colors, because they were out of all the good ones. (Curse you, Five Foot Eight Club gays.) And then the Levi's pair was sold out from underneath me before I could order it, and now they're totally out of my waist/height/frame/fit combo. For the past six months, I've been checking twice a month for restocks. This always happens. It makes me crazy.

But then, it also makes me happy. 'Cause it means I can't deny it. I'm large. After a lifetime of trying, it's coming easily now.

My stepmom, who hadn't really seen me in two years, made more comments than anyone has on my weight recently, while I was out on this just-past trip to see her and Dad in Colorado. My weight always been a little of an issue for her. She's not a large person: 90 pounds maximum, petite, and very well toned and thin. She hasn't known me my whole life, so she always thinks of me as eight, when we met. I was smaller than her back then, and for the first few years as we got to know each over. And so, as she's commented on for years, she always remembers me as smaller than her. Well, her comment this time was a flat out: "Bill, your arms are now bigger than my legs." I went to deny it, and was pleasantly surprised to have to admit it was true.

She asked me several times how much larger I was going to try to get? At 225, I'm not sure. Probably not much larger for this year: I've got some body fat percentage to get down by the summer. I only have two more months of this hypertrophy phase before I gotta get burning the fat. But then come the fall, I don't know. I still don't look like I'm really body building, so I'd at least like to get large enough to look like I am. But I have a hard time putting a figure on it: all the numbers over 200 just seem ridiculous to me. 235? Is that what I'm going to weigh next March? It sounds entirely ridiculous. But then, 225 did back in 2006.

Brief notes in the history of astrology rolling with the punches:

Egyptians: Damn, gotta rebuild the pyramid alignment again.
Aristarchus of Samos (~280 BC): Dudez, ur doin it wrong. Precession of equinoxes, lol
Hipparchus (190–120 BC): Yeah, Babylonian stuff don't match what i see, or wit my Greek peeps. In first; Aristarchus iz a luser.
Ptolemy (90-168 AD): What they said!
Arab world: Woah u read Ptol? Almagest is Al Bomb!
Medieval Church: OK, Ptol totally right, astrology are doin it wrong. Evil!
Copernicus: hauntin' u churchd00dz from beyond the grave
Galileo Galilei: Yo! Jupiter's got shit circling it! Gettin' cabin fever here!
Kepler: And planets be movin different, too.
Newton: It's natural shit yanking it all around. But peace out, astrology: still luv u.
Herschel (1781): What's that? Dudez, you totally missed 1.
Piazzi (1801): this Ceres one too amirite? No? Screw u.
Galle (1846): And another one. For sure.
Lowell (1906): And I think there's another one.
Tombaugh (1930): Yup, there it is!
IAU (1930): Uh huh. And, ha, there's like 13 constellations in the zodiac, take that!
IAU (2006): Ohnoes, gettin 2b 2 manE planetz. Astrology, you add Pluto? Lol, 2badsosad.
Intarwebs (2011): Woah, you hear all this stuff?

Feugh. Today was supposed to be all good, starting at the gym, but it fell flat.

This morning was another assessment checkin, and, from what my trainer and I had been thinking, we thought I'd see a bunch of good gains. I even heard a hint before the holiday that I might even "win" a few free sessions as the client of the month. I was feeling this check-in might see as much or more as that last good checkin two months ago.

Well, instead, all my measurements were flat; same as two months ago... except my waist, which had gained an inch. Of flab. Well, suck. It kinda threw me for a few minutes; I was pretty down. I think my trainer was worried by my reaction. But, yes, I know: this is just my life, the body I was given. I just have to keep going: these plateaus happen to me all the time. And before you all kindly chime in with the alternatives and other stuff it can be, trust me, I've heard it. I've said it. I've thought it. Year after slow gaining year.

This grind, decade after decade, of all the dedicated work and time and, yes, money, can get you down. Having to constantly reexamine the results, think about positive alternatives, not let it keep you down: it gets old. The only way I've gotten through the last two years of this, once I didn't have Graves' Disease as a reason, just comes down to shear pig-headed obstinacy. I'm not gonna quit. Somehow I haven't. But, dammit, I just wish strength and muscle would result from all this work *every* couple of months: I need an upward curve that makes it before I'm 50. I want that body most forty-year-olds had when they were twenty and squandered: I never had it, dammit.

Now, having been through this before, I know the routine to do to get back up and keep going. We immediately did a tough workout right after the assessment, so I could feel virtuous, and to reaffirm that I have been trying hard, and not slacking off. And then I went and got my hair thing done, and got the whole beard/gray hair new look worked out, and that gave me some positive change to have. Then I went and saved 70% at Macy's One Day Sale, buying new clothing to replace the stuff that doesn't fit from the last growth I got back in October. Yes, Virginia, I am a Large, and I m getting new clothing and looking large in it. And, yes, I reviewed the weights I'd been lifting two months ago and what I did last week, and there's some strength gains there, even if the damn stuff doesn't show physically.

And finally, just now, I did one of those things you keep a journal for: I looked back into the past to see if stuff had gotten any better. Sadly, I hadn't posted during October, when I got my happy gains. Or rather, I thought I did and failed: I'm sure I put up a little Facebook status I can't even see now. Facefjale! Fat lot of good that "post" does me now. But I did find a last post here on LJ from August... and, wow, it reads just like what I felt today. And that's a hopeful thing... because after August came October, when I found I'd gained ten pounds, upped the measuring tape in all the right places, and progressed. So progress, it could be right around the corner.

So, it's onto Monday, and the next workout, and the next. I guess we'll see what we can do. My trainer said something mysterious about a "300" workout. Rah go Sparta!

Oh, for the record: weight, 219 lbs. Arms an inch and a half thicker since last year, but not since October. Oh, and reading last January's post, I see I'm probably sun-starved, and one last thing I can do for myself today is to go get a little minimal tanning session, not for the color, but just for the light fix.

Now that I've written one update, I feel sorely my failure to record many other things that have come up in my fortieth year so far. I can blame Facebook a little, but only a small amount.

Well, since this journal started all those years ago about my life in my Wellington Street condo, ( let's start there. )

It's been a while since I've done one of these, but then, it's because the situation is so damn stable now.

I went to my endocrinologist last week for the first time in three months. We'd backed off from monthly blood tests/check-ins to quarterly tests/appointments. And after this last one last week, it's now gonna be a yearly blood test and check-in. My whole ( thyroid situation is now pretty much stabilized ) So, I can pretty much declare: my Graves Disease is over. There's pretty much nothing to think about anymore.

On the other hand, I cannot seem to change my weight from running between 209 and 210 pounds. In the old hyperthyroid days, that would have been good news. But with my dedication to working out, I'd hoped for more. ( It seems like the workouts with my trainer(s) have been successful in some regards, but not enough to sure, to feel a real sense of accomplishment. )

Ah well, there's no way I'm going to stop. Even if I can't prove I didn't make gains (but might have), I certainly didn't slide backwards, and for a forty-year old, that's something of an accomplishment in itself. Still, it feels like getting buff is still very far way, and not getting closer. How much more time do I have before this becomes impossible?

So, as planned, my forties so far have been very pleasant. Funny that, when you don't work and take a holiday in paradise, you have a pleasant time. Who'da thunk it?

My birthday proper was great: we went on a snorkeling trip. I saw pretty much every fish and sea urchin and coral in the big book of Hawaiian sea fauna. The wind was too high to visit the black sand beach as promised in the text of the trip, so the captain turned our expedition into a whale watch instead. Maybe I've never said in this journal, but members of my family reading this know I was quite the whale fan in my youth. So seeing four humpback whales, a mother and calf pair, and two breeching males, was quite the experience. And I've been on whale watches before: this one was crazy, because we were doing it from a sailing catamaran. There's nothing like the feeling you could be knocked over by the whales you're getting close to.



I developed the inevitable sunburn on that trip, through several layers of high SPH sunscreen, so we had to do a little recovery the next two days. So we went on one of the long driving trips to Hilo on the other side of the island, stopping at whatever historical or natural scenic sites along the way.



Hilo itself turned out to be closed. Everywhere except the ubiquitous drive-ins. You can't blame them, really, since it was a Sunday, and they'd just finished the Merrie Monarch festival the day before. Eventually we found the whole town down by the harbor beach, having a shindig of their own, with local teams racing outrigger canoes. Very nice, but it made it impossible to get hula music and DVDs for friends.



A lot of the last few days has been hanging around the pool or beach, stalking the two hottt guys in the resort. Well, not stalking, really, but watching, oh yes. OK, there are more than just two hot guys, but these two blow the rest away. I think only 8-pack Asiatic comes close. I'm pretty sure the DILF is the hottest, probably because he's straight: two cute (if noisy) kids and a wife. Man, I'd like to know when he fits in the time to work out, and how you get a body like that in your forties. Amazing, really. Then there's the PGB: pretty goddamn built. Or, alternately, probably gay w/ beard. The PGB is all the way over to semi-pro bodybuilder big, which is a bit of a demerit. But he has an ungodly cute face, and while he's not dragging his mother around with him, if the beard/woman he's with isn't a sister or a hag, I'll be shocked. I'm pretty sure on the PGB, because, like me, he keeps positioning himself to get a good view of the DILF. One of the most entertaining fifteen minutes of the trip was when the PGB followed the DILF into the pool. Oh yeah.

Other than that, it's off for more snorkeling, a luau tonight, and the volcano trip all day tomorrow, starting early. I have no idea when I'll fit in my homework, which is due Saturday at noon EDT. Probably Friday: our flight out isn't until 9pm.

So, yesterday started pleasantly enough. We had a lovely all-you-can-eat breakfast (I was good with what I had, trust me. It's just nice to be able to get the correct quantity.) We sunbathed until about 11:30, then we went to the little micromall here and I got two new bathing suits, one of which is the Most Comfortable Bathing Suit Ever (and a 33 waist, hello!) I had a lovely sandwich and yogurt, Mom came back for a nap, and I did my taxes at last. ( Little did I know the end of my thirties would involve an emergency room. )

Those Thirties (damn them!) were full of this kind of crap. I got diagnosed with Graves' after turning thirty. I got the pulmonary embolism from nowhere in the middle there. I've gotten my blood sampled so many times I didn't even notice getting my IV put in by Ian the Hottie EMT (of course, my elbow was right up against his crotch, which might have something to do with the distraction.) I had to drink radioactive iodine. Well, here's hoping this was the end of it. C'mon forties.

I can only hope that I helped out all those medical staff by coincidence. Surely having the ambulance break down with the non-critical status patient was for the best. The next heart-attack victim they picked up will get to the hospital that much sooner. And the nurse moving to Richmond got all kinds of good neighborhood advice and will have my mom, who, being retired, has plenty of time, to help her. My mom even gave her her "card" (it reads: "Grandma Polly. How can I help?" with her phone info.) Maybe in the cosmic sense, I needed to have this to help others.

Or, maybe I'm a big loser. Excuse me, was a big loser, back in my thirties.

Well, we're back on the Internet, having settled into our room at the Waikoloa Beach resort. It is, alas, not as beautiful as our room at the Waikiki Beach Tower, but it is very peaceful. But it does make me nostalgic for Oahu: we had a really good time there.

And the send-off day was incredible. First, we did a self-guided (the only kind) tour of downtown Honolulu, paying our respects, required by all visitors, to King Kamehameha. At least it seems required: we had to wait for a chance to get at the good spot to snap shots of him.



I delighted in the history: we hit all the spots where (mustache-twirling) Sanford Dole executed his coup, and where Lili'uokalani lived out her remaining years in exile... four blocks from the old palace.

Then we went shopping, of course. We startled a pair of New Zealand tourists at lunch. Mom was wearing her All Blacks T-shirt from her Australia/New Zealand cruise, so I think that's why they came up to sit with us. They opened their mouths first: man, so clear where he was from. Then we opened ours, and they realized they'd sat next to Americans. So sad! The Ala Moana Center was a good time killer. Sadly, no luck sneaking up on Junior at the Apple Store there. And, may I say, I never ever wish to go, and I quote, "discount children's muumuu shopping at Sears" again. Don't ask.

Then, in the evening, we went to take Mom to her promised dinner at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, famous in her youth. We found, on calling for reservations, that we'd missed their luau night, but a promise is a promise, so we set up a date at Azure, the fancy hotel restaurant. We got decked up: I in a new retro aloha shirt and the proper white pants, my mother decked in jewelry so they'd know we were big spenders.



On our way there, Kalakaua Avenue was taken over by a salute to youth parade of marching bands. Leading the way was the Royal Hawaiian Marching Band: no, not for the hotel, but the one founded by King Kamehameha IV, of which we'd only just seen the headquarters on our tour. With no irony at all, following them was the U.S. Marine Corp band. Oh, Sanford Dole, what hath you wrought? I suppose the U.S. Marine Corp band marches in many countries the marines helped overthrow the governments of. It's just probably that Haiti and the Philippines don't have marching bands to precede them. Still, who doesn't love a parade?

After the parade (and quickly checking in at the Royal Hawaiian Apple Store for Buko, just in case), we headed over, toured the PINK zOMG PINK WE LIKE PINK grounds, and sat down at the hotel bar, Mai Tai, for their "Scratch Mai Tai," the original recipe. Delicious!



And, as we sat down, in the space by the beach right next to the bar, a luau started up, dancers and all. Turned out a large group had bought a special occasion luau, which was completely visible from the outside bar seats. And let me tell you, the four guys in the hula troop were hottt. The six gay guys two tables over were riveted. Oh, and the one gay guy at our table. They did Oahu place hulas, Samoan dances, they did a haka, they did it all. The emcee was fantastic, and the audience, made up of girls, was on the edge of going out of control. When some 17 year old blond surfer dude streaked the stage, the house nearly came down. And, well, I'm not exactly sure what Mom made of all of it, except that she was in fact getting the full-on Royal Hawaiian epic event she'd only heard about for years.

Oh, the dinner was incredible, too, once we left the bar and the luau. I had the best bloody mary I've ever tasted: made with wasabi horseradish, and garnished with two of the best cocktail olives I've ever had, it was impeccable. Without sin. Perfect. I had simply prepared moi that was ever so slightly crunchy on the top, but perfectly moist everywhere else. It was a perfect evening.

So, aloha, Oahu, and mahalo.

So, now that I've been over the Pali and seen the last of the sites involved, it's time for telling the tale of my little section of the Campbell Clan's biggest brush with history: December 7th, 1941.

In 1940, my grandfather had been in the navy for over a decade. He'd learned to fly, married, had one kid, and was well on his way up the ladder, despite never having seen a real combat. Oh, there was something about some close calls dealing with the Lend-Lease fleet, and maybe something my mom doesn't remember, but that's in the files I inherited. But really, nothing. The Japanese fleet buildup, takeover of French Indochina, and some threatening trade incidents prompted the U.S. to move the headquarters of the Pacific fleet to Oahu. Nothing big: my grandfather moved his pregnant wife and daughter along, so clearly there wasn't much threat. The Philippines was the real hotspot to be. The Campbells settled down in what was then a naval air station (now a Marine Corps Base), on Kane'ohe Bay, across the Pali from Honolulu, and considering the state of Pali highway in those days, it was pretty distant. My mother was born in Honolulu, so I'm assuming they took Grandma over the Pali for the best of care. Of course, Mom's lacking the story on that one.



So, ( December 7th, 1941. )