My plan was not low-carb. I’d done that, lost some weight and become bored. It was low-fat. That just made sense to me. It began with oatmeal topped with one half of a banana in the morning, followed by about thirty minutes of exercise. I knew that if I made the exercise routine too strenuous right off the bat I would find excuses. I needed something I would be willing to do every day. I created a little routine that involved yoga and some work with an exercise ball. Though it had some difficult features, most of the workout was about stretching. In other words, it made me feel good.
I ate a lot of chicken and turkey. I grilled some salmon once or twice a week. I filled the vegetable requirement with lots of salads that included raw vegetables. I stayed away from white bread, though I did supplement my meals with a snack of a wheat bagel now and then. I switched from sandwiches to wraps, and only wheat wraps at that. If I had tuna, I mixed it with some good olive oil instead of mayo. I tried to stay away from salt to help with my blood pressure. I developed a sensible, healthful diet that I could live with.
I don’t have a scale in my house. The only way I know if I’m losing weight is by how my clothes fit, and after a couple of weeks on my new eating plan, and everyday exercise, my pants were already feeling looser around my waist. There is nothing like results to keep you on your path. If anything, my will to get healthy only intensified as the results became more apparent. I surprised myself by not only resisting temptation, but not even feeling it.
It’s been about six months now. As of my last doctor’s visit I had lost thirty-five pounds. I’m doing it slowly and healthily. My blood pressure is under control, my cholesterol has been cut in half and my blood sugar is close to normal. I still monitor all of these things very closely. I don’t smoke, and I exercise every day.
I know that I can’t go back to my old lifestyle. It’s not an option for me, so there’s no sense wasting time thinking about it. I feel good, and friends tell me that I look good, too. I’m not going to say that anyone can do this. In my case, it took a virtual death sentence to break me of a lifetime of bad habits. But wouldn’t it be nice if you could turn it all around now, before having to hear those dreaded words from your doctor?
The key, at least for me, is moderation. Crash diets have been proven time and again to be ineffective. I needed to create a plan for myself that I could live with. I know what’s good for me, and what’s not. I go slow. I enjoy the way a deep stretch feels in the morning. I challenge myself and then exceed my expectations.
Ken Shane
Thin! Nine Years . . . and Counting!
I’m not overweight. I’m just nine inches too short.
ShelleyWinters
There were no fat shirts available to hide the 200-plus pounds overloading my 5’1” frame. Life had happened— pregnancy, middle age, bagels and burritos. Everyone said I carried it well, but it’s impossible to carry 100 excess pounds “well.”
I knew the weight had to go. My health was not good, and it was time for commitment. I had tried every weight-loss program known to womankind, plus a few I invented myself. Clothing-covered relics hid in my basement— workout machines promising miracles, all unfulfilled.
I had everything to lose—100 pounds, literally! A friend was losing weight on a low-carb plan, so I headed to my local bookstore, settled into one of their comfy chairs and read everything I could find about low-carb dieting. It was time for action!
At the grocery store, I became a compulsive label reader, taking notes and memorizing the carb counts of my favorite foods. I was astounded to find that I was regularly eating in excess of 300 grams of carbohydrates per day! No wonder there was too much me! Following the plan’s guidelines, I tabulated how many grams of carbohydrate I could eat in a day and made my food choices, being careful to include as many food groups as possible. The more I learned, the more food choices I included, loading up on veggies and low-carb fruits. About a month into this adventure, the comments began, “You’re losing weight! Congratulations!”
I was on the way to a much thinner, healthier and happier me, but I did not become overweight overnight and could not expect to become thin quickly. It took over two years to lose 100 pounds. However, nine years into this lifestyle, the weight has not returned. My weight varies three to five pounds, one way or the other, and I wear size 6–8–10, depending on the cut of the clothing. Size 22–24 is gone forever! At a youthful fifty-four, I look like I did in my twenties, plus a few wrinkles!
This is a lifestyle change, nothing less. Lifelong weight loss requires long-term decision making. To succeed, I had to change how, what and why I ate. I had to decide what was more important—improved long-term physical and emotional health or indulging my craving for cherry pie. Instant gratification and emotional eating were contributory factors to my largesse. I finally decided I was more important than what I ate.
I approached this life change one day at a time, one meal at a time, one bite at a time, keeping in my mind’s eye a thinner, healthier me. By breaking the process into small, manageable decisions, I wasn’t overwhelmed by the enormity of losing 100 pounds. All I had to decide was what to do with this one bite. I plannedmy eating, especially in the early stages. I wrote down everything I ate, which brought awareness of the actual amount I ate, and I was shocked.
When eating out, I have a choice of two or three meals. I eat chicken frequently. I also love pork and fish. These foods, accompanied by a salad and veggies, are low-carb, delicious and I don’t feel deprived. Because the protein I eat keeps me satisfied, portion control is managed well, and I rarely eat a complete meal. The three hot wings remaining on my plate will be a snack later. I never count calories, as I automatically eat less. I eat breakfast and often find it is midafternoon before I am hungry.
During my transformation I realized that the social aspects of eating are just as, or more, important than what I am eating. When my friends and I eat together, we laugh and share our lives. Mashed potatoes and gravy have taken a back seat to enjoying my friendships.
Those late-night cravings still strike, but I have predetermined foods ready to eat. Sugar-free chocolate pudding made with half-and-half, covered with whipped topping, is especially yummy at 10:00 PM. So is low-carb yogurt on low-carb cereal. Not only is this delicious, it is crunchy. You can snack—you just have to plan ahead.
When shopping, I don’t stray from my route. I buy what I can eat and leave. Not only is my shopping accomplished quickly, there is very little impulse buying. On the perimeter of the store I find my dairy, veggies, fruit and meat. My only forays into the aisles are for salad dressings, sugar-free puddings, some Jell-O, or tea and coffee.
I’ve learned being patient with myself is vital to my success, as is having achievable expectations. It took more than forty-five years to reach my highest weight, and I had to be realistic about how long it would take to reach my goal. I also had to accept how I would look when my goal was reached. I have a medium bone structure—I will never be as small as my best friend, who is very small-boned. Sharman is the right size for her bones, and I am the right size for mine. Some things we have no control over. We keep each other on track and have made a lifelong commitment to this plan and promised to encourage, as well as chastise, each other, when necessary. We exercise together frequently, walking and sharing where we are with our eating and exercise. Accountability is a good thing.
I also give myself an occasional treat. About once a month I have a toasted bagel with cream cheese, or on my son’s birthday, I have a very small slice of his rhubarb pie. The next day I go right back on the plan. Special-occasion foods and small, planned indulgences keep us emotionally satisfied and moving forward.
Lifelong weight loss is a life choice. I know if I return to my former eating habits, the weight will return. I know how my body works. These principles apply to many weight-loss plans. Low-carb is the one that worked for me.
Nine years into my lifestyle change, I am healthier than ever, have more energy and my vision for the
future is boundless! Accomplishing my goal has done wonders for my life view. Previously, life was shadowed by the oft-quoted phrase that inside me was a thin person screaming to get out. Well, she is out! To stay!
Linda Sago
Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi.
Peel-a-Pound Soup
Never eat more than you can lift.
Miss Piggy
The year was November 1975. Lynne and I were stationed at the American Embassy in Mexico City, and it was several weeks before the evening of the Marine Ball. This was THE most important social function of the year.
My army dress blues and Lynne’s black formal were cloaked in plastic hanging in the closet. For some reason she’d decided to “try it on” that afternoon. Lynne looked great in black, and she would always turn a lot of heads at that formal event. Iwas very proud ofmywife and she knew it. When she came out of the bedroom in that slinky formal and asked how she looked, it must have surprised her when I said (jokingly, mind you), “Just a tad bit chunky, dear.”
“What?!”
Now in all honesty, I’d been sitting in the recliner half asleep while watching TV, so I wasn’t alert to the possible ramifications of my remark; however, her tone of voice snapped me completely awake. “What do you mean . . . CHUNKY?”
“Uh . . . um, well, it just seems a little snug in the hips is all. Actually it looks fine, dear.”
Her normally soft blue eyes glared menacingly, piercing me like an insect specimen impaled on a pin. There was no way I’d get out of this easily. It turned out I didn’t have to . . . well, that’s not entirely true.
The following evening I walked in the door to be met with a horrendous smell that put my olfactory senses on high alert. Lynne was in the kitchen stirring a large pot of soup. She looked up, smiling sweetly. “Hello, dear. Have a good day?” I simply nodded; relieved that apparently I was forgiven for my faux pas of the afternoon before.
“What’s in the pot?” I asked, fearing her answer. As I suspected, she replied with “dinner.” I stood with my mouth agape as she stirred the concoction a few more times before looking up at me and saying, “It’s called Peel-a-Pound Soup. It’s very filling, and since you’ve decided I’m a bit CHUNKY, I’m going on a diet. Julie gave me the recipe,” she said as she handed me a slip of paper. I stood there and read the neat printing of Lynne’s best friend.
A large can of V-8 juice, a large can of tomatoes, an entire stalk of celery, six onions, one head of cabbage, one grated carrot, and just a pinch of salt, pepper and garlic powder to taste. Boil it all up and eat as much as you want.
“But Julie must weigh 165 pounds, Lynne,” I protested. “She hasn’t lost an ounce since we’ve known her.”
Lynne nodded, “Julie and I are starting this diet today.”
I thought for a moment, then gathered my courage. “No dear,” I replied magnanimously, “WE’RE going on this diet today. After all, if I hadn’t made that stupid remark . . .” I let the sentence trail off in an attempt to gain some sympathy that I knew beforehand would not be forthcoming. I was right. She set the ladle down and gave me a big hug.
“That’s so SWEET of you, darling, but YOU don’t have to, you know. YOU don’t NEED this diet. You’re not . . . CHUNKY!”
Women!
Now I’m a “meat and potatoes” kinda guy, and as I took my first taste of this soup, I wished I was back to eating C rations in the field. The stuff was awful, but if this was what she wanted, so be it. It was the least I could do to make up for criticizing her looks. Since digestion of this soup is supposed to consume more calories than it contains, it couldn’t take long until she lost the maybe five pounds it would take to make her feel comfy again. How long could this last? A couple of days at the most? Knowing her the way I did, I figured she’d get tired of this very soon, especially since it was a morning, noon and nighttime drill. In the meantime I’d grab a few rolls for breakfast at work, then eat a hearty lunch and late-afternoon snack at the restaurant next door to the embassy and wouldn’t have to consume much of this god-awful concoction at home. Just enough to let her know she had my support. Anyway, that was The Plan.
The thing is, I felt guilty doing it, knowing my wife was at home eating that horrible soup while I pigged out on sweet rolls for breakfast and enchiladas for lunch. The little devil on my left shoulder whispered in my ear that it was her decision. I didn’t need to lose weight, did I? Of course not! But the little angel on my right shoulder whispered that this entire situation was my fault. After all, I just needed to eat one meal of the stuff while Lynne had to choke down three of them.
Seven days and a loss of eight pounds later the diet was over. I knew it the day Lynne greeted me at our door dressed in her black formal and high heels, with the diamond pendant that I’d given her on our anniversary two years ago adorning her neck. “See?” she said, beaming, “it worked.” She turned around slowly and I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to be married to such a beautiful woman.
That night we celebrated with dinner at a fancy restaurant and an evening of dancing. Both of us turned down the soup course.
Gary Luerding
Anytime Soup
MAKES 8 SERVINGS EACH SERVING: 5 GRAMS PROTEIN, 10 GRAMS CARBOHYDRATE
1 pound chicken parts or soup bones
½ head shredded green cabbage
1 minced garlic clove
2 chopped celery stalks
2 pounds diced fresh tomatoes
3 chopped carrots
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
½ teaspoon dried thyme (optional)
½ teaspoon dried basil (optional)
freshly ground black pepper to taste
4 cups low-sodium chicken stock, or 4 cups water
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, or 2 tablespoons cider vinegar
In a large heavy-bottomed soup pot, bring all the ingredients except lemon juice or vinegar to a boil. Lower heat and simmer 1 hour. Remove chicken parts or soup bones. Shred chicken and return to pot. Add lemon juice or vinegar. Taste, and adjust seasonings.
Reprinted from The Schwarzbein Principle Cookbook. ©1999 Diana Schwarzbein, M.D., Nancy Deville and Evelyn Jacob. Health Communications, Inc.
Running from a Diabetic Coma to the Marine Corps Marathon
Many people limit themselves to what they think they can do. You can go as far as your mind lets you. What you believe, you can achieve.
Mary Kay Ash
I had been overweight—obese even—but I had no idea I had diabetes until I nearly died. Just after Memorial Day 2001, I started feeling nauseated. I called in sick that Wednesday and Thursday. When I didn’t show up for work or call in on Friday, my manager called my father.
My dad drove from Greencastle, Pennsylvania, to Washington, DC, where he found me unconscious on the floor of my apartment. Firefighters rushed me to the emergency department at Georgetown University Hospital where I was admitted in a diabetic coma. When I regained consciousness a week later, doctors told me I had diabetes and would have to take insulin twice daily for the rest of my life.
I was in bad shape then—my muscles had so atrophied I could barely stand and couldn’t walk. They sent me by ambulance to Mount Vernon Rehabilitation Center in Alexandria, Virginia. That first day of physical therapy was agony. Pain shot up my legs. It would go on for another two weeks. When it was done, I had spent over a month in hospitals.
The night before I left rehab, one of the nurses came to see me. He was a small, wiry Southern man and an extremely professional nurse. “Remember, there’s nothing you can’t do,” he said. I always figured he meant that literally, although I was still very sick and spent the next two months in diabetes education, examinations and more physical therapy. On my first attempt to walk the block around my apartment, I couldn’t even make it to the corner. I walked a little farther every morning until I could make it to the Metrobus stop on Wisconsin Avenue and back to my apartment.
After Labor Day, I went back to
work nearly thirty pounds lighter and began my life as a middle-aged poster boy. I followed through with every doctor’s appointment or blood test and walked daily—forty-five minutes on weekday mornings and an hour or longer on weekends. I finished physical therapy and wanted to build upon my gains. I joined a gym and worked out three nights a week. The first night I could barely bench-press the barbell without any weight plates. I scoured local stores for books about diabetes. I began carefully planning meals and snacks. Despite everyone’s doubts, I began to think I might get off of insulin. Seven times a day, I stuck my finger and tested my blood sugar. It began to come down, as did my weight. Soon I was thirty, then forty pounds lighter. After the New Year, the endocrinologist was skeptical but agreed to let me try diet control. Just eight months after the coma, I was off of insulin and all diabetes medications.
Seeking a new challenge, I entered the registration lottery for the Marine Corps Marathon. When I got the e-mail confirming my race entry, I knew that if I was going to do this I needed to join a training group. I chose the National AIDS Marathon Training Program, which raised funds for a local clinic. Although almost pathologically shy, I thought I might make a good fund-raiser, and I reached out to colleagues, family and friends with fund-raising appeals.
Recovering from a diabetic coma was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Training for the marathon was a close second. We began the first weekend in May—six months before the marathon.We met in Georgetown early Sunday mornings and ran the C&O Canal towpath. They put us into pace groups based on our expected marathon finish times. I continued training and raised almost double the fund-raising minimum.
Marathon day in late October was a blast. We drew energy from cheering crowds lined along the route. Because it started out cooler than normal, I forgot to drink water, and near the twenty-mile mark along the Mall, my calf muscles began cramping. Pain gripped me with each stride, but after all I had been through, I couldn’t give up. Walking most of the rest of the way, a woman in my pace group helped me get to the Fourteenth Street Bridge before it re-opened to traffic. I did it! I finished! I was now a marathoner, who just happened to have type 2 diabetes. I crossed the finish line with a whole new outlook on life, thankful for my rapid recovery and ready to live!
Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul Page 9