Giving Up Coffee: Day Three

My third day without coffee started with an upset stomach that, to put it nicely, turned into a "cleansing" of sorts. When that was over, I realized that I no longer had the headache, but the brain fog wasn't letting up and all my joints were aching. Was I getting sick, or was this part of the detoxing, I wondered. I popped two extra strength Tylenol and jumped into the shower to prepare for a long day in the city. My son was graduating from Pratt at 11:00 AM and my body had to be on the train in the next hour, with or without my headache and aching joints. With my stomach still rumbling, I also took a Lomotil pill - a prescription drug that stops stomach cramping and calms the digestive tract. It also makes me very drowsy, but given the alternative, I decided I would rather sleep on the train than be running between cars to look for an unoccupied toilet.

When I think back to that day, I realize that I spent most of it in a mild stupor. Sure, I saw my son walk on stage and receive his diploma. I hooted and hollered when his name was called and then I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. The auditorium was dark; I needed no other explanation.

About midway through the day, my other son, who had met us in the city to share in the festivities, asked me what was wrong with me.

"Mom, you seem a little zonked. Are you O.K. today?" he asked.

"This is my third day without any caffeine."

"What?! Why?!" he asked.

"I gave it up."

"No way! Why?!"

"Because the doctor said it would help my acid reflux. And for the first time in two months, I'm sleeping through the night."

"But you're also sleeping through the day," he observed. "What kind of life is that?"

"It won't be like this forever," I told him. And I believed that. I had to have hope that it would get better.

Walking through the streets of Manhattan, on our way to the restaurant where we had reservations for lunch, I noticed that sounds in the street seemed excessively loud. Honking horns sounded like they were aimed directly at my ears. Sirens were piercing my head and the light of day was hurting my eyes. I started getting hot flashes and my stomach felt queasy. I knew the symptoms very well now, and, sure enough, by 2:00 PM the migraine headache began again with a vengeance.

But I was still optimistic. After all, it was 2:00 PM. I had made it almost halfway through the day. Perhaps tomorrow, the headache would show up later in the day, and maybe one day, it would not be there at all.

I began to get angry at my body's dependence on this socially accepted drug and I prepared to do battle. I was determined to win this fight and swore never to drink another cup of coffee again. Problem was, at that very moment, all I could notice were the coffee wagons and Starbucks stores on almost every corner and I wanted a cup, or maybe just a sip.  I would even settle for a sniff of steam from a cup.

When the waiter came to our table to ask if we wanted a drink to start before our meal, everyone ordered an alcoholic beverage but me. My son suggested I order a cup of coffee.

The waiter asked, "cup of coffee for the lady?" smiling and writing on his pad.

"No thanks," I replied, "I'll stick with the water."

"Just the water?" he asked, clearly disappointed.

"Yes, just the water," I repeated and tried to muster a half smile.

He crossed out the coffee with an emphatic slash across his pad and repeated, "Just the water." So now, I wondered, would he drop my food on the floor before he served it to me? I was that person. The one who says, "just water for me" in restaurants and disappoints the waitstaff.

To be continued...

Giving Up Coffee: Day Two

The next day was a Sunday and all I can remember is the non-stop headache which was immune to Tylenol, Advil and Aleve. I slept most of the day while my husband worked around the yard, planting the flowers we had purchased the day before.

I remember passing by the window from time to time, watching him work, hoping he wouldn't ask me to help him. Whenever I heard the back door opening, I would get up and start folding laundry or pick up a broom to fool him into thinking that I was already so busy with my own chores. When the door closed, I returned to the recliner to doze.

My recliner was my new friend. It cradled me and held me gently while I slept through my caffeine withdrawal. It demanded nothing of me and was always there waiting for me when I needed the comfort of a silent support system.

I also remember turning to drink of another sort that day - water. The more water I drank, the more energy I had and I could sense a slight relief in my headache. I slept a little less that second day.

"How's your headache?" my husband asked as I swallowed some Aleve.

"Better!" I told him. "Someone pulled the axe out."

"Great!"

"Yeah, now I have a vice wrapped around my temples." But, I reasoned, a vice was an improvement, a step up. The headache was no longer debilitating and painful. It was just annoying. Annoying I could deal with. And tomorrow would be better. It had to be.

The next day we were going into Manhattan for our son's graduation at Radio City Music Hall. Just the thought of trains and subways and hot crowded streets made the vice tighten. How would I get through the long day tomorrow feeling like this?


To be continued...

Giving Up Coffee: Day One

I planned to start my caffeine free life on a Saturday. I didn’t have a bookkeeping job until Tuesday afternoon. Three days should be enough time to detox myself from the effects of caffeine, I reasoned.

To be honest, I don’t remember much of the events of that first day. The headache started around 9:30 AM, dull at first, but ever present. By 10:30 AM, my ears had clogged up and my head felt like it was filling up with water.

My husband asked if I wanted to go to the nursery that morning to pick out some flowers to plant. I asked him to repeat the question because, although I heard the words, my brain hadn’t connected the dots; the fog building up in my head was getting thicker by the minute. I think I said yes, because next thing I realized I was sitting in the front seat of the car. We were moving in slow motion – like a dream.

I know I was walking through the nursery, but I felt like I was swimming underwater. Sounds were muffled, the sun was burning my eyes – even with sunglasses on; the colors of the flowers were too intense to look at directly. My husband kept asking me, “how’s this?” and “maybe these?”

“Yes, fine, anything,” I mumbled. Just get me out of here. At one point, I felt like I could fall asleep standing up – like horses do, so I held on tightly to the wagon and pushed with my arms, dragging my feet behind in a slow-mo shuffle. “Are we done yet?” I kept asking, like some four year old child.

“Wow!” my husband exclaimed on the way home. “Those plants were expensive; don’t you think?”

I heard the question, but my lips wouldn’t move. The part of the brain that controls speech was already asleep, the rest of my body would soon follow. I floated through the front door, not feeling my feet on the ground, and dumped my body into the recliner. My head was buzzing now, the headache was of migraine intensity, my eyes were pin holes trying to focus, there was a slight feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach and sweat beads were building up around my forehead and upper lip. I gave up, too weak to hunt for the Tylenol, and closed my eyes.

I woke up a few hours later, drool dripping down the side of my mouth, stomach burning from hunger. “Is there an axe stuck in my head?” I asked my husband.

“What?!”

“That’s what it feels like,” I told him. “I feel like there is an axe stuck right through my head.” He ran upstairs to get the Extra-Strength Tylenol and handed me two. I ate lunch and returned to the recliner to sleep away the remainder of Day One off of caffeine. It had to get better tomorrow, I thought.

To Be Continued…

Giving Up Coffee :(

I guess what I miss most about giving up coffee is the morning ritual. Crazy as this may sound, I liked thinking that my day couldn’t start until I had at least 2 cups of coffee. Some mornings, the thought of a fresh hot cup of coffee was the only thing that got me out of bed. In the winter chill, huddled over the steaming cup, I would write in my journal in the wee hours of the morning. In the summer, I would go out on the deck with my mug of coffee and inhale the fragrant salt air blowing in from the Great South Bay. Salty air and coffee – it doesn’t get sweeter than that.

When my children were young and wanted to go to the park or the beach before they even ate breakfast, I told them, “Don’t bother me until I’ve had my coffee.” They understood that, and as long as I still had that cup in my hand, they kept busy by themselves for awhile. Sometimes I walked around with an empty cup just to stall them a little longer.

It is an excuse I’ve heard and even used myself at work when someone comes into my office before I’ve had a chance to take my coat off and settle in. “Can we hold off on this,” I tell them, “until I’ve finished my coffee? My neurons haven’t fully connected yet.” We share a knowing chuckle and the annoying person disappears for awhile.

I don’t know if it was psychological or true that coffee in the morning made it easier to deal with things. With a steaming cup next to my calculator, my sewing machine, or my laptop, I knew I could do anything. Coffee was a ritual, a habit, a comfort, my friend.

Recently I developed a condition called GERD, short for Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. It’s the medical term for heartburn, or, agitta, as my father calls it. I lost sleep at night for a month, forcing me to drink more coffee during the day, which exacerbated the problem further. I developed a slow constant burn in my stomach, and whenever I fed it, a fire roared up. I wasn’t digesting my meals, no matter what I ate.

An upper endoscopy revealed everything was normal, but the doctor gave me a list of foods to avoid:
Coffee and caffeinated beverages (my friend)
Chocolate (my lover)
Carbonated Beverages (seltzer with lemon – my drink of choice)
Peppermint and peppermint tea (my favorite tea after dinner, Mentos!)
Citrus Fruits and Juices (love my navel oranges! And lemon ices!!)
Tomato Products (I’m Italian. Need I say more?)
Pepper (Put pepper on my toast in the morning. Love hot stuff.)
Fatty or fried foods (don’t care about these)
Alcoholic beverages (don’t drink ‘em)

“What’s left to eat?” I cried in disbelief on the ride home.

“I’m sure you can have coffee,” my husband said. “Just limit it to one cup a day.”

Was he kidding, or what? May as well give it up altogether, I thought. Besides, I reasoned, if I had to give up my favorite foods, I may as well suffer the full blunt of the blow and say farewell to my longtime friend and companion – my coffee.

…To be continued

Shut That Dog Up!!

Every night as I gently slip into those first moments of peaceful slumber, I am awakened by a constant piercing high pitched yap! yap! yap! I’m beginning to think that my neighbor watches my house to see when the lights go out so he can let his dog out.

The other night the dog was yapping outside until midnight. I was so angry that, even after the barking stopped, I couldn’t calm down enough to fall asleep until after 1:00 AM.

After walking around in a sleep deprived stupor all day, I retired to bed last night at 10:00 PM. My husband fell in a few minutes later.

“Maybe we can fall into a deep sleep and we won’t hear the dog barking when they let him out at 11:00,” he said. But within a few minutes, the barking started.

Yap! Yap! Yap!

“But it’s too early to let the dog out,” he said, confused, looking at his bedside clock. “It’s only 10:15.”

“They’ll probably let him out again at 11:00,” I said.

“But he’s out now. Why would they let him out again in 45 minutes? He couldn’t possibly have to go again that soon.”

This absurd conversation about my neighbor’s rationale and his dog’s poop patterns continued for about ten minutes until I jumped out of bed and began pacing the floor.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll walk over there in my pajamas and ring his doorbell. Do you think I should get dressed first or go over there in my bathrobe just to make a point?”

“He’ll stop barking soon,” my husband said as he reached for his ear plugs.

I stood in front of the window for 20 minutes, peering through the dark night, trying to locate the yapping mutt, wishing I had a high powered bb gun. Would I shoot the dog or shoot the owner, I wondered. When you are sleep deprived, all sorts of vicious things run through your mind. With no weapon at hand, I did the next best thing. I kneeled down in front of the window, lifted the screen up and leaned out into the dark night screaming, “SHUT THAT DOG UP!!”

I was even more frustrated now, hearing the rotten hair ball yapping away showing no fear from my sudden outburst.

“What should we do?” I asked my husband, pacing.

He answered me with a sleepy, “hmmm?”

“Take those ear plugs out! Why should I be the only one suffering here? What should we do??!!" I repeated.

“Don’t scream again,” was all he could offer.

“Let’s call the police. What are we paying all these village taxes for? There must be an ordinance about barking dogs.”

“OK,” he said, “Call the police.”

“You call them,” I said, dialing the number and handing him the phone. “You’re the man; they'll listen to you. They’ll think I’m just some hysterical woman.”

I stood in front of the window, watching for the police car that never came. They were just humoring him when they told him they would drive by and take a look. I could just imagine them laughing it up at the station. Just wait until I get another envelope from them asking for a contribution.

“You should have sounded meaner, been more forceful. You should have told the cops that this mutt barks every night, not just tonight. This can’t go on all summer! We have to get up early for work and we need our sleep! Why didn’t you tell him all that?” I realize I’m ranting, but can’t stop myself.

On our 5:30 AM morning walk, today, my poor husband was tripping over his own feet. I was still angry and the adrenaline made me walk even faster than I usually do. My mind was also racing, thinking of strategies.

Do I pay a visit to our neighbors at this wee hour of 5:30 AM, ring their doorbell and say something pithy like: “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

Do I ask my son for his bb gun? Should I get a laser pointer and shine it through the window on their foreheads at night? Maybe I’ll bang some pot lids outside their windows just before sunrise?

I’m trying to remember a Seinfeld episode. What did Elaine do with that yapping mutt in her apartment complex? Did she hire someone to get rid of it?

Should I write a letter to them? My husband did that with another neighbor several years ago, when their sprinklers woke him up every morning at 4:00 AM. The letter was not received well and they have remained aloof, but the sprinklers were reset to go off at a later hour and the problem was resolved.

I wouldn’t care if the neighbors never talk to us again as long as the yapping stops at night. I thought about submitting an editorial to my local newspaper, signed anonymously, of course, hoping they read it and see themselves in it.

My husband says we should just go outside when we see them and talk to them about the dog.

“You do it,” I tell him. “I hate confrontation.”

My Writing Hiatus Ends

It has been five weeks since my last blog. Somehow this sounds like the beginning of a Catholic confession. If I say three Hail Mary’s will I be forgiven?

No! says my writer’s conscience.. A serious writer writes every day. No excuses.

But, I had a good excuse. I bought an iphone and have been downloading apps, looking at subway maps, listening to books on tape, checking out the latest new apps.

You should have been writing!

But, truthfully, no one is reading this blog anyway – except my mother, my family and my close friends. They have to read it. I have them set up so they receive the posts in their e-mail box, whether they want them or not.

It doesn’t matter if no one reads your blog. You write because you must. You write for yourself, if you have to, just to hone your skills.

But the iphone is so much fun! Who knew a phone could do so much? I can check my e-mail, play games, read books, listen to books, listen to music, take pictures and videos. Why, I just posted a video I took on my phone to You Tube this morning. How cool is that??

Cool, schmool. That silly video isn’t going to get you anywhere. I’ve seen it and it stinks.

I know, but I had fun learning how to do it. The next one will be better. I promise.

OK, OK, you are forgiven. Are you ready to start working on your writing again?

Yes.

Well then. You can start by saying three Hail Mary’s, and two Our Father’s. Begin with the Act of Contrition.

Oh, my God, I am truly sorry for having offended thee…

{pause} I forgot the rest of the words. Luckily there is an app for that. It’s called Pocket Prayer Pro – and it’s free!

Sleepless in Long Island

I just returned the Montel Williams Health Master Blender. Thirteen dollars for return shipping, but, honestly I would have paid anything just to get the damn thing out of the house. It was sitting on my dining room table for three days - brand new and not even unpacked completely. I couldn’t even lift it out of the tight styrofoam packaging. When I removed the outside box to reveal all the pieces, I found an instructional CD as well as a booklet of instructions for assembly. That did it for me. Anything that complicated was too scary for me. And I feared that I would never be able to get it packed exactly right when I wanted to return it, so I just left it sitting there.

On the second day, waving his arm over the dining room table full of boxes and blender parts wrapped in plastic sticking out of styrofoam packaging, my husband asked,  “What’s all this mess?”

“Just ignore it; I’m returning it,” I answered.

I wouldn’t even try it for the sixty day trial period. I knew the moment I hung up the phone, after the woman took my order, that I would be returning it. Even before it arrived, I was thinking, I wonder how much it’s going to cost to return the darn thing.

I’ve done this before. I wake up at 3:00 in the morning, roll over and realize that I still haven’t digested my dinner. Something is wrong somewhere in my digestive tract and I feel like if I could just sit up and burp everything would be alright. Except, when I sit up, I realize the dinner I had at 7:00 PM isn’t going anywhere fast.

I stumble downstairs, boil some water for a cup of peppermint tea, settle into the recliner and find that position that will make it tolerable for the next hour or so until I can burp or do whatever gastronomical emission is necessary to get this sludge moving down the pipes and on its way.

At 3:00 AM there isn’t much to watch when you have the cheapest cable TV program money will buy – channels 2 through 21. But that particular night I hit on something big. Montel Williams was doing a show on the Montel Williams Health Master Blender. I watched in awe for almost an hour while they pulverized vegetables, fruits, nuts and even a piece of brick. Yes, a piece of brick was actually ground down to grey sand. I leaned forward for a closer look and burped. Ahhh

I was feeling better already and thought, this must be fate that I’m up at this hour to see this amazing Health Master Blender! I reached for a pencil and wrote the phone number down, but I wouldn’t call just yet; I wasn’t 100% convinced that I needed another appliance in the house. After all, I’m not new at this. I’ve done this before. Sitting up all alone at night, you order stuff just to feel like you’re not the only one awake at this god forsaken hour. Who else can you call at 3:30 in the morning besides LL Bean or the Health Master Blender order taker?

A few months earlier, while I was trying to digest another heavy dinner, I ordered the amazing Mandolin Slicer-Dicer-Shredder. I knew I had to have this appliance. The guy doing the demo was slicing vegetables with the speed and accuracy of a Samurai and spinning around the kitchen like a whirling dervish. Watching him, you would swear he had more than two arms working at once. In a mere ten minutes he had an entire kitchen table and two countertops full of an assortment of vegetables, fruits, cheeses, olives, hard-boiled eggs and even a rubber ball.

I never bothered to return the Amazing Mandolin. After slicing my fingers up just trying to get it out of the packaging to put it together, then mashing every vegetable I tried to slice into a mushy blob, I threw all the pieces into a large paper bag and tossed it into the garbage. I couldn’t risk losing a finger trying to repackage it and I didn’t want my husband to know I had ordered such a stupid thing in the first place. Except for a few band aids on my fingertips, that I explained as quilting mishaps, I left no trace of my foolish late night purchase.

But now Montel was introducing real people who had used the Health Master Blender and lost 30, 40, even 50 pounds, drinking nutritious vegetable smoothies. How fortunate I was to be up at this hour, to witness this amazing appliance that would change my life forever. I was dialing, credit card in hand, so excited I could feel a little ripple of gas escaping. Ahhh, more relief.

“Yes, I want to order the Montel Williams Health Master Blender! I’ll pay in the four easy installments,” I said, when the sweet talking southern woman answered the phone.

“If you pay in full tonight, we’ll upgrade you to the professional blender – the chef’s model– at no extra charge..”

“Yes! I’ll pay in full tonight.” Burp! “ Excuse me.”

When it came time for me to begin reading off the numbers on my VISA card, I faltered slightly and began asking more questions: Can you really grind up a brick? How strong is the motor? What kind of warranty is offered? Is the container glass or plastic? Is it very heavy? How much does the whole thing weigh? What are the exact dimensions? and, finally, Where is the blender made? Because if it’s made in China, I don’t want it. I don’t trust anything coming out of China!

All of my questions were answered satisfactorily except the last one. After she put me on hold for quite a while, the phone assistant finally came back on the line and admitted that no one there at the switchboard knew where the unit was manufactured.

“Why don’t you just order the blender,” she said, sounding more exhausted than I was. “We have a 60-day, no questions asked, return policy.”

And true to their sales marketing, there were no questions asked when I called to return the Montel Williams Master Blender that had arrived three days earlier in an oversized, very heavy box that had Made In China stamped in bold lettering and in plain sight.

With the Montel Williams Master Blender out of the house, at last, I know I’ll sleep much better tonight.