Wild River Review
Wild River Review
Connecting People, Places, and Ideas: Story by Story
May 2010
Open Borders

Yesterday I got the results of my most recent blood tests–the ones I’ve been chomping at the bit to get and talk about with the new doctor. As it turns out, the news is not so good, although it sure does explain things. Essentially, I am sorely depleted of Vitamin D and register high on the inflammation scale, which puts me at risk for a whole host of delightful conditions that I will not document here for the universe to make true. (Knock spandex.) Not that you need to know all this, but then again, my life is an open blog…Deep breath, Jill. Deep breath…


Imagine you are a bird with long white slender wings and gliding ever higher, higher, moving up, up and up until you’re invisible to even the tops of trees. As you float in a sea of blue sky, there are white clouds beneath you ready to catch you like a drop of tea even though you’re a lot heavier and would probably drop clear through them into some random landfill. Isn’t it always the way? (Accidental snort here.) And by the way, I have no clue as to what this whole section means but it sure does feel good. And, sounds super poetic, don’t you think? As in real “Poetry”.  I mean, does anybody else smell a second career here or is it just me?

As if that weren’t enough, my adrenal glands, which monitor the “fight or flight” instincts in our bodies, are exhausted and, as a result, are wreaking havoc.


To translate using story (because who doesn’t love a good story?): I–one short chubby but tenacious and well-intentioned Jewish girl struggling to stay afloat in a world where, frankly, there are no good jobs and all the good men are taken (except you, hon, and you know who you are…)–am innocently walking in the woods when a tiger jumps in front of me from out of nowhere. My adrenals kick in to produce adrenaline that helps to prevent me from panicking so I can wrestle that tiger (i.e., work, slow metabolism, Fox News, ornery relatives, exes with voodoo dolls, personal trainers with an ax to grind looking for an easy scapegoat, and impressionable step-people, etc.) and bring it to its knees. Then, when it’s over and providing I’m not ground people-meat, my adrenals come back down to normal where I remain, as always, calm. Once again.


Except, well, oops.


Seems my adrenals, out of a sea of billions, are a tad confused and instead of coming down–ever–they’re convinced there’s always a tiger at my donkey. So to make up for their always being “on” if you will, they’re taxing the sh*& out of my other hormones for assistance (think pesky new employee: where’s the bathroom, where’s the coffee maker, how do I get a trashcan, why won’t this printer work, a staff meeting you say, what staff meeting?, etc.).


This phenomena, in turn, leads to all kinds of craziness: Slow metabolism, fatigue, general malaise, anxiety, foggy thinking, can’t locate my car keys, why are my socks in the refrigerator, blah, blah, blah. You get the drift. And so boring, really.


Suffice to say, that’s it in a nutshell–the easy explanation no doctor will give you. But you can always find it here, my friends. That’s right. So tip your waiters. And, please don’t scrimp.



And now, it’s time to answer the obvious question: After rambling on and on about inflammation, Vitamin D, and the clinical rationale for how adrenal systems should operate, let me outline the proposed treatment.


Turns out, there is no magic pill to clean this whole mess up, as I had hoped and even anticipated. To the contrary, I have to exercise, still. Eat more salmon and LESS CHICKEN–the mainstay of Jill’s diet, by the way. (It’s as if Stephen King and Michael Pollen got together to conspire my bleak metabolic situation.) More vegetarian crap: Beans, tofu, seitan. Lots of omega-3s. A ballet of pretty little supplements, wrapped in cotton and smoky glass. And the mandate of meditation.


Oy. How did 40-some years of diet and exercise land me here?


Anyway, I guess it could be worse (yes, I know, it could be for sure). And yet, should these things fail to make an indent in six to eight weeks, well then, we’ll see. On to Plan B, I guess. (Although I’m not sure what that is yet, but in my dreams, it involves chocolate, a new rug for the living room, and a winning lottery ticket…)


Stay posted…


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