Fighting Faucets

There is a popular perception that stress and anxieties are our inevitable companions - so, stop complaining and learn to cope with them instead.

I personally doubt that stress is supposed to be with us on a permanent basis. Otherwise our bodies would not develop such heavy reaction each time it strikes.

We also often forget that life on a modest income and full of hard work can be quite peaceful and dignified, and even promote longevity. Classic literature gives us numerous examples of such lives in well-rooted, though not necessarily most advanced communities.

This is, what I call peaceful

Francoise Duparc (1726-78) Woman Knitting

But abrupt and frequent changes bringing endless uncertainties so eagerly embraced today as signs of progress may be really detrimental to our health.

For many years my major source of stress was, of course, immigration. The whole undertaking can be described as perpetual pressure to absorb new things.  They say kids do it easily. So, here comes an immediate cook-book recommendation:

Embrace childish attitude, and you will be fine.

Well, you probably wouldn’t. Because no matter how hard we try we do not react to novelty at 45 as at 3.

I once saw a TV documentary that may illustrate the point. It was about an elderly deaf couple who decided to get cochlear implants. They were very exited, especially the old lady, your optimistic, enthusiastic type, who could not wait to join her children and grandchildren in their wonderful hearing world.

The results of the surgery were more sad than happy. While her husband eventually gained some hearing ability, though inadequate and overwhelming, the wife developed severe post-operative inflammation and had not improve a thing. She desperately tried to convince herself (and people around her) that she could actually hear, but her daughter - the director of the documentary - saw clearly it was not true.

When you come to a totally different environment in your forties there are very few things you can easily enjoy right away. All others you have to identify, accept, and then, - figure out their appropriate treatment. I mean basic everyday things, like how to write a check, or regulate air conditioner, drive a car,  give a tip in the restaurant, or order a bus ticket by phone…

Did you know that while light switches are mostly the same two-position type all across America, tap faucets are a quintessence of creative variety?

For years I had been finding myself in front of a new one, which operation was a mystery: turn-a-handle type; pull-out-and-turn type; the one where you place your hands under and water runs automatically (photo element!); with undistinguishable cold and warm knobs, etc. 

Please, remember, you find them in public restrooms, the last place you wish to be surprised. 

This is one of them:

 you helplessly look at it and think that all the people around stare at you

Driving… I heard some people start driving in their fifties with no problem whatsoever. I am not one of them. It could be so because I grew up never dreaming of becoming a driver some day. I always thought I would die a passenger.

My first feelings in the driver’s seat were intense. The fact that this big and heavy thing could move at a slight touch of a wheel or gas pedal made my mind freeze and body – perspire.

It took me years to stop being scared behind the wheel. And every time I was going somewhere on my own, my husband, a very good and experienced driver, would comment with a sigh, “I wish I could take you there”, or instructed me "to drive with caution". I was losing confidence just as he was speaking.

Even now, many years later I have not developed back-seat driver’s habits.

As soon as I am in the other seat I immediately switch to passenger mentality, like the lady in the picture above.  

Language… Where do I begin?

On my first Delta flight from Moscow to New York and being totally consumed with thoughts of my mother, I bumped into ridiculous situation. I happened to drop the plastic fork and could not ask for a new one, because I did not remember the English name for the damn thing!

Sitting in front of fettuccini chicken with a stupidest smile on my face, I sincerely regreted that 5^th grade lesson on “dinnerware”. Then I was bored to death by lifeless black and white pictures in my textbook. Now I needed this missing piece of knowledge desperately!

When finally, after my active gesticulation and helpless murmur “I need…, I dropped…” the fork had been handed to me its name was imprinted in my brain for eternity.

In our early days in America I misled many people by using such words as “contradiction” and “criteria”. They expected me to speak well and could not believe that I did not know names of common plants, birds or kitchen utensils.

TV became one of my teachers. At first I thought that news ladies were talking inconceivably fast. The only movie where I managed to recognize some phrases turned out to be British and very old.

Now, by the way, the situation is quite opposite – in the process of mastering American English I completely lost the ear for British and use captioning to watch “Pride and Prejudice”.   

And for years I practiced one trick when could not understand someone. I would keep listening with indefinite smile on my face hoping to catch the meaning later,from the more detailed content. Sometimes I was lucky, and sometimes – totally embarrassed by the need to explain my inadequate reaction.

I think, in our multicultural environment people should be aware of this trick. Many need to work way before they become eloquent English speakers.

Then one day I learned that all this was the easy stuff.

Allergies

Actually this happened before I set my foot on American soil and coincided with such great historical events as collapse of the Berlin Wall, and so-called Perestroika. Being well into my forties, all of a sudden, I started getting violent acne. They were not to be confused with those single and sporadic zits of adolescence. These always came in aching manifolds covering my forehead, chin and even neck.

At one point I panicked that it was adult chicken pox. Well, it was not me, who panicked, but a friend of mine, who came to my house and saw me in this condition. I noticed fear in her eyes, and then she left in a hurry - chicken pox in adults is known to be highly contagious.

In the early 90’s street markets in Moldova spread widely and began flourishing.  

Street vendor in Chisinau, Moldova

To explore new freedoms and for economical reasons many people started going abroad. They were bringing back exotic goods and foods.

Large and tiny self-proclaimed supermarkets popped up like mushrooms after the rain and allured us - unspoiled and enthusiastic post-Soviet consumers - with seductively colorful foreign labels.

One of the first supermarkets opened in Chisinau, Moldova

(looks pritty ordinary, but imagine you see it for the first time!)

The concept of packaged food - tasty and easy to prepare - seemed like a mandatory attribute of the worldly lifestyle. So, we eagerly tried product after product not only for the sake of new taste-bud experience but also to share blessings of modern civilization that we had been deprived of for so long. 

As I said, products were from all over the world, hence many labels we could not read even if we’d have a habit.

After we had moved to the United States my acne ordeal continued. I tried over-the-counter remedies and make-up concealers. I also made attempts to single out triggers of my condition, specifically the foods that initiated outbreaks, but it looked like almost any food could cause it.

For lack of better understanding, I succumbed to the conclusion, that in the second half of my life and for the unknown reasons (environment, you know!) I became allergic to dry fruits, chocolate, fat, salty and spicy foods, etc… I was preparing myself to live with it like so many other people nowadays, as adult acne was becoming a widely spread phenomenon.

The truth was discovered by an accident.

An old friend from Russia came to visit us. We had dinner in our house, spent hours in conversation, remembering people we knew and situations we’d been together. Later that night, after we saw him off I noticed a full grocery bag on the side table. My husband called the friend to tell him that he had left something in our house.
“Oh, no!” – was the answer - “That’s just a cake I brought you as a present and completely forgot about. Enjoy!”

I opened the bag and the box in it. Inside was the rich chocolate cake, fresh and yummy. Did I mentioned I love chocolate? And my husband is totally indifferent to it. 

I tried to negotiate his partaking of the cake.

“It is unfair” – said I - “You can have it, but you don’t care, and I should definitely avoid it, but I will eat it all, because I can not throw the good thing away!”

Then I said “You know I will break out terribly and it will be entirely your fault!”

After that I cut out a huge slice and had my private party.

Trader Joe’s chocolate cake

Nothing happened… Neither in two hours, nor the next morning... I had more cake. No acne afterward. I was excited.  Together with my husband we   recovered the cake’s box from recycling bin and carefully read the label. It was a Trader Joe’s brand. The label stated “All natural. No preservatives, no artificial flavors.”

It was a revelation. I was not mysteriously allergic to foods that were familiar and safe for me since childhood. My body simply rebelled against those things called “additives” a long list of which you may see on so many modern food labels. 

Well, additives are not food, they are chemicals. They do not add nutrition but compensate for lack of taste or freshness. In other words, they make food  manageable, like shoes or tools .

But do chemicals belong in our bodies? I mean, on a daily basis, in accumulating amounts? 

Acne is an immediate and comparatively mild reaction. But what about additives' long term impact on a person’s liver, hormonal or reproductive system? 

The fact that we do not know much yet does not mean the impact does not exist.

Eventually studies will be done and we will know. Unfortunately, for many people including me, with my one imperfect but indispensable body, it may be too late.

* * *

One might wonder: why did I spend so many words on a modest personal discovery? Could it not just be mentioned that a certain cake, brought by a friend, did not cause allergic reaction?

Well, anyone who has to deal with the condition would agree: to find out that the food is actually safe for you presents a pleasant surprise. Another reason for bringing this up in all details is - because I try to provide an honest, un-beatified narration.

Can you recognize this product? I can’t.

Since then I started reading backs of the labels and was astonished to learn that my naive belief in food being just food was totally outdated: in many cases it was much more than the front of the label declared and sometimes - entirely different.

I know quite a few intelligent people who still do not realize this.

Two Sides of the Bargain

These were two sides to the bargain between my husband and me. I will start with my side, which is ballroom dancing. Nowadays I sometimes hear: “No wander you guys dance - all Russians are great dancers!”

Cotillion

Illustration from ballroom manual, XIX c

But in fact, we were introduced to the concept of ballroom dancing as social activity in the United States on one of our first company’s parties. I just noticed several couples doing basic swing steps and underarm turns.

“Look, how nice!” - I said to my husband. “People here know some moves and they look classy. And we shake our butts like teenagers. Only we are not teenagers anymore. We need to learn!”

My husband did not argue with me. What if doing fancy steps is customary in America? He too wanted to look classy. But then you have to do something about it. You should actually find a ballroom studio and even go there. Do you know many married men who would do that?

In our case cultural incentives were definitely not enough. Every time I suggested booking a class, he said, he would rather play soccer, or go to a gym. Naturally, he gravitated to “more manly” sports but my concern was that after a long period of sedentary life-style it could only lead to injuries. And spare time was also a problem: we were both working long hours.

To make the next step toward my long-time dream about Viennese and Cha-cha I proposed a deal. “OK, - I said - I will go with you to a health club, but in return, you will join me for ballroom lessons”. He agreed, because with our limited English at that time every new social experience needed mutual encouragement and support. And, I think, we like to do things together.

My sports-related resume is the following: during my teens and in college I was passionate about artistic gymnastics. But later I did almost nothing – just some very moderate morning exercise.

As I noticed after our first months in America, my little toe calluses I clearly remembered since the 5th grade, were gone. I admired the cosmetic effect but suspected it was the tip of the iceberg.

What could I do to provide a sensible impact on my de-trained body, and without breaking something right away? I decided swimming was the best option. Technically I could stay afloat for half a minute and always envied people capable of swimming tirelessly. It seemed like a good idea to improve my aquatic skills.

That’s exactly how the lane looks when you try to make it for the first time - endless

The first ambitious goal I had set for myself was to reach the end of the standard pool lane. At the finish I was totally out of breath, with my heart pounding. I must’ve been looking pretty bad, because the lady in the lane next to mine asked me if I was OK and then warned me against exhausting myself or else I would have a heart attack. In six months I was able to do up to 4 laps. Later I extended my swimming endurance to 10 laps, then – to 20.


Speaking of the iceberg which tip was my callus-less toe: it was amazing how weakened my muscles were by decades of inactivity and how reluctantly and slowly they agreed to work. But I learned my lesson. If you do not use your body, it degrades. And it does not matter how gifted physically you were as a child or how many sport trophies you’d von in college.

The painful truth is: we must put our bodies to work regularly, otherwise, whatever you gained today you will lose tomorrow.

Another benefit of swimming was the control of the hand on my floor scale. For the first time in three years of going steadily up, it stopped and ever-so-slowly started moving in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile my husband tried various training machines, and enjoyed sauna and Jacuzzi. Sometimes he would join me in the pool but lap swimming was too boring for his entrepreneurial nature; he was determined to make perpetual improvements: bring goggles, flippers, ear plugs.

To pursue our dancing ambitions we went to the local community center. They offered the best deal in the area: four dances in four weeks, five dollars per lesson.

We put on our most comfortable shoes and joined the group of other genuine beginners.

The first dance we learned was, probably, waltz. It appeared to be a different dance we called “waltz” in Russia, which is actually a Viennese. The slow one in my old country had a very elegant name of waltz-Boston. Anyway, it was harder to learn than I expected and moving with music presented additional challenge. 

These East Coast swingers dance much-much better then we did in the beginning

And here is my confession: at the end of each class I was shamefully exhausted. “What is wrong with me?” I asked my husband. “How can an hour of moderate activity tire me so much?” It was hard to admit that simply a prolonged erect position was already a challenge for my non-walking feet and years-chained-to-computer body.

Watching ballroom dancing on TV I was always fascinated by the ability of a lady to follow her partner. “How does she know what his next step would be?” At first it looked like the only way to move together was by learning the routine and following it without any variations.

In order to master the steps we had to practice at home. Our instructor, an old gentleman with perfect posture, called them “basic”, but to us they did not look easy. My husband’s enthusiasm plummeted under pressure of three tasks: moving a certain way, leading a partner and adjusting to the demands of music. My attempts to help him by corrective suggestions annoyed him immensely. He yelled at me.

At our first ballroom party I was under the impression that all the couples around us were professionals. Ladies were spinning, their partners moved with complete confidence. For quite a while I was convinced that we were the most helpless dancers in the room. Then one day I noticed several other beginners as stiff and nervous as us or… even more so. We probably were not the worst anymore!

It felt like a real achievement.

Eventually the time had come when we started enjoying ourselves dancing. Indeed it is one of the most natural pleasures, ancient as humanity itself. Music has amazing ability to uplift and inspire even when you are dead tired or absolutely not in the mood.

Some sources say dancing can cure depression at least temporarily.

Another personal observation I’d like to share: while dancing, you do not eat. An evening spent at a dancing party is also spent away from the fridge, couch, or TV pizza commercials.

There are individuals with strong will (well, they must be!) who would never eat unless they are hungry. I am not one of them. For me the comforting aspect of food is imperative and when I am stressed out, tired or simply bored I eat to console myself. To have a good alternative is very helpful for me in maintaining reasonable eating habits.

But my favorite thing about dancing is that moving to music does not actually feel like effort. Naturally, I burn more energy dancing than I ever planned and without being bored (the reason, why so many health-oriented resolutions fade after a one-time endeavor). My husband noticed that he regularly shed up to three pounds to the end of a dancing party.

We also met many nice people there.

Pretty typical ballroom dancing party

(well, may be a little bit too fancy)

Mingling is usually more active than on parties of other type. Topics of discussion are not limited. Ballroom party crowd is also remarkably diverse: there are people of different age, countries of origin, professional and ethnical background. People show pictures of their recent vacation, discuss movies or look for job opportunities. And for a single person the search for potential mate might be less conspicuous under the protection of another reason for being there – that is, to dance.

And finally, the advantage ladies can especially appreciate. Dancing gave me the reason to wear a girly dress. At first, what to wear was a challenge for me. The only real dress I had in my closet was the one I bought for that company’s Christmas party years before. Now it looked totally inadequate to any other occasion. Eventually I joined the club of always-wearing-pants women.

But for dancing you actually put on a chiffon skirt; the one that floats when you turn making your body look light and gracious. And it does not matter whether you are 22 or 65, such a skirt becomes anyone.

And yes, sequence is appropriate; it glitters so charmingly in dim light…

It looks like a perfect picture of the perfect life, but I started the health blog for a reason.

Next posting will be about the issue that caught me by surprise.
I thought, it was long forgotten.

Amazing Chicken

In 1996 I won the life lottery and reached the Promise Land - I came to America.

…There was a crowd of people around US Consulate in Moldova in their finest clothes, who were not even allowed to pass through the doors shadowed by the proud star spangled banner.

Few friends, who were informed about my imminent journey, had different but strong reactions to the news. Some were happy for me. Those who knew the reason for my departure - cried. Others cried because with each person leaving they felt like the world was crumbling around them. 

I was anxious. We planned to go to the United States for quite a while. Together with my sister, both our husbands and a small group of enthusiastic friends we were pioneering new approaches in the engineering innovation. In the early 90s’ our activity had caught the eye of American entrepreneurs.

We had to choose who will go first. All agreed that the best team to promote our core knowledge would be my sister and her husband. They were great educators, authors of several books. And when the company in the US is established we would join them.

This plan actually succeeded. But in the next 5 years the new American company was overcoming many difficulties and had no means to invite us. We shifted our professional focus to local opportunities when the call came through and I was asked to come… Unfortunately - not for business.

The reason of the invitation was my mom’s sudden cancer. Our mother had been visiting with them for several months, had a great time (though put on a couple of extra pounds), when she started feeling unwell. She was diagnosed with bone cancer and the prognosis was not good. My sister and her husband were working hard, in and out of business trips. And mom needed a kindred soul by her side.

It was strange and painful to think that I was going to see my mother for the last time. Will I be able to take good care of her? The old friend of our family - an experienced hospital nurse - told me that it was not easy. I also worried that my visa application might be declined in American consulate – at that time they refused so many.

When the young and tall consul asked me about the purpose of my visit all of a sudden I could not speak. The words “my mother is dying” just stuck in my throat. Swallowing unexpected tears I concentrated entirely on keeping a civil smile on my face and silently passed him the hospital letter. It was folded in a three-portion American way.

The man just looked through the letter, then - into my eyes and granted me visa.

Days later, still in total emotional disarray I was on the way to the country of people’s dreams.

Speaking plainly I was on board of the plane heading to New York in my finest (actually - only) pink suit and laced high boots. Looking back, I think, my attire was totally ridiculous.

I was reviewing pictures of my mom made in America several months before. She was smiling there in her new outfits apparently bought by my sister. On some pictures she was surrounded by her old friends emigrated from Moldova in the 80s’. I mentioned before that she had put on some weight. Well, frankly, on those pictures, she looked three times bigger than I ever known her.

My mother was born in 1924. As a young girl she had survived famine in Ukraine, Second World War and post-war shortages. As long as I can remember, her relations with food were simple and quite spontaneous: she would have traditional three meals a day and a snack anytime she felt hungry. She never cared much about dieting and from her I have inherited my sweet tooth. But she never was really overweight.


…Looking at her American pictures I was wondering what had happened to my mother there, and whether her sudden weight gain had anything to do with rapidity of her decline.

Later I realized that my assumptions had some grounds. Welcoming my mother in the US my sister tried to introduce her to nice experiences like eating out, or an endless variety of ice creams. Several old friends of my mother invited her to their homes and lavishly entertained according to undying Russian traditions. Within a year my mother ballooned above 200 lb. And around the same time she started complaining about joint pain. The rest you know.

My fears of being not up to the challenge were proven wrong. With all the help and conveniences of American medicine taking care of my mother turned out to be quite easy. All these disposable needles and syringes, patches and diapers made the technical side of it totally manageable.

It was the emotional side that was hard for me. The chores I was doing around my mom deceivingly resembled the ones I had with my baby daughter. Ones a mother is always a mother. You can never forget the chronic fatigue and sleep deprivation of nursing a baby but also - the deep sense of accomplishment coming with it. You knew that your efforts promoted growth and wellbeing.

But with mom it was different. Each time I was able to feed her, I was caught in the familiar feeling of satisfaction. But the very next moment it struck me hard that she was not going to be better, no matter what I did.

Now - about the chicken:

The easiness of caregiving routine left me spare time. I could not drive, so I was confined to my sister’s apartment. When mom was asleep I read, or watched TV in the adjacent room. I also cooked. Well, that is what Russian women do – we cook.

Once I decided to meet my sister and her husband from their business trip with a dinner. I had been instructed that there was a chicken in the freezer, so I made a plan to roast it with an improvised salad from the items I could find in the produce compartment. With this in mind I opened the freezer and looked inside. There was a bag with something huge in it. “That is not it - I thought closing the door – there is no chicken, I have to create plan B with whatever creature there is.” I stood abashed for a moment and then opened the freezer again. I took the brick-heavy plastic bag out to the light.

“Chicken” was written on its colorful label.

It was very confusing. Being a 45 years old woman I thought I new what a chicken was! According to my previous experiences and the Russian-English dictionary chicken was a small, young hen. Its skin was supposed to be thin, pale and in most delicate places - slightly bluish. The thing in the bag was football-size. Thick patches of dark yellow fat were showing through its porous skin.

“This can not be chicken” – jumped in my anxious mind. – “This is some monstrous… sick bird!”

In spite of all my care the meal I had prepared that evening tasted funny to me. I shared my concerns with my sister. She looked slightly annoyed.

So, what was it, me or chicken?

Within a month of enjoying individual car transportation calluses on my feet that I had since my teen’s hiking trips - disappeared. But also invisibly my leg muscles started shrinking.

The variety of food in the supermarket regularly took my breath away (still does), though both familiar staples and exotic delicacies could’ve been laden with mysterious additives.

Eating out was easy and fun and actually inexpensive, but with every dinner out I would gain 2 – 3 pounds.

And in many areas simple walking was a luxury, not the way of life. Before I thought it was a life-time activity inevitable as breathing: going to work, from work, shopping; moving with a crowd of people, yet feeling totally on your own… Well, now to do all that I had to drive to special places, at specially scheduled times, and in corresponding attire (walking shoes, jersey suit, etc.)

People around me seemed totally disinterested in my concerns. So I thought that perhaps abruptness of the change I was going through made me hypersensitive to the fact that the benefits of developed economy came with its side effects.

* * *

I do not have scientific evidence proving that my mother was killed by abundant and rich food she was consuming during her first and last visit to America. But deviations in her looks and wellbeing coincided in a truly remarkable way. If nothing more, food and lifestyle played powerful triggers to her underlying condition.

As sad as this story is I like to share it to explain when, how and in what mind set I have arrived in America. Still, as most of the immigrants, I was very much exited, confidant in my ability to overcome challenges coming my way, and open to new positive experiences.

Next time I will write about some of them.