Category: Brian’s Journey

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Level 4 Kidney Function: A Gout-Friendly Diet Update

Written July 2, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

I had my regular rendezvous with the nephrologist this week. And guess what? My eGFR has officially slid into Level 4 territory. Ah, kidneys—always keeping life suspenseful. Suddenly, the mystery of my marshmallow feet makes perfect sense.

Armed with a list of burning questions (like a medical Sherlock Holmes), I peppered my doctor with inquiries. One lab glance later, he asked me a lot of questions. I showed my bios, I told him what dietary changes I made.  “You’re probably riding the sugar train a little too hard.” Now, aside from a slight uptick in ice cream over the past month—okay, maybe more than slight—I haven’t exactly been swimming in syrup. 

Weight management came up (as it always does), and my doctor gave me a surprising green light: I can have a bit more protein! The catch? Sugar’s gotta go. So, farewell to frosty treats, and hello again to yogurt and fruit. It’s not a tragic breakup—I happen to love our homemade yogurt, courtesy of my wife. It’s just the right kind of bland. Not too sour, not too sweet. Honestly, I think store-bought yogurt has trust issues—it’s either overly tangy or suspiciously processed. Ours? Pure probiotic poetry.

Medication for gout got a little upgrade too—because, let’s be real, that red, angry foot of mine isn’t fixing itself overnight. But I’m hopeful. The pain’s still there, but I’m optimistic it’ll chill out soon, especially now that I’m being kinder to my kidneys. They’re finicky little organs—throw in too much sugar or a rogue meatball, and they stage a protest.

All in all, the doctor and I agreed on a simple plan: keep the hydration goal steady, scale back the sugar, gently boost the protein, and stay vigilant. It’s a delicate dance, but I’m not doing it alone. My wife and I made a pact a decade ago to face kidney issues as a team—and we’re still two-stepping our way through it together.

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When Your Feet Start Swelling and Ice Cream Is the Prime Suspect: A Kidney Health Check-In

Written Jun 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

It all started last Thursday. My right foot decided to file a complaint—painful, persistent, and just loud enough to make me pay attention. By evening, both feet looked like they’d been moonlighting as water balloons. Thankfully, the swelling usually deflates by morning, but it’s still concerning enough that I’ll be bringing it up with my nephrologist this Wednesday.

Now, if you’ve ever had kidney issues, you know the drill: when your kidneys slack off on their job, your body turns into a sponge. The fluid that should’ve been politely escorted out hangs around instead—preferably in your lower extremities. In my case, it’s like my feet got dunked in a vat of water and just… stayed there.

To make matters more interesting, there’s a suspiciously red, swollen spot on one foot. It’s not screaming “gout flare!” like it has in the past, but it’s definitely whispering it. Not fun. Not agony. Just enough to make me grumble every few steps.

When my wife caught sight of my puffy feet, her worry radar went off. We both agreed: it’s not as dramatic as the foot fiasco from a decade ago, but still a downgrade from how things looked back in March. Naturally, we retraced our dietary steps. And—cue dramatic music—I had to confess. Summer weight maintenance is a battlefield when you’ve got food restrictions, and sometimes that battlefield is paved with ice cream and pastry bites. Don’t judge—desperate times call for frozen desserts.

My wife, being the practical one, asked the big question: “What’s your eGFR lately?” That’s the estimated glomerular filtration rate, for those blissfully unfamiliar—it’s basically the Yelp review for your kidneys. She wants to know how well they’re filtering out waste these days. Spoiler alert: I’m not sure yet, but I will be soon.

So now, I’m building my checklist for the doctor: foot swelling, possible gout, and yes, an honest conversation about my summer romance with ice cream. I’ve got my stats ready too—blood pressure, heart rate, weight—the whole health dashboard. Ironically, I’ve actually had trouble keeping my weight up lately, partly because I’ve been gaining muscle (thank you, outdoor chores), and partly because summer keeps me more active.

I’m still staying hydrated (a solid 64 oz per day), but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little anxious. Still, I’ll get some answers soon. And who knows—maybe even a better snack plan.

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Surviving Summer Without AC: How We Outsmarted the Heat (and Trained Our Nervous Systems Like Ninjas)

Written 06/28/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Well folks, we did it. We made it through the year’s first major heatwave without melting into couch puddles—or cranking the AC like panicked lizards in a sauna.

We made a small but mighty change in how we deal with heat: instead of blasting cold air like it’s 1999, we’ve gone old-school. Ceiling fans in every room? Check. Airflow strategies that would make NASA proud? You bet. Our secret weapon? High ceilings and a fan system that practically whispers, “Let there be breeze.”

As soon as the sun starts to dip, it’s go-time. Windows open. Window fans on. It’s like a tactical air exchange operation, minus the camouflage. Even if the heat during the day feels like we accidentally moved to Mercury, things shift once the sun clocks out. Sure, some humidity sticks around like an awkward guest at a dinner party—but most nights, our system works like a charm.

My wife’s always been a warm-weather purist. AC? Not her thing. She spent years in Japan and Germany, where people don’t treat their homes like meat lockers. I used to find this a little intense—especially pre-stroke. But now? I’m a convert.

After my brain stroke, I lost the ability to handle sudden temperature changes. Stepping inside an overcooled house after a run felt like entering a glacier with my nerve endings screaming in confusion. My autonomic nervous system—bless its confused little circuits—just couldn’t keep up. But this natural approach? It’s literally therapeutic.

We’re replacing our central AC next year—it still runs, but it’s like a gas-guzzling dinosaur trying to keep up with a Prius. And we’re not planning to keep the house at “penguin habitat” levels. Our summer indoor temps hover around 82°F to 84°F (that’s 28–29°C for our metric friends), and honestly, we’re handling it surprisingly well.

Bonus points: our house is basically a mullet—business in the front (above ground), cool party in the back (underground). The downstairs stays naturally cooler in summer and warmer in winter, which makes temperature control a bit more forgiving, even in Nashville’s moody climate.

Do we expect more heatwaves? Oh yes. At least two more, if we’re betting. But something wild is happening—we’ve adapted. A few weeks ago, today’s temperatures would’ve sent us scrambling for the AC remote. Now? We’re both commenting on how “pleasant” it feels.

I think this heat-dodging lifestyle is helping reboot my sympathetic and parasympathetic systems—the dynamic duo of the autonomic nervous system. I’m noticing better seasonal adaptation, more stability, and fewer temperature-triggered meltdowns (literal and figurative).

So bring it on, summer. We’re not scared of you anymore. Well, maybe just a little. But we’ll face you fan-first, cool-headed, and slightly smug.

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Sew It Goes: How Sewing a Button Became My Unexpected Rehab Win

Written June 25, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday, a small but mighty victory took place in my household: I finally sewed a button back onto my shorts. Yes, the shorts that have been silently judging me from the mending pile for weeks. My original goal was to wear them to my blood draw appointment, but threading that needle turned into an Olympic-level event—and, spoiler alert, I did not win gold.

Part of the challenge? My left hand. It’s been on a bit of a go-slow strike since my stroke. While most of my mobility has returned (with a slow but steady comeback tour), my left hand still dances to its own rhythm—one that is less ballet and more interpretive chaos. I practice piano daily to retrain it, and while progress is real, threading a needle still feels like trying to put a shoelace through a keyhole. While blindfolded. On a moving train.

Oh, and let’s not forget my eyesight. Between the rebellious hand and less-than-stellar vision, sewing that button felt like performing surgery with oven mitts.

Despite it all, I managed to get the thread through, stab the shorts a few dozen times (mostly intentionally), and reattach the button. My backup pair of shorts had just emerged from the dryer at that moment, so I wore those instead. Still, I went back to my sewing mission post-appointment, and this time, I finished the job.

And let me just say: shout-out to my middle school home economics teacher. Without those long-forgotten lessons, I’d have had to look up a YouTube tutorial or ask my wife for help. Both totally valid options, but nothing beats a minor domestic triumph all on your own.

In the end, this wasn’t just about the button. It was about dexterity. Determination. Brain-hand coordination. This tiny, stubborn project turned out to be its own form of rehab—and it counts.

I’d been putting it off because, well, life. Doctor visits, lab work, and the glorious chaos of summer have been eating up my time. But yesterday, I did the thing. I fixed the shorts. I now officially have two wearable pairs for the season. The repaired button has held firm—so far, so good. Fingers crossed. Or in my case, sort-of-crossed.

Tomorrow brings my annual eye appointment, and I’ll be mowing the lawn beforehand (because nothing says “adulting” like trimming grass before checking your retinas). So yes, having an extra pair of shorts is not just fashion—it’s function.

Until next time, keep your threads tight and your victories celebrated—no matter how small they seem. Sometimes, sewing on a button is the big win of the week.

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Mow, Sweat, and Labs: A Kidney-Friendly Workout With a Side of Weather Nerdiness

Written Jun 24, 2025

Reviewed 7/7

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s agenda was brought to you by the letters M (for mowing), B (for bloodwork), and S (for sweat. So. Much. Sweat).

It was a race against the sun this morning—me versus the jungle formerly known as our lawn. I usually take my time trimming the terrain, but today, I had a hard deadline: a date with a phlebotomist. Nothing says “productive morning” quite like pushing an electric mower up a steep hill, then heading off to donate a vial or five of blood.

Let’s rewind a bit. My kidneys and I have a bit of a complicated history. Back in 2015, my function had dipped so low that I made the transplant list. Dramatic, I know. But through some dietary ninja moves, medication management, and sheer stubbornness, I climbed back up to stage 3. Some days I flirt with stage 4 (I like to keep my nephrologist on their toes). Hence the quarterly blood draws—my body’s version of a quarterly report card, minus the spreadsheets.

Exercise has become non-negotiable for me. Not just to stay fit, but to keep my kidneys pumping (or filtering?) as best they can. Ever since my stroke, I’ve realized that motion isn’t just medicine—it’s mission-critical.

Until 2022, my wife was the queen of the lawn. She’d spend hours on weekends battling the grass while working full-time during the week. Eventually, I took over. Now I handle both cooking and mowing—basically, I’m evolving into a domestic ninja with a touch of yard warrior.

Our lawn, by the way, is no gentle meadow. It’s steep enough to make you question your life choices mid-mow. Even with our electric mower, I need two battery swaps—and usually still don’t finish it all in one go. Today, I gave myself three hours and managed to tame the front yard and half of one side before calling it quits. Thursday, the saga continues.

I was drenched in sweat by the end, having chugged a full liter of water like it was my sidekick. Honestly, I might need a medal. Or at least a Popsicle.

On a brighter (and cooler) note, we’ve gone full nerd and ordered a fancy weather station! It has a remote sensor that sits in our bedroom, while the main display lives in my office. Now I can spy on the upstairs temperature without even standing up. Efficiency, thy name is gadget.

The new system should help us decide when to fling open the windows or turn on the fan, because let’s be real—when your body doesn’t regulate heat so well post-stroke, indoor climate control is a tactical operation.

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Peaches, Pastries, and Pace Goals: A Juicy Detour in Brentwood

Written Jun 21, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning took a delicious little detour—we headed to the Brentwood farmers market on a noble mission: peaches. Not just any peaches, mind you—these are the golden globes of summer that end up as jam, chutney, or occasionally, eaten straight over the sink like a juicy criminal.

You see, I’m a peach addict. Last year’s supply of peach jam mysteriously vanished (into my mouth), so naturally, I needed a refill. Sadly, we missed strawberry season this year due to the Great Renovation Saga of 2025, but peaches? Peaches, we were not going to miss.

Nashville has its fair share of farmers markets, including one practically in our backyard. But we went with the Brentwood market—not quite the Broadway of produce, but charming, local, and most importantly, peach-rich.

Once our peach haul was secure, I made a strategic pit stop at a nearby bakery. I may have walked in for a quick peek… and walked out with a donut named “King Kong.” Why King Kong? Because it had bacon. On a donut. I also snagged a lemon custard one for good measure—because balance, right?

My wife, however, watched this sugary acquisition with the same expression people reserve for horror movie trailers. She’s not a fan of pastries. Or bacon. Apparently, once she hit her twenties, her stomach filed a restraining order against greasy foods. More donuts for me, then!

My plan? Save these beauties as a post-run prize. I’ve been struggling to keep my weight up lately, and let’s be honest—bacon donuts are basically a fitness supplement… if you squint and ignore all common sense.

Speaking of peach jam, last year’s batch was a science experiment. Unlike strawberries, peaches don’t come naturally pectin-packed. So, my wife got crafty—lemon juice, lemon peel, apple slices, cinnamon, and brown sugar (less than the usual saccharine suspects call for). She’s the MacGyver of canning. Canning safety, she says, is not a game. (Her exact words: “This is not a Pinterest project, it’s microbiology.”)

This year, though, life got busy. So instead of an instant jam session, she boiled and peeled the peaches, then froze them for a future day of sticky, sweet alchemy.

The only downside to this fruity side quest? It delayed my run by two hours. And in Nashville, a two-hour delay in summer basically means running on the sun. I started with my usual 5k, then decided to keep going until I either hit my target pace time or keeled over. Luckily, the pace gods smiled on me, and I nailed my goal at 7k. Victory—and donuts—awaited.

Moral of the story: Never underestimate the motivational power of fruit, sugar, and just a dash of bacon.

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Too Tired to Sleep: The Insomnia Olympics, Post-Stroke Edition

Written June 20, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Ever been so exhausted that you can’t fall asleep? Welcome to my world—population: me, and maybe a few other unlucky night owls who’ve done battle with the great paradox of fatigue-induced insomnia.

Yesterday was a full-blown mowing marathon. I trimmed, I battled weeds, I may have muttered threats to crabgrass. By the time I came inside, I was drained—so much so that my body skipped past “sleepy” and went straight into “wired and grumpy.” Apparently, being utterly worn out doesn’t guarantee a trip to dreamland. Sometimes it just leaves you staring at the ceiling, pondering life’s cruel ironies.

Since my stroke, sleep has become a much more serious business. My occupational therapist warned me early on: protect your circadian rhythm like it’s your Netflix password. Sleep and wake at consistent times. Respect the rhythm. Obey the rhythm. Worship the rhythm. Okay, she didn’t say that last part, but you get the idea.

Post-stroke, I get tired faster than the average person. That’s just how it is. But sitting around grumbling about it? Not productive. Instead, I’ve been learning to listen to my body—like it’s a grumpy coach that yells, “REST, NOW!” and expects me to actually follow instructions.

Lately, though, it’s been tricky. My body’s waving the white flag by dinnertime, but when I lie down, my brain decides it’s party time. To make it more frustrating, I still wake up at my usual time, even if I’ve spent the night wrestling with my pillow and existential dread.

Truth be told, I’ve had sleep issues since I was a kid. Total night owl. Midnight was just the warm-up. Back then, I could bounce back without much trouble. My wife used to be the same, but she “trained” herself to sleep early. She swears by the power of good sleep—says it helps repair her body and brain. She never crammed for exams. She studied gradually and then coasted the week before test day. That approach helped her gain her accounting certifications way faster than most people—with scores so high, I suspect sorcery.

She believes her memory is sharp because she sleeps like a champion. And honestly? She might be right.

After I got back from the hospital, we had to rebuild everything—sleep included. Early on, I was practically a sleep zombie, clocking 9-hour nights and still struggling to wake up. So, we got proactive. We walked. We trained. We meal-prepped. We set a sleep schedule and stuck to it like bedtime vigilantes.

I’ve picked up a few tricks for better sleep—deep breathing, clearing my mind, a dash of meditation—but here’s the catch: you need just enough energy to do those things. Too little, and the focus fizzles. It’s like trying to read a novel during an earthquake.

So here I am. A little tired. A little wiser. Still fine-tuning this whole sleep-after-stroke thing. Because sleep may be natural, but after mowing the lawn and wrestling with brain fatigue? It’s practically a sport.

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Rain, Thunder, and a Lawn That Refuses to Chill

Written June 17, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, I did my usual weather-check routine—part hopeful planning, part meteorological gambling—and saw a full day of thunderstorms on the forecast. My wife has been saying all year, “There’s so much more thunder and rain lately!” but honestly, to me, this just feels like Nashville being its dramatic self. If Nashville had a personality, it would be that friend who wears flip-flops and carries an umbrella… just in case.

Now, my wife used to live in Ontario, Canada. Up there, thunder rumbles in early spring, then summer arrives with the vibe of a responsible librarian: calm, dry, and polite. You’re lucky if you can water your lawn once a week without breaking into a guilt sweat. We used to live in Oregon, too, where the seasons are basically “rain” and “not-rain.” People just accept that lawns go a bit crispy in the summer—no judgment.

But here in Nashville? It’s a lawn’s fever dream. Hot sun plus relentless rain equals unstoppable weed and grass growth. Our yard is turning into a botanical uprising. I’m half-convinced we’ll find a Venus flytrap next to the mailbox if this keeps up.

With all the thunder talk, I figured mowing would be a no-go today. But lo and behold—no rain when I woke up. I double-checked the forecast (because I’ve been burned before) and saw I had about an hour before the skies opened. Cue the Mission: Impossible theme music. I hustled outside and managed to mow the front yard before the first drops fell. Not bad for a guy dodging lightning bolts with a lawn mower.

Meanwhile, indoors, my wife has been tackling home projects on top of her full-time job—because apparently, she’s secretly five people. Right now, she’s on bathroom renovation duty. We bought a grout remover (a tool that sounds more dramatic than it looks), but she’s still figuring out how to handle it without accidentally turning the tiles into modern art. The machine needs muscle, and she’s being careful—removing grout little by little like she’s defusing a bomb.

I plan to tag in soon and give her a break. I know she hasn’t had much personal time lately—barely any reading for fun, and I haven’t seen her play a game in ages. She keeps saying it’s temporary, and she’ll get back to a better rhythm. I believe her—she’s a master planner when she finally has five minutes to herself.

So, today’s wins: front yard mowed, grout battle halfway managed, and a decent shot at finishing the lawn later this week (Thursday, I’m looking at you). Plus, I’ll handle some grout removal while she’s working. It’s teamwork… with thunder in the background.

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Sunday Strolls, Plant Apps, and Fancy Coffee: Our Weekly Walk-and-Talk Ritual

Written June 15, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

A Walk, a Chat, and a Breeze of Domestic Bliss

Ah, Sunday. The day of rest, recovery, and—for us—rambling around the neighborhood like curious kids on a field trip. No running shoes, no dumbbells, no burpees in sight. It’s our official “just walk and talk” day. I don’t work out on Sundays, and my wife only does if her weekday workout schedule goes off-script. This time, she floated the idea: “Why don’t we walk together?” As if I’d say no to strolling beside my favorite chatterbox.

Now, let me tell you—my wife’s morning routine is a masterpiece of consistency. Weekends? Holidays? Zombie apocalypse? Doesn’t matter. She’s up at the same time every day, while I’m still making peace with my alarm clock. Today, she beat me to it by two hours, sipping her tea while I was probably still dreaming of croissants.

Summer mornings, of course, come with a ticking heat clock. If you miss the early window, the sidewalk turns into a skillet. And today? Well, I had my doubts. The rain had pulled an all-nighter, and by morning, it still hadn’t punched out. I thought our Sunday ritual might get rained out—but then, like a polite guest, the storm cleared just in time for a late but lovely 3km wander.

Our walk? Classic. We chatted about everything and nothing. My wife, true to form, had a full playlist of topics: books she’s read, projects she’s juggling at home, and the book she’s writing (yes, plural “books”—she’s got more plots than a garden center). Occasionally, we switch to my favorite subject: my running progress, which she politely pretends to find fascinating.

As we strolled through the neighborhood, we exchanged hellos with friendly neighbors—some by name, others by nod-and-smile status. That’s one of the underrated joys of living in Nashville: people are genuinely nice, the kind who’ll compliment your tomato plant and mean it.

Speaking of plants, I’ve got a plant ID app and a shameless curiosity. If something leafy catches my eye, I snap a photo and hope to discover it’s not just another weed. There’s something endearingly nerdy about playing plant detective. Who knows, maybe one of these will find a new home in our backyard.

Despite the late start and the sun reminding us who’s boss, we managed to stay reasonably cool under the shade and with help from the occasional breeze. Honestly, I’m not complaining. We walked, we talked, and it felt good.

Once home, I whipped up our Sunday fancy coffee—because plain drip just won’t do after a proper stroll—and now I’m rolling up my sleeves to prep next week’s pastry bites. Life’s little rituals? I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

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DIY, Delays, and Distance: A Tale of Tiles and Tread

Written June 14, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

We’re in the middle of a bathroom renovation. And when I say “middle,” I mean somewhere between “what were we thinking?” and “well, at least the plumbing still works.” This weekend’s mission: Operation Grout Removal. Because nothing says “romantic weekend” like scraping old tile lines.

Since this project is unfolding in slow motion—mostly due to my wife’s schedule being booked solid with, you know, life—she fits in the work whenever she can steal a few precious moments. Recently, she fell down the glorious rabbit hole of YouTube tutorials and renovation blogs and emerged victorious, brandishing a discovery: an electric grout removal tool. Apparently, doing it manually is about as fun as carving stone tablets with a spoon.

Armed with this newfound wisdom, we made our pilgrimage to the local temple of home improvement: Home Depot. My wife, ever the strategic warrior, insists on arriving at the crack of dawn—not out of devotion, but so she can interrogate the staff before the Saturday swarm descends. And ask she did. She’s never shy about picking the brains of the Home Depot veterans, many of whom moonlight as renovation sages.

Turns out, internet DIY tips are great—until they’re not. That silicone sealer she once tried to apply manually? She’ll tell you herself: it was like trying to frost a cake with a spoon that keeps turning back into soup.

Thanks to her early-bird Q&A session, we left with a shiny new electric grout tool, ready to tackle not just the downstairs bathroom, but the upstairs one and even the neglected grout in the storage room. Nothing is safe now.

Of course, all this delayed my run. But the weather gods smiled upon me—it was gray, rainy, and cool. If you’re going to have a schedule slip, at least make sure it comes with cloud cover.

Once home, I laced up and headed out for what became my longest run to date. My running app, which I suspect is part GPS, part confused hamster, announced my distances in that wonderfully random way it does—always just after I’ve passed them. I was aiming for 10k. I got 10.48. Because why stop when you can overshoot and regret it later?

My pace? Slightly off target, but close enough to give myself a virtual high-five and mumble, “Next time, gadget. Next time.” I’ve got a good feeling that next week’s 5ks will be the ones where I finally hit my pace goal.

Oh—and in the middle of all this productivity, I completely forgot to eat ice cream yesterday. This is not a drill. Combined with the long run, that little oversight cost me another pound. Guess I’ll have to fix that tonight after we get back from grocery shopping. You know, for health.