Category: Brian’s Journey

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Life with Kidney Restrictions and Weight Challenges

Written June 13, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Well, I survived another workout today—barely. And to add a plot twist, the scale tells me I’ve lost three pounds since yesterday. I didn’t misplace them on purpose, I swear.

Now before you start sending congratulatory fruit baskets (please don’t, I can’t eat most of them), let me explain. My kidneys have been staging a quiet rebellion for some time now, and part of their protest involves limiting my diet. Combine that with a surprisingly high level of activity, and voilà—I’m losing weight faster than a sock in a dryer.

Summertime brings its own delightful chaos. I have to become a hydration ninja, dodging lab abnormalities like I’m in some kind of medical obstacle course. One wrong move—too little water—and my lab results go haywire. Last year, my cholesterol levels pulled a disappearing act. I wasn’t even mad. Just impressed.

To keep some order in our culinary kingdom, my wife and I plan our weekly menu. Not because we’re gourmet masterminds, but because food waste makes us both twitchy. That, and we’ve basically built our diet around chicken breasts. Mostly chicken breasts unless we go for occasional salmon or plant-based protein. Why? Well, pork doesn’t agree with my wife—upsets her stomach. Same goes for shrimp and crab, so those little delicacies are benched.

Now me? I’m working with a whopping 36 grams of meat protein a day. Thirty-six. That’s like…a sad scoop of shredded chicken. On days with family dinners or special events, I may tiptoe over the limit, but I know my wife will quietly adjust the weekly menu like a stealthy nutritional accountant.

Grains? Limited. Protein? Monitored like a suspicious package. Bananas? Handle with caution. Basically, if it tastes good or feels indulgent, I probably have to negotiate with my kidneys first.

That’s why I bake mini pastry puffs every weekend—a humble little treat to keep my weight from disappearing entirely. I don’t devour them. I ration like I’m on a space station. Ice cream? That’s my red alert dessert. I only pull it out when I notice I’ve lost too much weight. Like today. (Silver linings, people.)

After my stroke, things shifted. But rewind to when I first moved to Nashville—oh, I was running not as much, but enough to build muscles in my calves. I built so much muscle that my mom was surprised. True story. 

Back then, my wife did everything—a full-time job and most of the house chores. It took me some time, but I eventually wrestled the outdoor responsibilities away from her. When you’re exercising and doing yard work in Tennessee heat, weight loss isn’t a question—it’s a guarantee. For me, the diet restrictions added another layer. It’s not that I’m sick and therefore underweight. It’s more like… I got strong, and my kidneys decided, “Cool, but no extra calories for you.”

Just yesterday, I finally hit my target weight again. And now? Boom—dropped below it. It’s irritating, sure, but not the end of the world. I’ve got my strategy: tiny pastries, sneaky scoops of ice cream, and a carefully curated menu. Let’s be honest—if the solution to a problem is “eat more dessert,” I’m not going to complain too loudly.

Until next time,
Stay hydrated, stay balanced, and treat your kidneys like the finicky coworkers they are.

—Yours in protein math and pastry puffs.

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Negotiations with a Tired Body (and a Lawnmower)

Written June 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

As per tradition—and by “tradition,” I mean “necessity born from heat survival instincts”—I began my day mowing the lawn. Here in Nashville, the summer sun doesn’t just rise, it attacks. So if you’ve got a body like mine—one that treats both heatwaves and cold snaps like personal insults—you learn to outsmart the weather before it starts throwing punches.

Normally, I can mow half the yard and still have enough gas left in the tank to face the rest of the day. But today? Nope. After mowing, my body filed a formal complaint and went straight into shutdown mode. I skipped my pre-breakfast exercises, half-expecting that would be it for the day’s physical activity. My body said no. My willpower said maybe. Eventually, I rolled onto the mat for some planks and stretches—not exactly Olympic training, but hey, it counts.

Somehow, I rallied enough energy to squeeze in my planks and arm curls. I didn’t bounce back; I meandered back—like a weary turtle doing yoga. Still, I did it. Not exactly on schedule, but sometimes winning means just showing up… 30 minutes later than planned and slightly annoyed.

Now here’s the kicker. I can’t tell what’s making me tired: the weather, age, my kidneys, or some perfect storm of all three. Whatever it is, when I push too hard, I morph into something between a zombie and a disgruntled houseplant. Meanwhile, my wife bounces around like she’s got a backup battery installed. She claims she struggles in the morning, but by the time I’m up, she’s practically done with her workout and halfway through a motivational podcast. She says she’s slow in the morning. I say she’s just being polite to us mortals.

So I’ve had to learn the art of negotiation—not with clients or coworkers, but with my own body. Some days, I push things to tomorrow, knowing full well tomorrow might need to be negotiated too. Other days, I rest so I can function again in the afternoon. This is not laziness. This is energy management. The strategic pause. The recharge pit stop.

I’ve had a kidney condition for who knows how long—discovered only after a brain stroke crashed the party. Maybe I’ve always been running at 70% battery while others (like my wife) were born with solar panels. And yes, I know comparison is the thief of joy… but sometimes it also leaves a trail of gym clothes and lawn clippings.

I don’t have a high-energy body. But I do have a high-effort mindset. So I’ll keep negotiating with this unpredictable, occasionally rebellious body of mine. I may not be fast. I may not be consistent. But I am persistent—and that counts for something.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rest heroically so I can finish my to-do list… sometime before winter.

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Running on Cool Air and Accidental Kilometers

Written June 9, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday was a scorcher—the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices, your wardrobe, and maybe your decision to live on Earth. We sweated through it with as much dignity as possible (read: none), but thankfully the heat retreated overnight. This morning, my wife emerged from her walk announcing it was “chilly.” I was still burrowed under blankets like a hibernating bear, and I had to agree—comfortably so.

We’ve developed a quirky philosophy around indoor climate control. Our goal? Keep the indoor temperature close enough to the outdoor one that our bodies don’t go into seasonal whiplash. Yes, we have central AC. Yes, it technically still works. But it’s old enough to remember dial-up internet, so we try not to lean on it unless the weather turns dramatic—which, living in Nashville, it frequently does.

And here’s the twist: after my brain stroke, my internal thermostat retired early. I can no longer regulate body temperature like a normal human radiator. Fortunately, we’ve always preferred a “seasonally appropriate” indoor vibe. No saunas in winter or ice caves in July. But when Nashville cranks the weather dial to “chaos,” even our stoic system has to bend. That’s when the AC gets its rare moment of glory.

Now, about today’s run—by the time I laced up and hit the pavement, it wasn’t chilly anymore, but it was that perfect middle ground: warm enough to get the blood flowing, cool enough to pretend I was in a Nike ad. I felt good. Too good, maybe. So good, in fact, I forgot to check my distance and accidentally ran an extra kilometer.

The wild part? I still hit my target pace. I know. Who is this person?

Back when I first started running, one kilometer felt like trekking across the Sahara. In 2017, I managed just over a mile, and it nearly took my soul with it. Then came the real game changer: proper shoes. My wife gifted me a glorious pair of Nikes—shoes that whispered, “You got this,” with every step.

Consistency, not magic, built my endurance. Last year, I got curious about pace. Sometimes I plateau, sure. There are weeks where progress is flatter than a pancake in Kansas. But in the long haul, I’ve improved.

And today? I ran farther than I planned, faster than I expected, and finished with enough breath left to write this blog.

Not bad for a guy with a malfunctioning thermostat.

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How I Beat the Humidity Boss and Logged My Second Fastest 10K

Written June 7, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I woke up feeling like a well-charged phone—ready to take on my first 10K of June. That enthusiasm lasted about thirty seconds… until my wife, aka the Morning Oracle, gave me a weather update: “It’s humid. Very humid.”

She’s always up at 5 a.m., doing her workout before the Nashville air turns into soup. I try to follow her lead, minus the pre-dawn drama—I have a bit more wiggle room in my schedule. (Perks of being flexible. Or at least pretending to be.)

But wow. Stepping outside felt like walking straight into a sauna hosted by the sun and a wet sponge. My wife, who once lived in Canada, still can’t get over Tennessee summers. She expected dry, crisp warmth—not a full-on oven door to the face every morning. Yet oddly enough, she loves living in Nashville. Go figure. Apparently, greenery and ultra-friendly neighbors make up for atmospheric soup.

And she’s not wrong. The people here are wonderfully nice. We’ve met most of them while running. Seriously—if you jog in our neighborhood, you’re basically signing up for a rotating social club on sneakers. Everyone’s out walking, running, or flexing their lawn-care game. It’s a charming vibe.

Despite the swampy conditions, I hit the pavement anyway. I’ve learned not to negotiate with my feelings in the morning. Motivation is a fair-weather friend—I prefer routines that don’t ask for permission. My wife says the same: “If I waited to feel like it, I’d never get anything done.” High-five to the discipline duo.

By the halfway point, I was just a second behind my target pace. But by the end? I actually clocked in two seconds faster. Take that, humidity boss! This run earned me my second fastest 10K ever, which, considering the weather, feels like unlocking a hidden achievement in a fitness video game.

The week overall? Not too shabby. I’ve been consistent with my workouts, though my upper body still feels the aftershocks of pushups and bicep curls. Sure, I’ll never win a protein shake endorsement deal (thank you, kidney-friendly diet), but I’m definitely stronger and happier than I was a few months ago.

So yes, today’s run may have felt like wading through a damp sponge, but victory tastes pretty sweet—even when it’s served with a side of sweat.

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The BBQ That Wasn’t: A Tale of Canceled Grills and Saucy Solutions

Written June 6, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Alas, dear readers, the sacred ritual of BBQ Friday has been grill-napped. The culprit? Not raining. Not a meat shortage. Nope—my wife had an important meeting, and duty called louder than the sizzle of burgers on the grill.

Now, let me be clear: she’s not a fan of dining out more than once a week. Restaurant food, she claims, is a minefield of sodium and sneaky cholesterol. She’s not wrong, but still… BBQ Friday, gone? Tragic.

Was I disappointed? Of course. But I get it. Her work matters, and so does what we eat. She’s the nutritional commander of this ship—and, in fairness, probably the reason I haven’t rebelled against the strict renal-friendly regime I’m on. Honestly, she eats like me… just with more eggs for extra protein. She makes clean eating look like a culinary art form.

To fill the BBQ void, I whipped up some homemade French fries. And no, we don’t deep-fry them into crispy rebellion. My wife usually does the oven-bake toss-with-oil thing. I’m team Air Fryer—faster, crispier, and fewer complaints from my arteries.

Now for the real star: the dip. I made a spicy mayo using one of her handcrafted seasonings. Yes, you read that right—she makes her own ranch, buffalo, shawarma, Mexican, and Italian blends. Because store-bought seasonings? Too salty. And salt, for me, is the arch-nemesis.

Herbs, however? My besties. Rosemary, thyme, dill, basil—they’re basically flavor with a halo. Sometimes I swap sour cream for homemade yogurt, which she also makes because she’s a kitchen sorceress. Control the thickness, control the taste. Plus, she swears it’s easy. (I believe her, but I’m not giving up my air fryer just yet.)

Tonight’s sauce of choice was the mayo mix I usually serve with oven-roasted carrots or chicken. It’s spicy, creamy, and most importantly: wife-approved.

She finally returned from her meeting, and we dined like royalty—on fries, no less. It was already 5:30 PM, but we shared that meal like it was BBQ Friday. (Confession: I’d already eaten leftover homemade pizza earlier. But hey, second dinner is a thing… right?)

We may be on a tight dietary leash, but here’s the twist: I don’t even feel deprived. When you enrich our foods with our homemade favorites, “strict diet” feels more like a lifestyle than a sentence.

And next week? BBQ Friday will return. Unless life throws another curveball… or she schedules another meeting.

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Sweat, Sun, and Sore Muscles: A Summer Morning Mow-tivation Tale

Written June 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, unlike the tropical Tuesday saga, I seized the rare opportunity to mow the lawn before the sun turned my backyard into a convection oven. Thanks to a relatively cool night (by Nashville standards), the air was downright tolerable — you know, in that “I only mildly regret existing outdoors” kind of way.

Armed with determination and a mower that has seen more summers than our old air conditioner, I conquered the yard in just under three hours. By the end, the temperature had climbed high enough to cook an egg on the sidewalk — sunny side up, no less. I bolted inside and promptly shut all windows and vents, preserving that glorious sliver of night-chill like it was the last popsicle on Earth.

We try not to blast the AC unless absolutely necessary — not just because it wheezes like an asthmatic raccoon (bless its vintage soul), but because we’re reserving its final act for a true heatwave encore, à la 2023. Spoiler alert: It’s getting replaced next year, assuming it doesn’t melt into a puddle of R-22 first.

Now, let’s pause for a moment of historical curiosity: how on earth did people survive 100 years ago in this kind of heat? Imagine doing farm work in the blazing sun with zero air conditioning. Just sweat, grit, and maybe a straw hat if you were lucky. No thank you.

My wife, the seasoned world traveler and resident thermostat of our home, lived in Canada and Germany before settling in the sauna we call Tennessee. She rarely touches the AC. In fact, she says your body should know it’s summer — not be tricked into thinking it’s mid-October. Logical? Sure. Comfortable? Debatable.

Truthfully, I’ve found her temperature policy rather merciful post-brain-stroke. My body doesn’t respond well to sudden climate shifts, so a house that mimics the gentle rise of outdoor heat is oddly comforting. Still, I come prepared — always with long sleeves in tow when visiting overzealously chilled places like malls or friends’ homes, aka human freezers.

Once I cooled off (the natural way), I shifted into phase two: exercise. This week has been a redemption arc — I actually stuck to my workout plan, unlike previous weeks when I mostly specialized in the art of Procrastinative Stretching™.

That said, my chest is still protesting Tuesday’s push-ups. It feels like I bench-pressed a rhinoceros in my sleep. One ongoing issue is keeping my weight steady — a challenge when your appetite ghosts you and your muscles are crying out for protein. But too much protein can be a bad thing too. Ah, the paradox of wellness: even good things need moderation. Like ice cream… or leg day.

I’ve been tinkering with my routine: adjusting sleep, sneaking in extra snacks, and playing Goldilocks with my workout load — not too much, not too little. Just right. Maybe. Hopefully. We’ll see.

All in all, it’s been a productive, sweaty, slightly achy but oddly satisfying day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to ration what’s left of that precious indoor cool before the AC makes its final dramatic gasp.

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When Laundry Plans Go Sideways (and Your Wife Outruns You Anyway)

Written June 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

You know that sinking feeling you get when something’s just not right—and then it hits you like a sock to the face? That was me, late last night, when I realized I had completely forgotten to do the laundry. Not just any laundry, mind you—the sacred post-yardwork laundry I committed to on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You see, I cleverly tied this task to mowing the lawn, mainly because our yard seems to be hosting an exclusive flea convention these days. Despite treatment, they’re still lurking like tiny vampires with a vendetta. So, off come the clothes right after yard work and straight into the washer—in theory.

Last night, the theory failed. Spectacularly.

By the time I remembered, it was far too late to rescue the load. Cue mild domestic chaos this morning.

As fate would have it, I was supposed to wash my wife’s exercise clothes—including her favorite running pants. And of course, she discovered this right before her early morning run. Now, if you’re picturing a dramatic meltdown involving yoga mats and laundry baskets, rest assured: no such thing occurred. My wife is made of sturdier stuff. She simply used her backup pants. Crisis averted, no tears shed, treadmill unbothered.

Honestly, I suspected she wouldn’t skip her run. Ever since the sun decided to stop ghosting us, she’s been energized like a solar panel on espresso. She’s rediscovered her love for the morning light as summer approaches, and let’s just say her energy now lasts all day. Like, from sunrise to are-you-still-talking-at-10. Kind of energy. I love it for her. Truly.

Anyway, the only real casualty here was the schedule. So today began with me tossing laundry into the machine before my run, then sprinting back to shift it to the dryer after my run—domestic multitasking at its finest.

Now, in our household, laundry isn’t just a weekly chore. It’s practically a sport. We’re both pretty active—my wife exercises every day, and I’m not far behind with my runs, yardwork, and weekend DIY projects. We also go through towels at a suspiciously high rate. Are we drying off or reenacting water ballet? Unclear.

Still, our 12-year-old washing machine soldiers on. Like a trusty old knight with a spinning lance.

And as for forgetting? Well, it happens. Even to people like me, who have built survival systems out of schedules ever since a brain stroke rewired my memory circuits. My occupational therapist taught me to tie tasks together (mow = wash clothes = prevent tick attack). For the most part, it works. And luckily, my memory stayed sharp after the stroke—so sharp that I finished speech therapy in three weeks. With a bit of help from my wife, some card games with my mom, and the noble therapeutic power of video games (yes, for real).

My wife likes to remind me that even people without a stroke forget things—especially if they don’t write them down. Maybe that’s why she lives by her to-do lists like a general preparing for battle. So, I guess I shouldn’t beat myself up over one rogue laundry day.

The important thing? I got the laundry done. Eventually.

And hey—clean pants, happy wife, no ticks. That’s a win in my book.

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From Dentist to Lawn Duty: A Stroke Survivor’s Summer Morning Routine

Written June 3, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today didn’t go as planned—but then again, when do plans actually stick?

Usually, I begin my mornings with a showdown against our lawn, racing the rising sun to finish before the heat starts hissing like a kettle left too long on the stove. But not today. Today, the dentist called, and my grass lost the battle for my time slot.

My appointment was right in that awkward window—not early enough to mow before, not late enough to ignore. So I fell back on my winter schedule, which basically means breakfast first and hoping the weather gods stay merciful until I get back.

Our dental office is close enough to walk, which is handy since I haven’t driven since my brain decided to throw a surprise party for itself ten years ago—otherwise known as a stroke. My reflexes slowed, and according to my wife, the hospital had to “poke a hole in your skull to let the chaos out.” Charming, right?

Ever since driving has been a no-go, even after a decade, my wife insists it’s too risky. “It’s not just about you,” she reminds me. “It’s about the mailboxes, pedestrians, and squirrels with dreams.”

She’s right. I grumble less than I used to.

Thankfully, I have options. If she’s free, she drives me. If not, I Uber like a suburban celebrity. It’s not bad, actually. She keeps saying that self-driving cars are coming soon anyway—cars that don’t need me at the wheel. Given how tricky life was for her back in her Montreal days without a license—metro, bus, walk, repeat—I know she gets how frustrating it can be.

Still, every so often, I miss driving. Just a little. Okay, maybe a lot. But until we’ve got a robot car parked in the driveway, I’m sticking to walking distance and lawn duty.

Which brings me back to this afternoon.

After surviving the dentist’s poking and polishing, I returned home, squinted at the sun like it owed me money, and decided to go for it. The heat was there, sure, but it wasn’t as vicious as last year’s “bake-your-socks” level heatwave.

I powered up the mower and got to work. I managed to tame the wild half of the yard I skipped last week. Progress! The lawn looks… slightly less like it’s auditioning for a jungle documentary.

It’s the little victories that count.

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Rain, Retrievers, and the Relentless Runner: How I Beat the Odds (But Not My Pace Time)

Written May 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

The last few weeks, I’ve been running like a champ—clocking solid times, striding with purpose, and imagining myself as the hero of my own underdog sports movie. This morning, though, the sky had other ideas. I was fired up for a speedy 5km, but Nashville had slipped into one of its gray, brooding moods again.

Storms and surprise rain showers have been far more clingy this year than last. Thunderstorms seem to schedule themselves precisely during my outdoor activities, as if the weather has a grudge against cardio and lawn maintenance. Just last Sunday, rain washed out our planned Sunday walk with my wife, and I’m still a little bitter about it.

Still, I usually run through rain unless lightning is doing jazz hands in the sky. Today was no different. The skies were just moody, not angry, so I laced up. It wasn’t raining when I started—but, of course, a few minutes in, it let loose. No thunder, though, so I kept running like a soggy but determined penguin.

Then, during a quick water break, I paused my running app. Classic move. But I forgot to restart it. The rain, apparently not satisfied with merely soaking me, also decided to sabotage my tech game. By the time I noticed, I had already run quite a bit—off the grid. I was more annoyed than I care to admit, not just at the weather, but at myself.

And just when I thought I’d had my quota of morning mayhem, cue the canine cameo: a golden retriever, furious at the sight of me running (again), snapped free from the little girl walking him and charged. That’s right—a golden retriever. Not a Doberman. Not a Rottweiler. Lassie’s less-friendly cousin. Apparently, I’m his chosen nemesis in the neighborhood.

When I asked my wife if the dog always did this, she blinked and said, “He’s never done it to me while I was running before.” Fantastic. So this retriever has made me his personal vendetta. I didn’t fancy a sprint-fueled showdown, so I slowed down and zigzagged my way to safety, which tanked my pace at that corner.

All in all, today’s run was a mess. Wet, tech-glitched, dog-stalked. My precious pace time was wrecked. But then I realized—I still ran. I did the thing. Sure, I didn’t set a personal record, but I moved, I sweated, and I kept my promise to myself.

I’ve been focusing a lot lately on staying healthy—not just for fitness goals or vanity metrics, but for deeper reasons. My kidneys need care. My brain needs healing. So I hydrate religiously, eat mindfully, train my muscles, and yes, even run through rogue weather and canine ambushes.

My wife says we become what we focus on. If I focus too much on the mishaps, the missed pace, the muddy shoes—I’ll become the guy who grumbles through life. But if I pay attention to progress, to the act of showing up despite setbacks, then maybe I will become something better. She’s probably right. (She usually is.)

Today, I didn’t hit my target pace. But I ran. I moved through the rain. I dodged a golden missile. And I even threw in some bonus distance to make up for the paused app.

At the end of the day, I did the work my body needed. And that, my friends, is what counts.

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Water Flosser Drama and the Case of the Wandering Gum

Written May 28, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Good news first: by the end of yesterday, my knee had stopped throwing tantrums. Maybe it was all the extra TLC—multiple stretching sessions, the elevated position like it was royalty, and me being unusually gentle with my daily tasks. Whatever the reason, this morning it felt… well, not like a brand-new knee, but like a knee that wasn’t mad at me anymore.

Naturally, I decided to run. Not a record-breaking dash, mind you—more like a polite jog. I didn’t hit my target pace, but hey, considering recent negotiations with my joints, I’ll take a “still functioning” over “speed demon” any day.

The day’s next event? A dental pilgrimage to Brentwood with my wife.

Now, my wife is brave in many ways, but when it comes to needles, doctors, or dentists? Imagine a kitten hiding under a blanket. She always says that having me there calms her nerves, makes things smoother. (Which, honestly, might just be her code for “Please chauffeur me and distract me with your soothing sarcasm.”)

The drive was short—just over ten minutes. Our dentist had sent her to a specialist because something felt off with one of her teeth, but nothing obvious showed up on the scan. Cue suspense music.

She was especially nervous because several years ago, she cracked a tooth from grinding in her sleep. Since then, she’s worn a mouthguard nightly like it’s part of her teeth care ritual. Dental anxiety is real—but so is her commitment to oral health. No matter the cost, she keeps those pearly whites in check.

The twist? Turns out she’d been water-flossing like an overzealous fire hose technician. Too often, too strong, and at an angle so aggressive it practically evicted her gum from her tooth. The irony? All that jet-powered effort meant no infection or gum disease. Just an overworked gum waving a white flag.

Naturally, I was paying attention. I also use a water flosser—set to “Hurricane Mode,” apparently—and now I’m wondering if I’ve been power-washing my mouth like it’s a driveway. Lesson learned.

With chronic kidney disease, I’m more prone to infections—including dental ones. A doctor told me that a decade ago, when I was 35 and still blissfully ignorant of the tooth-gum power struggle. These days, I’m borderline obsessive about oral hygiene. My gums are in good shape, thank you very much, and now they’ll stay that way—minus the water-flossing warfare.

Oh, and before we embarked on our dental saga, I took a moment to examine the lawn. Yesterday’s mowing was more “half-hearted swoop” than “precision landscaping,” but today’s glance told me I’m not too far behind. With any luck (and cooperative weather), I should have it looking civilized again by tomorrow—with minimal whining from either my knee or me.