Tag: Self-Care

Posted on

Flu Shots, Sneaky Ankles, and the Run That Got Away

Written August 23, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

We kicked off the day like responsible adults—breakfast in, arms out. A wild flu shot appointment appeared (via text), and before I could finish my coffee, my wife had already hunted down a Saturday slot and rearranged her morning like a logistical wizard. When it comes to passports, vaccines, or anything semi-bureaucratic, she moves fast—like a ninja with a calendar.

Her motto? “If it’s gotta get done, get it done before you forget it exists.” She runs her to-do list like a triage nurse: How long will it take? How important is it? Will we regret this tomorrow? Efficiency is her love language.

Now, thanks to my kidney condition, I’m still on the VIP list for anything labeled high risk, so vaccinations are non-negotiable. COVID or flu—if it can mess with my kidneys, it’s gotta go. That’s why I still rock my mask like it’s 2020. No shame, only immune system preservation.

When we arrived, the place was a ghost town. Not a single soul in line—just us and the vaccine squad. We were in and out faster than you can say “seasonal influenza.” A little paperwork for me, a quick arm jab (left for her, dealer’s choice for me), and boom—another year, another vaccine crossed off the list.

Back home, the weather still looked like a polite Canadian fall day, so I laced up and set out for my heroic weekly 10k. But by 5k, my ankle started acting like it was auditioning for a drama series—wobbly, weak, and full of attitude. Add to that a sluggish pace, 30 seconds slower than usual, and let’s just say the motivation train ran out of steam somewhere around 7.5k.

I pulled the plug. No medals today, just wisdom: don’t ignore your body, and maybe don’t trust new shoes until they’ve earned it.

Posted on

The 10K That Got Away: A Tale of Ankles, Alarms, and Accidental Discipline

Written August 18, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, both my wife and I woke up at the same time—a rare planetary alignment in our household. For her, it was her actual wake-up time. For me? It was two hours before my alarm, the sacred hour when dreams are supposed to bloom… not bloop. I tried to fall back asleep like a good little dreamer, but alas, my body had already hit the eject button.

So, naturally, I did what any sensible person does when denied sleep: I laced up and prepared to run 10 kilometers before the sun could even stretch.

You might recall that my last attempt at a 10K in new shoes didn’t quite go the distance. The shoes were brand new, but apparently, my ankles didn’t get the memo that they were identical to the old pair. (Same brand, same model—clearly not the same vibe.)

Determined to try again, I set off with 10K ambitions and a full tank of optimism. By kilometer seven, my left ankle started waving a little white flag. The sensible voice in my head—who I usually ignore—reminded me that no weekly 10K is worth a long-term injury. Especially since I watched my wife limp dramatically through that exact lesson last winter, I bowed out at 7K.

By lunchtime, I noticed muscle pain blooming like a confused flower around my ankle. My theory? Some heroic micro-muscle-tearing action is going on down there. You know—muscle damage, recovery, gain. Classic fitness folklore. If pain equals progress, my ankle deserves a medal.

What’s strange is this: the shoes are a clone of my last pair. Either they’ve been secretly replaced by a trickster model, or I’ve simply forgotten what it felt like to break in the old ones. Memory is a funny thing—especially when it’s limping slightly.

I was a little bummed to cut my run short. I only run one 10K a week, so each one feels like a test. A test of speed, stamina, and occasionally, ego. But doubling up on 10Ks would be asking for trouble—especially with my summer lawn mowing habit. One mowing session = four pounds lost. If mowing were an Olympic sport, I’d be in training camp.

Because of my kidney issues, I can’t load up on protein like a bodybuilder. My dietary rebellion? Homemade yogurt. It’s not steak, but it does its job. My weight’s been steady. My enthusiasm, less so—until this running thing took hold of me.

Honestly, I never thought I’d fall for running. But here I am, haunted by the ghost of an incomplete 10K and feeling twitchy when my weekly kilometer count dips. Do I like running now? Or have I Stockholm Syndromeed myself into it? Hard to say.

Despite the ankle twinges and lost sleep, I felt like I had two bonus hours today. More energy, more time, more me. Maybe this is what my wife experiences every morning. She’s been living in the secret bonus level of the day—and I finally got the cheat code.

Posted on

Negotiating with My Body: Finding Energy in the Summer Heat

Written July 22, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

I don’t know if it’s the sweltering summer sun or if I’m just hitting a wall, but lately, I’ve felt like I’ve got nothing left in the tank. After a tiring mowing session—where I had to fuel up with cantaloupe instead of my usual pastry-bites—I found myself too zapped to follow through with my weekly pushups. So, in a bold act of self-compassion, I struck a deal with myself: “No pushups before breakfast. We’ll do them before supper instead.”

Summer in Nashville is a true test of endurance. Between two days a week of working outside (and yes, still doing battle with that steep backyard), it feels like my energy reserves are running on fumes. Thankfully, this year’s summer hasn’t yet thrown us into a brutal 100°F heatwave, though I won’t lie: the humidity here still knows how to knock you out.

Despite the sluggishness, I try to push through. The last time I attempted this, though, my wife was not thrilled. I had a gout flare-up, but did I take it easy? Of course not. I kept mowing and marching around like nothing was wrong. I didn’t tell her about the gout—partly because I didn’t want to worry her and partly because, well, I didn’t want to admit my body was starting to rebel. It’s a tough pill to swallow, realizing that I need rest when I’d rather keep pushing forward like the good old days.

But, here’s the twist: my wife insists I’ve got more stamina and energy than before. Go figure. She’s always been the outdoor adventurer—hiking, canoeing, camping, you name it—while I’m the homebody, cozy with my books, video games, and board games. She enjoys the outdoors but doesn’t really do the whole “movie-watching” thing unless there’s a notepad and pen involved. No judgment there; we all have our quirks.

The truth is, I’ve got more energy than I did before—but it still doesn’t last as long as I’d like. One culprit? My diet (or lack thereof). My protein intake is a bit on the low side, and I’ve noticed that my muscles just don’t bounce back the way they used to. So, I’ve had to learn how to negotiate with my body—compromise when I need to and push myself only when it’s truly necessary.

One trick that’s working for me is setting specific times to make up for missed tasks. As long as I know I’ve scheduled something for later, I’m far more likely to follow through than if I just say, “I’ll do it later” and leave it at that.

Take today, for example. I managed to knock out my pushups before dinner, even though I had postponed them earlier. My wife’s concern about my health is valid, especially after the last gout episode and the fact that my lab results weren’t as stellar as we hoped. So, yeah, I need to be smarter about listening to my body, knowing when to rest and when to power through—without ignoring those signals.

Negotiating with myself is key. If I’m wiped out, I rest. If I think I might regain my energy by the end of the day, I’ll save the pushups for later. The important part is making sure I follow through. If I tell myself, “I’ll do it later,” I’ve got to remember to actually do it later—not let it slip off the radar.

Posted on

The Great Coffee vs. Kidney Hydration Dilemma

Written 04/19/2025

reviewed 5/4

Hello Dear Readers,

When your kidneys start acting up, hydration isn’t just a good idea—it’s practically a medical mandate. My nephrologist (a.k.a. the Kidney Boss) has drilled this into me with the persistence of a motivational coach. “Drink more water!” he says. “Again!” he says. And I do try—I really do.

Enter: the water bottle that changed my life. My wife, ever the health-savvy hero, got me one of those time-marked bottles that tells you where you should be by 10 a.m., noon, and beyond. It’s like having a gentle but judgmental friend watching your hydration habits. And honestly? It works. I find myself drinking more water than I ever did before. The bottle nags, so I don’t have to.

Last summer was a bit of a cautionary tale. I wasn’t drinking enough, and my lab reports tattled on me. My numbers were off, and after my doctor played detective with my biometric logs, he traced the problem straight to—you guessed it—dehydration. As soon as I upped my water game, the lab results improved. Hydration: 1, Kidney Drama: 0.

Now that the summer sun is peeking out again, I’m back on hydration high alert. But here’s the kicker—my stomach has limited seating. It’s either Team Water or Team Coffee. There is no both. One in, one out.

I adore my morning coffee. That rich, warm energy boost is my AM ritual. But ever since I became a full-time water drinker, coffee’s been benched. There’s only so much liquid real estate in my stomach, and water now gets priority seating. Tragic, really.

On most days, I can live with this sacrifice. But Sunday? Sunday is sacred. That’s our coffee day. When autumn and winter roll around, my wife and I head to Starbucks like it’s a pilgrimage. We sip the seasonal brews with the reverence of monks. We even own a classic espresso maker—the kind that sits on the stovetop and hisses like it means business. My wife brews it on weekends when work doesn’t steal her away.

Still, if I have to choose between a functioning pair of kidneys and my beloved espresso shot…well, the kidneys win. Begrudgingly. The silver lining? My wife now has an extra share of coffee. And judging by how much she loves the stuff, I think she’s secretly thrilled.

Posted on

One Extra Hour: How Sleep Saved My Planks (and My Sanity)

Written April 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Lately, I’ve been dragging myself around like a phone on 3% battery—blinking, buzzing, and refusing to load. Yard work has turned into a full-contact sport around here, and my body clearly did not get the memo that spring chores were starting. Muscles I forgot existed have filed complaints. Loud ones.

This seasonal fatigue isn’t new—it sneaks in every year like an uninvited guest bearing mulch and weed whackers. The warmer weather only makes matters worse. Instead of rising with the sunshine like a cheerful daisy, I’ve been negotiating with my pillow for just five more minutes… which somehow turns into forty-five.

Enough was enough.

I finally gave in to the not-so-subtle hints from my exhausted limbs and called it a night early. I managed to go to bed an entire hour ahead of schedule. My wife nearly dropped her book in surprise. You see, she’s usually the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, squeezing in a workout, meditation, and probably an entire novel before I’ve finished brushing my teeth. She tackles her work day before it even starts. It’s her way of keeping the dragons of procrastination at bay. Respect.

As for me? That precious hour of extra sleep worked magic. I woke up without groaning. No zombie shuffle. No groggy inner monologue about caffeine. Just… energy. Actual energy. I felt like a phone fresh off the charger—100% and glowing green.

Now, let’s talk planks. My ongoing battle with chronic kidney disease means I have to tiptoe around protein intake like it’s a sleeping lion. Building muscle becomes a delicate dance: push too hard, and my body rebels. Add yard work to the mix, and suddenly I’m struggling to complete my daily planking sessions, barely hanging on by the third round—let alone the fourth.

But today? Today was different.

With that extra hour under my belt, I felt like my old self again—well, at least like a version of myself who doesn’t curse at the yoga mat. My planks were smoother, my muscles less whiny, and if I manage to pull off all four sessions today, I’ll finally increase my duration tomorrow… by one mighty second.

Because in this house, we celebrate progress in seconds. And sleep, apparently, is the unsung hero of all fitness gains.

Posted on

Weather Betrayal and the Art of Finding Joy Anyway

Written February 5, 2025

Hello, dear readers!

Monday’s run was glorious. The kind of day that tricks you into believing winter is finally packing its bags and heading for the hills. The sun was shining, the temperature was perfect, and for a fleeting moment, I thought, Maybe—just maybe—spring has arrived.

Ha.

The universe must have heard my foolish optimism and decided to intervene immediately. By Tuesday, the temperature had plummeted 15 degrees. Today? Another 10. At this point, I half-expect to wake up tomorrow and find a fresh layer of snow just to complete winter’s petty revenge arc.

It’s still not as bitterly cold as last week, but somehow, that one warm day spoiled me. I had already started fantasizing about running in short sleeves again, and now I’m back to layering up like an Arctic explorer. Funny how a single glimpse of spring makes returning to winter feel even worse than before.

Adding to the tease, the warm spell coaxed some early greenery out of hiding. My wife, ever the keen observer, stood by the window, enjoying the sight of those fresh little sprouts. And then, as if winter took offense at our moment of joy, the cold came roaring back. Typical Midwest. Having lived here, I should’ve known better. Midwest weather doesn’t transition—it mood-swings.

But what’s the point of complaining? It won’t change a thing. Might as well put my feelings of betrayal, disappointment, and mild outrage into a neat little box labeled Things I Cannot Control. It’s a pretty full box at this point.

At least my walk to the doctor’s office yesterday was pleasant. The temperature was still hanging on to some remnants of warmth, and I even managed to enjoy the stroll. The appointment went smoothly—always a plus—and, as promised, I rewarded my responsible adulting with a cupcake on the way home.

Now, let’s talk about that cupcake. Was my favorite flavor available? No. Was I momentarily devastated? A little. But I soldiered on, selected another, and—no surprises here—it was delicious. Honestly, I don’t think this bakery is even capable of making a bad cupcake. Some places just have that magic touch.

Of course, my wife, being the mysterious and perplexing individual she is, remains indifferent to cupcakes. I do not understand this. How does one simply not care about cupcakes? This is one of life’s great mysteries, alongside Why does toast always land butter-side down? and Why do socks vanish in the laundry? But alas, she was unmoved by my confectionary enthusiasm, so I had to enjoy my sweet reward solo. Her loss.

Let the temperatures play their cruel little games. I refuse to let them dictate my mood. If winter wants to be temperamental, fine—I’ll just keep finding my own ways to enjoy the day.

And if that happens to involve another cupcake next week? Well, who am I to argue with fate?

Posted on

The Weekend Latte Ritual: A Brewed Philosophy

Written February 2, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, the weekend—those glorious two days where time slows just enough to remind us that life isn’t only about deadlines and checklists. My wife and I have stumbled upon a new weekend tradition, one that involves the alchemy of caffeine and a dash of self-appreciation.

It all started with a simple upgrade: coffee. Not just any coffee, but the kind that demands a moment of respect before the first sip—the kind that makes you pause and acknowledge, Yes, I deserve this. We don’t go to fancy cafés or wait in long lines for baristas to scribble our names incorrectly on cups. No, we craft our own indulgence right at home.

Then Christmas came along, and with it, my sister’s perfectly chosen gift: a milk frother and flavored syrups. This was a game-changer. Suddenly, Sunday became latte day. Not just any latte, but the latte, handcrafted with a level of precision that would make a chemist proud.

Now, my wife is a purist when it comes to coffee—black, untainted, unsweetened. But once a week, she lets me transform her cup into something velvety and rich. The catch? The syrup. Following the package instructions led to a disaster of sugar overload. So, after a few misfires (and my wife’s polite but unimpressed expressions), I cracked the code: just enough syrup to balance indulgence without betrayal. A sweet spot, if you will.

And somehow, this tiny ritual makes me reflect—not just on coffee ratios but on life itself. Every Sunday latte is a quiet nod to the week we’ve survived, the goals we’ve chased, and the fact that we’re still here, sipping and smiling.

Yesterday, I completed my 10K run. Did I hit my target pace? Not quite. Did I still run 10K? Absolutely. And that counts for something.

So, we sip our lattes, acknowledging the week’s efforts, big or small. It’s a self-made celebration, a pat on the back in a ceramic cup. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that appreciating yourself isn’t just nice—it’s necessary.

And what better way to do it than with a perfectly brewed latte?

Posted on

A Walk to the Doctor’s Office (and a Well-Earned Cupcake)

Written February 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

It’s that time of year again—my annual checkup with my general practitioner. Not my nephrologist this time, just the standard “let’s make sure nothing unexpected is brewing” kind of visit. Although, if I’m being honest, “annual” checkups feel almost quaint in my world. Thanks to my kidneys, I’m on a much more frequent schedule.

When we bought this house, my wife and I made sure we had all the essentials within walking distance—our dentist, doctor, and a few favorite spots for coffee. It makes life easier, and today, it means my appointment is just a short stroll away. The weather isn’t as pleasant as yesterday, but it’s decent enough. Besides, I won’t be outside long, so why complain?

There’s something oddly comforting about these little hubs of life—places where errands mix seamlessly with leisure. My doctor’s office is nestled in a small mall, surrounded by restaurants, coffee shops, and even a cupcake store. My wife isn’t big on cupcakes, but I certainly am. And today, I just might reward myself with one.

Before my brain stroke, I never imagined I’d be visiting doctors so regularly. Back then, checkups felt optional—something you did when absolutely necessary, not something you scheduled like clockwork. Now? Every few months, I’m back in an exam room, getting my blood pressure, heart rate, and kidney function scrutinized. It’s not my favorite pastime, but I’ve learned to accept it. There’s no use questioning how important these visits are. They keep me informed, and more importantly, they keep me alive.

A lot of it comes down to choices—small, daily decisions that keep my health in balance. My wife and I eat in a way that supports my kidneys: more fresh produce, fewer processed foods, and carefully measured protein. I can’t just mindlessly grab a steak or overindulge in anything salty. Even something as minor as a cold or a slight miscalculation in my water intake can send my numbers in the wrong direction. It’s a delicate system, and I have to respect it.

That’s why I no longer mind these doctor’s visits like I used to. They aren’t just about checking boxes; they’re about staying ahead of problems before they spiral. I listen to my doctors, take their advice seriously, and adjust accordingly. It’s a partnership, not a battle.

Still, a little reward never hurts. After my checkup, I plan to take a detour to the cupcake shop nearby—nothing excessive, just a small indulgence to mark another successful visit. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that balance is everything. Taking care of my health is non-negotiable, but finding joy in the little things? That’s just as important.

So, here’s to another routine checkup, another step in the right direction, and maybe—just maybe—a well-earned cupcake at the end of it all.

Posted on

A Funny Thing About Annual Check-Ups

Written January 29, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Every January, like clockwork, I get a little nudge from my doctor’s office: It’s time to schedule your annual physical! It’s a routine as predictable as New Year’s resolutions that don’t make it past February. Except this year, something was off. By mid-January, my inbox remained suspiciously silent. There was no automated reminder, no gentle push to book an appointment.

Curious (and a little paranoid), I logged into my patient portal, hoping to schedule it myself. Turns out, I was a bit premature. Last year’s appointment was on January 30th, so technically, I wasn’t due just yet. Patience, as they say, is a virtue—but when it comes to health, I’d rather be early than late.

Lessons From a Stroke: Why I No Longer Play Chicken With My Health

Before my brain stroke, I wasn’t exactly best friends with the medical world. Doctors were for emergencies, right? Annual check-ups were those things people did when they had extra time. And I, in my infinite wisdom, thought I had plenty of it.

Then came the stroke. And the swollen feet from gout. And the realization that, actually, time isn’t something to take for granted. Now, I’m a changed man—or at least a much more medically responsible one. I go for my annual physical without fail, and I see my nephrologist every few months like it’s a standing coffee date (minus the coffee because caffeine is another thing I have to watch).

The Irony of Post-Stroke Health

Here’s the kicker: I’m probably the healthiest I’ve ever been. Who knew a life-altering medical event could be the best personal trainer?

Since my stroke, I’ve taken up running and walking—activities I once considered optional but now see as non-negotiable. My endurance has skyrocketed. My diet? Let’s just say I’ve become intimately familiar with ingredient labels. Salt, protein, phosphate, and potassium are all on a tight leash. My wife, determined to make sure I don’t live a life of bland meals, has turned our kitchen into a spice lab, crafting homemade blends that put store-bought seasonings to shame.

Even my drinking habits have changed. I still enjoy a glass of something now and then, but just one. Gone are the days of carefree refills. And sleep? I treat it with the same discipline as a tax deadline—strict and non-negotiable. Bedtime at 9:30 PM, wake up at 7 AM, no exceptions.

Health: A Long Game, Not a Sprint

The truth is, I don’t feel sick. There’s nothing urgent making me rush to the doctor. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that health isn’t just about reacting to problems—it’s about preventing them. Regular check-ups while feeling good help establish a baseline. Without that, how do you even know what’s “normal” for you?

So, I fully expect that tomorrow, my doctor’s office will send that long-overdue reminder email as if on cue. And this time, I’ll be ready.

Posted on

Rest, Recovery, and Rediscovering My Run

Written December 26, 2024

Hello Dear Readers,

I skipped my Wednesday run, which felt like breaking an unspoken rule in my routine. Why? Because my knee decided it was time to be the squeaky wheel—or, in this case, the squeaky joint. That makes three full days off from running, and honestly, I’m okay with it. Here’s why: I’ve seen what happens when you don’t give your body time to heal. My wife once pushed through an injury, thinking she was invincible, and let’s just say her recovery became a long-term project. I’d rather learn from her experience than repeat it. 

When your knee is unhappy, you suddenly realize how much you depend on it. For instance, going down the stairs earlier this week was like walking a tightrope while juggling knives—not exactly graceful. It was a sharp reminder to pay attention to the signals my body was sending. On Tuesday and Wednesday, every descent was a little “ouch” here and a little “yikes” there. But today? The stairs and I are back to being friends. My knee no longer complains, which I’m taking as a good sign.

This forced break has been an interesting shift. As a runner, rest days feel like a guilty pleasure, like sneaking a second slice of cake when no one’s watching. But sometimes, your body needs that slice of metaphorical cake—or, in this case, a few days to repair itself. Skipping runs isn’t easy for me; I love the rhythm of hitting the pavement and the mental clarity it brings. But I’d rather take three days off now than risk being sidelined for weeks later.

Rest has its perks, though. I’ve caught up on some reading, spent more time planning my next running goals, and even got an extra hour of sleep here and there. (Who knew recovery could feel this luxurious?) More importantly, I can feel the difference in my knee. It no longer twinges when I walk downstairs, and it’s not screaming for attention every time I move. That’s progress I can celebrate.

I’ll lace up my running shoes again tomorrow, and I’m hopeful it’ll be a smooth, pain-free return. With three days of rest under my belt, I feel like a sprinter at the starting block, ready to channel all my pent-up energy into a fast, satisfying run. There are no guarantees I’ll break any records, but hey, after days of forced patience, even a moderate jog will feel like a victory lap.

If there’s one takeaway from this experience, it’s this: listen to your body. Rest isn’t the enemy—it’s the secret weapon for coming back stronger. Whether it’s your knee, your back, or just a sense of exhaustion creeping in, sometimes stepping back is the best way to keep moving forward.