The Butt End ...

I have a new treadmill ... !!!

This treadmill, while new to me, still has a little history behind it. It all began about two years ago when Mother decided she needed to start walking. Hold on, let me back up a bit farther. In her prime, Mother was one of those women who made heads turn. She looked like Elizabeth Taylor and had the figure of Jayne Mansfield. In a word, Bombshell. At sixteen, her figure measurements were 38-25-36. The only thing that varied over the years was her bust size ... it increased. (Makes me wonder just what in the Hell happened to me!)

In 1971 Mother became ill, very ill. She was diagnosed with a rare disease called Polymyositis, an inflammation of the muscular system that causes the muscle to weaken gradually, and a person to experience difficulty in walking and inability to breathe due to muscle failure. At the time, she was only one of 10 people worldwide known to have this disease. She spent two years in and out of different hospitals, Emory University Hospital near us in Atlanta and Bethesda Naval Hospital in Bethesda, MD. She suffered a lot, was often used as a guinea pig by doctors for different treatments, and twice we were told she was going to die.

All this happened at a time when my father was, as usual, drinking heavily. To be honest, I don’t recall much about the times when she wasn’t home. I have a lot of blocked memories of those couple of years. What I do remember is when she was home, she had to have a hospital bed because she couldn’t lift herself out of a regular bed. I remember the sound of her bedroom slippers scuffing along the hardwood floor when she walked because she didn’t have the muscle strength to lift her feet. I also remember when she fell, which was often, it would take three strong men to pick her up, and she would moan from the pain it caused when they lifted her. She had no ability in her legs or arms whatsoever to help them. She spent most of her time in bed, embroidering our jeans, because it was all she could really do. I’ll add that we were the first kids at our school to have embroidered bell-bottom jeans and everyone thought we were cool - they would beg us to get Mother to embroider theirs, too.

One of the medications the doctors gave Mother was Prednisone, in massive doses. (Very nasty drug!) One of the side effects to the medication was weight gain. So not only did she have a hard time just walking, she had more than double her normal weight to carry around as well. Add in all the other side effects and it made for one miserable, suffering individual. Top that off with an already unstable mentality, an alcoholic husband, three children, and you get an even worse set of complications. Life was Hell, for her and for everyone else.

Typical of my father, he ran off with another woman and disappeared for several months. So there Mother was, sick beyond normal human endurance, husband gone, children to care for, and to add insult to injury she receives an eviction notice in the mail. My father had not been taking care of the bills while she was in the hospital all that time, he’d used up all the money, and we were now being kicked out into the street. Mother called my Uncle Conley, who also lived in Atlanta, and my grandparents - Mother’s parents - to come help us. Very nasty situation ensued; I won’t recount that part of things but Mother ended up in Georgia State Mental Institution and we kids ended up living with Uncle Conley and Aunt Eleanor, they having been awarded temporary custody of us.

I’m not sure what exactly happened, of all the details behind the scenes, after all, I was only about eight years old at the time, but somehow Mother’s doctors discovered what had occured, took charge of things and got her out of GSMI. The most amazing part was this woman, who had been practically at death’s door, had within a few short months somehow managed to recover to the point she found a job, found an apartment, bought herself a car, and got custody of us kids back from my Aunt and Uncle. She had stopped taking all the medications, lost weight back down to almost pre-illness weight, and took control of her life back from the brink of a total breakdown. It was, I have to say, admirable.

Over the next couple of years, Mother maintained her health, her weight, and stayed active. She always took pride in her appearance, not in a vain way, but ‘kept her looks’ as the saying goes. For example, the illness and medications caused her hair to go prematurely gray so she started dyeing it back to it’s normal auburn color ... that kind of thing. Well, the cost of living in Atlanta was taking it’s tole on her financially, so in 1975 she moved my brother and I to Marion, NC, which was her hometown. My sister was still in high school and she chose to stay in Atlanta, with my Aunt and Uncle, to finish school there. Actually, Glenda had stayed with Conley and Eleanor even after Mother got custody of us again. But let’s keep moving along with the story ....

In Marion, Mother stayed well for years. A couple of times there were some crazy incidents, like the time her third husband (my sister Glenda has a different father, Mother’s first husband, than my brother and I) left her. She ended up in Broughton Mental Hospital for a couple of weeks over that whole situation. Again, I prefer not to elaborate. But all in all, she stayed in reasonably good health, with only a minor relapse with the symptoms of the Polymyositis, which again disappeared fair quickly.

When I left Marion in 1988 to go live and work in South Carolina, Mother was still in good health. She’d gained a small amount of weight, but it wasn’t really noticeable to anyone but family who were familiar with her ‘normal’ body size. But some weight gain is often typical of many people as they get older and by this time Mother was in her late 40's/early 50's. To be honest, I never really paid much more attention to her size or physical health once I had left North Carolina. I came home with my boyfriend, Randy, to visit on weekends every so often but he and I were usually so busy going around to see people, etc. that Mother’s physical health and appearance escaped my notice most of the time.

It was after being gone for about eight years or more that on one of my trips home to visit (this was after Randy and I had separated and I hadn’t been home in about a year at that point) that it again caught my attention. I walked into Mother’s apartment and was suddenly stopped by the sight of her, my sister and my niece sitting together in the living room. Now, my niece, Leia, had battled with a weight problem from early childhood, so her size didn’t surprise me overmuch. Glenda, on the other hand, had gained a considerable amount of weight, as Mother had also done. Mother had also stopped dyeing her hair and it was completely white, snow white. I won’t deny I was shocked by the sight of them and for a few seconds I honestly didn’t recognize Mother. I know I had to have been standing there with my mouth hanging open in surprise. Fortunately I recovered myself quickly and acted like all things were normal. But I couldn’t help casting furtive glances at Mother (and Glenda, who had always been reasonably average in size) and feeling really stunned by the change in her appearance.

While some would say it was complications from the Polymyositis, the incredible amounts of seriously bad medications the doctors had given her, and a host of other reasons ... some of which are bordering on valid ... the real reason Mother changed so much was a mental state of attitude called Victimization. It’s common with people who suffer from mental instability. They begin to perceive that all the problems in their life are the fault of someone else. The world is a horrible place, and they are doomed to lead a life of suffering and deprivation. They begin to cling to their feeling of depression and victimization and it becomes their suit of armor against the injustices the world does against them. They are often only ‘happy’ when things are upset or chaotic around them. They do not function well when things are calm and will often instigate or create problems for themselves, or for others, to have that feeling of turmoil and disruption going on in their lives. Another development is they become a Chaos Addict.

This is the person my mother had become in the time I was away. While she’s always had a penchant for the chaos and turmoil of life, she stayed physically healthy (with the exception of the Polymyositis) and attractive, taking care of her appearance and as I said, having an element of pride in herself with it. The person I saw in that living room that day was a total stranger, at least in physical appearance, to me. To this day, she hasn’t changed much save growing older, more of the victim of life, becoming more and more of a hypochondriac and a sadder human being. Her becoming a Jehovah’s Witness in the 1980's didn’t help matters either, but that’s an entirely different story.

Periodically she has had friends who have gotten on the ‘get healthy’ bandwagon. Grapefruit Miracle Diet, Weight Watchers, The Atkins Diet, etc. Mother will occasionally jump on the bandwagon with them and give it a shot for a few weeks. As soon as she starts seeing results, or begins to feel better, she stops. Inevitably with some excuse or other that renders her unable to continue without potential detrimental and disastrous results to her. Reality, to become healthy and well and physically fit would mean an end to all the years of her hypochondrical illnesses and excuses. In effect, she would have to start living her life instead of merely existing/suffering through it. Now, of course, she’s got the “I’m 70 years old!” thing going to support her in perpetuating her suffering.

The treadmill (bet y’all thought I’d never get back to that) is just another notch in her long line of “I’m going to start exercising” binges. About two years ago Mother started saying how she wanted to start walking. She’s just come off an exercise binge involving a couple of her friends and an all-women’s gym that had opened in town. Of course, her reasons for the expense of a treadmill were that she could do it in the privacy of her own home, at her convenience, in the climate-controlled environment of her apartment, etc. The whole gym thing had been thoroughly dismissed at unsanitary, unsafe, too expensive, blah, blah, blah. Walking around the apartment complex was out of the question because of a myriad of reasons. Nothing would satisfy her but to have a treadmill.

Mother is on a fixed income (Social Security Disability, etc.) so her expenditures have to be watched. She spent several weeks researching different treadmills, their features and cost involved. She finally decided on one at Wal-Mart. Not excessively fancy, but it’s electric, has digital read-out for calories burned, fat calories burned, variable speed, time, and distance. It also had an incline adjustment and it will fold up for ‘storage’. She put it on lay-away and paid it off in a couple of months. When it was paid for, she called me and said she needs me to help her get it home ... the husband has a truck.

I tell her I’d be happy to haul it for her if she can get me some help. After all, it weighed about 70-80 lbs. and came in a big box. I’m capable of lifting and moving more than my physical appearance belies, but quite frankly, that’s a bit more than I can manage to move by myself, especially a big, awkward box. She says, “The stock boys at Wal-Mart will put it on the truck for you.” Well, great. “Who’s going to get it out of the truck and into your apartment?” I asked. “I’ll help you if I can.” she replied. This coming from the woman who’s so out of shape she’s sweating, huffing, puffing and out of breath just walking from the Wal-Mart parking lot to the front door. Somehow, I wasn’t seeing her being of any help. “No”, I tell her, “You’re going to have to get me some help if you want me to move it. What about one of your Jehovah’s Witness friends?” Ummm-hmmmm. THAT wasn’t a well received response. After about two weeks of this back and forth crap, it ended up she finally got two of the JW guy friends with a truck to help her out.

Then came the ‘put it together’ drama. I, of course, was the one she demanded do the job. I tell her I couldn’t do it alone. I had looked at the instructions and it clearly stated two people were required for assembly. Again, she insisted she would help, but I again told her she wouldn’t be of any use, I needed someone with enough strength to help hold parts while I put together bolts, etc. She wasn’t liking that at all. Every few days, for about three months, she’d call and say something about me putting it together. I finally got so aggravated about it I swore to myself it would snow in Puerto Rico before I put that damn thing together. When she would mention it during the phone calls, I started changing the subject.

About another month went by when she called one day and said the two guys who had helped her move it were going to come over and help her put it together. She was all giddy with finally managing to manipulate someone into doing what she wanted about it. A few days later she called again and said it was assembled, but now she needed to get rubber mats to set it on because of the carpet in her bedroom. I didn’t fail to miss her mentioning that while they were putting it together one of the men had commented that “... it sure was a good thing that the other guy was there to help or he’d never gotten it put together.” (Yep, uh-huh, duh.) I don’t think she even realized what she’d just said when she said it.

Well, it took another month for her to find the right rubber mats. Then another month for her to find just the right surge protector to plug it into. Then she began a search for just the right clothes to exercise in, the right shoes, etc. Then she spent a month or two moving it around the apartment (it also has wheels so you can move it easily once it’s assembled) to get it in just the right place so she would be comfortable, blah, blah, blah. Every so often over the next few months I would ask her how many miles she’d put on it yet and she invariably made some excuse or other about not having used it at all.

As I said, this happened over the course of a couple of years. The last year the treadmill has sat in the corner of her dining room, folded up, and used as a place to hang laundry. She never, not once, used it. So one day a couple of months ago I asked her if she would consider selling it to me. I told her I’d pay her what she’d paid for it. She said I could have it. Not surprising, really. She had decided it was 'cluttering up her apartment'. To make space for it here at my house I had to tackle and kill my Master Bedroom Closet Monster so I could put one of the chest-of-drawers in the bedroom into the closet, rearrange all the rest of the furniture in the room and voila’, treadmill space.

I lined up the services of my friend Paul and he helped me bring it home Wednesday. I used it that evening and both Thursday morning and this morning before I went to town to do my Domestic Goddess duties. Three days, 20 minutes each day and I’ve already put about six miles on it. I like it. I’m going to enjoy having it.

I’m not out to set any land-speed records. I’m not focused on how many miles a day/week I put on it. I’m not really concerned with calories burned or fat calories burned or any of that stuff. All I care about is making the commitment to use it every day, a minimum of 20 min. a day, and working on toning my flabby butt back up. I hate my flabby butt. I've never had a flabby butt before. It’s horrible. I can stand it no longer. Truth is, for several years now I’ve not been active the way I was when I was living in the Charlotte area. I had a firm butt then. I’m still the same weight, but the muscle tone is gone with the wind. I hate it. I absolutely hate it. And with effort, I’ll have a firm butt again. Hallelujah!

No buts about it, my ‘new’ treadmill is my butt’s new best friend ...... *hee hee*