Crohn's treatment and training

I decided to come out of the closet with my Crohn's disease diagnosis. This is for a couple of reasons.

At first I didn't want to let people know that I have a health problem. I didn't want my opponents or potential opponents to know this, and I didn't want friends and loved ones to worry. Most of all, my ego did not want me to openly admit that I have any physical shortcoming. Several things factored into my changing my mind.

A.) Everyone has some kind of physical 'shortcoming'. Maybe you have allergies. Maybe you're short. Maybe your feet hurt. Regardless of whatever physical uniqueness you have, I've decided, you should not feel ashamed or feel less because of it. Rather, we should all feel awesome because of what we do despite these things.
B.) Would people be inspired by Lance Armstrong if he had stubbornly refused to tell anyone he had cancer because he was embarassed? This is not to say that I'm comparing myself to Lance Armstrong, or that this blog will inspire people. It's just to say that you can't hope to be of use to others if you are only thinking about your own foolish pride.

I also have some information that could be of use to you if you have digestive problems. I suffered for 4 years with vomiting, pain, bleeding, fainting, and a plethora of other unpleasant symptoms while incompetent physicians and specialists twiddled their fingers and theorized. I took medications and prayed they would do something. Most of them did not. I had so much blood drawn you'd think I lived in Transylvania. I was poked, prodded, scanned, endoscopes shoved down my throat, injected with radioactive liquids, required to swallow quarts of Elmer's glue-like liquids and shot up with weird fluids. After 4 years of hell and just on the brink of a depression brought on by chronic pain and the idea of living with it indefinitely, I discovered Dr. Luther Burse, gastroenterologist.

Dr. Burse is the best doctor I have met, period. He is intelligent, competent, and also cares about his patients. He cares about doing a good job. He cares if you are in pain. He cares about whether you can afford your procedures and medications. My insurance sucked and didn't want to pay for a colonoscopy that I needed to find out whether I may have digestive cancer. Dr. Burse made sure the procedure happened and that I could afford it. My horrible insurance also failed to cover any of the cost of my medication, which is really expensive. Dr. Burse supplied me with generous samples. I ran out. He gave me more samples.

Please see Dr. Luther Burse if you have any kind of belly pain. Dr. Burse cares about whether people have digestive problems. He is a good doctor. Please tell him I said so if you go to him.

I also discovered something really, really important if you don't have excesses of money. My medication, Asacol, is awesome and works relly well, but is also incredibly expensive. If you don't have big stacks of money sitting around your house, and you take any kind of medication, make note of this following info. Most of the pharmaceutical companies have to offer medications to you at a reduced rate if your income is low. Find out who makes the medication you take, and google prescription plans from them. For example, I looked up "Proctor and Gamble patient assistance program" and easily found forms to send in. You just attach proof that your income is low, and a prescription from your doctor, and they send your drugs to you in the mail. There you go. And don't feel like you're taking charity. This is a tax write-off for them. They are still making money off you. Don't feel guilty that you aren't paying $800 a month for medicine.

If you have any kind of digestive symptom, chances are I've had it and figured out some way to make it manageable. Please email me if you think I could be of any help at all.

words of wisdom from Professor Traven

Today I had a very impactful conversation with Traven. "Good morning", he said. "Good morning!" I said, "it's Friday. Are you excited it's Friday?" "I am excited every day," he said earnestly. "You can do what you want to do on any day- Monday, Friday, it doesn't matter which day."

An excellent point.

we've come a long way, baby

A Japanese schoolgirl is getting a shot at pro baseball. Finally we're starting to see some equality.



"Eri Yoshida, seen here, a 16-year-old schoolgirl with a mean knuckleball has been selected as the first woman ever to play alongside the men in Japanese professional baseball."







http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20081117/sp_wl_afp/lifestylejapansportsbaseball_081117063048

As a kid I desperately wanted to play baseball. I wanted to play center field for the Mets. Every night I oiled my glove, tucked a ball inside it, and put it under my pillow. My dad was a little league coach. He'd take me out in the yard and we'd work on fundamentals. We worked on getting behind the glove. Not being afraid of the ball. Dealing with it when a grounder runs up your glove and hits you in the face. Getting under fly balls. We'd go to the field sometimes and I'd shag balls or work on hitting.
I didn't get to play baseball at all. Not once. Not ever. They told me, "Girls don't play baseball. You can play softball." I despise softball. Softball is a hideous bastardization of a beautiful sport. The ball is too big, as if to say the players are stupid and need a bigger object. There's no stealing. There's a general lack of craft. The sportsmanship was awful. The other girls were nasty toward each other and me. There was no cooperation. Outfielders refused to hit the cutoff because of their ego problems. So even if balls were fielded well, they dribbled in messily to the infield, and we missed getting outs. The other girls didn't want to spend extra time working. They wanted to spend the extra time gossiping and talking about who they liked or didn't like.

The only time I got to work on anything worthwhile was with my dad. He never told me that I wouldn't get to play because I was a girl. He never told me that fundamentals didn't matter because I could just wear my hair cute. If he thought I might cry he'd tell me to suck it up. There was no quitting. There was no complaining. Too bad I never got to use any of that. I played softball for about 6 years and then realized one day that it wasn't a temporary thing. I'd never get to play baseball. I had no interest in playing girls' fast-pitch softball anymore. I quit. After 9th grade, I never played again.


Baseball wasn't a singular incident. I wanted to play ice hockey. They told me no. Girls don't play hockey. I got to take figure skating instead. I quit after a year. Every time I wanted to play a "boys" sport, they'd give me some lame substitute or tell me I'd hurt my breasts. Yes, I'm serious. I was 8 years old when I wanted to play hockey. I didn't have breasts. I pointed this out to the skating manager and she just looked uncomfortable.

Good for you, Eri Yoshida. I hope you redefine baseball as we know it.

For those of you who have daughters, I have a little bit of humble advice. If your girl wants to take a sport, and some stupid coach discriminates against her for being female, you should seriously consider legal action. We cannot continue to tolerate oppression. This is 2008 and we still have to struggle to get a shot at equality.

when life hands you lemons...

Sometimes things don't go the way you want them to. I've recently thought a lot about wins and losses, and how the way you handle them really indicates the substance of your person. I'm lucky to have a lot of supportive people in my life, and that has really had an effect on me.

One of the reasons that nerves get bad is you think about disappointing people you care about. In moments of panic you think that maybe no one will care about you anymore if you make mistakes. In the future it will help me a lot to look back and think about how everyone treated me after I had a loss. I've had a lot of positive interactions with people and gotten a lot of valuable information about how the people that matter to me think about these things.

I'm also lucky to have a bunch of fighters in my life. It makes a big difference when you talk to someone who understands what it's like, and remembers being in difficult situations and dealing with setbacks. It makes a big difference when you go into the gym on the following Monday and your friends tell you, "It looked like your nerves got you. It's okay. That happens to everyone. You just have to put it down to experience and go on to the next one." That puts it into perspective. No one hates you for having a bad performance. It is actually not a big deal at all. And, even more than that, everyone is proud of you for taking the fight. Everyone is proud of you for not punking out and taking some excuse to cancel. Everyone thinks that you have heart for getting into the ring when the crowd and the lights and the pressure made you feel like you're having a panic attack. At Unit 2, we have a lot of really experienced MMA fighters. These guys have the opportunity to look down on me, but they don't. It feels really good when a well-known fighter goes out of his way to talk to you, an amateur, to tell you that you did well and sometimes things don't go your way; to congratulate you on getting in there.

Of course, there are always gonna be the armchair fighters who want to give you critiques and suggestions, advice and so on. And they seem to think that what you do is pretty easy, and you should have made quick work of it. And you should have done this, and used that, and on and on. And they advise you about how you should train for the next one, and come up with "solutions" to your "problems." How can you take all this criticism seriously when you know that this person has never taken a fight and probably never will? It simply doesn't matter.

I have a friend who is a pro fighter- he's been on television, sometimes people in public have recognized him. This guy is humble as anyone. "I put my pants on just like everyone else," he says. He recently advised me on other people saying negative things. He was very frank. "Some people are fighters, and they're gonna understand what you have to go through. As far as the other people- fuck them and what they think." I didn't realize how much you have to subscribe to that until this last fight. I have been showered with support from other fighters. I've received emails from other fighters' coaches. Sunday my inbox was full of positive messages, and my phone was overflowing with text messages from people telling me that they're proud of me.

I've been taken to dinner and lunch and received a homemade pie. My friends from outside the gym (gyms, that is) are overjoyed that I can finally go out and eat with them.

I'd also like to add that having a humble nature and genuinely caring about other people seems to go a really long way in how others treat you when life hands you lemons. Sometimes people win, but no one's really all that happy about it because they lack qualities that endear them to others. They talk trash, or illustrate poor sportsmanship, and because of that, it means less to people when they do well. The fighters that I really admire personally are those that are more down-to-earth and genuine.

The more I get to be around positive people the more it helps me deal with nerves. If you choke, it will not be the end of the world. Everyone will not hate you for it. It will not be a big deal. You will do better next time. And you will get to eat homemade pumpkin pie.

The great teachers in my life

This week I had the opportunity to help with a project Unit 2 does at Hamilton Holmes Elementary School. One of their second grade classes has had exemplary attendance, and so they earned a special gym class session with us, the instructors from Unit 2. We teach them basic punches and kicks, and some basic Jiu Jitsu techniques as well. They are a great bunch of kids, and I enjoyed working with them. The energy of second graders can sometimes be overwhelming, but my theory is to treat them like I wanted to be treated when I was in second grade. That seemed to work well.

Two of the students in the class are autistic. It is mild autism, not what you would have seen in the 80's movie "Rain Man," but it is nevertheless a challenge in these kids' lives. I paid particular attention to making sure they felt included in the class. I'm sure they spend plenty of time being ostracized, and that sucks.

Thank you again, Mrs. Cheryl Perry. Mrs. Perry was my second grade teacher, and she made a huge difference in my life. She believed in me. She may have been the first person I ever met who believed in me. I'll never forget her and what she said to me one day. Let me take you back on a journey with me. I was new to the elementary school in a small suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. Most of the kids were caucasian, and they all sounded unintelligible to me. I couldn't understand them or communicate with them. "Hee haw gee jaw yaw!" They would exclaim (or such was my understanding of their verbal expressions.) They seemed to exclaim "Yaw!" a lot. (I later discovered this southern salutation is Y'all, or a contraction of You All.) They seemed to argue a lot, didn't seem to believe in manners, and were mean to the kids who were other colors. I felt like I was in a cage with apes. I was constantly confused and hurt by my attempts to interact with them. One day it finally came to a head. After recess, all the kids in the class gathered around the front door of the school to go back to class. They were gibbering unintelligibly and jumping around, swinging at each other and yelling. The principal came out and proclaimed that no one would be allowed back in the school until everyone was quiet. He sounded like a hillbilly too. He was yelling too, and he sounded like all the little hillbillies. It hit me all at once- this is the person who's in charge, and he sounds just like one of them. I was scared shitless. I felt tiny and unprotected. I desperately tried not to cry as we finally filed back into class. I tried and tried, but tears ran down my face and I started to sob. Mrs. Perry asked me what was wrong in her calm soft voice. "I'm scared!" I said. "I want to go home!" Mrs. Perry looked right into my eyes and said, "I need your help. I need you to help me with something. Can you do that?" I didn't know. I was obviously tiny and weak. How could I help anyone? "I'm sad today," Mrs. Perry said. "My grandmother died, and I miss her. I need you to help me be strong. Can you help me?" I thought about it. "Yes." I decided. I can help. I can be strong.

Thank you, Mrs. Perry. You were the first person who believed in me. You were the first person who told me I could be strong. Because of you, I decided I would never be afraid of anyone, ever again. There were times in my life when your voice in my head, your words that day when I was 6 years old, got me through some horrible shit that I thought would break me.



Mrs. Perry's voice came back to me during my trip to Hamilton Holmes Elementary. One of the young autistic kids in the class was obviously having a hard time participating. He'd try his best, but all the noise and activity was overwhelming to him, and he'd go curl up on the floor behind a trash can in the fetal position and wait for his fear to be manageable. Then he'd try to come back and join the class. Then someone cut in line, and I could see that he was upset. Sure, it's no big deal to adults- sometimes we think that what children deal with doesn't matter. That's wrong. I could see that his sense of justice was betrayed. He curled up and began to sob softly. "What's wrong?" I asked him. He mumbled toward the floor that someone has cut in line and it wasn't fair. "It's okay, "I said, " I know it isn't fair. But we can get back in line." He shook his head. No way. He didn't want to go back over there. It was hard enough before he knew people were going to be cutting in line. I sat down next to him. I rememebered what Mrs. Perry said to me. "I need you to help me." I said to him. He looked at me curiously. I felt like I could see into his soul. Help? Me? But I'm just little. "Yes, you can help me!" I said, "I don't know anyone here. I'm new here. Can you help me go back over to the class?" I held out my hand. Sniffling, he grabbed into it. That was a particularly touching moment given that most autistic kids don't like to be touched. He latched onto my hand and marched back over to the class. "We'll stand in line together," I said. He took a deep breath and smiled a little.

My friend Walker Atrice, who was also a great teacher, once told me that I could influence people, that I could inspire them. I think about him often, but especially when I have the opportunity to reach someone like that. Walker made me feel like I have a purpose in life, a divine purpose. He told me that God gave me a gift, and I can share it with others. I'll never forget that talk. Because of him, I'm not afraid to step into the ring. He's my guardian angel and he'll be there with me this Saturday.

My coach, Chike Lindsay-Ajudua will be cornering me this Saturday. With him in my corner I can't fail. He's been one of the great teachers in my life too. His unwavering belief in me has made all the difference. He's always been optimistic about my abilities. And he's not an optimistic person. He doesn't operate on feelings. He operates on logic. It's the main reason I always feel I can believe him. Lots of people will tell you lots of superlatives about how you're gonna do. He gives it to you real. Asking him isn't like asking a person, it's like asking a calculator. You never feel like he's bullshitting you to get some result. If he says you're going to do well, then it's factual. That day in the weight room at the old gym he said, "You can do it. I believe in you." I decided since he calculates everything like a chess computer, he must be right. (If he didn't think I could do it, I'd expect a piece of paper to print out of one of this facial orifices saying 'does not compute' or 'error' or just a bunch of 8's.)

I've been blessed with great teachers in my life. When people ask me if I'm ready for the fight this Saturday, I usually make some kind of joke like, "I'm ready to eat a bowl of pasta, that's for damned sure." The truth is, I know I'm ready, because these utterly valuable people in my life have told me I can do it.



"If I have seen farther than others, it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants."
-Isaac Newton

I did not have pie

I decided to Halloween this year even though I can't eat candy. I just want everyone to know how serious I am about making weight. I did not eat pie.

So what? You may say. Big deal, pie. You can buy it at the supermarket anytime.

No, no, no. I mean, the real deal pie. Two friends that invited me over for Halloween are healthy eaters and baked a pumpkin pie from scratch. From an actual pumpkin; a baked pumpkin. Everyone was raving about how great the pie was. I did not have pie. I am going to make weight without any drama, last minute hullabaloo or to-do. No one will have to be disappointed in me for not getting it right.

"permanent"

I got some pretty odd questions from a new kickboxing student the other day. She saw from our bulletin board that I have a fight coming up on the 8th and decided to throw some crazy questions out there. My favorite was " do you do drugs before you fight?"

Huh?

No, seriously, what???

Drugs like steroids? (yeah, I'm obviously juicing. You can tell from my enormous muscles.) Drugs like heroin? I really just had no idea what she was asking me. So I tried to cover all bases. "I'm natural. I haven't even had any caffeine in about 4 years," I said. "Oh, really? Do fighters usually use caffeine before fights?" Sigh. This woman was just trying not to understand. She went on.

"Have you ever fought with an injury before?" "Of course," I said. I figure most have. She expressed her disturbance in a dramatic fashion. "Aren't you worried it will be permanent?" I was baffled. I didn't know what she meant at all. "Aren't you worried the damage will be permanent?" "No, " I said. I'm still baffled by this, what I can only think of as a weak mentality built for making excuses. Permanent? How can any injury be permanent? I'm mortal. That means I die. That means nothing having to do with my body is permanent. Do I have injuries? Sure. Illnesses, pain, all these things. Of course. Some of these things will probably be with me all my life. That's part of living. I can't imagine a life where you try futilely to preserve your body as though it were your first dollar. I can't imagine the fear you cultivate when you believe that injury is a terrible, terrible thing to be avoided at all costs because it will ruin your body permanently. I think if I had to make the choice I'd rather die now than live that way. How can you possibly have any enjoyment?

I'd also like to point out this woman is overweight and enjoys what I can only describe as grossly unhealthy foodstuffs. Of course, it would be socially frowned upon if I returned her judgmental attitude by asking if she was worried her diet would cause" permanent" damage.

So, we all make our choices. We all use our bodies for something that causes them to degrade. As for me, I'd rather go out doing something I have great regard for and great enjoyment of than to go out with a whimper, sitting on my sofa watching Desperate Housewives and eating Cheetos.