THE TRUTH DIET

How to discover true weight loss, expose the lies and become the author of your own success story

An introduction

This book is as much about telling good stories as it is about weight loss. Writing a book is a glorious and often painful process.  It is the delicate and hopefully elegant telling of a story. In the case of this book, it is the telling of many stories. The telling of a good story requires a detailed understanding of the material, clarity in thought, organization and  most of all it requires that you treat the subject honestly. In every regard, the most important aspect to the telling of a good, honest story is the participation of those you trust. Nothing takes the place of good editing and coaching. The professionals you entrust with your story keep you honest. They provide you the benefit of another perspective.  In essence this book is about changing your life. It is a guide on how to make the story of your life better. If you look in the mirror and do not like the person you see; what you need to do is write yourself a better story. Like writing a book, it is a glorious and often painful process. It requires an understanding of the subject (you), clarity in thought, organization and most of all it requires that you treat the subject honestly (again, you). Most importantly, it requires that you seek the honest eyes of the people best equipped to make it the best story it can be. Remember, no one needs to write their story alone. The creation of a great story is a truly magical process. It evolves and changes along the way. When you are writing your new" life story", it does not have to be perfect the first time. Allow for spelling errors, grammatical faux pas, and major changes in the plot line. What I have come to understand is that writing the story is easy; re-writing the story is hard.

My Story

My story begins simply enough, I was born to a set of loving parents who wanted nothing but the best for me and still do. They provided me with a truly loving and nurturing environment and I flourished. I flourished so well in fact that by the time I was 6 years old, I was fat. I have no idea what I actually weighed, but I do remember that my earliest recollection of clothes shopping was that I hated it and "my section" of the store was labeled "husky". The "husky" section was generally in complete segregation from the rest of the store and had an abysmal selection. I was probably fat long before I was 6 but no one told me. In my early years I lived in idyllic place called simply "home." It was a place of pure non-judgment and unconditional love. No one ever told me I was fat because it just did not matter. When I was 6, I started school and had my first taste of the real world. What a bitter taste it was. Apparently, my size made me different and in this new "real" world different was not a positive attribute. I was the" fat" kid. I had a new name with many more "new names" to follow. My life was about to change and my journey was about to begin. Who would have thought that it would lead me to such a wonderful place; certainly not that 6 year old boy crying in the corner of his 1^st grade classroom.  My experiences as a fat kid have shaped my outlook on life and although I would not want to re-live those painful times, I  would not trade them in. My life is a fat kid forged the steel that is now the foundation of my life. From ridicule came compassion, from intolerance came tolerance and from pain came the need to heal others. Many more of my gifts can be attributed to this tough training ground. What wonderful gifts they are and I thank God for them.

I have lost 500 or so pounds in my life; 80 or so between junior and senior high school, 120 between undergraduate and graduate school, 100 just around the time I started my own physical therapy office.

After a lifetime of losing and gaining weight, I was approaching 40 and I was sick . . . real sick. I was sick of living a life on the couch. I was sick of living a life as a spectator and, honestly, even that was too tough for me. As a result, I often spent much of my family time asleep. I was exhausted all the time. I frequently avoided all physical activity - even playing with my kids. You can't get much sicker than that. I remember my doctor asking if obesity ran in my family I paused for a minute and I said: "Doc, nobody runs in my family." Yes, my lifestyle was slowly killing my kids too.

My body ached, my joints hurt and I was the constant victim of gastrointestinal irregularity. (Sorry, but it had to be said) I had no idea what I weighed, but I knew I was big. I had a 58 inch waist; well a 60 inch waist really my pants were still a tight fit. I exceeded the weight limit of my doctor's scale, so at my yearly visits we just guessed. I think if you look my medical chart from year to year it simply said: "Fat and getting fatter." One year my doctor got a new talking scale. I will spare you the details of the encounter, but I can say that I exceeded the capacity of that scale too and the scale and I are no longer on speaking terms. I remained blissfully unaware of my weight until, finally, on a bet; I stepped onto 2 scales simultaneously. With the burden of my size distributed between them I was able to learn that I weighed over 400 pounds. There is no greater disappointment than standing on a scale (or two), seeing that it reads 410 pounds and realizing that you are the one (the only one) on the scale. That is when you find out you're alone; really alone . . . and sick. Did I mention sick? My blood tests showed diabetes & high cholesterol. My blood pressure was high; my heart rate showed that even at rest my cardiac muscle was pulling in double shifts. My exhaustion was disabling, I had sleep apnea and I just hurt everywhere. At 410 pounds I had a BMI of over 55. I was officially classified as "super obese." I wonder what kind of superhero I would've made. I was certainly no hero to myself and I was no hero to my family.

I decided to make a change. In a moment of absolute epiphany I decided (again) it was time to lose weight (again). My initial plan was to stop drinking soda and start taking the stairs at work. It turned out to be a good plan. I lost 50 pounds. I don't remember how long it took me to lose, but I do remember gaining about 40 back. It occurred to me that I was an expert at losing weight and an expert at gaining it too. From my perspective at the time, what I really needed was a weight maintenance tool. The missing piece to my long term problem was maintenance. As I would come to relate it; I was fighting the dragon of obesity with nothing but a pocket knife and I needed a broadsword. 

I had a sit down with my doctor, (I think he was still chuckling over my answer to his question about obesity running in my family). We discussed all the medical treatment options available and we discussed my weight loss history. He suggested laparoscopic gastric banding surgery. I did a little research, and I thought it was the best option for me. I knew going in that the success of the surgery was going to be based on my mindset and the amount of work I was willing to put into it.  After setting my sights on surgery, I went right to work; I began to lose weight immediately. I lost 50 pounds before surgery and in February of 2003 I underwent the Lap-Band procedure. In the year that followed, my commitment to the rules of the surgery and a strict exercise program lead me to a total weight loss of 200 pounds.

At my one year surgical anniversary (almost exactly), I went to work with a little back pain. Within 12 hours I was on a gurney in the emergency room looking at the ceiling tiles and a 104 fever. I had a white count of 41,000. In doctor terms that means pretty freak'n sick. You're white count is like the headcount at an infection kegger. At 41,000, my body was going to have one hell of a hangover and that was only if I were to survive. In fact a white count of 41,000 is considered critical. It turns out, I had developed peritonitis. This nasty streptococcus infection and wrapped itself around my insides and was bringing me down. By all accounts, I was dying.

The infection baffled my surgeon who felt his only option was to open me up and take a look around. While he was in there he decided that, although the band did not appear to be the cause of the problem, he would take it out anyway to avoid future complications.

I awoke in the recovery room with a cut from my chest all the way down to my . . . . well all the way down. It was my wife's job to tell me that the Lap-Band was removed. I guess they figured I wouldn't kill her. In effect, my weight loss surgery was completely reversed. Research shows that people who have their lap band removed are almost guaranteed to gain back all of their weight.

Imagine - your greatest, most insurmountable problem, under control on Thursday and by Friday morning; it's baaaack. It was as if the broadsword that I was given to fight my obesity dragon was taken away only to be replaced with a stuffed bunny rabbit. As you might imagine a stuffed bunny rabbit is pretty damned useless when you're fighting a dragon.

As I lay in the ICU (with the tubes going in and out. . . I'm sure you've seen it in movies) the nutritionist came by.  Which was good because I wanted to talk, I was scared, real scared. I never looked at the surgery as a weight loss tool; I saw it as a weight maintenance tool. I looked at it as a life-saving procedure. Can you imagine if you had heart surgery and somebody told you they reversed it. You would shit! I had questions, lots of questions. I needed her to give me a plan, a direction. She looked at me and said; "What are you worried about, you already lost the weight. You will be fine." Well, if she thought that was helpful, it wasn't. The only thing I was sure of was that she didn't get it and that I was pissed.

I thought for sure my only option was to have the surgery replaced. As I would come to learn that just wasn't going to happen.

Weight loss surgery is a funky topic in this country. On the one hand many people look at obesity as a disease of will power and weakness for which surgery is "giving up." On the other hand the surgery is being sold as a weight loss panacea to people who just aren't ready. For me, it was the treatment that saved my life - and now was gone. SHIT!

I don't regret having had the surgery because it did help to save my life. I understood it for what it was. It was a tool in my weight loss arsenal. It was just one thing and when used correctly it could be magical. In the hands of the right person, the sound of a Stradivarius is the most beautiful thing you could ever hear; in my hands however, it would be a lethal weapon. The life-saving power of bariatric surgery is no different. In the right hands. . . or I should say for the right person, who is ready, willing and able; it could create a miracle. Society still looks at surgery as the "easy out." I often become almost apologetic when I would tell the story of how I lost the bulk of my weight through surgery. Funny, I don't recall my father ever sounding apologetic or "defeated" when he discussed his life saving heart by-pass surgery. I don't ever remember anyone saying: "Well he tried everything and then finally broke down and had to have heart surgery."

After going through all the usual stages of loss, (anger was my favorite) I realized that the loss of the surgery could be a gift. After a brief bout with a modest weight gain, I realized that the surgery was not coming back and this story was nowhere near finished.  I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and decided to fight the dragon by whatever means necessary. I began by deciding to dedicate my professional life to the study and treatment of obesity. I sought training as a Wellness Coach to help me understand how to help people achieve better lifestyles, I became a voracious reader of nutritional literature and through my profession, have benefited from much continuing education and symposia on the topic. I live the life I preach. I exercise just about everyday. My preferred activity is kayaking. When I kayak, I have the best exercise room on the planet. While people are at the health club watching CNN, I am watching ducks graze off the water past a perfect sunrise. My God am I blessed. I keep an eye on what I eat and watch out for when my train derails, I maintain a solid plan on how to get that train back on the track. With my new life I enjoy everything more. Losing weight and becoming fit has allowed me to begin Mountain biking, rock climbing & kayaking in addition to just being more of a participant in the every day. My children have become more fit by extension. They understand what it means to take care of themselves. My weight loss began as a gift to myself and has extended to be a gift to my family as well. Since the reversal of my surgery 3 1/2 years ago, I have actually lost more weight and now consider myself healthy of  a healthy size and happy. I see my life's journey as an adventure and I am open to evolving with my life as it happens. My life is my story and I no longer allow my story to control me; I am in control of it. I have come to realize that my story is my only true possession and making it the best it can be is worth any amount of effort. I tell a good story and so can you.

Daddy, can I drive the Jeep? Oh how a father hates to here those words. It means that his baby is growing up. Soon it will be boys and flashy cars; maybe even vehicles without 4-wheel drive. But Nicole was almost 13 and it was past time she learned. She was excited to get behind the wheel of the "Clyde Hopper", our 2002 Jeep Wrangler and who was I to disappoint. So with a reluctant big brother AJ in tow, off we went to Westhampton, out by the airbase, to the Long Island Pine Barrens for some dirt road driving. The fire roads were wide and, although I was never quite sure whether it was legal to drive there, I did know that the area was open for hunting in season so that vehicular traffic was not a crime; or at least not a felony.

We turned off the highway and onto the access road. I put the truck into 4-low and hopped out of the door-less opening to do the old "Chinese fire drill" with Nicole. She adjusted the mirror so that she could see her hair and turned up the radio to hear Kenny Chesney. She popped the clutch, and off we went; almost 10 feet. Not bad for a first attempt. With all due respect to Mr. Chesney, I turned the radio down just a bit and gave a few pointers on how better to get Clyde to do what she wanted. In a few minutes she got the hang of it and we were kickin' it into 3^rd gear, slinging gravel and back listening to the radio. It was now Brooks and Dunn. AJ was in the back complaining of car sickness and all was right with the world. My daughter was my personal chauffer, the weather was perfect and we were cruising. She seemed to fit behind the wheel of Clyde. It was like they were old friends just getting re-acquainted in a whole new way. It looked like she was a Jeep girl. Thank God; no flashy sports cars. Now all I had to deal with was boys.

I guess we should have turned back when trail ahead turned into a deep gully that had been deepened by the heavy rains of the early summer, but a new trail seemed to effortlessly wind its way around the impassable ravine down to the bottom of the hill. Nicole slowed down and handled the decent like a pro. We even found some mud at the bottom so that Clyde could cool off his axels. As the trail narrowed, Nicole became a little less interested in being the driver and asked for another "fire drill." Since the driver calls the shots, at her request, I was back in the seat. Once I had control, I asked AJ if he wanted to drive and he said he was still carsick and thought he would take a nap.     

AJ had learned to drive here when he was about Nicole's age. Clyde did well from that experience with just one bend in the right side brush bumper and the loss of two side mirrors. AJ mastered the art of trail driving and he was actually quite good. As the trail narrowed, he would have been a perfect pilot, but he preferred to be the master of the back seat and inspect the inside of his eyelids. No matter, more stump jumpin' for me. He could drive later. As we moved ahead, the condition of the trail made it clear that we were the first to have been back here since last hunting season. The brush was thick and the branches were slung low. As Clyde pushed between the trees, branches large and small were raining into the truck from above. We were accumulating a canopy of flora and fauna to replace the folded soft top which never got to see much daylight anyway.

The only downside to us collecting this biomass was that this ecosystem included spiders. Lots of spiders; big ones, small ones, brown ones, white ones, and some that did not appear too happy with their new quarters. As it turns out, Nicole is afraid of spiders and she immediately took to . . . well, screaming like a schoolgirl. Her brother thought this would be a great time to break his siesta and give her the "Hey look what's crawling on you" report. Oddly, Nicole did not really want to have a detailed accounting of her new tenants and, the more she screamed, the more detailed the reports became. Delighted with his status as bug correspondent, AJ happily continued the reports until I cancelled his broadcasts. Besides, we had bigger fish to fry.

The trail had turned ugly as we had approached another washed out gully. Unlike the last gully, this one was steeper and meaner looking. Worst of all, we were at the bottom. As we tried a couple of approaches, Clyde's tires spun throwing sand and gravel everywhere. It was time to air down. As a family we approached our first hurdle like a first order drill team. AJ began to take air out of the tires and Nicole and I began to look for an alternate route. Off in the not too far distance I heard the sound of hammers so I knew that we were close to civilization; or at least soon to be civilization. As we walked though, I realized that what I was actually hearing was gun fire. We had wandered our way dangerously close to the Calverton firing range.

The range had been in existence for generations. It was the kind of place that you would think got edited out of the movie Deliverance. I had not been there since college but I remembered that it was just a big hole in the ground. The rules of the range were simple. Basically, after driving past the "Office" (a 1968 Chevy station wagon) and paying the attendant $10.00 you would park on one side of the hole and shoot your weapon at items placed in the middle of the hole. On any given day, you could find all sorts of people shooting all sorts of weapons at all sorts of stuff here. I remember one day, I saw a guy pull out a grenade launcher and fire it at an effigy of his ex-wife. That is when I went home and, until now, I had not been back. But now was different. I was with my two young children and we were in danger of driving right into the wrong side of this hole. As the thought of the range's current crowd of Labor Day whackos filled my head, I decided it was time to get out of there. With the sound of continued gun play in the not-too distance, we found another way up the hill.

As we climbed the other approach, however, Clyde's tires spun and spit out a continuous stream of sand and stones and we were digging ourselves down to our axels. It was time to winch. We all got out. I sent AJ ahead to scout for suitable trees to pull from. I went to the vintage ammo box mounted on the front of 'Ol Clyde and took out my gloves and the winch control. As I looked up the long sand incline, I saw AJ bopping down exclaiming "No good trees dad!" I looked past him to see that he was right. I took out the winch control and the gloves.  I walked around to the stern of the Jeep where, mounted on the spare tire, was my anchor. "I guess people should not have laughed at you for carrying that anchor, eh dad?" Nicole said. I just smiled, flipped AJ the winch control and said "Push the switch up to let the cable out." AJ took the control and flipped the switch. The winch gave out a whine as the cable began to spit out from the front of Clyde like the first strand of a spider's web. Nicole and I started the ascent up the sand pile on foot. In one of those touching father daughter moments you can only get when you are lost in the woods, pulling a winch cable up an impossibly steep sandy incline with the unmistakable sound of gunfire as a soundtrack, she reflected on her driving lesson by saying: "You know dad, I have actually had a pretty good day so far, except for the spiders . . . . oh yea! and the shooting!"  I agreed, fell to my knees in laughter and planted the anchor. I thought it strange that she had placed our perils in that particular order and asked that she not mention the shooting part to her grandmother.

As we walked down the hill, I gave her a brief lesson on how to use the sun to tell east from west and began to reach for my cell phone equipped with a GPS. All was right with the world, we were only ½ a mile or so from a road, Clyde was going to get some welcomed help ascending the sand peak and we were ready to go home.

But, we were not "out of the woods" yet. We had no idea what the trail ahead was going to be like. I did see that this ascent took one hell of a bank to the left at about 2/3 the way from the top. I knew this would not be the last time Clyde would have to spin his "winch web" today. When we got back to the bottom, I gave the kids a crash course in where not to stand when a truck was being winched and sent them to the top of the hill. As they left for the relative cover of the scrub pine, I pushed the switch on the winch control down. With a low whine, the winch began to pull us up the hill with a little help from Clyde's 4-wheel drive. As we progressed, the hill got steeper and the anchor began to slip. It was time to find a tree. I stopped the winch, got out of the truck grabbed the 100' of 3/4" line that my buddy Rob gave me and began to walk up the hill again. This line was another of those items that seemed to garner a bit of attention from most observers as it hung, coiled, off the back of the Clyde's cargo rack right in front of the perpetually mounted mountain bike.

Rob, an intrepid explorer, diver and all around good guy had given me the anchor from his impressive collection of salvaged anchors. As a diver he would often collect the anchors he would find while diving. Over the years, he had amassed quite a few and he had no problem offering one up to Clyde. When I told him what I needed it for, he coiled up this length of hefty line and tossed it to me. He said something like: "You can never have too much rope." and I agreed. I tied the line to Clyde's cargo rack and there it stayed, until now. As it turns out that length of rope was just right. Between the distances the winch pass with the anchor had given us, my 25' tow strap and Rob's line; we just made it to the first available tree. We were back in business and no, you can never have too much rope. With a mere two more winch passes, we made the turn and we were back on the trail.

We walked ahead along the next segment of trail to see what we were going to be up against. It seemed OK. As we lumbered through the next ½ mile or so it became clear from the GPS that the trail was actually moving us away from our exit road. As we pushed, the trail narrowed and a tree claimed the back right outrigger of my kayak rack. For the next few hours we hacked, sawed and axed our way through various scrub oak and pine. Some were as large as five inches around. As we worked up a sweat, the kids came to appreciate the fact the every item in Clyde had a reason for being. The Jeep often chided as the "Swiss Army Knife" of vehicles was now showing its stuff. As the sun progressed toward the western horizon, we plodded on. Slowly we were going somewhere that; as far as we knew was nowhere. We had passed the point of no return long ago and we were tired and ready to be home. We were lost and we only had 2 hours of sunlight left. I was starting to wonder if we would need to spend the night. As we passed the remains of an old Ford Bronco, we realized for the first time that we may actually have to leave Clyde in this place. This was as far as that old Ford had gotten and it now lies there as a grim reminder of a past failure. With this image etched in our minds, we pushed on. No one spoke for awhile. It was push time and we needed to be a team.

With some harsh reality, our summer driving lesson had turned dire. We were running out of time and energy. We needed to keep our focus and work as a team. Realizing the gravity of the situation, the kids pulled it together and, over the next few moments, seemed to mature years. We all had our jobs. I would call the maneuver and they would take their positions. When it came time to winch again, few words needed to be spoken. Nicole gets the winch control, AJ finds and makes purchase to the tree and I pull out the cable. When the cable gets tight they find a protected location and stay put. Tree clearing went off with the same precision. We had a mission and we were not going to fail.

On what was to become our last "walk ahead" we decided to keep walking until we struck some promise of getting out. After about a ½ mile of hiking, the trail turned into what appeared to be a fire road. To us that meant a way out.

Fire roads all go to, or come from, someplace. We started on a fire road and we should have never left it for a smaller trail. The only problem was that the next ½ mile seemed to be the worst. Seeing what was ahead, AJ suggested that it was time to put the top up to cut down on the rain of twigs and bugs. His sister agreed with his idea and it was done. It was a decision that Nicole thanked him for no less than 10 times. It seemed as the situation worsened, their petty rivalries gave way to their concern for each other. They were members of a life saving team and we were all watching each others back. With the worst ahead of us, Clyde had few tricks left – we had used almost every tool in the truck including some old ratchet tie downs to secure a, now damaged back cargo basket. I had hoped that we would not need the shovel because it had been broken from its hood mount by a tree branch. The damage was mounting and it was not limited to the truck. Both AJ and I were smacked in the eye with passing branches, he in his right and me in my left. Between the two of us, we had only 2 good eyes. We were starting to get battered, beaten and even more tired. We were encouraged by the discovery of the fire road and we trekked back toward the truck.

Reunited with Clyde, we pressed ahead. We continued to pass through the un-passable, we forged new trails. We were going to make it and we were going to do it by sundown. At one point in the trail, a gully was so deep and narrow that the only way to continue was with on tire on the bank and the other in the hole. The truck was effectively on its side and we were sliding down the trail. We had completed the off-road disaster check list. We were rolled . . .  mostly. In the most bizarre and precarious position imaginable, we were sliding down this ravine with the side of the Jeep actually resting on the embankment. If I were not so frightened, I would have taken a picture. The strangest thing was that we kept moving. That was until we hit a tree. Stranger yet is that we hit the base of the tree's trunk with the top of the driver's side windshield frame. With our progress now halted, I climbed up to the passenger side "door opening" and pulled myself up onto the opposite bank.

After carefully extracting the tree from the vehicle we made clear the rest of the embankment. With our fire road in sight, we were almost . . . somewhere. We decided to winch ourselves out of the remainder of the gully which worked like a charm. With the Jeep now level, we assessed the damage to find that the driver's side fender had been curled back and was rubbing on the tire. We got the Highlift jack from the hood mount and began out field bodywork. After about 10 minutes of pit crew like precision and the back side of the axe we had made the necessary repairs. We were moving again.

As we approached the fire road, we had a decision – left or right. With the setting sun as our compass, we chose left. Within minutes, we saw our exit road!! With nothing but a burm as a barrier we could taste the victory. At that very moment, the clutch began to feel spongy. As the transmission seemed to lose traction internally, we tried to keep our speed up so that we had enough momentum to make the burm. With our momentum behind us, we launched off the burm to land squarely in the street.

How bizarre the sight for the man sitting in a golf cart at the end of his driveway as we burst on to the scene. We limped along a few more feet and we were done. Clyde had given his all and we were going home to sleep in our beds tonight. As the Jeep rolled to a stop, we jumped out, and had an appropriately sappy group hug. I thanked the kids for making this a "pleasurable crisis" and my daughter got on the phone to my wife.

My wife has come to take these sorts of things in stride. She plays the role of "ground support" for all of my adventures. It is a job she is happy to do because it means she can be a vital player while not having to endure the actual adventure. She always handles these things with caring and understanding. On this particular day, she was bounced out of our comfortable home and asked to drive our Jeep Liberty to tow us back.

She arrived in short order with food, drinks and warm jackets for everyone. After our heartfelt reunion, the kids and I attached the tow bar (always a handy item) to the Wrangler and we were ready to go.

Nicole calls this the "Jeep Train." With all present and accounted for, we pointed our Jeep Train to Mullen Motors for "Routine Service." Well, routine for me anyway. The crew at Mullen was used to seeing Clyde. Just the week prior, I had been in to have a mud packed starter replaced (courtesy of our summer "Camp Jeep" adventure).

I dropped the truck off and filled out the key drop envelope. It said simply:

Name: Russ

Make: Jeep Wrangler

Color: Dirt, Dents, Scratches  

Please Describe Problem: "The clutch seems to be acting up, not sure why, (or maybe I have an idea) please don't ask. P.S The driving lesson went well"  

It had always been my intention to advertise more. I had intended to advertise in Dan's Papers because I thought it would help me to introduce my new wellness coaching practice in Riverhead to frequenters of the South Fork. I had always been impressed with the reach that Dan's Papers has had through its circulation methods, areas of distribution as well as the sheer number and sophistication of its readership. It was my intention to take out an ad in Dan's, but I never got around to it. I had plenty of excuses, no time, no money . . . the usual suspects.  

As a wellness coach, it is my job to turn intentions into action. I help people come to understand what they want and need for themselves. I help them to realize their goals. A large part of what I do is to move people from a state of mere contemplation to a moment of action. I help them to understand that intention without action can only lead to disappointment. It may be an oversimplification, but helping people make this transition to action is one of the principal roles of a good coach.

Coaches also help clients to see what is possible. We help people to remove the barriers, or excuses, that keep them from acting on and achieving their goals. We also ascribe to the notion that even the smallest action – can have immense results. Every positive action can have a domino effect leading bigger, even more positive results and every action makes a difference.

Everyone can use a coach. A coach is simply a person who helps you to see your potential and leads you to execute the leaps necessary to make your life better. Did I say everyone? Surely, a coach does not need a coach . . . right? Wrong! Even if we don't know it, we all could use a good coach. The trick is to be open to those that are truly there to help. Coaches do not always call themselves "Coaches." You may even be surprised to see how these coaches manifest themselves.

Lisa Delisi came to me is an advertising sales representative for Dan's Papers. At least that is what her business card said. In reality though, she is a coach. Having been in business for my entire adult life, I know how the sales profession ordinarily works. All too often, these "salespeople" simple peddle their wares and you usually get exactly what you are willing to pay for. You get your goods or services and they get their commission, simple as that. They get what they want, and if you are lucky, you get what you want.

Lisa, on the other hand, approached me quite differently. A disarming young lady, full of enthusiasm about her job, Lisa entered my office, presumably to sell me advertising and unwittingly became a coach to me. We talked about my visions for my practice and how I wanted to help people to change. We talked about my big plans and how I hoped to use this practice to serve the greater good. I talked about how I intended to advertise more but how I found it difficult to find adequate funds given the infancy of the business. I simply was not ready and that was that . . . . or so I thought. Lisa, unlike so many sales people before her, seemed to "get it." She understood that I did not need a salesperson, I needed a coach. I needed someone to help me, with small steps, to build my business. I needed someone who was there to help me, commission or not. She knew that the more she helped me build my business, the more sales she would make. Who knows, we may even be able to get around to that "serving the greater good" thing. She helped me see the value of her service with small incremental steps. She helped to maximize the impact of the modest ad that I could afford and she encouraged me to take advantage of guest writing spots that the paper had for advertisers.

When it came to "doing good" Lisa really came through. When I told her that I planned to kayak from Montauk to Block Island to raise money for the Miracle House, she made sure that I got in touch with Jessica Gold, a reporter for the paper. Jessica listened to my story and wrote a wonderful article about our fundraising efforts. We were well on our way to doing some good. Thanks to the efforts of Jessica and my Dan's Papers coach, our fundraiser was a total success!!

Coaches don't always get to see the full affect of their work because often the ripples of their actions extend far beyond their field of view. What Lisa can not see is that my business is growing. Through her efforts, I am able to help an ever increasing population of Dan's readers because of my exposure in Dan's.

But can one little ad in Dan's Paper's really change the world? Maybe – as it turns out, as my practice becomes a meeting place for Dan's readers, connections being made that are having huge charitable effects as far away as South America and Africa.

Simply by moving from intention to action, great things are happening. My business is growing and I am beginning to serve the greater good, all this, because of the unintentional coaching efforts of a disarming young lady from Dan's Papers.

Regards and Thanks

Dr. Russ L'HommeDieu, DPT

The truth will set us free

Boy, do I love a good story. I guess we all love a good story. A good story can make us laugh, make us cry, transport us to a new place and even inspire us. The only thing I love better than hearing a good story is telling one. I love to see how my stories move people inspire people and on the rare occasion make people laugh. Sometimes, stories can do us harm. If we listen to the wrong stories, we get bad information and bad information leads to bad decisions.

If you think about it, the storyteller that we hear the most is ourselves. We are constantly telling ourselves stories - I don't know about you but my internal dialogue is constantly running.  When I'm thinking, I'm telling a story. Sometimes the stories I tell myself are hard to believe. But I'm a born sucker - I have been known to tell myself some real fish stories.  But every time I buy it hook line and sinker. The immortal words of Dr. House, everybody lies. What he fails to mention is the …most startling fact;  more often than not, the person we like to his ourselves. Well not a lie really; more of a story.  We will just call it a story with some mis--information. I mean we don't lie really, we just dress up the truth for ourselves. I mean, if were going to go through trouble making up the story, we might as well make it worth hearing.  When the story is real bad, "dressing it up" means "softening" some of the details that are hard to accept. Most of us are passionate, caring human beings - if you needed to hit a friend with some hard reality.  You might soften it a little bit. Did you ever need to tell someone something really bad? How did you start? Did you just hit them with it, brutal, hard - in their face. Or did you . . . soften it. Make some of the details a little less . . . harsh. You might even change some of the most offensive details to make them. . . a little less offensive. Now, who is your best friend - - no really, your best, best friend - the one person in the world - You would never offend. You guessed it.  It's YOU. And when you have bad news to tell yourself - you tell a story. Your subconscious mind works on the it, softens it & like a political spin doctor makes it fit for your consumption. By the time you tell it to yourself, it is a work of art, easy to hear and one hell of a lie. Most of the time the story is so good, we believe it the first time we hear it. If you have never lying to yourself, CONGRATULATIONS . . . . you're doing it right now.

I once read that someone asked Norman Schwarzkopf what makes a good leader and he said: "Tell the truth. Tell the truth to your troops, tell the truth to your superiors and most importantly, tell the truth to yourself."  If the road to failure is paved with good intentions,  most of us are speeding down that road in a car with a license plate from the state of denial. (And the reason we are always late is because the person in front of us is from the state of confusion; at least that is what we keep telling ourselves)

Nothing gets better until you stop softening your story. If you want to change your life - if you want to make it better, tell yourself, the truth! Trying to solve a problem without admitting that something is wrong is like trying to hit a target with your eyes closed and your gun pointed in the air. {Trying to spit watermelon seeds onto a plate with your eyes closed and your head tilted back; none of the seeds make the plate. 

They just keep hitting you in the face} Telling yourself the truth gives you the freedom to change.

The only question I get more than how did you lose ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />200 pounds is: how did you let yourself get to be 400 pounds. To tell the truth, I lied. I lied a lot - I lied to myself. I told myself a story, and it was so whopper! I convinced myself it wasn't that bad. "What's one more pants size?" "This is just the way I am?" "I'm big boned" lies, all lies - and I believed every one of them. When I teach my weight loss classes I love to bring in an article I found on the Internet entitled calories that don't count. I own my ice cream store (yes, I really owned an ice cream store) I even hung.  The article on the wall, to help people lie to themselves while they were buying ice cream, as if they needed any help. But remember, we all love a good story.  I still love this one.  I just don't believe it anymore.

The story, from the best of my recollection (and with a little embellishment) goes something like this: in a study just released from the school of hard knocks.  It has just been discovered that the following foods have no calories whatsoever. Thus confirming the long-held belief that these foods eaten under the specific conditions mentioned below, can be consumed in mass quantities and have no detrimental effects on your waistline.

1. Food eaten during the process of cooking. It has been determined that because tasting and eating food while cooking is a process necessary to complete the task properly, the food eaten while preparing food is exempt from the laws of physics, the rules of chemistry, and therefore devoid of calories. This law is important to the evolution of man, because it allows for every cook.  To avoid the dangerous and uncomfortable results of bad cooking.
2. Food from someone else's plate. Based on Norberg's universal law of ownership, and the fact that possession is 9/10 of the law, food that does not belong to you does not have calories. Based on this law, if you are able to get someone else's food from them.  The universe rewards you by allowing you to eat this food guilt free. When you think about it,  it's only fair.
3. Food eaten quickly. Based on Eisenstein's law of universal time and calorie consumption, the faster you eat something, the less calories it has. If you combine this law with the principle of diminishing return, it is possible to eat something so quickly that it has no calories at all.
4. Food eaten standing up. When you eat standing up, the energy required to maintain that standing position is always proportional to the amount of energy that you are consuming in calories - based on this absolute truth, it is always true that, no matter what it is that you are eating, if you do it standing up, it is free from a caloric standpoint. It has long been theorized that standing on one leg would actually use more calories than the food being eaten, and therefore would actually cause you to lose weight. However, sadly, no one has ever been able to accomplish this long enough to produce a scientific result.
5. Food originally intended for children. Since it is well understood that children do not require the same amount of calories as adults, it has been shown that food made for children does not have any calories. If an adult were to consume a food that was manufactured for children, the adult would get a complete caloric "pass" in the food would have no calories...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
6. Food that does not taste good. Since most of us enjoy food that tastes good.  More than food that doesn't our body senses.  When we enjoy food, and therefore negates all calories from food that tastes crappy. It is believed that this law alone has kept White Castle in business for over 60 years.
7. Food prepared for holidays and religious observances. We all know that God does not want to see us get fat and we are also reasonably sure that God would like to see us have some fun. Therefore, based on law of divine intervention to consume for the purposes of religious observances and holidays and events that involve baseball will never have calories.
8. Food eaten while standing in front of the refrigerator at night. In addition to the aforementioned law of all food that is eaten standing up having no calories, the light from the refrigerator also negates all caloric effects. In the 1950s through the government program known as "Better living through chemistry."  A special light bulb was developed and placed in all refrigerators.  It is this light bulb and the specific light waves it gives off that allows us to eat in front of the refrigerator at night without the fear of gaining weight.
9. Food with writing on it. If your food has writing on it, it is obvious that someone went through a lot of trouble to make that food.  In most cases this food is part of a special event. (see also: Food prepared for holidays and religious observances) It would be rude not to eat it. Since rudeness is not supported by Newtorn's first law of food thermodynamics - any food eaten for the express purpose of avoiding being rude, has no calories. The good news is this law also applies to any food offered you by gray-haired old ladies. 
10. Food that has fallen on the floor. Since no one in their right mind would eat dirty food, you have to be crazy to eat food that has fallen on the floor. Since we can't be responsible for our own actions, when we are doing something crazy, it would not be fair for us to get fat in the process. Based on this law, if we eat food that has fallen on the floor (five second rule or not) we can eat as much as we want & never gained any weight. This is why college students never, ever gain any weight on spring break. 

Friday, January 19, 2007
Dear Mom and Dad:

During a recent review of my records, I have performed an accounting of my inheritance from you to date.

From Dad: One walking stick

From Mom: One Quilt

When considering these items as inheritance I have come to realize a few things. First and foremost my inheritance has been provided to me throughout my life, on going, from the day I was born and through today. You have provided me with riches beyond value. My inheritance has been greater than that seen by the Vanderbilts, Rockefellers and Hiltons of the world. You have provided me, and continue to provide me with valuable gifts that simply cannot be placed on a balance sheet.

This Christmas Dad carved me a walking stick. I placed it in the most central place of my home. It is ornately carved and hangs with some crude leather straps from the mantle of my fireplace. The stick is topped with the head of an eagle and within the staff is a "wood spirit." Every morning, before I start my day, I take a few moments to contemplate this truly remarkable symbol of my inheritance. A walking stick is never ever oppressive. It does not force itself on you. It is always ready when you need it. It is available to you should you choose to carry it. It can be used to support you or to help you pull yourself through the most difficult terrains of life. When things are at their worst the walking stick will always stand firm, at the ready and without judgment. It helps me to stand and more importantly it helps me to propel myself forward. This stick is you Dad, a symbol of your devotion to me, of your unconditional love. Like a sturdy walking stick, you have helped me to stand like a man. You have helped me to be committed to those I love. You have taught me persistence. You have taught me to be steady. You gave me an appreciation for simple things. You have helped me to continue to move forward even when I did not think my legs could carry me any further. As understand how the "wood spirit" was formed, you saw the sage old spirit within the wood and you refined him so that everyone could see him. You brought him into the world for the rest of us to see; as he was always within the wood . . . you refined him. Like the wood spirit, you have always seen the best in me and have worked with my substance to bring me to the world as refined and as complete as I could be. When you gave me the stick you said: "I am sorry it is not perfect but my eyes are not what they used to be." Dad, it seems to me, that your choice to make me this walking stick shows that you can see as clearly as you ever have. I appreciate the fact that through all your gifts, you will be walking with me long after I can no longer walk with you.

In my office, in the most prominent place I could find; there hangs the most beautiful assembly of old Hawaiian shirts anyone has ever seen. It has become known simply as "the quilt." Life has never been easy for me. At a turning point in my life, I lost 200 pounds. It was a struggle that has made me better in every way. When I was done, I had a bag of old Hawaiian shirts that were 5 times too big. To me they were a bag of rags, useless vestiges of a former life. Mom, you did not see it that way. In the same way that you always saw the potential in me, you saw a quilt in the rags. You fashioned those rags into a symbol of your unconditional love for me. My inheritance. You, like a quilt, have always protected me. You have never failed to keep me warm. You have always been there to show me what I can make of myself. In the same way you assembled the quilt, you have shown me how to assemble the pieces of my life into something spectacular. You have helped me see the value of me, even when I thought I was just a bag of rags. You have always believed in me. On the reverse of this quilt, you placed a full 3 XL shirt. It is a clear reminder of where I have been. You have never let me forget the importance of my past. I have struggled through every accomplishment in my life and for this I am truly thankful. It has been this struggle that has forged, in me, a steel that has been a foundation for my strength. Mom, I thank you for my inheritance. For your unwavering belief in me, for your unconditional love, for you keeping me warm, for never failing to protect me. The quilt is a representation of you to me. I am proud to have you with me every day. I am proud to show you off to all who enter my life. I thank you for an inheritance that will keep me warm and protected for the rest of my life. It is an inheritance that lets me see the best in myself and in others.

It is funny how we are all tempted to blame our parents for all our short comings. In fact I can only thank you. Perhaps the highest compliment I can pay is that I wish to leave my children with as rich an inheritance, all through their lives, as you have given me.

Please consider this as an understanding that I am in receipt of your inheritance and it is more than I could have ever hoped for.

Your Son,  Russ.

My Stupid Paddling Companion

Every morning I get up at 5am, suit up, and jump in my kayak. I wear my life jacket, carry a whistle and always bring a cell phone encased in plastic. As you might imagine, it is difficult to find paddling partners at 5 in the morning but, in the interest of safety, I rarely go out alone.

One morning in early May, I recruited my life-long companion "stupidity." Stupidity and I were almost inseparable when I was young and we were especially close when I was in college. But, that's another story. On this particular morning, in May, the wind was blowing about force 5 (19 - 24 knots), the skies were threatening and the water was cold. I thought about staying in that morning but stupidity was excited about the adventure and who was I to disappoint. So I put on my .5mm wetsuit and off we went.

When we got to the beach, we were blown back by the shear force of the Southeast wind. I looked north into the protected creeks; stupidity looked out into the open bay. I was soon outvoted by stupidity's sense of adventure. Stupidity argued that it would be a valuable experience to battle the heavy weather and I bought it. Dead into the weather we went.

As we headed out, the bow crashed into the waves as we skillfully powered our way to weather. As the sea crashed over the deck and onto the spray skirt - we were impressed with our kayaking skill. We continued on for the next 2 nautical miles without incident.

When we arrived at the cove of Robbin's Island, it was time to turn around. I thought it might be best to head directly to the lee shore and then hug the coast to home. Stupidity thought we should hang a 90 degree turn to port and head to the closer shore of the peninsula. Of course, this would put the wind directly at our beam. Why do I listen?

As I turned the boat, my stability worsened and the ride became precarious. I decided to head-up into the wind for a few strokes and then fall off the wind to ride the crests of the waves toward the homeward shore. Stupidity thought that would be a great idea. As I carried myself further and further into the wind, the sea took me. What I mean to say is that the waves flipped me like the coin at the start of a football game.

Now upside down, I discovered that stupidity had thrown our paddle away. After a few attempts at a paddle-less roll, I performed a wet exit. Did I mention that it was about now that the skies opened up to the worst downpour that I had seen all year? Through the blinding rain I noticed my paddle floating about 30 feet windward of me and the gap was widening. Stupidity told me to swim for it and get the paddle. For the first time all morning, I told stupidity to piss off. I was going to stay with my boat. Since a paddle self rescue was out of the question, I was down to plan "B" - Call for help.

I reached for my phone which was sealed into a plastic bag with a simple knot (stupidity's idea) and cleverly tethered to my PFD. The problem, as it turned out, was that the knot in the bag was not exactly water-proof. For those of you that may not have experienced this, cell phones and salt water do not mix. The phone was dead. Time for Plan C.

Luckily, stupidity had a plan C. Plan C: let's try cowboy jumping this puppy from the stern, slip into the cockpit, reseal the skirt and pump out. This plan may actually have worked if it weren't for the 4 foot seas. So much for plan C. Time for plan D.

No plan D. Tired, cold and paddle-less it was time to formulate a plan D. I had nothing left. I just wanted to be home. I was a mile and a half from the lee shore and all I could think of was to start swimming. I clutched the kayak as tightly as I could, presented as much hull to the wind as was possible and made for shore.

After just 2 hours in the water, I was tossed ashore in heavy surf. I dragged my boat up the beach and pumped it out. I began walking the quiet streets of New Suffolk looking for an early riser to make the "call of humiliation" to my wife. I now tether my paddle, seal my phone in two bags with a heat sealer, choose my days more carefully, give considerable thought to the routes I take and am more selective with my kayak partners.

http://www.paddling.net/articles/story45.html

For years I kept my sailboat in a small cove next to my house. At first the cove was undiscovered by the local feathered contingent of the "crap on my boat society." As time went on, the cove (and my boat) was "discovered" by these large "foul" animals we know around here as cormorants. Cormorants are particularly tenacious birds. They dive for food and then find a nice high place to dry themselves before their next meal. While drying, they produce the most noxious excrement that becomes as hard as concrete. It is almost impossible to get it off your boat and it is worth any amount of effort keep these birds away from your boat in the first place.

After trying every possible method of keeping these birds off the boat, I realized at the end of the season, that this year – I had no evidence of the birds anywhere on my boat.

I had solved the problem! After years of buying and or fabricating bird deterrent devices, I had stumbled on what appeared to be the perfect solution. 100% success and you just can't get that out of a catalog.

Of course the boat never made it into the water and was in my back yard the whole summer.

But even though I solved the bird problem, I did not get to do any sailing.

Sometimes we have to keep focus on the real goal that we are trying to reach and be willing to accept the less than perfect side effects so that we can keep on sailing. The moral of this story is: "Sometimes the only way to experience smooth sailing, is to endure getting crapped on."

I have been called many things: Dad, Physical Therapist, Captain, Comedian, Magician, Entrepreneur, Author, Rock Climber, Sailor, Computer Geek, Kayaker, Tri-athlete and soon to be; Doctor. When used together they are accurate descriptors of "me." I have worked hard to earn these names. These names are honors that I take seriously. They are like ribbons on the chest of a solider and I wear mine with pride.

What I wear with the most pride are the names that I am no longer called. I have worked hard not to be called "heavy-set," "husky," "big russ," "big guy," or simply "fat," "obese" or "huge." When I started my weight loss journey, I never thought that I would ever wear the name "thin," "slim," "svelte," or even "fit." Frankly, I would have been willing to settle for "chubby," or even "stout." I thought that would be the best I would ever do. As I progressed along the road to weight-loss I began to see myself as just "thin," "slim," "svelte," and "fit." I began to form an image of what I could become. What I thought I would never become. I now had a new name I was looking to add to my repertoire: "Loser." I wanted to be a loser and stay a loser. Fueled by the clear image of what I have become, I feel that I am a loser and I feel confident I will stay a loser.

When I first lost weight, I still saw myself as a fat person. My body image was out of whack. The first time my reality came to blows with the outer reality was during a walk down the hall of a nursing home.

In case you are not aware of this, old folks, many of whom can't hear well whisper very loudly – this is OK because they don't really care who might overhear. Routinely, my walks down the halls of the nursing home would be narrated by an endless stream of commentary on my "fatness." Not so much cat calls as: "Oh that poor man, how can he even walk when he is that fat?"