On my own I ran across a recent study
showing that a person's immune system could be rebooted by fasting.
Evidently when the body is in ketosis (burning off pre-existing bits
to keep running), the white blood cells are amongst the first to go.
Then the body is signaled to make new, fresher ones. The articles I
read differed between saying 2 days was sufficient, with others
saying it must be a fast of 3 days. It was also argued that 4-7 days
of starvation (450-750 calories) would have the same effect.
No time ever seems ripe for a 3 day
fast, but I decided on the spur of the moment to try. I am terrified
of going back to Burning Man with such a weak immune system, and I'm
sick of being sick. Also, I gained back quite a lot of all the
weight I'd heroically lost with huge exercise, and I am dying to
become a gym rat again. All that I need is a halfway decent immune
system once again.
On Day 1 I fasted. I did allow myself
a cup of coffee with lowfat milk, a smidgeon of low fat milk, but
nothing else. My rationale was that I didn't want to go through
caffeine deprivation at the same time I was undergoing food
deprivation. I got through the day just fine. The afternoon and
early evening were spent at Iris uber Alles' graduation from the 8th
grade, which featured each and every one of the 57 graduates giving
two speeches: one on the subject of their choice and a shorter one
about a classmate. Lola and I did well sitting through the 118
speeches (some were also given by school dignitaries), but when we
emerged and saw the catered foods spread about, I weakened. I told
the Sober Husband to stay as long as our admired graduate wished, but
Lola and I were going home. “Lola has been so patient,” I said,
but the reality was that I could not be by those tables of artfully
displayed food. I knew from experience that those lavash rolls were
not as flavorful as they looked, but what about the spring rolls?
Best to flee.
Day one of fasting: complete, with the only
rule-breaking a few tablespoons of low fat milk and a single breath
mint (to encourage someone who shall remain nameless to take one, who
really needed one).
Day two was rougher. It was the day
for Lola and I to pack and depart for Camp Mather. Iris had an
elegant graduation party to attend in Santa Cruz, at one of her
classmates' second homes right on the beach, and I had promised her
she did not have to miss this event.
The horrible reality dawned that each and every one of our family
bikes was in a poor state. My brakes were sketchy. Iris's bike had
a horrendous flat and needed a new tire, the previously applied patch
having failed. Lola's bike was in the best shape but was clearly too
small for her. Loving the bike dearly, Lola insisted it would be
fine. The Sober Husband's was the next best off but not particularly fabulous.
“Why do we never look at the bikes
until the last minute?” I complained. Next year I need to calendar a Mending of the Bicycles Festival the week before. The Sober Husband was skeptical that
any of these bikes would be roadworthy, and, as he kept mentioning, he had a coffee date with his friend J.
My fasting had taken a new turn. Onay
1, I was peaceful and ambitious, dreaming of good health. Day 2, I
was just as committed but crabby as all get out. “Call J. and tell
him to come to the house, instead of meeting you for coffee,” I sternly commanded. “You guys can send Iris's bike up with me except for
that wheel, and you can have today and tomorrow to get a new tire.
Fix one of these bikes (with a sweeping gesture at mine and the Sober
Husband's), and I will ride which ever one you can get ready.”
This was delivered in a highly testy manner.
At some point I was speaking to the
family members about what needed to be done, and the Sober Husband
and Lola slowly backed away, down the hall and out the front door. I
flew into a temper and chased them. “I do not care how crabby I
am, you just cannot leave in the middle of a conversation without
saying goodbye! Do you realize how awful that is! How rude that
is!” The parrot screamed, “Goodbye! Goodbye!”
Eventually my darling Mini Cooper was
packed, with two bicycles on the top and plenty of stuff on the
inside. Lolz and I took off. I had asked Lola to find us a book on
CD to listen to on our ride, amongst our many, and she had chosen one
which turned out to be on tapes. “Lola, I SAID CD. My car can't
play tapes.” Lola quailed. “It's okay, Lolz, it's okay,” I
assured her. “We'll try some short stories.”
I had a book of Tom Perrotta short
stories on CD in the car, and we tried one. It turned out to have a
discussion of threesomes and some other sexual inappropriateness
which caused me to hit the fast forward button. I felt irked. The
stories I'd listened to earlier from this collection had largely been okay for Lola; they
just had to be followed by a sexed up one. We did listen to one about
an elderly woman whose whiny plastic surgeon son refuses to bring his
kid, the woman's only grandchild, to visit around the holidays. It
wasn't racy, but it failed to grip. We gave up on Tom Perrotta. (In Perrotta's
defense, a couple of those stories had been greatly appreciated when
I was in different company, driving back from camping with my friend
Michele).
Lolz and I made excellent time arriving
at Camp Mather. Due to my fasting, we forewent our usual decadent
Mexican lunch in Oakdale (the Mexican food of Oakdale is
magnificent). We did stop for diet Red Bulls, as I found myself
flagging and needed a pep-up. The study had said that “fluids of
no nutritional value” were acceptable during fasting, and I thought
a diet Red Bull should surely count as a “fluid of no nutritional
value.”
In the afternoon Lola furtively ate
Cheezits in the car. This was horrifically difficult for me. I
craved those Cheezits so much.
Once at Camp Mather, we located our
cabin. It was somewhat inauspiciously located, in a clump with
other cabins, not near any of the roads. It would be tricky to get
my Mini close enough to unload. I figured out the closest I could
get it, and we gamely unloaded the car. Getting the bikes off the
rack was harder. I had a milk crate to stand on, but even so it was
agonizing to get them off. A kindly woman sensed my growing
psychosis and brushed off my rejections of her help, insisting. We got
Lola's bike off. Then the friendly woman's husband arrived and helped get my own bike
off. Lolz and I were grateful, although I was well aware of the bad
impression I was making: short-tempered and incompetent at removing
my own bikes from my own car.
Trying to reverse the Mimi back out of the trees to park it for the week, with Lola stationed to watch for dangers, I ran into a
rock. “Lola, you were supposed to be looking!” I snapped. The
neighbors came out, as if to ensure I did not murder poor Lola. I
steered the car as best as I could and got it safely parked with no
further misadventures.
Lola and I set up our cabin and hung a
hammock. It was time for dinner. I sent Lola ahead to the dining hall as I was still
fasting, but then began to feel guilty. Poor Lola, going alone to
eat. I came along behind, getting myself some plain green tea (no
milk, no sugar, nothing). I found Lola in the end sitting with a
couple we know from her school, whom Lola had informed of my fast.
“So you're fasting!” they greeted me. “We're taking care of
Lola.” I sipped my plain hot green tea while they ate garlic bread
and pasta and salads and desserts.
I apologized to Lola for my crabbiness,
and she was kind enough to be encouraging to me. We wound the
evening down quietly reading.
Day III: I woke up in a state of
altered consciousness. I felt vaguely saintly and above it all.
Crabbiness from Day II was far below and behind me. I floated about
in an aethereal state.
At breakfast I had no interest in
eating. Lola had a full meal, while I sipped green tea. The couple
we know stopped by. “Still dieting?” they asked. “Fasting,”
I corrected, “and I'm in an altered state. It is like those people
who fast for religious reasons. It's wonderful.”
They looked at me as though I were insane and excused themselves.
Despite my being on my 3d day without
food, Lola and I did some manual labor around camp. Our picnic table
was at a 45 degree angle and positioned right between three cabins.
Lola discouraged trying it, but I was hellbent on carrying it around
and up the hill to the side of our cabin, where it would be a bit
more private and a bit more level. It was not easy, but we did it.
“Amazon Lola!” I praised her. We set up our bug-repelling dining
tent over the picnic table and arranged all our chairs. “We've got
it all nice now, Lola,” I said happily, still in my lofty state of
an elevated consciousness.
However around noon I snapped. I felt
so delightfully above it all... but I was keenly aware of the box of
Cheezits. I also felt weak. “Lola, bring me the Cheezits,” I
said. “It's 11:58, can you wait two more minutes?” urged Lola. If not for those Cheezits, I could have made it another
day. I actually skipped a wine and cheese social at Camp Mather (and
believe me, I am all about wine and cheese socials) due to my fast.
End result: 2 ½ days of fasting,
followed by 24 hours of very light eating, then returning thereafter
to regular eating whatever the hell presented itself which appeared
edible.
It may be a placebo effect in part, but
I feel so much better. The first day or two after my fasting, I felt
good but weak, and now my energy is gradually returning. Since then I've worked out a few times at the gym, decluttered my garage, and generally shown a much higher energy level. I also resisted a cold the Sober Husband had and a virus one of the children had. Fasting: it's magic.
