April 29th (aka: My Rebirthday)

Today is an important day for me.

In 2006, at about a size 26/28, I started a new job and inherited my mom’s manual 1986 Honda Civic.  I hadn’t been driving very long (I started late), but was proud that I’d mastered the stick shift well enough to be trusted to drive the car back and forth to my new job.

All in all, things were going pretty well for me.

However, I found myself terribly sleepy all the time.  I relied on energy drinks to keep me from dozing through the work day and often reverted to screaming, pinching and slapping myself on the drive to and from work just to keep myself awake.

 

It was absolutely miserable.

Then 10 years ago, at 7:55 on the morning of April 29^th, I turned left onto the highway.  I blinked.

I opened my eyes just in time to see a white truck coming at me from ahead and to my right, turning onto the street I was traveling on.

It was too late to stop, so my instinct was to swerve.

I did not pass out for the duration of the accident or the recovery.  I was awake for the shattering of the glass.  I was awake for the tearing sound of the metal around me.  Even when a river of blood flowed down my face and into my eyes and mouth…I was awake.

I was awake as I realized the blood would ruin the blouse I borrowed from my mom without asking.  

I was awake as I remembered my dad’s golf clubs were in the back of the car and probably damaged.  

I was awake as I reached for my phone on the passenger seat and felt hot pavement instead.  To my left was the back seat of the car.

I was awake for the paramedics who used the jaw of life to remove me from the car, for the helicopter flight, for the intense violation of the trauma team as they checked my most private places for signs of injuries.

And I was never more painfully awake then when the police officer came to explain that I’d run a red light.  It was not until then that I learned witnesses said I’d run a red light.  When he told me where the accident happened, I realized I’d traveled driven two blocks while falling asleep.

The guilt and fear of knowing I could have hurt someone else…could have killed someone else…was the worst pain and trauma I experienced that day.

The “white truck” that hit me turned out to be a huge City Dump truck.

 

The truck hit my front right fender at an angle, heading towards the left rear of my car, tearing the compact car in half on a diagonal.  As the car splintered and folded in on itself, the supports stretched the roof of the car, pulling it lower.  My body jolted forward, clipping my nose on the rear view mirror, breaking a small bone in my nose while dislodging the rearview mirror from its place.  

Meanwhile, as the roof lowered and my head and body flew forward, the top of my head shredded the interior lining of the ceiling of the car until there was no padding left.  In turn, the unlined ceiling of the car ripped my scalp from my skull.  Although there was only internal bruising, it felt as if several internal organs had shattered into hard, sharp shards of glass inside of me – every movement causing me intense pain.

It took 50 internal stitches and 80 external stitches to repair my scalp; 130 stitches total.

I was released from the hospital ten hours later.

The next day, we went to see the remains of my car.  The passenger seat had been located ten yards away, we were told, and it was clear to see that the gas line was completely exposed.  It was absolute luck that it didn’t break or explode from the impact of the crash.  The tow yard workers looked at me in awe when they learned I was the driver.  Police and the tow yard employees had all assumed I’d be dead.

Those ten hours cost me $20,000.  Remember that new job I told you about?  My medical insurance didn’t kick in until Sunday, May 1^st.  Because my accident happened two days before that, I had no coverage.  I’m still working to pay it off.

So, why am I writing about this in a blog about weight loss?

Because that accident was how I learned I had weight-related sleep apnea.  It’s a condition where I stop breathing numerous times while sleeping.  The lack of oxygen causes my body to wake up to a point where I can breathe again, but this also disturbs the deep sleep a person needs to feel awake and refreshed the next day.

At a size 26/28, I was heavy enough that the weight of my fat was making it hard to breathe while I slept.  That is what caused the accident that could have hurt or killed people.

Furthermore, I was fat enough that the seatbelt didn’t fit me right.  My rotund belly would cause it to ride up until it was hitting my neck and choking me.  So, I had taken to wearing the shoulder restraining portion behind my back.  And this is the reason I flew so far forward that I broke my nose, was scalped and all my internal organs were so bruised.  Had I been thinner, I would have been wearing the seatbelt the correct way and could have avoided my injuries.

Believe it or not, I celebrate this day.  My family, friends and I called it my “Rebirthday”.

Why would we celebrate such an awful thing?

For one, I don’t want to ever forget.  Although I was undiagnosed, I made choices and mistakes that could have caused others their lives.  If circumstances had been different, I’d be in jail for vehicular manslaughter and I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to forget about it then.  Therefore, my good fortune doesn’t make me feel any less obliged to remember what happened.  It is a punishment, of sorts.  A constant reminder to make smarter, safer choices.

On the other hand, I’m alive.  I survived.  I’ve been reborn through the chaos of the wreckage.  No one else was injured, and all of that is cause for celebration.

You see, I’ve always believed in taking responsibility for your actions, which I do.  But that day was such a reminder of how very short life is, and that the best choice you can make on a daily basis is to acknowledge the things that make you happy.

Ten years ago today, I fell asleep while driving to work.

Now I’m at work, nervously and excitedly anticipating a life-altering surgery I will have in exactly two weeks’ time.

Preparing for another “rebirth” of sorts.  The birth of a thinner, healthier, even happier self.

Please be kind.

Diet Day 5: A Food Review (aka: From Yuck to Yum)

So, today marks Day 5 of my diet; my "diet" consisting of the protein shakes, fluids, pureed and soft foods I will be able to eat the first month post-op.  Although I just started Monday, I've decided to weigh myself on Fridays, since my surgery will be on a Friday.  That will give us a chance to see how much I've lost before I actually go to the chop shop.

Step 1, I've totally eliminated caffeinated beverages from my diet.  This has been tricky, and I've found myself dozing off at work a few times, desperate for a fix before too many people caught me.  But, yesterday seemed better, so I'm hoping I'm taking a turn for the better.

I've also eliminated soda's and sugary juices from my diet.  This one has been a little easier for me - although I enjoy them, I've usually found it easy to get by without them.

I've purchased a 1.5 liter bottle for water and have been working on ensuring that I drink at least one of those a day.  While I've never had a problem drinking water, the difference is that I must work on not waiting till I'm thirsty and then chugging it.  With my new stomach, waiting till I'm thirsty will mean it is too late because I will no longer be able to chug it back down to eliminate the thirst.  For this reason, one of the complications I face post-op is dehydration.  So, I've been diligently practicing drinking the water in sips throughout the day.  Doing this day one severely worsened my ability to drink, as I kept forgetting.  But, each day has gotten a little better and yesterday, I actually found that I was able to drink more than the bottle throughout the day.

Another issue I'm having to work on is no drinking 30 minutes before and after a meal.  If a meal is supposed to last 30 minutes, then than equals 90 minutes I can not drink, 3 times a day.  This one is killing me.  Despite my sipping throughout the day, I find these 90 minutes to be unbearable.  My mouth goes so dry that I can actually tuck my lips up over my teeth and they'll stay that way.

Patience is a virtue.

I'm so excited to have found a fix for the nasty protein powder I bought.  The Isopure Low Carb Dutch Chocolate tasted like crap, and it was gritty.  Whenever I tried to drink it, I could hear it crunching between my teeth.  I tried numerous things, but was never happy with it.

Till now.

I had a Yoplait 100 Calorie Whipped Vanilla Cupcake Flavored Yogurt in my fridge.  So, I scooped that into my bullet blender, filled the cup with Sugar Free Soy Milk (4 oz) and added that.  Scooped in my two scoops of Whey Protein Powder and added 5 ice cubes.  The result is a thick chocolate shake that is far superior than the Protein Powder mixed just with milk, or any of the other things I had tried.  One glass of that is also very filling.  After surgery, I assume I won't be able to drink but a couple of sips of the stuff before I'm full, but it packs 64 grams of protein (which meets the minimum for the day!) and 334 calories.

Only found the nerve to try the beef and gravy baby food and found it thoroughly disgusting.  There must be a way to enhance it to make it edible, but I'm so traumatized by the two bites that I took that I haven't had the courage to mess around with it again.  However, I tried it cold (since you can not heat it in the microwave), and I'm worried that may have been a factor.  I'm considering putting it into a bowl with a bit of beef broth, salt and pepper to see if I can get that down.  Ugh...poor babies....

My main source of food thus far has been the Publix meat salads.  The Turkey Club Salad is phenomenal, but will probably not be edible for a while because of the bacon bits in it.  I'll need to ask my surgeon.  Tuna Salad and Chicken Breast Salad (the one with celery in it) are probably my favorites.  Chicken Tarragon came highly recommended, but while it tastes good, I don't find myself looking forward to eating it.  The same can be said for the Chicken Breast Salad with dressing.  Today, I'll try the Egg Salad.

Sometimes, I just munch on cold cuts, like Smoked Honey Turkey.  It's actually quite satisfying.

For my treats, when I'm craving something other than pure meat all the time, I've taken to snacking on a few almonds, sugar free jello, sugar free pudding or a spoon full of JIF Reduced Fat Peanut Butter.  The Peanut Butter is a tricky one - one spoonful is fine, but more than that can quickly put you over your fat content for the day (even though it is Reduced.)

So, where does this put me?  Well, I forgot to weigh myself the day I started, but I last weighed myself at 425 lbs about a week ago.  This morning, I weighed in at 417; a weight loss of 8 lbs, and I haven't even had the surgery yet.

So, I'm feeling confident I can do this.  Not only can I lose the weight on my own, but this surgery will finally give me the boost I need to finally beat my plateau of 300 lbs.

And I can't freaking wait!

Feeling "Other" (aka: Being Fatter Than Fat)

It amazes me how even smaller, heavy-set women underestimate how much more difficult it is to be my size.

In the past month, I’ve had the same conversation with at least three plus-sized women regarding shopping for clothes.  When I mention that I can only shop for clothes online, they scoff.  “That’s not true – there are plenty of stores that carry your size.”

Then they start naming the same stores that I used to shop at; the same stores that I’ve now outgrown.  They always start with the same two suggestions.

“The Avenue carries women’s plus sizes.”

I shake my head.  “Not my size.”

“Have you checked Lane Bryant?”

I nod.  “They’re clothes run even smaller than The Avenue.”

This is then followed by a myriad of other recognizable clothing stores – all of which max out at a size 26 to a size 3x.

Maybe they are trying to be kind by pretending not to acknowledge my actual size.  Perhaps they are honestly unaware at how much larger I am.  Maybe they just have no basis for comparison, or their minds just can’t conjure that they would know someone who is a 6x.

When I tell them my actual size, they look surprised – but to their credit, none of them appeared judgmental about it or disgusted.  Whether it is true or not, they then say “I didn’t know you were that size” or “You don’t look like it” or “I never would have guessed.”

I don’t blame them.  I wouldn’t know how to respond to that, either.

Ultimately, I tell them that I’ve only found one online store that carries affordable clothes in my size that I actually don’t mind wearing.

Then, they begin to list other online stores I could try.

One friend suggested Torrid.  While their clothes are adorable, and they do carry my size, they don’t carry any clothing that I feel I would be comfortable in.  They’re all simply too tight or too revealing in one way or another.

It’s understandable that thin or average sized people would have a hard time understanding, but it’s kind of sad and lonely when even others in the same general predicament are baffled.  It explains how easy it is to feel so out of place.  Alien.  As if I am somehow “other” to the majority of the world.

I’ve isolated myself in layers upon layers of lard and the truth is, no matter how charming or funny or nice or smart or generous I may be – those layers make it hard for other people to identify with me. In a very literal way, my oversized suit of flesh makes it difficult for others to get close to me.

They may know me.  They might befriend me.  They may even love me.

But I’m well aware that the truth of the matter is, they see me as fat above and beyond all else.

I’ve heard it. 

I’ve heard them say “She’s a sweetheart, but I just wish she’d lose weight” or, “She’s so funny, but I worry about her size” or “She has a pretty face, but…”

I’ve had men tell me I’m wonderful, but they simply can’t date a big girl.

Of all the things I am – to the world, I am fat first.

I’m not trying crying about it, or bitching or whining.  I’m just acknowledging it.  Just tipping my hat to the way the world works.

I think each of us is many things but, to the world at large, we are what is most apparent.  We’re fat, or skinny.  We’re white or black, female or male, young or old.  We’re disabled or athletic, we’re disfigured or beautiful.  It’s not necessarily mean, it’s just human nature.

It’s psychology.

I just look forward to the day when I might be considered anything else first…anything but “fat”.  And, as I prepare for this surgery and hopeful weight loss, I find myself wondering…

What will that one thing be?

My Reason for Waiting (aka: WTF Took You So Long?)

So, if you’ve read my first post, then you’re probably wondering “Why the hell did she wait so long to get Bariatric Surgery?”

I mean, I did give explicit details of my life long weight gain.

Well, it was a great mixture of things, to be honest.

The easiest of which to explain is my job.  I am currently a Legal Secretary with really good insurance (the surgery will only cost me $200 out of pocket).  Compared to the retail job I held for six years before this and the towing clerk job I held before that, I simply didn’t get paid enough coupled with my insurance benefits to be able to afford it.

But my choice not to have surgery sooner was by far a more intellectual and emotional one.

At first, I didn’t trust it.  It was a new procedure, and I simply hadn’t seen or heard enough about it to trust that it was safe or that it would work long term.  At the time, I was still in the 20’s sizes also, and still confident I’d *eventually* get down to a safe weight on my own.

By the time my mom went for the gastric bypass surgery about eight years ago, the surgery was becoming a little more prominent and already had a reputation for being safe and relatively successful.  I was already wearing size 32 clothing and getting close to my 30 years old, so I was beginning to think about it, but I was easily deterred when we ran into a couple of post-op patients that had resumed their old ways and easily put all of their weight back on.  A teacher of mine had recovered from gastric bypass and successfully lost all of her excess weight – but then received a cancer diagnosis.  Due to her surgery, treating her cancer was a little more complicated, and that worried me too.  I was no longer untrusting of the surgery itself…just whether or not I was desperate enough to take that step.

I watched my mom struggle at first with her post-op diet.  She was miserable for quite some time.  But, immediately and rapidly, the pounds began to fall off and she suddenly felt it was all worth it, and I began to look at the surgery in a different light.

That was until I watched my mom do what I was most afraid of.  She was depending upon a side effect called “Dumping” to ease her need for sweets.

Dumping occurs when a post op patient east something that doesn’t agree with them – mostly sugary things.  The post-op patient can become violently ill, either throwing up or experiencing diarrhea as their body violently tries to expel what they have eaten.  It’s a relatively common side effect of Roux-en-Y surgery (aka:  Gastric Bypass).

My mom was one of the lucky ones but, without dumping to help sway her from eating her beloved sweets, she quickly resumed her old habits.  Don’t get me wrong her appetite definitely decreased and I never saw her finish a meal again.  But, knowing she couldn’t eat much just meant that she saved her appetite for her candies and cookies and cakes and pastries.  For days at a time, I’d see her eat nothing else with any real nutritional value. 

Her weight loss slowed.

Stopped.

Then reversed.

I witnessed firsthand what the surgery could do.  I also witnessed how easily you could override it’s success if you were not 1000% ready to commit to it.

I considered it.

I carefully tried to imagine myself eating only a half a cup at a time.  I carefully tried to imagine how my life would change.  In my mind’s eye, I attended birthday parties and dinner with friends.  I turned down the soda.  I declined the cake.  I ordered the plain chicken breast.

And the idea of it all made me desperately anxious.  In that instant, I knew two things:  I was not ready for bariatric surgery, and I fully felt the weight of my unhealthy obsession with food.

The idea of being so terribly limited made me feel as if a very dear, lifelong friend were preparing to 

move far, far away. 

I was literally experiencing the most severe separation anxiety I had ever known.

I was no longer against it, but I had developed the understanding that it was a tool – not a fix. 

My weight problem was not in the size of my stomach, but in the way I looked at and related to food.  Slicing off part of my stomach would do nothing to heal my mind and help me get a healthy outlook on what food is and what food does.

Like my mom, I could not rely on intense side-effects to cure me of my affliction.  My body was a vehicle – my mind the horse that pulled the cart.  Priorities first – I had to cure my mind.

As I said previously – there were a good four or five years where my mom and dad were both in hospitals 30 miles apart.  When they weren’t in the hospital, they were home and relying on me to care for them.  I dieted here and there.  I exercised here and there.  I lost and gained weight.  But, I wasn’t simply too distracted to work on truly healing myself.

I witnessed firsthand what the surgery could do.  I also witnessed how easily you could override its success if you were not 1000% ready to commit to it.

I considered it.

I carefully tried to imagine myself eating only a half a cup at a time.  I carefully tried to imagine how my life would change.  In my mind’s eye, I attended birthday parties and dinner with friends.  I turned down the soda.  I declined the cake.  I ordered the plain chicken breast.

And the idea of it all made me desperately anxious.  In that instant, I knew two things:  I was not ready for bariatric surgery, and I fully felt the weight of my unhealthy obsession with food.

The notion that I would no longer be able to be whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and how much of it I wanted depressed me terribly.

I was literally experiencing the most severe separation anxiety I had ever known.

I was no longer against it, but I had developed the understanding that it was a tool – not a fix. 

My weight problem was not in the size of my stomach, but in the way I looked at and related to food.  Slicing off part of my stomach would do nothing to heal my mind and help me get a healthy outlook on what food is, what food does or the healthier way I needed to view it.

Like my mom, I could not rely on intense side-effects to cure me of my affliction.  My body was a vehicle – my mind the horse that pulled the cart.  Priorities first – I had to cure my mind.

As I said previously – there were a good four or five years where my mom and dad were both in hospitals 30 miles apart.  When they weren’t in the hospital, they were home and relying on me to care of them.  I dieted here and there.  I exercised here and there.  I lost and gained weight.  But, I was simply too distracted to work on truly healing myself.

One day, I woke up with a severe lower back ache and, when I tried to get out of bed, my knees hurt and throbbed.  I hobbled, bent halfway over, leaning on my dresser, my walls and the doorframe for support as I attempted to make my way to the bathroom and it hit me – I am too young to be living like this.

I think a lot of overweight people have these thoughts at random moments.  You think of what you have suffered because of your weight.  You think of the things you’ve given up in the name of food.  You vow to make changes.  You decide that this time, you will not fail.

I’ve been there.  I’ve done that.

It wasn’t working.

At the same time, there was my mom. 

By January of 2016, my mom was reliant on oxygen canisters and a wheelchair.  There were other health factors affecting her quality of life – but her weight was definitely one of them.

Her very active social life diminished to staying home with the cats all the time.  Taking her out to doctor’s appointments or family gatherings became a carefully orchestrated dance between her, my father and I that would take at least 30 – 45 minutes to get her to the car and another 30 – 45 minutes to get her out of it.  Despite tons of regulations, we discovered that the world is still not a handicapped friendly place. 

She was on blood thinners, her skin thin and mottled with bruises.  She’d lean on a door way while we tried to get her wheelchair and oxygen in place, but she’d often fall from weakness and exhaustion and tear open the thinning skin of her arms.

By the end of January, she had to fully rely on my father and I to lift her from her recliner.  To walk her to the bathroom.  Her legs trembled when she attempted to stand.

She was only 64 years old but her vibrant, outgoing, funny, amazing, silly, caring, crazy, talkative, social personality had slowly gotten buried beneath the layers of unhealthy eating.

Near the end of March, I was visiting my mom in the hospital.  At the time, I wasn’t too worried – hospitalizations had become a common occurrence, so it never crossed my mind that this could be her last.  She needed to use the restroom, so she and I set about the arduous task of sitting her up in bed, bringing her legs over the side and angling the wheelchair into position.  I leaned over, wrapping her arms around my neck as I wrapped mine around her waist.  My lower back trembled in response – the bulk of our weight straining it painfully, but I knew better than to make a sound or let her know it hurt.

Once on her feet, I pivoted, angling her rear for the chair and slowly…painfully, setting her down into it before wheeling her the teen feet to the hospital bathroom, where we reversed the maneuver to sit her onto the toilet seat.

There was a stabbing pain in my lower back, but I knew I’d have to do this procedure at least two more times to get her back into bed.  I said nothing, but she knew from the way I stood, bent, stretched and leaned against the doorframe that I was in pain.  Neither of us addressed it, but I saw the guilt in her eyes.

I got her back into her wheelchair, wheeled her once again to her bedside and bent down to lift her.  As she stood, the arms she had around my next shifted downward, her embrace slowly morphing into one of her patented Carol hugs.  Come to think of it…in this moment, as I write…I realize it was the last time she ever really hugged me.

But I digress.

She hugged me tightly.  I could feel her trembling in my arms as her legs and back struggled to support her weight, trying not to give out.  She apologized.  “I know you’re back hurts, baby, and I’m so very, very sorry.”  She kissed my cheek over and over again, as if she could kiss my back pain away.  Of course, I told her it was okay and that I was perfectly fine; just glad I could help.

A moment later, as her legs grew wobbly from the exertion, we pivoted her back into bed.  As she sat down, her hands found mine and squeezed tight.  Her eyes were terrified pools.

I will never forget the look on her face.

“I’m scared.  I’m so scared.  I can’t do anything for myself.  I can’t remember things.  I can’t think right….”

There are so very many wonderful, amazing, beautiful things about my mom that I strive to be like; but young, ill, terrified and dependent on other people is not one of them.

As I’ve said – who knows how much her weight attributed to her death and how much genetics and life and accidents and injuries and illness were at play.

But, I think of myself.  My inability to move.  My daily aches and pains.  The way I struggle to breathe.

I am many of the wonderful things that my mom was.  I have her kind heart.  I have her outgoing personality.   I have her crazy, silly, wacky sense of humor and her desire to do anything to make other smile or laugh.  But, how much of that is getting buried beneath the stupid choices I am making?

I compared my life now to my teenage years and began to realize how much I was losing.  No…how much I’ve lost.  I began to think of the things I would do or could do if I lost weight…the things I won’t or can’t do now because of it.

There came a time when my family and I had to decide if we would keep my mom alive on ventilators and dialysis and iv’s…or whether we would remove her from them and allow her to rest.

I was the strongest advocate for her quality of life.  If anyone believed she could recover and have a true quality of life, I argued, that I’d be all for continuing the fight.

But we all knew there were simply not enough miracles.  The best we could hope for was existence…and we wanted so much better for my beautiful mother.

So, we let her go.  Everyone says she’s in a “better place”.

We sure as hell hope so.

But now, she’s left me behind and I realize I need to fight for my own quality of life as much as I defended hers.

It different for everyone; the proverbial “straw that breaks the camel’s back”.

I guess, this is the best way I can explain mine.

Please be kind.

Logistics Of Recovery (aka: I'm Sweating The Small Stuff)

So, I was actually approved for surgery as of October 2015.  But, seeing as how my mom had just passed away July 1^st, I didn’t want to put my family through that worry or stress so soon.  Not to mention I’d just missed months of work to care for my mom and had no paid time off available for surgery.

So, I postponed my surgery till May 13.

Friday the 13^th, to be exact.

I’m not superstitious, so I find the date amusing and easy to remember, more than frightening or intimidating.  And, the Gastric Sleeve procedure is pretty routine at this point in time, so I’m generally calm and confident about the surgery itself.

But panic struck today when I started thinking about my two weeks post-op.

My mom was an excellent care taker.  She thought of things before you had to ask.  She was attentive and patient and kind and she always went above and beyond.  Even as an adult, she’d brush your hair back from your face or run a cool cloth across your forehead when you were down and out with a fever.  She was even conscientious of the fact that being ill could really make a person emotional.  She dealt out hugs and kisses and could be forgiving if you were ill tempered while sick.

My dad is a good man, but healthcare is not his calling.  Generally, he gets worries about us and gets stressed out that we are unwell and it is out of his control.  This worry, stress and helplessness then make him a bit impatient and short tempered.  He means well, and it comes from a place of love…but it’s not always the best combination when coupled with an emotional, drugged up, post-op patient in pain.  Add to that the fact that a lifetime of hard labor at work has taken a toll on his back, his shoulders and his knees, so he isn’t necessarily great at running errands and catering to a recovering person’s needs.

Plus – I’m not the best patient.  I don’t like to depend on others and I don’t like to ask for help.  And, despite carpal tunnel surgery in both hands, I’ve never experienced anything close to the pain and discomfort of having tiny instruments inserted into my abdomen, my insides pushed and shoved aside and having part of my stomach laterally removed and stapled shut.

All of this boils down to the fact that I’m a 35 year old women who spent this morning having an anxiety attack because “I want my mommy.”

Then, there are just the pure logistics.  I need to clean the house properly before surgery, since I won’t be able to clean for at least a couple of weeks.  I need to train people how to do my job at work so that they can properly cover me.  I need to start my pre-op diet to lose some weight and get used to the only foods I will be able to eat after surgery. 

Post-Op, I face the decision of where I will park myself for recovery.  I have a recliner downstairs that I feel would be the easiest to sit down in and get up from.  It would put me close to my Dad with easy access to the kitchen and restroom.  But, I also have cats, and risk them jumping on my stomach if I stay downstairs, which scares the shit out of me.

However, my other option is to go upstairs (climbing stairs after abdominal surgery?!) and into my room where I can either sit at my desk or lay down in my full size bed, which will require me to use my stomach muscles to pull myself onto and over on the mattress.  No cats to worry about, but then my father would have to intentionally worry about feeding me.  UNLESS, I borrow a mini-fridge from someone and keep my protein shakes and pureed food in the fridge in my bedroom, which 

would be more convenient.

It’s about this point that the stomach aches, chest pains and shortness of breath start because I’m completely overwhelmed trying to think about how I will work it all out.

I know it'll work out...but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just the teeniest bit stressed.

Please be kind.

Pre-Op Appointment and Pureed Meats (aka: Sleeplessness and Gagging)

So very many thoughts on my mind this morning - couldn't even sleep past three a.m.

I have my Pre-Op appointment with my surgeon this morning.  I haven't been to the office since October and, even though I knew this date was coming, it feels like it snuck up on me.  I can't even find the paperwork they gave me to sign and turn in, which has me a little anxious (though I'm sure they can just give me another packet if I get there early enough.)

Just reviewed the Pre and Post Op Diet paperwork.  I had intended to start my Pre-Op diet today, but still find that I don't have everything I need to do so.  Plus, I only just decided to tell my close family members and friends about the surgery, and they are all requesting "one last meal" with me before surgery.  So, I made the decision to put off my Pre-Op diet till Monday.  I'm a little angry that I am not prepared yet, but it's still more than three weeks before surgery, so that should be okay.

As I sit here, cooling off after a very early morning shower looking over the diet paperwork I was given, it recommended I go to a Wikihow Page to learn how I need to prepare meat in order to puree it, so I thought I'd give it a glance.

Up till then, the puree meet part didn't bother me.  I mean, I eat hamburger and that's already ground up.  I already eat tuna and chicken salad, and that's practically mush.  How much worse can it be pureed?

Then I went to the Wikihow page and saw this:

*GAG*

Seriously...how disgusting does that look?  THAT'S CHICKEN, YA'LL!

*BLECH*

So sorry....I'm gonna need a minute...

That is almost enough to make me want to reconsider surgery.  I mean, maybe I was wrong?  Maybe the last 50 times I tried were a fluke and I can totally do this on my own, right?

But, then I think back over the things I've already said in my first four posts.  The pain and discomfort I am in.  My health.  My mom.  My determination for this to be different.  My realization that I am putting my body through a lot - both now and during surgery - and that I must be patient and disciplined if I am going to heal properly and get healthy.

So, yeah.  If I have to eat baby food and mushy, gloppy, pre-chewed meat for a couple of weeks, then so be it.

They say life is about balance.  About moderation.  Well, I ate whatever I wanted for 35 years, and now I must do whatever it takes to tip the scales back the other way.  It sure as hell doesn't look like it will be easy - but nothing worth having ever is.

LATER THAT DAY...

Waiting for my Pre-Op Appointment with my surgeon.
He reminds me of my brother, which makes it disturbing that I find him attractive...
"Sigmund Freud - Line Three."

So, I made it to my appointment a half an hour early and was able to get the documentation I was worried about.  Spent a good fifteen minutes reading over everything and initialing. There was also a True/False exam to prove I understood certain aspects of the surgery and post-op.

I'm happy to say I passed.

Went inside.  Got weighed.  Took my blood pressure.  Didn't share any of it with me, but I was too nervous to ask.  Caught up with the nurse, since it's been six months since my last appointment.

As soon as the nurse left, Pam came in.  I don't know what Pam does, to be honest.  But she was incredibly sweet, nice, outgoing and easy to talk to.

Actually, I love everyone at this office.  I think they put prozac in the coffee. Just sayin'.

Pam gives me a bunch of paperwork detailing the next month before surgery, surgery details, what to expect, post op, etc.  Basically, just a shit-ton of directions, dates and deadlines that I'm really, really glad were written down for me.  Then, she tells me to make a fist.  I do, and she says that my fist is approximately the current size of my stomach.  (I've seen how much food I can put away at meal time, and I'm pretty sure she's underestimating me.  But, I digress...)

Then, Pam gives me a keychain.

Pam explains, after surgery, that my stomach will be approximately the size of this keychain.  Can you believe that?  I mean, I'd heard it could only hold one egg but...seeing it in my hand like that...it's mind boggling.  Once again, it really stresses HOW CAREFUL I must be to take care of my new stomach.

But, on the other hand...I know now that I'm ready.  Remember how I said I'd put off surgery because the thought of not getting to each as much as I want of what I want whenever I wanted it?

If anything was going to trigger that fear/anxiety/depression, this would have been it.  Seeing this.  Holding it in my hand. Imagining what I could fit inside of it, and how very much I couldn't.

But instead, I was glad. I felt...relieved, almost.

I have a long way to go, but that's a pretty crucial step, ya know?

Before Pam left, I told her I had several questions and asked if I should ask her, or wait for the doctor.  When she advised I should wait for the doctor, I was terrified.  I honestly didn't remember much about him, and was worried he might become irritable or impatient with all the questions I had.  Pam assured me that he was absolutely wonderful and would love the fact that I had questions.

She was right. He was an absolute pleasure and pretty damn cute, too.

So, you might wonder what insight I gained through my questions.

• No, he is not able to record the procedure.  (What - I was curious!)
• No, I can not see the part of my stomach they remove because it has to go to pathology.  (Ugh - it's my stomach!  I should at least get a photo.)
• The staples used are made of titanium.  They do not come out and they are not removed.  Instead, the stomach forms scar tissue around them so that, in time, they won't be visible except as a tiny blip in xrays.  And no, they will not set off metal detectors.
• I was prepared to give up a lot of unhealthy things, but I was curious as to why caffeine was one of them.  The reason is that it makes your liver swell.  Since the liver lies over your stomach, it must be lifted during surgery for them to see and work.  A larger liver is not only heavier, but is harder to maneuver out of the way. In addition, caffeine is a diuretic and it is imperative that I am well hydrated at the time of surgery; especially given that it will be harder for me to swallow enough fluids afterwards.
• Given that there are no complications (like hernias that need to be repaired), surgery should last about one hour.
• I may go home as early as the next day, if not the day after that.  Walking around is encouraged.  I was concerned about climbing stairs at home, but he said that the only restrictions after surgery is what I ingest.  He said I could go back to work sooner, but that they suggest two weeks of recovery because most patients still have pain, discomfort and fatigue for at least two weeks. However, when I return to work, there is no reason to expect I will need to be on light duty.
• An interesting thing I did not know previously is that left shoulder pain may be experienced after surgery.  I forget the exact explanation he gave, but it has to do with the gas that is used to expand your abdominal cavity.  Yay - more pain to worry about.  *smirk*

So, there you have it.  Again, if you are interested in having Gastric Sleeve, or if you've already signed up but still have some questions, I hope you'll find some of this useful.

Please be kind.

Watching Surgery Videos (aka: What Did I Get Myself Into?)

My cousin just had foot surgery.  After her surgery, she watched the same surgery performed on YouTube.

She warned me not to do the same.

I ignored her.

I mean, I get a curiosity from both my mom and dad; a fascination with surgery and medicine and all that jazz.  I can't begin to recall how many medical shows we've watched with broken legs and parasites and benign tumors.

Heck, I even watch impacted ear wax removals and cyst popping on YouTube just to pass the time sometimes.

So, yeah!  Why in the world wouldn't I look up a surgery I signed up for?  How could I possibly not be more curious than ever?

I winced a lot more than usual.  No number of medical shows would prepare me for watching something that is going to happen to me.

But, a few minutes in, the wincing stopped.  Am I a little more aware of how much pain I will be in?  Hell yeah!  But, I'd prefer to know what to expect than to wake up surprised by how miserably sore I am and instantly regretful.

For those of you who are curious, here are the links to the two videos I watched:

Video #1

This is a Sleeve Gastrectomy from 2010

Video #2

This is a 2013 Sleeve Gastrectomy including a Hernia Repair

However, if you are curious how it is performed, but too queasy to watch the videos, I'll do my best to explain what I saw in layman's terms (as I ain't no fancy schmancy doctor!)

The surgery is done laporoscopically.  From what I could tell, there were four small incisions made in the abdomen (and honestly, watching the instruments pierce through was the hardest part for me.)  They also inflate your abdominal cavity with gas.  This lifts the skin up and out of the way so they have a clearer view of the organs they are working on.

In the second video, the surgeon actually used a surgical marker and measuring tape to mark important aspects of the stomach first. But, in both videos, it seems that the preparation is the longest part of the surgery.  They must separate all the blood vessels and connective tissue between your stomach and your pancreas, liver and diaphragm.  I don't know how heavy these patients were, but seeing how much fat surrounded their organs was a real eye opener.  No wonder I'm so uncomfortable all the time!  An assistant uses one small set of forceps to grab and move things in coordination with the surgeon, while the surgeon uses another pair of forceps and a small dissecting tool (I can't remember what it's called.)  The dissecting tool looks like more forceps, but when they squeeze down, you see a little smoke come up and it splits the tissue without any loss of blood.  I'm supposing it's cauterizing.

So, they sever all the connections and the blood vessels to the lower portion of your stomach, and that seems to be the most tedious part.  In the second video, they found a hernia and fixed it with two sutures.  They said it was important that the sutures were non-dissoluble so that scar tissue would form and close the hernia.

Then it came time for the actual gastrectomy.

A tapered tube about the width of your thumb - called a bougie - is inserted down the throat and into the stomach.  The first video shows what the bougie looks like, but you can actually sort of see the bougie in the stomach of the second patient.  This works as a guide for the size they want your stomach to be.  Then, they use this tool that - in all honestly - looks a little like a small, metal flatiron - to separate your stomach.  The tool makes six rows of staples and, smack down the middle of these six rows, it slices through the tissue of your stomach.

Just like that.

A little blade just severs the tissue, but because there are three rows of staples on each side of the separation, there is no fuss-no muss.  The staples are so tightly embedded that the bright pink tissue pinched between the staples immediately turns white.

They continue this along the length of your stomach - it takes about three to three-and-a-half passes of the stapler before your stomach is completely severed.

In the second video, the doctor said that the top of the stomach is a common place for leaks to occur, so he sutured around the staples to ensure a tight, closed fit.

The first doctor used a little plastic baggie to remove the excess stomach - the second just pulled it out - but in both cases, the part of the stomach being removed is simply slipped out from a 1-2" incision in the bottom left of the abdomen - now a purplish color instead of the bright, pink color it used to be.  (Watching it be pulled out of the incision was the other most disturbing part for me.)

Although neither video shows it, they did say that the gas is removed from the abdomen before the incisions are glued closed and bandaged.

Quite honestly - I'm glad I watched it.  It answered a lot of questions and resolved a lot of curiosity for me.  Plus, seeing it made it a little more tangible and a little less scary.  It's very neat, quite blood free and incredibly clinical - nothing gory about it at all, which somehow eased my mind a bit.

I think, seeing how my new stomach will look also REALLY pushes home the point that I have to be good to it.  I have to take things slowly.  I have to be patient.  I can't ignore the puree foods and the soft foods stages.  The poor thing will go through a lot during this procedure and recovery, and I need to be kind to it.

If you are considering the Sleeve Gastrectomy, or have already signed up, or maybe even already had it - I hope this helps to ease some of your questions.

Please be kind.

One More Month (aka: Fearing the Chop Shop)

Well folks - I have one month left before I go into the chop-shop.

Today has been an exercise in reminding me why I decided to do this.

Haven't been sleeping well - probably due to some anxiety - so I took some Zzzquil last night and passed out before I could put on my CPAP mask.

For those of you lucky enough to be not in "the know", that stands for Continuous Positive Air Pressure Machine.  Basically, I have so much excess weight around my face and throat that it collapses my airway when I get relaxed enough to sleep. This hand dandy device blows air down my nose and throat all night, keeping me alive.

It makes you look like this:

and you sound really funny when you talk.

It also makes dating and intimacy REAL kinky.  lol

But, I digress.  As I said - the Zzzquil knocked me out before I got my handy, dandy mechanical elephant trunk on to keep me alive, but I was drugged up enough to sleep through my apnea episodes where I wasn't getting oxygen.  This lead to numerous dreams about suffocation and left me completely dysfunctional upon waking up.  In addition, it triggered my asthma, which sent me into an asthma attack, which left me with no choice but to call out of work.

After a couple of breathing treatments and another four hours of passing out unintentionally, I took the Phentermine pill my Doctor prescribed me to help suppress my appetite and boost my immune system.  I then popped three Tylenol (as I do on a regular basis now before starting my day) as a pre-emptive strike against the lower back pain I experience on an ongoing basis.  Yeah, I know - it helps with my back pain today, but I ultimately face liver damage because of the excessive Tylenol usage.

I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I get to it.

The Phentermine, which I haven't used in months, kicked in fantastically and I found I finally had the motivation to work around the house like I've been wanting to.  In all honesty, my mom's 9 cats tore our house apart during her illness and death, and Dad and I have been overwhelmed and struggling to get it back into shape.  So, by eleven am, I started a Tasmanian Devil routine throughout the house.

And, by 11:45, I had to sit down because my back was killing me.

The rest of the afternoon progressed much the same way, only with my cleaning intervals decreasing as my resting intervals increasing.

Soon, my ankles joined my back's cause, swelling and hurting from the constant pounding of my weight.  My feet followed suit.  And, five hours later when I simply couldn't do anymore, my entire body ached.

Not just because I am out of shape and don't exercise, but because forcing myself to lift, carry and move all this excess weight is an exercise in and of itself.

I mean, as of this morning, I weighed 425 lbs.

If you take a track and field star and make him carry 400 lbs of excess weight...he'd slow down and be pretty sore too.

During my rest periods, I found myself chatting with friends on FB Messenger.  Two were lovely ladies who also struggle with weight and weight loss.  Both are about five to seven years younger than me, and both are significantly smaller - but my advice to them was the same.

"Even if you are not dieting.  Even if you are not exercising.  Even you are not actively putting in an effort to lose weight, do ONE thing different from me; just focus on not putting any more on."

It sounds stupid.  It sounds like common sense.  But, that is how I find myself where I am today.  I got frustrated.  I got depressed.  I got angry.  And no matter how much weight I'd lost, when I gave up trying, I put that much back on and then some.

I didn't just become 425 lbs.  I was160, then down to 120, and then went up to 180.  I was 230, and then went down to 195, and then up to 257.  I gained, I lost, then I gained more.

My 35 years has been this same vicious cycle over and over and over again.  And it's always "just five pounds" or "just one dress size."  And you'll always "start Monday", or you'll always have "just one more cookie".

It's easy to look at me and think of how disgusting I am.  How little will power I have.  It's easy to gawk, or judge how very far I let myself go.

And yes - you're right.  It's true.  I take full responsibility for where I find myself today.  No one put that food in my mouth...no one sat my fat ass down but me.

But, please know that I wasn't always a failure.  There have been times...sometimes moments....sometimes weeks and months...where I have said no.  Where I did exercise till I almost couldn't walk the next day. Where I did serve my friend's birthday cake and wouldn't even lick the icing off of my finger.  Where I did bring carrot sticks and diet ranch dressing to Thanksgiving dinner.  Where I did get off from work and immediately walk two miles before coming home suffering from heat stroke and severe dehydration.

You missed those moments and when you look at me...when you see me waddle by...when you see me stop to catch my breath, or lean against the wall to take some of the weight off of my back...please just remember somewhere in the back of your mind that I have tried.  I have fought.

I've failed miserably, yes.  I'm imperfect.

But I.  Did.  Try.

And although I'm asking for help this time around, the bulk of the work will still belong to me.  Having this surgery doesn't make me weak.  It is not cheating.  I am no less worthy than a person who buys a treadmill to get into shape.

Just like that treadmill, this surgery is a tool to help me get to where I need to be, but the responsibility still falls on my shoulders to do what it is that needs to be done.

One month till the chop-shop.

I am excited. I am hopeful.

I am worried. I am scared.

But I am strong. I am determined.  I am persistent.  And I will beat this demon, once and for all.

At least, I sure as hell hope so.

Please be kind.

The Hardest Addiction to Beat. (aka: Going Uphill On A Slippery Slope)

If you had a chain smoker that wanted to give up smoking, how well do you think they would do if you told them they had to have three cigarettes a day – no more, no less.

Or, how about an alcoholic?  What if a recovering alcoholic – let’s say one who prefers straight up Scotch – were told they had to have five small beers a day.  How well do you think they’d be able to avoid going back to the Scotch?

Heroin and Cocaine addiction is so bad, they are actually given medication to ease their withdrawal symptoms and make detoxing easier.  As part of their recovery, they are specifically told to cut ties with others who are still using to lessen the pressure and temptation.

These are horrible, terrible addictions that can all make you unhealthy or even kill you in time.  But, it is possible to throw out the cigarettes, pour out the Scotch and never, ever touch drugs again.

But, it’s a whole other story for overeaters.  The only thing we can quit cold turkey is cold turkey.

Trust me – as I said before, I dabbled in anorexia and the horrible truth is that anorexia was ultimately a hell of a lot easier than dieting.  Walking away from food all together…sure, you’re hungry as hell for a couple of days.  For a week or so, all you can think about is what you are NOT putting into your mouth.  The withdrawal from food is torturous as it starts to turn inwards and eat away at itself.

But then, this switch flips and the hunger pangs ease and then stop.  And you get this satisfaction with yourself…this sense of pride at overriding your natural instinct to eat.  Every time you turn down food, you feel somehow stronger.  It’s literally a power high.  You’ve dominated your stupid need for sustenance.  You’ve risen above it.  You’re better than that now.

Then – unlike the smoker who quit smoking, or the recovering alcoholic or the drug addict that beats withdrawal – the anorexic is not congratulated.  The anorexic’s body may become thinner – but it does not become healthier.  No one calls an anorexic a “recovering overeater”.

You’ve done the same exact thing at the other addicts but, guess what?  Society says it’s wrong and your body wholeheartedly agrees.

No –only the Food Addict faces the overwhelming battle of having to CONTINUE THEIR ADDICTION JUST A LITTLE BIT AT A TIME.

You don’t just have to eat….they expect you to eat three to five times every single day.  Three to five times when you must face absolute temptation, measure your every response and not give in.

You don’t just have to eat something…you don’t even get to eat the stuff that you really, really want to.  Like the Scotch drinker who is given beer, you don’t get cookies and cake and ice cream….you get celery and carrots and lettuce instead.

And unlike the Drug Addicts, we can’t simply cut ties with our friends who eat.  We can’t simply “avoid temptation”.  This day in age, there are snack and soda machines everywhere.  Our social lives revolve around food.  We go to dinner on dates and then order popcorn at the movies.  We buy cake, candy and ice cream to celebrate our birthdays.  We throw pizza parties for kids who do well in school.  We bring pastries and bagels into work.  We munch on hot dogs and pretzels at sporting events.  Even our department stores now have food counters or full blown restaurants within them, not to mention that you must pass a barrage of unhealthy food choices to get to the health foods.  Then, when you find the healthier foods, you must pay more for them then their less expensive, less healthy counter parts.

And, although there are now medicines like Phentermine that help to reduce hunger and boost energy, the recovering over eater isn’t supposed to lie down in bed waiting for their hunger to stop or for their belly to shrink back to a healthy size.   While we give our bodies less than they are used to and while we eat things that don’t satisfy our cravings, we must then move more than we do on average.  At this lowest of lows, we must climb out of bed and move.  Run.  Walk.  Climb stairs.  Ride bike.  Go swimming.  Dance.

And, while you must now give up your down time to exercise, you must also take more time to prepare your meals – either to pack in advance or to cook to ensure that it is prepared properly.

It’s not a competition.   Addiction is a horrible thing in all of its many shades and I personally sympathize with each of them.

But, that doesn’t change the fact that I believe overeating is the easiest to do and the hardest to beat.  A person can literally go their entire life without ever smoking a cigarette, sipping alcohol or using drugs – but from the moment we are born, we are encouraged to eat. 

Between the temptation, the ongoing need to eat, the difficulty, the costs, the time necessary – it is a constant battle trying to climb uphill on a slippery slope.

Please be kind.

My Introduction (aka: I've Lost More Than I've Gained)

Hi.

I’m the Chubby Chick, but you can call me Chuchi.

I’ve been a chubby chick since I was five years old.  Around that time, my mom had to have surgery and left me in the care of my grandmother. I love my grandmother, but every time I cried, or I was bored, or I was angry, or I acted up…she seemed to think I needed to eat.

So, she fed me.

Cookies, if I remember correctly.  Maybe there were chips or popcorn too, but I’m not entirely sure.

So, I learned to eat my feelings.

My mom loved sweets and snack foods.  When I was little, she’d buy Entenman’s chocolate donuts for breakfast.  I started off eating two for breakfast.  By the time I was a teenager, two no longer satisfied me as I could easily eat four of them.  We’d go to Denny’s late at night for dessert and talk and laugh till our plates were clean.  She’d buy bags of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, or Butterfinger Mini’s, or York Peppermint Patties and we’d eat handfuls at a time while playing games.  I was a girl scout, which meant we’d have cases of cookies in our house.  My favorite was the Tagalongs.  We’d go through a couple of cases of Tagalongs before cookie season was through. 

Mom grew up in a southern family of eight, so she learned to cook fried foods and creamy foods in large, oversized vats.  She loved baking, and she was raised with the belief that you should never run out of food for a meal or a party; there should always be extras.

Dad didn’t have as much of an affinity for sweets.  He was a snacker.  He grew up in a household that taught him to make sure he finished his plate.  He grew up in a household filled with hungry boys, and learned to eat quickly and to grab seconds before they were gone.  

I’ve always been a lot like my Dad.

Food was emotional. It was social.  I ate a lot of it.  I ate the wrong things.  I ate for the wrong reasons.

At the age of six, I went on my first diet.

I was taught to be a hard worker.  To study.  I was taught to do what I felt was right.  To be open and honest.

I was raised to treat others as I wanted to be treated.  To be positive.  To be kind.  To be generous.

I wasn’t taught to eat healthy.  I wasn’t taught to eat only what I needed.  I wasn’t taught to exercise.

I was raised to eat and enjoy life – and then diet. 

We did Slim Fast.  We did Doctor’s Weight Loss.  We did Weight Watchers.  We did Slim Fast again while Dad did Atkins.  We did Weight Watchers again.

There was no maintenance.  There was just yo-yoing; periods of time where we lived absolutely carefree.  There was weight gain, following by weight loss, followed by more weight gain.  Together, my parents and I slowly got fatter and fatter and fatter.

For a brief time in Junior High School, I got down to and maintained a size twelve.  My parents didn’t know at the time – we were on one diet or another and they assumed that that – coupled with our nightly walks around the neighborhood –was working for me.

The truth of the matter is I was nearly anorexic.  I didn’t eat breakfast.  I gave away my lunches and I ate as little at dinner as I could possibly get away with without my parents becoming suspicious.  Instead, I spent my lunch periods walking around the field as many times as possible, to double the efforts of our nightly family walks.

I still felt like the fattest, ugliest girl in my school.  It didn’t help when I overheard my crush telling someone he would never date me because I was too fat.  I tried to skip dinner that night, determined I wouldn’t let any more food ever pass my lips.  My parents forced me.

My father developed high blood pressure.

My mother developed diabetes.

My father’s knees started going bad.

My mom had severe back pain.

Dad’s cholesterol shot up.

Mom started have heart trouble and chest pains.

I started High School in a size 14 and could no longer shop at most department stores.  Instead, I had to go to special shops that specifically carried “Plus Sizes”.

By Junior Year, I was a 16.  By the year after I graduated, I was an 18.

I vaguely remember the short period of time I was a size 22.  I have no recollection of being a size 24, but I do remember crying the first time I had to try on and buy jeans in a size 26.  I tried on a skirt that day, and couldn’t have felt less attractive.

Sizes 28 and 30 are a complete blur, though I was able to maintain a size 32 for a year or so. Then…eventually…I outgrew my 32’s and with it, I left behind the “Plus Size” stores like Dots, The Avenue and Lane Bryant.

I bought my 3X clothes from a little store called Fashion Bug, and subsequently my 4X and then 5X clothing.

Fashion Bug closed shortly before I reached size 6X, so I have now been secluded to the world of online shopping.  My clothes must be at least a 6X because anything tighter hugs my body and shows my rolls, leaving me terribly uncomfortable and horribly self-conscious.  Despite living in hot and humid South Florida, my sleeves must be 3/4 or full length, to hide the drapes of skin that hang from my upper arms, gathering and dimpling at my elbows.  I buy – and only buy – tops that are called Tunics because they fit loosely, and I have learned to specifically buy tunics that are 32”-34” in length, as these are long enough to flow loosely over my now hanging, saggy belly.  It wasn’t until about a month ago that I realized how low I can feel it against my upper thighs.

I don’t wear pants or skirts.  My legs haven’t seen the light of day since I was about 14 years old.  My myriad of pants are all elastic and stretchy now as at this size, buttons simply pop out – the edge of the pants folding out and away from my body.

Always an asthmatic, I now struggle to breathe every single day from the exertion of maneuvering all of this extra weight.  My lower back constantly aches from the extra stress my stomach puts on it.  My knees grind as I step, and it now hurts to climb stairs or simply stand up from a chair.  My ankles – which I sprained numerous times in high school – now remain swollen on most days.  My right shoulder was injured one day as I tried to reach about my mass to scratch an itch on my lower back.

My heart has begun to race sometimes when I walk and – although doctors are amazed I am not showing any signs of diabetes – I’m beginning to experience problems with my eyesight that I worry may be attributed to high or low blood sugar.

I’m only 35 years old.

I’ve given up acting because I’m embarrassed to go on stage and move around in front of an audience.  People tell me I should try stand-up comedy, but my ego is too fragile to handle failure in that form.  I used to love going on rides, but they no longer accommodate my size.  I have to choose restaurants carefully – some have chairs with arms that dig into my hips and thighs.  I’ve given up travel as I don’t want to inconvenience fellow flyers.  The list of things I’ve lost far exceeds what I have gained.  I have gained weight and pain and insecurity and discomfort and judgement.

And because of my parents, I see what lies before me if I continue at this rate.

My mom…my cook, my baker, my morning donut buddy, afternoon snack supplier and late night dessert friend…my role model and best friend passed away on July 1^st at the age of 64.  She did not die on account of her weight, but it certainly did not help matters.

Her death marked the end of a tumultuous four year period of hospitalization.  My father was having and recovering from six different knees surgeries while my mom was in and out of the hospital for numerous health issues.  For one six month period, I dieted and walked 2 miles every single day while working full time, taking care of our pets and our home and visiting both of my parents in two different hospitals 30 miles apart.  I lost 60 pounds, and maintained the weight loss for five months.  However, at 301 lbs, I reached the same damned plateau I’d reached four times before and no amount of diet or exercise would help me defeat it.  And eventually – the stress and emotions and aggravation and frustration got the better of me.  I am now 123 pounds heavier than that plateau.

My mom went into a coma the month I decided to go to a Bariatric Surgery seminar.  She had been unresponsive when I attended my first appointment to pursue Gastric Sleeve surgery.  I dieted while she was transferred from one hospital to the ICU of another.  I gained three pounds the three weeks I lived with her in Hospice.  She was cremated three months before I received the news that I’d finished my six month preparation and was finally fully approved for surgery.  I had lost 30 lbs during the duration of my mother’s demise.

Therefore, I know I can diet.  I know I can exercise.  I know I can lose the weight, even while battling the most excruciating heartbreak of my life.

 I’ve proven it.

But there is a plateau I have been unable to beat, and I’m at a point where I know I need help to conquer it.

I lost all of my paid time off during my mom’s death, so from October, I postponed surgery until May 13, 2016 in order to build up some more time off.

Sadly, my asthma, my back, my knees….all of the co-morbidities of being morbidly obese…have prevented me from saving up any extra time.   Still – I will be going to the hospital on Friday the 13^th to get the help that I need.

I am excited. 

I am terrified.

And honestly?  I want my mommy. 

But the fact that she can’t be there for me is a sobering reminder of why I need to do this; so that I can be healthy enough to live a long life, and to be there for my friends and family in the moments that they need me.

So, this is my story.  It’ll be about Bariatric Surgery – especially the Gastric Sleeve – in the hopes that it may be a resource for others who are looking to pursue the same.

But you know what?  It’s going to be about a helluva lot more than that because – although I am the Chubby Chick – I am so much more than fat.

Fat just happens to be the particular demon I’m facing right now…the monster I wholeheartedly hope and intend to slay before my happily ever after.

Thanks for joining me on this journey.

Please be kind.