Spring has Sprung--Sorta. *squish squelch drip*

It's a dreich day here in the House of SleevahDiva.  (Find your favorite Scotsman to figure out that word, iffin you don't already know.)  I dont' know about you, but the weather often affects my mood; in the winter I have a mild--or at least tolerable--case of Seasonal Depressive Disorder.  I don't go around wearing sackcloth and ashes, or shoving little old ladies and small children off of busy curbsides, but I do feel...just...meh, from December till March.  One-third of my life is a little too much to feel generically blah, but it lifts like clockwork, as soon as we make the time change and "spring ahead".  (Like clockwork.  See what I did there?  Wokka-wokka!)

Spring in New England is kind of a myth.  We have several weeks of pseudo-spring, a time when Old Man Winter gets rigor mortis and refuses to let us out of his dead, scraggly, frostbitten grasp.  Then comes Mud Season.  It rains, looks gray, clears for a minute or two (often at night; Mother Nature's humor is fiendish sometimes), then rains some more.  Usually right around the time you're considering converting the lawn furniture in storage into a green, plastic ark, the leaves suddenly erupt from every branch and bud.  This, of course, ushers in Pollen Season.  During those couplethree weeks, you pray for rain to return and rinse away the yellow tree-sex dust.  Hay fever's red, watery eyes become a fashion accessory, and post-nasal drip is de rigeur.  Then it becomes humid and swampassery abounds--ah, New England summer.

So, yeah. I'm guessing we're on the cusp between Mud and Pollen.

In other news, today I made a few more appointments related to the VSG pre-op process.  My first and second psychology evaluations are set to go in about two weeks. Then right after my second psych visit, I have an ultrasound and EKG the following day.  A week and a half after that, I'll have my second nurse-practitioner visit.  Whew!  That's probably more medical evals and office visits in a single month than I've had in the last decade or so.  (Ummmmyeah, I haven't always been a reliable patient when it came to annual checkups.  See also: Reasons My Health Could Be Better Than It Is.)

I can't decide if this pre-surgery stage is clunking along slower than a wheezing, backfiring jalopy, or flying by at ultra warp speed.  There's SO much to take in, so much to wrap my brain around, and sometimes I'm worried that I can't possibly absorb and process it all.

I know that I'll probably have tough days that make me wonder if surgery is/was the right decision for me, but I don't want to decide that I made a mistake.  When I'm brutally honest with myself, I know to my fat-buried bones that I'm not going to make enough changes on my own.  I've given up on being the yo-yo diet girl.  No more losing twenty and regaining forty-six, or losing thirty-two and regaining fifty.  So, that means either I keep doing what I'm doing--i.e., NOTHING--and continue expanding till someone needs to knock out a wall and hire a crane to pry my fat bee-hyne out of my house for my funeral, or I accept that if there is going to be any help for me, it has to include something as "drastic" as WLS.  I'm not going to find lasting success any other way; and if I don't find that success, my obesity will kill me.  Kill me dead.  Steal me from my children and my loved ones, and cheat me of time that could have been spent together.  It might happen in a year or in fifteen, or maybe I'll make it to retirement; but I won't live my full measure of years, and it will be due to my poor choices coming home to roost, with me unequipped to un-roost them in time to make a difference. My fat will put me in the ground, if I don't take this step.

Every time I find myself in doubt, I need to remember that.  The clock is ticking, no moment that passes will ever return, and there's a chance for me to rescue myself.  All I have to do is be brave enough to grab it. 
I can do this.  I must.

What keeps you motivated and sure of your course?  Tell me in the comments section!