I Did It!

Today is Thursday, July 4th, and I can safely state that I'm celebrating my newfound independence from food.  I was sleeved Monday, and came home from the hospital yesterday.  Right now, I'm comfortably ensconced on the family sofa--laying flat in bed is just not an option yet.

I'd say my pain/discomfort level is right around a 2 or a 3; my back is sore, but I'm not sure if that's due to the sofa not being firm enough or due to a pocket of gas lurking in there somewhere.  The worst issue I've had so far has been the refusal of my new sleeve to just quietly accept what I send to it.
No matter what I sip, whether it's hot, cold, or tepid; whether it's sweet or savory, or just plain water; every teeny baby sip I take causes seismic rumbling in my sleeve.  It's so loud other people in the room can hear it--and it HURTS.  I'm hoping that it's just post-op swelling, and will go away on its own.  Getting my fluids in is a challenge right now, but I'm working on it!

Good news:  before surgery, I weighed in and the scale said I'd gone down another 2 pounds--bringing my total pre-op weight loss to EIGHTEEN POUNDS gone!  Woohoo!
Meh news: after surgery and 3 days in the hospital, I gained back 10 pounds in fluid.  Sigh. 
No biggie, it'll go down soon.

Back to lounging on the sofa, walking around as much as possible, and sip-sip-sipping! 



 

What Do You Most Want out of WLS?

I don't think anyone really goes into weight-loss surgery--whether it's Roux-en-Y, the lapband, or the gastric sleeve--without really wanting something.  I mean, who would willingly undergo anesthesia, the risks of abdominal surgery, have their innards re-routed, removed, or forcibly collared with a foreign object, unless the possible benefits FAR outweighed (pardon the pun) the possible risks or side effects?  Nobody, that's who.

So what is it that you want most from this big "system reset"?  Are you focused on health as your top priority?  Getting rid of blood pressure meds, insulin, crackling knees and aching hips?   Are you looking forward to wearing clothes that accentuate your slimmer self rather than camouflage the bumps and wobbles?   Are you excited to be able to join in on physical activities; whether that means running a 10K or chasing your toddler around the park?

If I'm brutally honest with myself, I guess it's a little of all three, but although my middle-aged body is starting to protest at lugging around an extra Olsen-twin-and-a-half of weight, I haven't had any major health complications from my obesity.  Okay, I'm not able to run up three flights of stairs any more without feeling like I'll need a fifteen-minute rest and an oxygen tank at the top, that's true.  I'll probably be more active post-op, though I don't see myself becoming a marathoner.  (It could happen, but I doubt it.  If I suddenly crave long-distance running, I promise to let you know!)  My kids are both in their teens, so we don't do a lot of Red Rover or tag in the back yard these days. 

My main focus is to be happy in my own skin.  Maybe that's a little vain, but there it is.  I want to shop for pretty clothes that make me want to sashay instead of hide.  I want to look the best that middle-aged me can.  I want my kids to be proud of how their mom looks, instead of feeling defensive about having a "fat mom".  I'm tired of hating the way I look, and REALLY tired of hating myself for not succeeding at weight loss in the past. 
That's my big prize, the one I'm going to struggle towards every single day for the next couple of years.  I want to be in the best shape I can be, in the smallest size I can reach. 

What's your big goal? 

I'm A Self-Sabotage Overachiever.

I just read a pretty great article called Avoiding All Or None Thinking, and it resonated with me like one of those gigantic Chinese gongs.  Not only have I often been my own worst enemy when it comes to weight gain and trying to lose weight, but I have to agree with the article--I've often sabotaged my own damn self by setting my standards impossibly high.

Case in point: every time I resolve to excercise, if I actually follow through and DO the workout, I am never satisfied with doing the normal 20 or 30 minute process.  Nope.  I have to push myself to the absolute limit.  If I'm doing a DVD workout that tells me to use 5-lb. hand weights, I gotta be Workout Badass Girl and grab 10-lb. weights PLUS ankle and wrist weights.  If I convince myself to go out for a walk, then I'm speed walking as fast as I can for at least 80% of the time.  If I dust off my ancient "Sweatin' to the Oldies" tapes and Richard Simmons chirps at me to "go get two soup cans" to use as light hand weights, you know my dumb ass is raiding the cupboards for the Sam's Club-sized, feed-the-entire-congregation, #10 cans of cling peaches in heavy syrup and duct-taping them to my sweaty paws.  Then, when I wake up the next day, feeling like I've been run over by a tank brigade in my own personal Battle of the Bulge(s), I throw a pity party for how much it hurrrrrrts.  By the time the soreness and stiffness wanes, I've usually made up my mind to avoid EVER exercising again.

It's a pretty brilliant (if rather warped) strategy, really.  I'd make the effort--nay, I would make MORE of an effort than any rational human could possibly expect of me--then I'd wallow in self-pity while simultaneously gloating that I had worked SO hard; and then I'd flounce away, feeling justified in giving up.  Food would be my consolation prize for the way exercise had betrayed me.

And that's just one aspect of the entire self-sabotage campaign.  I have been known to follow that all-or-nothing mindset in choosing what I eat during a diet, in following the guidelines of whatever program I happen to be on that time around, and in measuring my progress.  Every time the results bit me in my expanding butt, EVERY time the scale stopped moving, or (gasp!) moved in the wrong direction, I would wallow and flounce. The usual result was that I gained back everything I had lost, and then some, which only fed my negative attitude about my body.

If I am going to move forward and become a successful sleever--and I SHALL--it's pretty apparent that I am going to have to drop my all-or-nothing mindset in the biohazard bucket, along with 80% of my stomach.  I'm going to have to be my own biggest fan, buy some pompoms, and recruit myself to lead Team Diva's cheering squad.  Learn to accept setbacks (even the ones that are minor) with grace and resolve, rather than hissy fits and Hagen-Dazs.  That may be the biggest challenge of all, but I'm determined to make it!

What have your mental stepping stones and attitude stumbling blocks been?  Tell me about it in the comments! 

Golly, it's an awfully long one for my first time! ::insert "that's what she said" punchline here::

So. 

Here I am.  And there you are.  Hello, by the way.  Thanks for stopping in and joining me on this little circus of the macabre---I MEAN MY FIRST BLOG ENTRY.  Yes, that. I warn you, I'm a wordy gal.  I intend to use this blog to help me document and work my way through the life changes that loom on my horizon, and I tend to do that with a lot of wordage.  Be warned:  if a tweet makes you want to say "TL; DR" and run, this will probably make you want to scoop your eyebulbs out with a rusty melon baller.  I may not always be so wordy, but when I have a lot on my mind, I yammer.  I blither and I babble.  Welcome!
Let's get started, shall we?
 
A couplethree months ago, I was talking (well, textchatting, but you don't really care about that distinction all that much, do you?) to my good friend Itsi.  This is--quite obviously--not her real name, but I've known her that way for years, so the name works quite well.  Itsi has been an inspiration to me along those years of friendship.  Although we are separated by a large distance in terms of miles, she has always been among my very favorite people.  

Itsi started a journey of her own, a year or two ago, and she's come so amazingly far, that it brainboggles me to contemplate it.  It's her story, so I won't presume to tell it, but in a shiny little nutshell, Itsi took a big step toward regaining health and happiness.  She opted for a vertical sleeve gastrectomy, sometimes known as a VSG, other times known as "scalpel-induced banana-sling-stomach'ing" or somesuch.  

As time passed, I watched as the shy and blazingly witty girl I knew began shedding her cocoon.  Layer by layer, pound by pound, she physically melted away, and her soul shone through her smile in a way I had never before witnessed.  She started living her life--really LIVING it.  Taking photos where she smiled in FRONT of the lens, not hid behind it.  Wearing adorable clothing.  Regaining energy and wringing every day dry of possibility.  My envy was palpable (and I say that with love).  I wanted that. You know, that.  That inner light, that joy of self-acceptance.  I resolved that it couldn't happen, though.  I wasn't a surgery candidate, I was just a girl with a love of carbs who needed some self-restraint.  Okay, a lot of self-restraint.  Whatever.

Also in my collection of treasured friends is another brave soul, who I'll lovingly dub Miss Flaca for the duration of this little blogproduction.  Flaca is a talented artist and educator.  If I could be a student in her room, I'd never, ever leave school.  Seriously, they'd have to keep giving me #2 pencils and black composition notebooks and a backpack full of Depends that I could strap to my walker.  I would NEVER leave.

Miss Flaca, too, has taken a dazzling leap of faith, combined with determination and hard work. She had a Roux-en-Y gastrectomy (also known as a gastric bypass), after years of struggling with her weight.  I watched Flaca as she seemed to melt away, week in and week out, month after month.  Her eyes, too, seemed to take on a new sparkle.  She could light the darkest night with the power in one of her smiles.  She seemed to be so much...happier. (Maaaaan, I want to be that happy!  When's the last time I really was that happy?)

Just as Itsi had, Miss Flaca became a new and radiant young lady.  Again, I considered taking the same path, but...no.  Surgery, me?  Not possible.  I mean, I didn't have any health issues, I was just "fluffy".  I was just "a big girl with a pretty face".   I was just "plus sized".  I was just fucking fat was what I was, and getting fatter; and what's more, I was miserable.  I hated shiny surfaces for showing me just how large I was; I hated my clothes for seeming to slowly, but inexorably, shrink of their own accord.  I hated that I was tired all the time, that stairs were a chore and my chin was rapidly developing a conjoined twin.  One big wobbly ball of self-loathing, yup, that was me.  (Pass the carbs, please, I need my comfort food.)

Eventually, my doctor prescribed me a low dose antidepressant to try to help me out of the constant state of Eeyore-blahs I was carrying around.  (The dog ate them before I could take 'em--long story.  Suffice to say that after racing to save my furbaby's life at an emergency vet, I never did end up taking those antidepressants.)  Then my body began to betray me further.  My knees hurt.  My back ached.  I blamed the old mattress and aging.  My hormone balance went wacky.  I blamed that one on my age, too, even though no women I knew of in my entire family had ever hit menopause in their early 40's.  I had heartburn; first, only with spicy foods.  Then, only if I ate too quickly.  Then, only if I didn't sit up straight after meals.  Then, even when I drank water.  So I blamed stress.  I blamed everything except what was the real source of my aches, pains, and gray moods:  my weight.  

Meanwhile, other friends and even work acquaintances were taking the steps Itsi and Miss Flaca had.  I began thinking mmmmmaybe, just mmmmmmaybe, I should at least consider my options.  Maybe my doctor would give me a good ol' fussin' out and send me packing with some low-calorie sweetener, egg substitute and a prescription for situps.  But, then again...

So I approached both my heroes, Itsi and Miss Flaca, as well as a few other friends.  Not one person told me to mind my own business.  Not one got offended.  Instead, I found this rock-solid source of support and encouragement, wrapped in excitement to see me willing to take that big step, too.  
Well, maybe.  Cautious curiosity was the order of my day.

But you know what?  Slowly, ever sooooo slowly, I realized that I wanted more from my life than what I was getting.  Year after year of making dieting resolutions, swearing to exercise more (ha!  Try "at all").  Losing a few pounds here and there, or maybe even many of them, then watching as they all returned, AND brought friends and relations to stake their claim to my hips, butt, thighs, and let's not forget the Chin Twins.

So, one day, I told Itsi, "I'm gonna do it.  I'm gonna call, and see what they tell me.  I probably won't qualify.  My insurance probably won't cover it.  It's probably a big waste of time.  But I'm gonna do it."
And I did.  I called.  It was the toughest phone call in a very long time, but I made my fingers tap those little virtual keys, and I did it.  I attended a bariatric surgery seminar, then three days later, found myself in my very first surgeon consultation.  

Mind = blown.  (Am I really doing this?  Looks like I am!)

And that brings us to today.  The day of my consult, which went fine--I DO qualify for the surgery, and my insurance DOES cover it.  Apart from having to hear aloud the dreaded digits of my relationship to gravity, it was fine.  I mean, c'mon, *I* know I'm fat, everyone else can see that I'm fat, so going to a doctor to help me deal with my fat was actually no big deal.  Very different from a basic physical, where I would pray that the doctor would just sorta skip over that part of the file and talk to me about something else.  Like the political situation in the Mideast, anything, dear God, anything but "hmmn, you seem to have put on a few pounds since your last exam, can you think of any reason for that".  This time it was just the facts, ma'am.  No dodging, no pressure to explain how, why or wherefore the scale said what it did.  It said it, it was noted, we moved on.  IT WAS AWESOME.  Even better, I had the support of Miss Flaca, who's been thurr, done thet with this exact doctor, even though her procedure was a lil' different.  Between her and Itsi, I feel surrounded by friends who can help me through, whether I need a shoulder to cry on or a kick in the butt.
 That's love, you guys, that's love.

This is only my very first step.  I have a loooooong road ahead of me, I know that.  At least, I know it in that vague way of knowing that you have when you haven't actually lived through it yet.  I'll know it better and know it more, later on.  That's fine with me, for now.  I can't look too far down the road; right now I just need to keep my lil' piggy toes scootin' forward, a step at a time.  

My whole life has been about gaining.  Most of the gains were good ones; I gained experiences, I gained friends, I gained abilities and talents.  But that one gain that's been holding me back SO hard for so damn long is about to start becoming a loss.  

I can't wait to start.  Hope you'll tag along, and if you do, I'd like to hear from you.  Thanks for being here.


--Vixy, the Soon-to-be-Sleeved-Diva