I've been obsessing a little bit over the last week on the idea for a new holiday dress. I wanted something nice for when I go home to Connecticut, and I wanted something special for Richard and I's first Christmas together. In my mind I saw something black, long sleeved, and either V or turtle neck. I scoured the internet, my usual haunts of Banana, Ann Taylor, even NY & Co. I failed to find anything remotely close to what I wanted, what I thought was a simple enough request.
On Saturday, I braved Macy's of Herald Sq. thinking I would do some Christmas shopping since it's only a week away; the mecca of suburban shoppers in the city, where people gather to look at the bright displays in the windows, and the inside is so congested with people, they literally herd you with ropes and extra staffers around the mezzanine floor and up and down the escalators. At several points, people were stuck at the bottom of the escalator with no place to go and pushing and shoving. Not the idyllic shopping environment, but this is NYC at the peak holiday season. I walked back and forth through I.N.C. and Style & Co. I even waded through the tweens on the juniors floor. I tried on a few black dresses that fit the description...not even close. Putrid in fact. They were some of the most unflattering things I've ever tried on. I left Macy's halls with two pairs of shoes from Nine West, and a new pair of leather gloves. Hmm...only gifts for me....oh well...keep going.
So obsessed was I that I trodded through Ann Taylor Loft, and GAP once more, thinking, hoping, just maybe they'd have some new stock. Nothing to be found. Then I arrived at the holy land, Banana Republic. I had been to a different one earlier in the week and found nothing, nothing that looked good anyway.
This one was larger though, with better selection. I grabbed five or six dresses off the rack and made my way to the fitting room. Disaster again. Ugly, frumpy, tight in the wrong places, and overall ICK. Then I saw it. A red, silk cocktail dress in a Grecian-style one-sided strap. I NEVER would have picked this for me; but it was in my size so I tried it on. In a word....exquisite. I blushed at the price, and teetered back and forth over whether I would buy something so expensive that may not fit in a couple of months. I decided in the end I could always get it tailored.
The choice was well worth it when I saw the look on Richard's face when I tried it on in front of him.
I LOVE this dress, and it is a size 14!!!!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
45 Degrees of Separation
My scale hit the milestone of 45 pounds of loss earlier this week. I stopped celebrating milestones a few weeks ago when I kept hitting them in quick succession. I feel different in more ways than I can count; at least this time of night.
Aside from being 5 lbs off of my surgeon's goal for my total weight loss, there are the little things, the "NSV" or non-scale victories as they put it on the boards that just keep piling up. I went for drinks earlier this evening. I use the word "drinks" liberally because after only 3 sips of my merlot I was three sheets to the wind. I actually almost fell asleep on the 5 train back uptown, and I thought I might throw up as I walked down the street avoiding the wind and rain. I suppose I can't complain really. One $15 cocktail in Manhattan will do for me what 3 or 4 used to.
I walked into Banana Republic earlier this week, and I didn't get that immediate feeling of self-defeat at the thought of facing the racks and, much worse, the dressing room with its ill-lighting. I was warmly welcomed instead of snubbed by Ann Taylor because I actually looked like I could fit into their clothes, even it was on the upper end of the size spectrum. I met with an attorney on Saturday who I hadn't seen since my father's funeral and he barely recognized me.
I don't see it in myself. I don't look in the mirror and have an epiphany of amazement. I feel it in my clothes, of course (still no belt by the way). I refuse to buy anything from Lane Bryant anymore, even though I could probably get away with the pants in a 14, though not the shirts anymore.
I was able to buy a pair of mid-ankle boots. This may seem like a small feat, but not for me. I used to look at those boots and their miserable zipper with the same self-defeat as a Banana Republic sales rack. But the zipper went up. I put my hair up in a pony tail and I don't feel like I have that immediate round head syndrome.
I walk past tight squeezes, through various people in crowds, through tables at a crowded restaurant without the pre-mind-estimate of whether or not I will fit or should find an alternate route. I fit a-ok.
In another week or so, I'll empty out my closet of about half its contents, donating my suits to Dress for Success, and a lot of my clothes to friends or goodwill.
In short, I feel separated from my former self. Those 45 pounds feel tremendous, and while no, it's really not degrees, it's a cute title, no?
Aside from being 5 lbs off of my surgeon's goal for my total weight loss, there are the little things, the "NSV" or non-scale victories as they put it on the boards that just keep piling up. I went for drinks earlier this evening. I use the word "drinks" liberally because after only 3 sips of my merlot I was three sheets to the wind. I actually almost fell asleep on the 5 train back uptown, and I thought I might throw up as I walked down the street avoiding the wind and rain. I suppose I can't complain really. One $15 cocktail in Manhattan will do for me what 3 or 4 used to.
I walked into Banana Republic earlier this week, and I didn't get that immediate feeling of self-defeat at the thought of facing the racks and, much worse, the dressing room with its ill-lighting. I was warmly welcomed instead of snubbed by Ann Taylor because I actually looked like I could fit into their clothes, even it was on the upper end of the size spectrum. I met with an attorney on Saturday who I hadn't seen since my father's funeral and he barely recognized me.
I don't see it in myself. I don't look in the mirror and have an epiphany of amazement. I feel it in my clothes, of course (still no belt by the way). I refuse to buy anything from Lane Bryant anymore, even though I could probably get away with the pants in a 14, though not the shirts anymore.
I was able to buy a pair of mid-ankle boots. This may seem like a small feat, but not for me. I used to look at those boots and their miserable zipper with the same self-defeat as a Banana Republic sales rack. But the zipper went up. I put my hair up in a pony tail and I don't feel like I have that immediate round head syndrome.
I walk past tight squeezes, through various people in crowds, through tables at a crowded restaurant without the pre-mind-estimate of whether or not I will fit or should find an alternate route. I fit a-ok.
In another week or so, I'll empty out my closet of about half its contents, donating my suits to Dress for Success, and a lot of my clothes to friends or goodwill.
In short, I feel separated from my former self. Those 45 pounds feel tremendous, and while no, it's really not degrees, it's a cute title, no?
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sex, Thighs, and Videotape
The following stream of consciousness is brought to you by a new friend who reminded me that my blog was once again sorely neglected, and so with some trepidation I'll embark on a new post of the last few weeks you've missed in my adventurous life.
My restriction has diminished somewhat over the last week. The strictness of my esophagus that refused anything more than a few bites after my second fill has allowed whole bowls of soup, small bites of meats, and even some miniscule bites of breads (Yes, YES...I know I swore them off, but addiction is a damn wiley creature, and I fell off the bread wagon once or twice in the last two weeks). Never fear, the soon-after forced bulimia of sorts shortly after ingesting said yeasty contraband was enough to cease my relentless attempts at cheesy, doughy, wonderful, orgasmic pizza. I had a follow-up appointment today with my surgeon, who posited the question of whether such a loss was possible, after his scale read that I had lost 14 lbs in the month since the fill. Yes, Dr. J, it most definitely is.
In between the protein shakes I've been trying to keep my pants up. What will no doubt be uproariously funny to me a year from now, several times over the last two weeks I've been hiking up my pants on the walk home, and even more embarrassing, felt my VS panties slide down my thighs with no way to discreetly get them back up. Thank heavens for long coats in the winter.
In a token towards accepting my past wrongs, I have to admit that Richard was right after all. My ass, the larger part of my hourglass shaped body is indeed changing shape, and moreso, my thighs which have always been the bane of my existence are thinning out (I still remember with vivid clarity the bus ride home when my crush of the previous three years of high school announced to me that I had "thunder thighs"....oh the cruelty, and for heaven's sake I was in a size 12 then- much smaller than now). I've noticed it when I'm sitting, when I'm lying down, and especially in the larger size pants that feel rather huge these days. I finally went to Old Navy on Black Friday to get a pair that fit and was shocked and awed by the two sizes I've gone down since the surgery. No wonder my pants are falling down! I own only one belt, and this has become a problem. My one belt is a brown braided BR number, caliente to be sure, but meant to go above dresses and sweaters, and not to hold up pants that no longer fit. FAT people don't need belts. We have lots and lots of wonderful cellulite, spare tires, and wobbly bits to hold up, stretch, out, and otherwise keep things hoisted. I've often laughed at the belts at Lane Bryant, actually. Putting a belt on a FAT person is like throwing a rubber band around a marshmellow. It is just damned un-natural, looks stupid, and usually makes you look bigger than you are. Unfortunately for me, now I need one. Most of my pants look ridiculous, all my XL sweaters drape off of me like circus tents, and even my bras need to be changed from a 38 to 36. This is a good thing, yes, of course, but my wardrobe wasn't prepared. Man that year-end bonus needs to get here, and quick.
This last section is a little racy,...so if you're of a prude variety or just don't want to read on, I understand. When you're FAT, your sex life (if you're having one at all) is effected, it just is. It would have to be; which by the way there's a hysterical piece of a Monique stand-up segment where she laments the idea of two FAT people having sex..."I have tried to F%*$# a fat man, people." It just doesn't work "You're trying to find his shit, he's trying to find your shit"..you just get exhausted and decide to give up and eat some chicken and biscuits instead. HYSTERICAL.
Digression over, I spent the better part of several years getting comfortable with myself at the size I was (not to mention accepting that I weighed more than my lover), finding lingerie at LB so I could feel sexy, resisting the urge to leave a shirt on during sex- like a fat kid at the pool, and completely dismissing any ideas of being on top because not only do you feel like you're crushing him, but there's too much damn fat on your thighs to get appropriate leverage. In complete honesty, it was usually me who was too exhausted to go on (damned cardio) and would do anything to enduce an orgasm on his part so I could collapse in fatigue.
Now 40 lbs lighter, and on my way down...well...let's just say the kama sutra has nothing on me.
My restriction has diminished somewhat over the last week. The strictness of my esophagus that refused anything more than a few bites after my second fill has allowed whole bowls of soup, small bites of meats, and even some miniscule bites of breads (Yes, YES...I know I swore them off, but addiction is a damn wiley creature, and I fell off the bread wagon once or twice in the last two weeks). Never fear, the soon-after forced bulimia of sorts shortly after ingesting said yeasty contraband was enough to cease my relentless attempts at cheesy, doughy, wonderful, orgasmic pizza. I had a follow-up appointment today with my surgeon, who posited the question of whether such a loss was possible, after his scale read that I had lost 14 lbs in the month since the fill. Yes, Dr. J, it most definitely is.
In between the protein shakes I've been trying to keep my pants up. What will no doubt be uproariously funny to me a year from now, several times over the last two weeks I've been hiking up my pants on the walk home, and even more embarrassing, felt my VS panties slide down my thighs with no way to discreetly get them back up. Thank heavens for long coats in the winter.
In a token towards accepting my past wrongs, I have to admit that Richard was right after all. My ass, the larger part of my hourglass shaped body is indeed changing shape, and moreso, my thighs which have always been the bane of my existence are thinning out (I still remember with vivid clarity the bus ride home when my crush of the previous three years of high school announced to me that I had "thunder thighs"....oh the cruelty, and for heaven's sake I was in a size 12 then- much smaller than now). I've noticed it when I'm sitting, when I'm lying down, and especially in the larger size pants that feel rather huge these days. I finally went to Old Navy on Black Friday to get a pair that fit and was shocked and awed by the two sizes I've gone down since the surgery. No wonder my pants are falling down! I own only one belt, and this has become a problem. My one belt is a brown braided BR number, caliente to be sure, but meant to go above dresses and sweaters, and not to hold up pants that no longer fit. FAT people don't need belts. We have lots and lots of wonderful cellulite, spare tires, and wobbly bits to hold up, stretch, out, and otherwise keep things hoisted. I've often laughed at the belts at Lane Bryant, actually. Putting a belt on a FAT person is like throwing a rubber band around a marshmellow. It is just damned un-natural, looks stupid, and usually makes you look bigger than you are. Unfortunately for me, now I need one. Most of my pants look ridiculous, all my XL sweaters drape off of me like circus tents, and even my bras need to be changed from a 38 to 36. This is a good thing, yes, of course, but my wardrobe wasn't prepared. Man that year-end bonus needs to get here, and quick.
This last section is a little racy,...so if you're of a prude variety or just don't want to read on, I understand. When you're FAT, your sex life (if you're having one at all) is effected, it just is. It would have to be; which by the way there's a hysterical piece of a Monique stand-up segment where she laments the idea of two FAT people having sex..."I have tried to F%*$# a fat man, people." It just doesn't work "You're trying to find his shit, he's trying to find your shit"..you just get exhausted and decide to give up and eat some chicken and biscuits instead. HYSTERICAL.
Digression over, I spent the better part of several years getting comfortable with myself at the size I was (not to mention accepting that I weighed more than my lover), finding lingerie at LB so I could feel sexy, resisting the urge to leave a shirt on during sex- like a fat kid at the pool, and completely dismissing any ideas of being on top because not only do you feel like you're crushing him, but there's too much damn fat on your thighs to get appropriate leverage. In complete honesty, it was usually me who was too exhausted to go on (damned cardio) and would do anything to enduce an orgasm on his part so I could collapse in fatigue.
Now 40 lbs lighter, and on my way down...well...let's just say the kama sutra has nothing on me.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Au Revoir Bread Group- and a NEW MILESTONE!!!
Two major, monumental, life-altering things happened this week.
First: the good. I got on the scale last night and a number popped up that I haven't seen on a scale in my presence in many, many years. I was so excited I screamed before proceeding to call a bunch of people and share my good news.
This thing is working. I feel it in my body. I feel it in my clothes. I had to postpone my next adjustment because there was no way my surgeon would fill me after the 9 pounds (9 lbs!!!!) I lost since the last fill.
I was so excited I could barely sit still last night.
Now the desperately sad, tormented news of my week. The bread group for me, my best friends the carbohydrates of freshly made doughy bread, warm crusty on the outside, soft and squishy in the inside French, Portuguese, and Italian breads, pastas, rices, and perfectly delicious poppy seed morning bagels are now practically non-existent for me. I try not to even look at them anymore, because I can't really eat them without getting painfully, nauseasly stuck.
It's a brave new world for me, and one that I have to face without my dear friend the bread group, who has comforted me in times of sadness and anger, in cold winter days, and cool summer picnics. *Sigh* You will be dearly missed, my bread group...au revoir, et bonne chance!
First: the good. I got on the scale last night and a number popped up that I haven't seen on a scale in my presence in many, many years. I was so excited I screamed before proceeding to call a bunch of people and share my good news.
This thing is working. I feel it in my body. I feel it in my clothes. I had to postpone my next adjustment because there was no way my surgeon would fill me after the 9 pounds (9 lbs!!!!) I lost since the last fill.
I was so excited I could barely sit still last night.
Now the desperately sad, tormented news of my week. The bread group for me, my best friends the carbohydrates of freshly made doughy bread, warm crusty on the outside, soft and squishy in the inside French, Portuguese, and Italian breads, pastas, rices, and perfectly delicious poppy seed morning bagels are now practically non-existent for me. I try not to even look at them anymore, because I can't really eat them without getting painfully, nauseasly stuck.
It's a brave new world for me, and one that I have to face without my dear friend the bread group, who has comforted me in times of sadness and anger, in cold winter days, and cool summer picnics. *Sigh* You will be dearly missed, my bread group...au revoir, et bonne chance!
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Second Adjustment and Sexy Costume Hotness
I got dressed up this weekend to go to a few parties on Saturday night. I slipped into a long black skirt, a black corset, a shoulder length blunt cut black wig, and had my makeup looking fierce; and I have to say, for the first time in a while...I didn't feel like the F. A. T. girl in the room. It was tremendous.
It's not like a girl wants to be ogled. No one likes feeling like they're being felt up by someone's eyes, but honestly, some of the attention felt pretty good. It's like when you're walking down the street, and you notice the construction men looking, or even just the random guy who turns his head. When you're f.a.t., you know they're not looking at you, and you know why. If you see a guy look, you turn your head too to see who it is they're really looking at, expecting to see some gorgeous, lithe woman walking near to you, and there usually is. So on Saturday, that attention felt pretty damn nice.
Friday afternoon brought me fill #2, and I was toting the xanax long before my 3:30 appointment rolled around. I was the last patient of the day. My doc had the office staff squeeze me in after I lost restriction quickly following the first fill and gained a couple of pounds back. On my way to the office, strolling down 5th Ave., about 30 feet away from the door I saw a couple walking in my direction. A large-framed woman and her larger-framed husband (?). She had the tell-tale folder of the bariatric center I go to, and an arm full of papers and pamphlets. Clearly pre-op, but which one of them? Or both? I smiled when I saw them, thinking of my first few steps after my consultation appointment, the excitement, and trepidation, and had a sudden urge to reach out to them. I wanted to grab both their arms and tell them what a God-send this surgery is...that they were making the best decision of their lives, not to be scared, and there were so many of us going through exactly what they were feeling. But I kept walking until I got to the door of my doc's office and sat on the chair waiting for my name to be called.
The room was full, which meant a long wait ahead of me, but somehow at this doc's office I don't mind so much. About an hour in, I got invited into the back and did my usual- hopped out of the pants and shoes, got on the scale and winced- hoping for good things. I had gained 5 pounds since my last fill, but lost two before the appointment, which meant I had a total 3 pound increase over the low weight I had been in right after my first fill. You see, my doc (rightfully so) won't adjust you when you're losing more than 2 lbs per week, so when I went in after my first fill for a second, I was initally turned away.
OK- back from tangent. I was introduced to (a very youthful) med student who was learning about a bariatric practice and had seen a patient who was thinking about surgery, a pre-op, and now me, the post-op guinea pig. He was very nice, and prodded me with some questions about post-surgery loss while my doc was out of the room. My doc came back and showed him how to locate the port. It's funny the difference between a confident doc and a nervous med student. He barely touched me. I had to reassure him it was ok to push...I think I even might have told him he wasn't pushing hard enough to find it in my Xanax induced haze.
I closed my eyes and got my jabs of lidocaine, which seemed to go quicker this time, and then the big needle was brought over. Doc found it immediately this time and filled me with a total of 7.5 cc's. Some from before, and some new. It was quick, and SO MUCH easier than the first terror-filled half-over of pain and huff-puffing.
I felt the new restriction almost immediately, the slowness with which anything I was eating or drinking went down; and yes, there are definitely foods I avoid now that I could eat with no problem pre-adjustment. I was happy with my surgery before...100% glad I did it, but now, with what feels like proper restriction, I'm ecstatic with the portions I'm feeling satisfied with and seeing the scale drop little by little.
I put on my winter coat for the first time in a long time this week. It feels 2 sizes too big!
It's not like a girl wants to be ogled. No one likes feeling like they're being felt up by someone's eyes, but honestly, some of the attention felt pretty good. It's like when you're walking down the street, and you notice the construction men looking, or even just the random guy who turns his head. When you're f.a.t., you know they're not looking at you, and you know why. If you see a guy look, you turn your head too to see who it is they're really looking at, expecting to see some gorgeous, lithe woman walking near to you, and there usually is. So on Saturday, that attention felt pretty damn nice.
Friday afternoon brought me fill #2, and I was toting the xanax long before my 3:30 appointment rolled around. I was the last patient of the day. My doc had the office staff squeeze me in after I lost restriction quickly following the first fill and gained a couple of pounds back. On my way to the office, strolling down 5th Ave., about 30 feet away from the door I saw a couple walking in my direction. A large-framed woman and her larger-framed husband (?). She had the tell-tale folder of the bariatric center I go to, and an arm full of papers and pamphlets. Clearly pre-op, but which one of them? Or both? I smiled when I saw them, thinking of my first few steps after my consultation appointment, the excitement, and trepidation, and had a sudden urge to reach out to them. I wanted to grab both their arms and tell them what a God-send this surgery is...that they were making the best decision of their lives, not to be scared, and there were so many of us going through exactly what they were feeling. But I kept walking until I got to the door of my doc's office and sat on the chair waiting for my name to be called.
The room was full, which meant a long wait ahead of me, but somehow at this doc's office I don't mind so much. About an hour in, I got invited into the back and did my usual- hopped out of the pants and shoes, got on the scale and winced- hoping for good things. I had gained 5 pounds since my last fill, but lost two before the appointment, which meant I had a total 3 pound increase over the low weight I had been in right after my first fill. You see, my doc (rightfully so) won't adjust you when you're losing more than 2 lbs per week, so when I went in after my first fill for a second, I was initally turned away.
OK- back from tangent. I was introduced to (a very youthful) med student who was learning about a bariatric practice and had seen a patient who was thinking about surgery, a pre-op, and now me, the post-op guinea pig. He was very nice, and prodded me with some questions about post-surgery loss while my doc was out of the room. My doc came back and showed him how to locate the port. It's funny the difference between a confident doc and a nervous med student. He barely touched me. I had to reassure him it was ok to push...I think I even might have told him he wasn't pushing hard enough to find it in my Xanax induced haze.
I closed my eyes and got my jabs of lidocaine, which seemed to go quicker this time, and then the big needle was brought over. Doc found it immediately this time and filled me with a total of 7.5 cc's. Some from before, and some new. It was quick, and SO MUCH easier than the first terror-filled half-over of pain and huff-puffing.
I felt the new restriction almost immediately, the slowness with which anything I was eating or drinking went down; and yes, there are definitely foods I avoid now that I could eat with no problem pre-adjustment. I was happy with my surgery before...100% glad I did it, but now, with what feels like proper restriction, I'm ecstatic with the portions I'm feeling satisfied with and seeing the scale drop little by little.
I put on my winter coat for the first time in a long time this week. It feels 2 sizes too big!
Friday, October 5, 2007
Torture Tactics for the Creatively-Minded
Perhaps there are those out there whose fills (sorry, adjustments) go smooth and perfect with just a little stick and you're out the door five minutes later. In fact, I know you evil bitches are out there because I see your posts all over the usual message board websites telling would-be bandsters "nothing to worry", and "quick and painless." You're probably the same wenches who were up mall-walking the day after surgery. This is my version of a 'fair'* testament that not everyone has trauma from their surgery or fill.
Such was not to be for my first fill experience.
If, before it is shutdown by government mandate, Gitmo is looking for new and unusual torture practices to try out on the politically criminal, they might consult a bariatric center or two.
I requested lidocaine, which my very kind, very humble, very amiable surgeon (I love him and his practice, NOT the procedure) happily complied with. A few stingy pokes and I thought the worst was over. Ohhhh silly, naive little girl. "Now," he tells me, "I'm just going to look for it first," and proceeds to ask me to act as if I am doing a very hard crunch and hold it. Am I the only one in the room who finds it a tad ironic that I'm being asked to do something that if I could do it reasonably well I wouldn't have needed the surgery in the first place? Hahaha...I laugh in the face of ubsurd obstacles.
I put my hands behind my head like my old personal trainer taught me and proceed to push upward. Then the poking, jabbing, and otherwise painfully prodding fingers re-ignite every sensitivity in my port site that had slowly dissipated over the course of seven weeks and I feel as if I've got a hammer being swung at internal bruises. OMG it hurts. Then I'm huffing, and puffing, and sweat is pouring off my face. He tells me to relax (meanwhile my "happy place" has turned into the portal to hell's fiery pits and I want nothing more than to get off the table) when he walks over to pick up the real needle, the fill needle. And I shit you not, this thing was a good 3 inches long. It has to be, after all, to get through all the fat in front of the port...buy my GOD I wish I hadn't seen it.
I'm closing my eyes again, looking for happy place #2 (an x-rated area I can't quite share here) and focusing on keeping my half-assed sit up in place, jutting my tummy out as much as I can...POKE, JAB, STICK. I open my eyes and I have a Pulp Fiction moment...you know...where Uma Thurman wakes up from her overdose to see a plunger sticking out of her chest? Yeah, I had that, but in my stomach.
Then there's more burning, more poking, and just when I think he's got it, he's telling me to relax and pulling the needle out, waiting to try again.
This went on for a good 30 minutes. Huff, puff, sweat, poke...until finally, one INTENSE sting later the needle was in the port and I was getting filled with saline, 2 cc's worth. I sit here now with a very throbby, very bruised, very tender port site...filled to 2cc's, thinking about two weeks from now when I get to do it again. Really? Again? Gee!
I repeat my manta...this will all be worth it, this will all be worth it, this will all be worth it. The scale (which I think was really intended for cattle) was down 3 more pounds from my last weight. Maybe I should listen to myself.
Such was not to be for my first fill experience.
If, before it is shutdown by government mandate, Gitmo is looking for new and unusual torture practices to try out on the politically criminal, they might consult a bariatric center or two.
I requested lidocaine, which my very kind, very humble, very amiable surgeon (I love him and his practice, NOT the procedure) happily complied with. A few stingy pokes and I thought the worst was over. Ohhhh silly, naive little girl. "Now," he tells me, "I'm just going to look for it first," and proceeds to ask me to act as if I am doing a very hard crunch and hold it. Am I the only one in the room who finds it a tad ironic that I'm being asked to do something that if I could do it reasonably well I wouldn't have needed the surgery in the first place? Hahaha...I laugh in the face of ubsurd obstacles.
I put my hands behind my head like my old personal trainer taught me and proceed to push upward. Then the poking, jabbing, and otherwise painfully prodding fingers re-ignite every sensitivity in my port site that had slowly dissipated over the course of seven weeks and I feel as if I've got a hammer being swung at internal bruises. OMG it hurts. Then I'm huffing, and puffing, and sweat is pouring off my face. He tells me to relax (meanwhile my "happy place" has turned into the portal to hell's fiery pits and I want nothing more than to get off the table) when he walks over to pick up the real needle, the fill needle. And I shit you not, this thing was a good 3 inches long. It has to be, after all, to get through all the fat in front of the port...buy my GOD I wish I hadn't seen it.
I'm closing my eyes again, looking for happy place #2 (an x-rated area I can't quite share here) and focusing on keeping my half-assed sit up in place, jutting my tummy out as much as I can...POKE, JAB, STICK. I open my eyes and I have a Pulp Fiction moment...you know...where Uma Thurman wakes up from her overdose to see a plunger sticking out of her chest? Yeah, I had that, but in my stomach.
Then there's more burning, more poking, and just when I think he's got it, he's telling me to relax and pulling the needle out, waiting to try again.
This went on for a good 30 minutes. Huff, puff, sweat, poke...until finally, one INTENSE sting later the needle was in the port and I was getting filled with saline, 2 cc's worth. I sit here now with a very throbby, very bruised, very tender port site...filled to 2cc's, thinking about two weeks from now when I get to do it again. Really? Again? Gee!
I repeat my manta...this will all be worth it, this will all be worth it, this will all be worth it. The scale (which I think was really intended for cattle) was down 3 more pounds from my last weight. Maybe I should listen to myself.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Wading Through Grandma's Silver
Saturday afternoon I found myself on my knees in the house I knew as my grandmother's, not the dingy bachelor pad it had become since 2000 when she passed. Opening dusty china cabinets that obviously hadn't been opened in several, several years the dust permeated everything. In the drawers of one of the chests were old credit cards with my grandmother's name on them, prayer cards from funerals going back to 1970's- one of my grandmother's 13 siblings, costume jewelry, string, and even some old 45's for the antique record player- one was Mrs. Robinson. I got a chuckle out of that. This was sadder somehow, pillaging what I wanted from the house I used to run around in as a child at Christmastime, than picking out the steel casket, than choosing the burial plot in St. Patrick's cemetary, even sadder than staring up at my father's body laid out pristinely in his golfing attire, as if during a nap.
I left the house with several boxes of old photos (several of little me- see there), my grandmother's silver, some figurines from my parents trip to Spain before I was born, and a sweater from my Dad's closet- something that smelled like him.
The call came last Wednesday, walking up 42nd street on my way home from work, a decidedly poor place to find out anyone has passed into the next. It hit me so much harder than I expected. Though if I should have learned anything from my mother's passing it's that even when it's expected, you can never anticipate how you will feel. God that sounds hokey, like from an ABC afterschool special.
Since that day, when I haven't managed to distract myself with work, or who will be eliminated next from Dancing with the Stars, I've found myself haunted by images from childhood, like a mini-recorder in my brain playing over and over again. Laying in bed at night, the idea of both my parents being dead (when I'm not even 30) seems ubsurd. I picture myself at 6, 7, and 8 driving my father's lawnmower around the 4 acres of land on the property, avoiding trees and the lone pole in the middle of the yard; at 9 riding in the back of one of my mom's old beat up station wagons heading down to the beach for the day.
The loneliness, now that they are both gone...is profound, and I find myself feeling much like I did after Mom died, wondering when things will feel ok again. My cousin asked me before we left the house, which will go on the market any day now, whether I wanted one more walk through alone. No, I didn't. I didn't look behind me when we pulled down the driveway, or when we left the cemetary.
Sometimes, looking back is too hard.
Monday, September 17, 2007
It's All About the Jeans
I tried on a pair of jeans this weekend that hadn't fit well in God knows how many depressing months. To put it another way, I could not get into these jeans before without several hops, yanks, and pulls, and lots of stomach-sucking in lying across the bed. Once I got into them, I would be out of breath and too tired to go wherever it was I wanted to look fierce at in the first place. Too tight, too uncomfortable, too much effort to get the zipper up and I'd woefully relegate my thighs into some comfy stretchy-fabric jeans that would give as much liberal freedom to my fat as possible.
Yesterday, they slid perfectly up my thighs and over my ass and the zipper...well, it was no strain to get it to the right place.
Now, speaking of my ass, which is one feature you will never see photo-spread across this blog (as comfortable as I am, or tell myself that I am about posting bare tummy-scarred pics), a few words are in order. I try not to look at my ass. Most of the time, I like to pretend it's not there. I avoid those triple mirrors in department stores that give you the 360 view, and I never turn around in my own full length mirror. I think a lot of women have this dysfunctional relationship with their ass. At least, I like to think that's why a lot of women go out with seriously bad panty lines, or butt-sagging fabric making their derriere look much worse than it is.
I do not look at my ass because of DNA. I didn't get much from my Mom's side physically speaking. Most of me comes from my father's portuguese half, the dark hair and eyes, my former ability to tan really, really well,etc... My ass however; as my sister so often liked to point out after adolescent puberty hit, came directly from Mom. Yeah, thanks Mom. It's not that I don't have one. Oh, believe me, it's there. But the only junk in the trunk are the flat tires. Flat, flat, flat. If you have a big ass, flat is not the word you want to be using. After all, I don't think 'Baby Got Back' was about a flat tundra land-surface the size of some of the smaller asian countries- grouped TOGETHER.
I actually had a boyfriend postulate once whether or not my ass would still be flat after losing some weight, because you 'never can tell.' Yes baby, once all the cellulite melts off in the gym, my ass will take the form of two perfect, bulbous mounds, just like you've dreamed. I laugh about it now, of course.
My ass will always be flat, though it may get smaller and smaller, short of medically assisted lifts, or fat deposited from my stomach to my gluts, or those new "lifting" panties they sell for $100 a pop in the boutiques that give you shelf-booty. F-dat.
The point of my long-winded rant is that when I tried on those jeans, the jeans that I couldn't fit into right for probably a year, that sat on their shelf collecting dust, my ass looked good! No, seriously. I turned around in the full-length mirror, cautiously, sighing, but actually smiled at what I saw.
I had some music on, and so I did what I shall henceforth call my 'booty dance of freedom'. Freedom from stretchy jean fabric, from fear and loathing of the 3-way mirror, and from booty shame. I put on a black cami, a grey sweater and my favorite Banana strappy heels (even in the 'short' length these babies are too long for me in flats) and I was ready for the beautiful September Sunday.
Oh, and yes, I felt fierce.
Yesterday, they slid perfectly up my thighs and over my ass and the zipper...well, it was no strain to get it to the right place.
Now, speaking of my ass, which is one feature you will never see photo-spread across this blog (as comfortable as I am, or tell myself that I am about posting bare tummy-scarred pics), a few words are in order. I try not to look at my ass. Most of the time, I like to pretend it's not there. I avoid those triple mirrors in department stores that give you the 360 view, and I never turn around in my own full length mirror. I think a lot of women have this dysfunctional relationship with their ass. At least, I like to think that's why a lot of women go out with seriously bad panty lines, or butt-sagging fabric making their derriere look much worse than it is.
I do not look at my ass because of DNA. I didn't get much from my Mom's side physically speaking. Most of me comes from my father's portuguese half, the dark hair and eyes, my former ability to tan really, really well,etc... My ass however; as my sister so often liked to point out after adolescent puberty hit, came directly from Mom. Yeah, thanks Mom. It's not that I don't have one. Oh, believe me, it's there. But the only junk in the trunk are the flat tires. Flat, flat, flat. If you have a big ass, flat is not the word you want to be using. After all, I don't think 'Baby Got Back' was about a flat tundra land-surface the size of some of the smaller asian countries- grouped TOGETHER.
I actually had a boyfriend postulate once whether or not my ass would still be flat after losing some weight, because you 'never can tell.' Yes baby, once all the cellulite melts off in the gym, my ass will take the form of two perfect, bulbous mounds, just like you've dreamed. I laugh about it now, of course.
My ass will always be flat, though it may get smaller and smaller, short of medically assisted lifts, or fat deposited from my stomach to my gluts, or those new "lifting" panties they sell for $100 a pop in the boutiques that give you shelf-booty. F-dat.
The point of my long-winded rant is that when I tried on those jeans, the jeans that I couldn't fit into right for probably a year, that sat on their shelf collecting dust, my ass looked good! No, seriously. I turned around in the full-length mirror, cautiously, sighing, but actually smiled at what I saw.
I had some music on, and so I did what I shall henceforth call my 'booty dance of freedom'. Freedom from stretchy jean fabric, from fear and loathing of the 3-way mirror, and from booty shame. I put on a black cami, a grey sweater and my favorite Banana strappy heels (even in the 'short' length these babies are too long for me in flats) and I was ready for the beautiful September Sunday.
Oh, and yes, I felt fierce.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Despondency
Grief is a funny thing. It creeps up on you at the strangest times, and just when you think you're done...you're not. Some say you will never be done...others say it does happen, somewhere along the way. I once read a perfect analogy on this:
Imagine a really big pile of rice. I can't say how big it is, maybe even you can't...but it's big. Slowly, one by one, you will have to pick up every single grain and move it to somewhere else. There is no fast way to do this. You don't get a shovel. You don't even get to use handfuls. Just one grain at a time. Every memory, every thought, every shared experience, every dream about the future. One by one by one. Some days you'll turn away from the pile and ignore it for a while. That's ok. Some time...next month, next year,...who knows when, you'll realize that the pile is a little smaller. Some times the grains of rice will demand to be moved when you least expect them. Some memory in the grocery store or gas station. Some day in the future, you'll have moved it all and realize you are done.
I think back to the night my mom died, and how I felt like I would never be 'ok' again. I remember saying it to my friend in Wisconsin later on, before I crumpled to the floor and stayed there for a few days. That was more than two years ago. Am I ok? Some days.
As I type, my father (d/b/a sperm donor of choice) is dying in a hospital somewhere two states away of a horrible, painful, debilitating disease of his own creation following more than 30 years of hard drinking. He has been through 5 different hospitals and been getting his most recent care at an aptly named rehab facility, a place where no one is expected to rehabilitate, or at least, not him. I spent the first month of his rapidly declining illness on the phone with doctors, with family members, with anyone I could talk to about his treatment, prognosis, and spoke to him every day, catering to his demands for toothbrushes, newspapers, and 7am calls that the nurses' weren't answering his pages and he needed to go to the bathroom again. I made myself sick with stress and worry, and anxiety. I got on a train. I did everything a dutiful daughter is supposed to do in times such as these for a father who couldn't have given a shit less. I played the game.
When I had my surgery, I took a week off. And when I didn't hear anything from him for that week until he needed something yet again, I got angry. I stuck my head in the sand, pretended he didn't exist, and quietly managed the lexicon of administrative bullshit behind the scenes, getting news from my cousin now and again.
Today, that gurgling of stress that begins as a pit in my stomach, and has nothing to do with surgical bands is rising again as I make distressed phone calls to ER's, yelling at asinine nurses about the HIPA law and proxy codes, and POA's to banking directors and wail to myself at the idea of going through all of this ALL OVER AGAIN.
But when I pounded my fist into the pillows last night, and cried uncontrollably (for a record 15 minutes) and screamed at myself, and collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, sadness, and rage, I did not think about that man two states away. I thought about my Mom, how much I wanted to call her, that I had to strain to remember what she sounded like, and could only do it under certain contexts ("Valerie ____ (middle name), get down here!"- some things you don't forget), and then only a little.
I do not play the game anymore, and I have said I will be there when the time comes, but I will not feel sad, or despondent, or the least bit guilty (Look Mom, no guilt) if I happen to miss that moment.
Today I would like to be like my sister, and go on burying my head in the sand, and pretending that he really doesn't exist, and do nothing, no matter what the news. But I was not wired in such a way. However, the sicker he gets, the worse he is, the closer he gets to that final gasp of air, the more I think about my Mom, and how much I wish she was still around; not about him. Perhaps that makes me an equally bad person; I couldn't say.
Last night I looked at my hands, that were...that are so much like hers, that are getting thinner to the point where my rings are starting to fall off as hers did close to the end, and remembered holding her hand as she died. I struggled to recall the last thing she said. Struggled because so much of her memory ingrained is of a sick, completely different person with no verbal abilities left.
I don't want that memory anymore. Christ, I don't want it. Much as I hate and love that man two states away, I don't want any new ones from him either.
Imagine a really big pile of rice. I can't say how big it is, maybe even you can't...but it's big. Slowly, one by one, you will have to pick up every single grain and move it to somewhere else. There is no fast way to do this. You don't get a shovel. You don't even get to use handfuls. Just one grain at a time. Every memory, every thought, every shared experience, every dream about the future. One by one by one. Some days you'll turn away from the pile and ignore it for a while. That's ok. Some time...next month, next year,...who knows when, you'll realize that the pile is a little smaller. Some times the grains of rice will demand to be moved when you least expect them. Some memory in the grocery store or gas station. Some day in the future, you'll have moved it all and realize you are done.
I think back to the night my mom died, and how I felt like I would never be 'ok' again. I remember saying it to my friend in Wisconsin later on, before I crumpled to the floor and stayed there for a few days. That was more than two years ago. Am I ok? Some days.
As I type, my father (d/b/a sperm donor of choice) is dying in a hospital somewhere two states away of a horrible, painful, debilitating disease of his own creation following more than 30 years of hard drinking. He has been through 5 different hospitals and been getting his most recent care at an aptly named rehab facility, a place where no one is expected to rehabilitate, or at least, not him. I spent the first month of his rapidly declining illness on the phone with doctors, with family members, with anyone I could talk to about his treatment, prognosis, and spoke to him every day, catering to his demands for toothbrushes, newspapers, and 7am calls that the nurses' weren't answering his pages and he needed to go to the bathroom again. I made myself sick with stress and worry, and anxiety. I got on a train. I did everything a dutiful daughter is supposed to do in times such as these for a father who couldn't have given a shit less. I played the game.
When I had my surgery, I took a week off. And when I didn't hear anything from him for that week until he needed something yet again, I got angry. I stuck my head in the sand, pretended he didn't exist, and quietly managed the lexicon of administrative bullshit behind the scenes, getting news from my cousin now and again.
Today, that gurgling of stress that begins as a pit in my stomach, and has nothing to do with surgical bands is rising again as I make distressed phone calls to ER's, yelling at asinine nurses about the HIPA law and proxy codes, and POA's to banking directors and wail to myself at the idea of going through all of this ALL OVER AGAIN.
But when I pounded my fist into the pillows last night, and cried uncontrollably (for a record 15 minutes) and screamed at myself, and collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, sadness, and rage, I did not think about that man two states away. I thought about my Mom, how much I wanted to call her, that I had to strain to remember what she sounded like, and could only do it under certain contexts ("Valerie ____ (middle name), get down here!"- some things you don't forget), and then only a little.
I do not play the game anymore, and I have said I will be there when the time comes, but I will not feel sad, or despondent, or the least bit guilty (Look Mom, no guilt) if I happen to miss that moment.
Today I would like to be like my sister, and go on burying my head in the sand, and pretending that he really doesn't exist, and do nothing, no matter what the news. But I was not wired in such a way. However, the sicker he gets, the worse he is, the closer he gets to that final gasp of air, the more I think about my Mom, and how much I wish she was still around; not about him. Perhaps that makes me an equally bad person; I couldn't say.
Last night I looked at my hands, that were...that are so much like hers, that are getting thinner to the point where my rings are starting to fall off as hers did close to the end, and remembered holding her hand as she died. I struggled to recall the last thing she said. Struggled because so much of her memory ingrained is of a sick, completely different person with no verbal abilities left.
I don't want that memory anymore. Christ, I don't want it. Much as I hate and love that man two states away, I don't want any new ones from him either.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Feel the Burn
Obviously this one is about getting back in the gym. My doc gave me the ok to start real exercising (as opposed to just walking) at 4 weeks, so I returned to NYHRC this weekend for the first time in over a month.
I have to say, on the whole it felt good to be back. I felt great to be more active, and I got that adrenaline rush you always get after the gym, thinking, "why the hell haven't I been here more often." Today was harder though, not because of the "day 2" but because I fell prey once again to my own inclination to be nice. Enter the pressure salesman of the local gym- THE PERSONAL TRAINER. Yikes. They are merciless as much as they are persistent.
"D" approached me when I was on the bike, 13 minutes in and feeling pretty good after having stretched all my muscles out in preparation. Then in he walked, first approaching a chick on the treadmill and then coming to me. I should have been smarter, I should have said I already had a trainer. I should have said anything but what I did say, which was sure, I'll take a free session. He came back with his calendar and signed me up for something next Sunday. Then came the clincher..., "I've got a few minutes before my next client. Let's get you started now."
"OK," I sheepishly mutter, climbing off the bike, my legs feeling like they've got steel boots strapped to each one now. That gooey feeling they get immediately after a bike session following a long break from the gym. I was in for it.
So he had me do stairs. Three stories x three reps. I got my albuteral after the second rep, and after the third I was dizzy, and wheezing, and thought I would either throw up or pass out. I was praying for the second one. Within minutes I was on the floor. Oops.
Don't overdo it they say....
Here's the thing..in between getting me more water, fanning me, and asking me repeatedly if I wanted an ambulance, "D" tells me he wants to get me back in for some training sessions. At least 3 or 4 a week, he says. He wants to help me tone up and lose weight. All this while I'm laying on back praying to the gods that my lungs start working again.
You've got to be kidding me.
I got away from "D" and finished my workout on the treadmill, walking it out for a couple of miles, and by the end I felt better. I felt like I'd make it home without dropping to my knees in the middle of the street, and I did.
No pain, no gain.
I have to say, on the whole it felt good to be back. I felt great to be more active, and I got that adrenaline rush you always get after the gym, thinking, "why the hell haven't I been here more often." Today was harder though, not because of the "day 2" but because I fell prey once again to my own inclination to be nice. Enter the pressure salesman of the local gym- THE PERSONAL TRAINER. Yikes. They are merciless as much as they are persistent.
"D" approached me when I was on the bike, 13 minutes in and feeling pretty good after having stretched all my muscles out in preparation. Then in he walked, first approaching a chick on the treadmill and then coming to me. I should have been smarter, I should have said I already had a trainer. I should have said anything but what I did say, which was sure, I'll take a free session. He came back with his calendar and signed me up for something next Sunday. Then came the clincher..., "I've got a few minutes before my next client. Let's get you started now."
"OK," I sheepishly mutter, climbing off the bike, my legs feeling like they've got steel boots strapped to each one now. That gooey feeling they get immediately after a bike session following a long break from the gym. I was in for it.
So he had me do stairs. Three stories x three reps. I got my albuteral after the second rep, and after the third I was dizzy, and wheezing, and thought I would either throw up or pass out. I was praying for the second one. Within minutes I was on the floor. Oops.
Don't overdo it they say....
Here's the thing..in between getting me more water, fanning me, and asking me repeatedly if I wanted an ambulance, "D" tells me he wants to get me back in for some training sessions. At least 3 or 4 a week, he says. He wants to help me tone up and lose weight. All this while I'm laying on back praying to the gods that my lungs start working again.
You've got to be kidding me.
I got away from "D" and finished my workout on the treadmill, walking it out for a couple of miles, and by the end I felt better. I felt like I'd make it home without dropping to my knees in the middle of the street, and I did.
No pain, no gain.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
A Lot Could Change in 30 Minutes
I was reading a message board earlier today that was predicated on the notion of being able to change your life in 30 minute snippets. The idea being, that if you could change your life, not in the total grand scheme of things, or be able to go and start over at age 10 with the knowledge you have now, but to take 30 minute windows of time where you wanted to and change the course of your current existence, or perhaps just alter your actions without tremendous affect later, what would you change?
It made me think. Brilliant little ideas like these get the creative juices flowing, and so I thought back on my own life. Where would 30, or even 20, or 10 minutes make a big difference in where I am today? Would I want to change it? I'm not big on regret, because I tend to believe all that happens to you, or all you expereince is a component of who you are, and have become. Why change that? But there are certainly things I wish I could have a do-over on. Don't we all?
So...what I've come up with so far.
- I would have paid more attention getting out of the car that day..the day I lost my first Tiffany1837 necklace that I bought as a NYC memento my first solo trip back here- lost forever
- I wouldn't have gone swimming that Saturday afternoon with Christy...maybe a book, or the playground instead.
- I would have walked past the window and not bought those horrid patent leather red kitten heels...atrocious
- I wouldn't have wiped with poison ivy on that camping trip...those leaves over there look leafier
- The last shot (ok, shots) the night before I had to get on a train at 9am (and threw up on the train, repeatedly)
- Kissed Kevin in 3rd grade recess when I had the opportunity
- I would have waited for Megan* to get on the plane first, so she wouldn't have been so frightened instead of worrying about getting to that window seat (cringe)
- I would have said so, so much more to my Mom the 30 minutes before she passed...even though I knew she wouldn't really hear all of it
- I would have put the cell phone down before I got in that accident and totalled my car
- I would never have put that black cowel neck dress in the washer, thinking it would be fine...DAMN DAMN DAMN
- I would have been BOLD instead of standing in my doorway for what felt like ages just staring at him and not moving
- I would have picked the blue crayon first
Regret is a funny thing...
It made me think. Brilliant little ideas like these get the creative juices flowing, and so I thought back on my own life. Where would 30, or even 20, or 10 minutes make a big difference in where I am today? Would I want to change it? I'm not big on regret, because I tend to believe all that happens to you, or all you expereince is a component of who you are, and have become. Why change that? But there are certainly things I wish I could have a do-over on. Don't we all?
So...what I've come up with so far.
- I would have paid more attention getting out of the car that day..the day I lost my first Tiffany1837 necklace that I bought as a NYC memento my first solo trip back here- lost forever
- I wouldn't have gone swimming that Saturday afternoon with Christy...maybe a book, or the playground instead.
- I would have walked past the window and not bought those horrid patent leather red kitten heels...atrocious
- I wouldn't have wiped with poison ivy on that camping trip...those leaves over there look leafier
- The last shot (ok, shots) the night before I had to get on a train at 9am (and threw up on the train, repeatedly)
- Kissed Kevin in 3rd grade recess when I had the opportunity
- I would have waited for Megan* to get on the plane first, so she wouldn't have been so frightened instead of worrying about getting to that window seat (cringe)
- I would have said so, so much more to my Mom the 30 minutes before she passed...even though I knew she wouldn't really hear all of it
- I would have put the cell phone down before I got in that accident and totalled my car
- I would never have put that black cowel neck dress in the washer, thinking it would be fine...DAMN DAMN DAMN
- I would have been BOLD instead of standing in my doorway for what felt like ages just staring at him and not moving
- I would have picked the blue crayon first
Regret is a funny thing...
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Coping with Hunger
The band is a tool, not an easy button. It will not make you a size 2 overnight. It will not fix why you overeat in the first place, if that is an emotional hunger. The band is a tool, not an easy button. This is repeated like a cold mantra everywhere you look in the surgical cultural centers online and in the support groups. Everyone knows this. Tonight is my first real feel for the meaning.
I want to binge. I want to go down to Gristede's and buy pizza, and chicken, and cheese, and tater tots, and ice cream, and bring them all back to my apartment, hiding the bags behind my back as I walk into the elevator, like I'm carrying crack or heroin, and then eat and eat until I feel like bursting. I want the comfort of filling my face with hot pockets, and pudding, and anything else I can find until I have to unbutton my pants and everything is gone.
I feel like a drug addict going through withdrawal. I keep staring at my refrigerator, getting up and opening the door and sitting back down again. I page through magazines, thinking about the can of soup in my cabinet, another spoonful of sugar-free jello, or better yet, walking to the corner store for a pint of ice cream. Oh wait, I already did that today. I'm such a shameful piece of shit that this afternoon I walked myself down to the corner store and bought two gatorades (what I planned on getting) to help with the dehydration, and walked back with a pint of cherry garcia. I managed about 5 or 6 bites until I was disgusted with myself (and full- I'm not sure which dominated) and marched it down to the garbage shoot. What a freaking waste.
I recognize that I'm having a bad weekend, that I'm depressed. I see it in me. I know this is about relationships; about my father dying in the hospital two states over and my lack of desire to do anything for him, about my friends (or the people I thought were my friends) and the thoughtless comments they've made, about many people, and frustration, and anger, and sadness. But the way I want to deal with this is not to read a book, or take a bath, or a walk (it's too late anyway). I want to EAT, and I confess, I don't know how to deal with this. I don't feel like I have a lifeline. No one to say- put the spoon down bitch!
Even my new fish Moo Goo (short for Gai Pan- yes, I name my fish after chinese food objects.....issues anyone?) is starting to look good. Poor thing.
Today is a bad day. I feel desperate. I feel empty. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
I want to binge. I want to go down to Gristede's and buy pizza, and chicken, and cheese, and tater tots, and ice cream, and bring them all back to my apartment, hiding the bags behind my back as I walk into the elevator, like I'm carrying crack or heroin, and then eat and eat until I feel like bursting. I want the comfort of filling my face with hot pockets, and pudding, and anything else I can find until I have to unbutton my pants and everything is gone.
I feel like a drug addict going through withdrawal. I keep staring at my refrigerator, getting up and opening the door and sitting back down again. I page through magazines, thinking about the can of soup in my cabinet, another spoonful of sugar-free jello, or better yet, walking to the corner store for a pint of ice cream. Oh wait, I already did that today. I'm such a shameful piece of shit that this afternoon I walked myself down to the corner store and bought two gatorades (what I planned on getting) to help with the dehydration, and walked back with a pint of cherry garcia. I managed about 5 or 6 bites until I was disgusted with myself (and full- I'm not sure which dominated) and marched it down to the garbage shoot. What a freaking waste.
I recognize that I'm having a bad weekend, that I'm depressed. I see it in me. I know this is about relationships; about my father dying in the hospital two states over and my lack of desire to do anything for him, about my friends (or the people I thought were my friends) and the thoughtless comments they've made, about many people, and frustration, and anger, and sadness. But the way I want to deal with this is not to read a book, or take a bath, or a walk (it's too late anyway). I want to EAT, and I confess, I don't know how to deal with this. I don't feel like I have a lifeline. No one to say- put the spoon down bitch!
Even my new fish Moo Goo (short for Gai Pan- yes, I name my fish after chinese food objects.....issues anyone?) is starting to look good. Poor thing.
Today is a bad day. I feel desperate. I feel empty. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Friday, August 31, 2007
3 Week Update
So I'm a little late posting this one, but I wanted to get it out there. Kindly excuse the excessive amount of bra in the picture, but it's harder than it looks to take a picture of your own stomach.
I saw the surgeon on Friday for my big three week check-in. A little less than three weeks from now and I'll have my first fill. I've got to say, I can't wait. The hunger is obviously back, and I've been testing the waters for over a week now on different types of food-all with great sucess. I'm back to being able to eat what I want, just in far smaller quantities. I'm not sure if it's truly a good sign or bad that I haven't had a problem with anything.
Restriction is a funny thing. It feels like nausea and fullness for me after about a cup and a half or less of food, to the extent where I feel sick like I would have after a binge. Anyway, back to the fill. I'm a little nervous about a long needle getting stuck into my belly to fill me up with saline, but being the baby that I am, I've requested some lidocaine when the time comes, and I'm sure that will help along with maybe some valium. We'll see. If I can manage blood draws these days without tranquilizers I'm going to try and manage the fills that way.
So, after my appointment, I strolled around 34th and tried on dresses and fun stuff at GAP, Banana Republic and Ann Taylor. It's not that I've lost so much weight that I was grazing around the size 4/6 section, but the usual sizes fit so much better, looser than before surgery. That little bit of weight actually made a difference, and I managed some 14's at Banana without stuffing myself into them. What was equally, or ok, perhaps more encouraging is that I walked out without buying a thing, and I didn't feel even a twinge of guilt or sadness about it. The adrenaline high I got from trying pretty things on without wanting to rip out my credit card was exhilerating. (Though I will admit, I am still coveting that Kate Spade messenger bag I've wanted for a few weeks- I just can't fathom another $250 for a bag right now when I've got probably 15 or 20 bags at home)
I think I'm most excited about being able to exercise in another few days. I was really surprised when the doctor said I could return to the gym after week four, instead of week six like I was expecting. As far as replacement compulsions go, one could do a lot worse than the gym, so I'm hoping motivation and lots of workouts replace the food.
I'm healing well...things are improving little by little. My only real fear at the moment is potential hair loss. My hair is fine and I don't have a ton of it as it is, so the thought of it coming out in clumps is terrifying. I've read on the message boards that this tends to happen to some anywhere from 4 to 6 months out. They don't know why exactly, but it has some correlation with metabolism shift and zinc levels. My hair is finally starting to grow out again. It's down to my shoulders now. The thought of having to wear a wig, or cover my head with a scarf and have people who don't know about the surgery thinking I'm a cancer patient or something is mortifying to say the least. The doctor said not to worry about more supplements for now, but I can't help obsessing a little.
Enough obsession for now though...more later.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Somewhere in Minnesota, Keillor is hitting his head and waxing poetic
I'm fairly particular about who and what I take the time to read. I don't like wasting precious minutes of the day with trite drivel, and after all, who does? I may take just as long if not longer to find a book that fascinates me than it takes to read it. But when I find something I like, I'm loyal. Online, this means I spend a few minutes out of each day (or 30 or 60) to read a blog from a bloke in Wisconsin I'm fond of, and who's particularly, painfully talented (except when he writes about football, or darts, or golf- none of which do I have a penchant for), and scanning the articles in Salon, particularly Cary Tennis' advice column for the scandalous and lashing responses of the ironically superiorly moral left set, and once a week Garrison Keillor, another midwesterner (WTF, really?) who usually has insightful and politically paralleled opinions to my own.
Today though, Keillor talked about repeatedly hitting his head on a particularly low-lying ceiling beam of his "1911" home, his daughter's amusement of the incident, and the irony of how grateful he was to feel the pain of that THUMP, reminding him he's alive, and blah blah blah. An interesting article, but I got more from the latter half characterization of his late-journalism professor (whom the bump reminded him of) who would write "B.S.," and "Oh, for God's sake" on his submitted papers. HAH, Mr. Keillor. But sitting down to take in the "full benefit of the experience" of fwacking yourself on the noggin. Oh, for God's sake. There are far greater things to remind you of the human experience- what to appreciate and what to stop taking for granted. I stepped on a teeny tiny shard of glass last night in the garbage shoot area, a leftover remnant from the huge framed art that fell and broke in my apartment, and that I'd been so careful to ensure was bagged up and labeled "GLASS," not thrown haphazardly down the shoot, so as not to hurt my fellow residents or the porters in the building. Who ends up with a bleeding foot? Moi. There's irony, but I didn't have an existential moment over the damn thing.
To each his own.
Today though, Keillor talked about repeatedly hitting his head on a particularly low-lying ceiling beam of his "1911" home, his daughter's amusement of the incident, and the irony of how grateful he was to feel the pain of that THUMP, reminding him he's alive, and blah blah blah. An interesting article, but I got more from the latter half characterization of his late-journalism professor (whom the bump reminded him of) who would write "B.S.," and "Oh, for God's sake" on his submitted papers. HAH, Mr. Keillor. But sitting down to take in the "full benefit of the experience" of fwacking yourself on the noggin. Oh, for God's sake. There are far greater things to remind you of the human experience- what to appreciate and what to stop taking for granted. I stepped on a teeny tiny shard of glass last night in the garbage shoot area, a leftover remnant from the huge framed art that fell and broke in my apartment, and that I'd been so careful to ensure was bagged up and labeled "GLASS," not thrown haphazardly down the shoot, so as not to hurt my fellow residents or the porters in the building. Who ends up with a bleeding foot? Moi. There's irony, but I didn't have an existential moment over the damn thing.
To each his own.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Top 20
I once did a top 20 list on Salon.com. A list of 10 things I most despised about being fat, and ten things that felt more like advantages, or maybe positives. I think an example was that our hugs were softer. As I recall, I got slammed quite a bit by the skinnier folk by what they saw as putting the thinner set down when all I was trying to do was make the thicker set feel less like crap about how they saw themselves.
I spent the bulk of my morning (no, I don't have a lot to do today) reading the anecdotes on lapbandtalk.com of sad, funny, and embarrassing things that happened to others in their fatter days (the vast majority were very, very sad). The sad things that have happened to me are so sad, so shameful, that I'm not quite ready to write about them. Mostly thoughtless, cruel comments by ignorant people. I thought instead I'd post my own list of things I loathe about fatness/things I look forward to as I continue to drop (around 20 pounds now and almost 3 weeks out, thank you!). To give some perspective, I started this list sitting in my doctor's office shortly before my first appointment.
In no particular order:
1. Being able to cross my legs when I sit down.
2. Sitting down to a meal out without the distinct impression everyone is paying attention to what I'm ordering.
3. Going to the theatre/movies/sitting on a plane and not having my arms take up both armrests or having to hug myself the entire ride/show.
4. NEVER having to shop Lane Bryant again.
5. Not worrying that diabetes is just around the corner.
6. Not having to pre-scan a crowded NYC restaurant with my eyes to see how I can best squeeze my way through without drawing attention to myself, or worse, the dread of where the waiter will seat us and will I be able to fit without looking ridiculous.
7. Not going to a bar with the pre-accepted shame that there is no one in the room that will want to look at me, let alone want to meet me.
8. Not feeling like my girlfriends know there is no one that will hit on me in the bar, and thus making them feel better about going with me.
9. Not feeling pain in my feet (even in normal shoes- not the spiked heels I adore) after a couple of hours walking.
10. Going into a gym and not feeling all eyes on me.
11. Having to change in front of all the slimmer women in the locker room.
12. Having to take two towels instead of one at the gym because the smaller towels just don't go all the way around.
13. Being able to shop for fall/winter sexy boots that are above ankle height.
14. Having the smocks at Frederic Fekkai, and the doctor's office actually fit.
15. Not getting the "look" when I go into Vickie's, or any other slimmer size store.
16. Worrying that 10 more pounds and my hips are going to be too big to fit through the subway turnstyle without having to turn to the side.
17. Never sitting down on the subway unless it's near empty so that I don't squish anyone.
18. Not having to wear Spanx when I wear a skirt so that my thighs don't chafe.
19. Sex on top without feeling like an elephant.
20. Getting my Tiffany necklaces extended so they don't feel like chokers.
There are many, many more I'm sure. But this is what I came up with for now.
The last three weeks (close to) have been tough. I went into a grocery store for the first time since surgery yesterday and EVERYTHING looked good, even items I would never in a million years be interested in, or that I'm allergic to. Having to avoid real food does this to you, I've decided. In the last week I've drooled over Taco Bell commercials (I've never even eaten there) and Applebee's entrees dripping with condiments that would make me gag. Still, it all looks fresh and hot and appetizing. Three more weeks to a fill, but only one more week til solid food stage. I suspect things will improve when I can eat things I can chew on without intense nausea.
Until then, I'll just keep looking at #19
I spent the bulk of my morning (no, I don't have a lot to do today) reading the anecdotes on lapbandtalk.com of sad, funny, and embarrassing things that happened to others in their fatter days (the vast majority were very, very sad). The sad things that have happened to me are so sad, so shameful, that I'm not quite ready to write about them. Mostly thoughtless, cruel comments by ignorant people. I thought instead I'd post my own list of things I loathe about fatness/things I look forward to as I continue to drop (around 20 pounds now and almost 3 weeks out, thank you!). To give some perspective, I started this list sitting in my doctor's office shortly before my first appointment.
In no particular order:
1. Being able to cross my legs when I sit down.
2. Sitting down to a meal out without the distinct impression everyone is paying attention to what I'm ordering.
3. Going to the theatre/movies/sitting on a plane and not having my arms take up both armrests or having to hug myself the entire ride/show.
4. NEVER having to shop Lane Bryant again.
5. Not worrying that diabetes is just around the corner.
6. Not having to pre-scan a crowded NYC restaurant with my eyes to see how I can best squeeze my way through without drawing attention to myself, or worse, the dread of where the waiter will seat us and will I be able to fit without looking ridiculous.
7. Not going to a bar with the pre-accepted shame that there is no one in the room that will want to look at me, let alone want to meet me.
8. Not feeling like my girlfriends know there is no one that will hit on me in the bar, and thus making them feel better about going with me.
9. Not feeling pain in my feet (even in normal shoes- not the spiked heels I adore) after a couple of hours walking.
10. Going into a gym and not feeling all eyes on me.
11. Having to change in front of all the slimmer women in the locker room.
12. Having to take two towels instead of one at the gym because the smaller towels just don't go all the way around.
13. Being able to shop for fall/winter sexy boots that are above ankle height.
14. Having the smocks at Frederic Fekkai, and the doctor's office actually fit.
15. Not getting the "look" when I go into Vickie's, or any other slimmer size store.
16. Worrying that 10 more pounds and my hips are going to be too big to fit through the subway turnstyle without having to turn to the side.
17. Never sitting down on the subway unless it's near empty so that I don't squish anyone.
18. Not having to wear Spanx when I wear a skirt so that my thighs don't chafe.
19. Sex on top without feeling like an elephant.
20. Getting my Tiffany necklaces extended so they don't feel like chokers.
There are many, many more I'm sure. But this is what I came up with for now.
The last three weeks (close to) have been tough. I went into a grocery store for the first time since surgery yesterday and EVERYTHING looked good, even items I would never in a million years be interested in, or that I'm allergic to. Having to avoid real food does this to you, I've decided. In the last week I've drooled over Taco Bell commercials (I've never even eaten there) and Applebee's entrees dripping with condiments that would make me gag. Still, it all looks fresh and hot and appetizing. Three more weeks to a fill, but only one more week til solid food stage. I suspect things will improve when I can eat things I can chew on without intense nausea.
Until then, I'll just keep looking at #19
Monday, August 27, 2007
The 160 to New London, Please...
I missed my 7am train Saturday morning for my Connecticut adventure. Sleep was far too much of a draw for me to crawl my way out from under the cozy warm duvet at 5:30 a.m. Had I known what was going to befall me for missing this train, I would have hopped out of bed without a second thought.
Fate seemed to toss me a lifepreserver when I got outside and managed to catch a cab right outside my building. The driver actually got out and put my bag in the back of the SUV instead of just popping the back open for me, the interior was nice and warm, and the radio was tuned to some soothing classical. The guy was chatty, a little overly so, but it didn't bother me very much. We hit traffic by the time we got to Lex though and that should have been a sign of things to come. He finally pulled up to the Amtrak side of Penn at 8:50. The 160 to Boston was leaving at 9 and I still needed to get my tickets from the electronic kiosk. I wave good-bye to Muhammed who I will likely never see again and tell him to have a great weekend.
I walked briskly to the packed interior of the Amtrak waiting area to announcements that the national grid was down, tickets were not accessible and you could purchase on-board with no penalty. Great. But I had a reservation already. Working my way through the mass of people, I get on the train and find an empty two-seater. Perfect. Nope, not so much. The 9am is late enough that everyone wants to get on and seats fill quickly. Isn't this why I usually take the 3am? I end up with a young mom and her 1 y.o. (I'm guessing here) sitting next to me and I'm praying to the crying baby gods that this kid stays quiet for the duration. I spent the next hour or so trying to get the Amtrak people on the phone to cancel my reservation, and manage 2 dropped calls later to get just that. But Enterprise tells me that they're closing at noon, and if I miss them, that's just too damn bad.
I'm cursing that extra two hours of sleep that I took, but Mom and baby get off in New Haven and I've got both seats to myself now. Perhaps things will improve? I even manage to nap a bit before the train pulls into New London, and after three failed calls, and at 11:52, I get Enterprise to say they'll pick me up. Damn straight.
Things go better at the rental place. I get a choice between several cars and pick the brand new black Chrysler Pacifica (a car, by the way, I would definitely buy if I was in the market). The next several hours are a blur of people, and kids, and cake, and stores, and smiling to meet new people, and entertaining, mingling, and lots and lots of driving, and a karaoke bar filled with jeebs. Megan's* (we'll protect the names for the innocent here- and that one's for you Jason- you know who you are) son had a great 3rd birthday, loved his cake shaped like a McDonald's french fry box with fries hanging out, I finally met my friend Sara's* new boyfriend and I got to visit with family. It was a crazy, long day and I was exhausted before it was half over.
Sunday became much like Saturday (these weekends are always a whirlwind) Megan, Julie*, and I drove up to my stepmom's new shared house with her girlfriend and her kids and we swam in the arctic pool and lounged in the hot tub. It was relaxing, but after a while, my port site couldn't take any more submersion. We soon departed for the mall, wandering around as a group, and getting my nephew's hair cut (he looks SO adorable now- away from the hoodrat style his mom loves to put him in). After dinner it was time to race back to the station and get on another train. This one I had to wait until Stamford to have both seats to myself, but that's better than the whole trip. I bunkered down with my fleece and my pillow and iPod and managed to catch a few Zzzz's before landing back at Penn, 38 some hours after I had last seen it. The cab driver didn't utter a word to me the entire trip, aside from "left or right" when we returned to Tudor City, but that was a-ok with me.
I think I'll stay home next weekend...and the weekend after that....
Fate seemed to toss me a lifepreserver when I got outside and managed to catch a cab right outside my building. The driver actually got out and put my bag in the back of the SUV instead of just popping the back open for me, the interior was nice and warm, and the radio was tuned to some soothing classical. The guy was chatty, a little overly so, but it didn't bother me very much. We hit traffic by the time we got to Lex though and that should have been a sign of things to come. He finally pulled up to the Amtrak side of Penn at 8:50. The 160 to Boston was leaving at 9 and I still needed to get my tickets from the electronic kiosk. I wave good-bye to Muhammed who I will likely never see again and tell him to have a great weekend.
I walked briskly to the packed interior of the Amtrak waiting area to announcements that the national grid was down, tickets were not accessible and you could purchase on-board with no penalty. Great. But I had a reservation already. Working my way through the mass of people, I get on the train and find an empty two-seater. Perfect. Nope, not so much. The 9am is late enough that everyone wants to get on and seats fill quickly. Isn't this why I usually take the 3am? I end up with a young mom and her 1 y.o. (I'm guessing here) sitting next to me and I'm praying to the crying baby gods that this kid stays quiet for the duration. I spent the next hour or so trying to get the Amtrak people on the phone to cancel my reservation, and manage 2 dropped calls later to get just that. But Enterprise tells me that they're closing at noon, and if I miss them, that's just too damn bad.
I'm cursing that extra two hours of sleep that I took, but Mom and baby get off in New Haven and I've got both seats to myself now. Perhaps things will improve? I even manage to nap a bit before the train pulls into New London, and after three failed calls, and at 11:52, I get Enterprise to say they'll pick me up. Damn straight.
Things go better at the rental place. I get a choice between several cars and pick the brand new black Chrysler Pacifica (a car, by the way, I would definitely buy if I was in the market). The next several hours are a blur of people, and kids, and cake, and stores, and smiling to meet new people, and entertaining, mingling, and lots and lots of driving, and a karaoke bar filled with jeebs. Megan's* (we'll protect the names for the innocent here- and that one's for you Jason- you know who you are) son had a great 3rd birthday, loved his cake shaped like a McDonald's french fry box with fries hanging out, I finally met my friend Sara's* new boyfriend and I got to visit with family. It was a crazy, long day and I was exhausted before it was half over.
Sunday became much like Saturday (these weekends are always a whirlwind) Megan, Julie*, and I drove up to my stepmom's new shared house with her girlfriend and her kids and we swam in the arctic pool and lounged in the hot tub. It was relaxing, but after a while, my port site couldn't take any more submersion. We soon departed for the mall, wandering around as a group, and getting my nephew's hair cut (he looks SO adorable now- away from the hoodrat style his mom loves to put him in). After dinner it was time to race back to the station and get on another train. This one I had to wait until Stamford to have both seats to myself, but that's better than the whole trip. I bunkered down with my fleece and my pillow and iPod and managed to catch a few Zzzz's before landing back at Penn, 38 some hours after I had last seen it. The cab driver didn't utter a word to me the entire trip, aside from "left or right" when we returned to Tudor City, but that was a-ok with me.
I think I'll stay home next weekend...and the weekend after that....
Friday, August 24, 2007
Smith and Wollensky
Richard, and his spontaneity, took me to Smith and Wollensky on 3rd Ave. last night. It's a famous steakhouse with a couple spots in big cities; the kind of place I heard you needed reservations much in advance to get into (an incorrect assumption, as it turns out). I had walked past the spot several times walking to work and wondered just how much a steak ran you in a joint like that. The answer? A lot.
As of yesterday, I am officially two weeks out. Still on my mushies and liquids and not able to take more than about a cup of food at meals. Rich suggested the place for its mashed potatos, (having had his heart set on finding me potatos worthy of my palate) one of very few staples beyond protein shakes and beef broth I've had these two weeks, though out of convenience mine were usually the flaked kind from a Betty Crocker box in my pantry, not real potatos and certainly not Smith and Wollensky potatos.
The result is that my suspicions about my stomach beginning to heal, form its scar tissue around the band, and ability to take in more volume has received concrete evidence supporting the supposition. I managed a lobster tail, a few shrimp, a few bites of crab (all from the delicious, sumptuous, irresistable cold shellfish appetizer plate they served elegantly on an ice-loaded platter) and probably a half cup of the most fluffy, buttery, well-seasoned mashed potatos I had ever put in my mouth. To say my Betty Crocker flakes paled in comparison is a gross understatement. Really, it's like comparing a vintage Syrah or Cab with Arbor Mist out of the fridge, or worse yet, that wine in a box stuff (which I've never had, thank you).
I also broke the rules though, and would be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous about the consequences (they warn you after all...slippage, erosion, etc..etc...) The shellfish were obviously not blended or liquid, though they were soft; the kind of thing that goes down smooth regardless. Oh, and I chewed every bite at least 10 times before swallowing. As if that makes a difference? Who knows. Still, it felt really good to eat real food for the first time in a few weeks and I may just dream of the mashed potatos later on.
Sitting in a restaurant, a REAL restaurant...not just Olive Garden, or some diner on 2nd Avenue was a sincere treat. Smith and Wollensky's is the type of place that serves you with absolute class. The servers are men of a certain age in dinner jackets and napkins across their forearms instead of college girls or actors/actresses trying to make a few bucks for rent; the wine lists are long and detailed, and there's a certain aura in the room of elegance which straightens your back and causes you much more care with your motions, your reach from fork to mouth. There are no cocktail lists, though there is a bar, and no one will sit next to you whilst taking your order to appear more friendly and personable.
I've been to a few places like this now (Todd English's Olives at the W, that steakhouse near my office which I still strain to recall the name, and I'm sure a few others I can't recall off the top of my head), and I thankfully feel less and less out of place at them, but there's still a twinge.
I spent a few moments gazing up at the 19th Century (perhaps early 20th?) oil paintings of a stern looking man, and next to him, a woman with a furrowed brow; wondering if this would be Mr. and Mrs. Smith, or Wollensky. Sadly, no caption underneath, no plaque, nothing to betray the empty gazes of their surnames.
Richard was, of course, delighted with himself for suggesting the place for its "real" mashed potatos and wanted to order more to takeout. The gesture was endearing and sweet. A truly kind act for the benefit of me eating real food.
As I felt the calories sink in, and the dizziness lift, I managed a sincere smile.
In a few minutes I'll pull the leftovers they were only to happy to bag for me out of the office fridge and test their left-over value. Please, oh please let them be as orgasmically fulfilling as they were last night.
As of yesterday, I am officially two weeks out. Still on my mushies and liquids and not able to take more than about a cup of food at meals. Rich suggested the place for its mashed potatos, (having had his heart set on finding me potatos worthy of my palate) one of very few staples beyond protein shakes and beef broth I've had these two weeks, though out of convenience mine were usually the flaked kind from a Betty Crocker box in my pantry, not real potatos and certainly not Smith and Wollensky potatos.
The result is that my suspicions about my stomach beginning to heal, form its scar tissue around the band, and ability to take in more volume has received concrete evidence supporting the supposition. I managed a lobster tail, a few shrimp, a few bites of crab (all from the delicious, sumptuous, irresistable cold shellfish appetizer plate they served elegantly on an ice-loaded platter) and probably a half cup of the most fluffy, buttery, well-seasoned mashed potatos I had ever put in my mouth. To say my Betty Crocker flakes paled in comparison is a gross understatement. Really, it's like comparing a vintage Syrah or Cab with Arbor Mist out of the fridge, or worse yet, that wine in a box stuff (which I've never had, thank you).
I also broke the rules though, and would be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous about the consequences (they warn you after all...slippage, erosion, etc..etc...) The shellfish were obviously not blended or liquid, though they were soft; the kind of thing that goes down smooth regardless. Oh, and I chewed every bite at least 10 times before swallowing. As if that makes a difference? Who knows. Still, it felt really good to eat real food for the first time in a few weeks and I may just dream of the mashed potatos later on.
Sitting in a restaurant, a REAL restaurant...not just Olive Garden, or some diner on 2nd Avenue was a sincere treat. Smith and Wollensky's is the type of place that serves you with absolute class. The servers are men of a certain age in dinner jackets and napkins across their forearms instead of college girls or actors/actresses trying to make a few bucks for rent; the wine lists are long and detailed, and there's a certain aura in the room of elegance which straightens your back and causes you much more care with your motions, your reach from fork to mouth. There are no cocktail lists, though there is a bar, and no one will sit next to you whilst taking your order to appear more friendly and personable.
I've been to a few places like this now (Todd English's Olives at the W, that steakhouse near my office which I still strain to recall the name, and I'm sure a few others I can't recall off the top of my head), and I thankfully feel less and less out of place at them, but there's still a twinge.
I spent a few moments gazing up at the 19th Century (perhaps early 20th?) oil paintings of a stern looking man, and next to him, a woman with a furrowed brow; wondering if this would be Mr. and Mrs. Smith, or Wollensky. Sadly, no caption underneath, no plaque, nothing to betray the empty gazes of their surnames.
Richard was, of course, delighted with himself for suggesting the place for its "real" mashed potatos and wanted to order more to takeout. The gesture was endearing and sweet. A truly kind act for the benefit of me eating real food.
As I felt the calories sink in, and the dizziness lift, I managed a sincere smile.
In a few minutes I'll pull the leftovers they were only to happy to bag for me out of the office fridge and test their left-over value. Please, oh please let them be as orgasmically fulfilling as they were last night.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Part and Parcel Wisdom of Ms. Ephron
I spent my last Saturday in the gated park across the street from my building (see above) delightfully devouring the words of Nora in the aforementioned book, "I Feel Bad About My Neck" and basking in the sunshine. Similarly to my rare but sincere joy in receiving an e-mail forward worth my time and attention, I ingested every tidbit Ms. Ephron had to give, althought decidedly some parts were more entertaining than others. Towards the end, she summarized her thoughts in a series of colloquialisms. Here's a few I found particularly noteworthy:
- Never marry a man you wouldn't want to be divorced from.
- The last four years of psychoanalysis are a waste of money.
- The plane is not going to crash.
- If the shoe doesn't fit in the shoe store, it's never going to fit.
- Overinsure everything.
- There's no point in making piecrust from scratch.
- Never let them know.
- Overtip.
- If only one third of your clothes are mistakes, you're ahead of the game.
- There are no secrets.
I particularly like the shoes and clothes comments. Those that know me in real life will have some idea why.
In a few months from now, I'll be weeding down my wardrobe, buying a few "in-between size" staples to get me through. I'll also be tossing out thousands of dollars, and hours of shopping worth of ensembles. OH THE HUMANITY. At least they'll go to a good cause and some goodwill shopping chics will look fabulous! While the loss of the great pieces saddens me, it'll be exciting to have a clean slate.
In any case, Nora waxes poetic about all sorts of things in her book: the tedious and expensive upkeep of women, (yes ladies, here I refer to manicures, pedicures, dye jobs, waxings of all sort, creams, lotions, botox, etc...etc...) the futility of attempting to keep your purse organized and free of clutter, and for women of a certain age, the hatred of the age-showing neck. Thankfully, I am unable to relate to that last tidbit.
This week I've moved on to a Jennifer Weiner, who wrote the book that In Her Shoes was based on. So far so good, but I think I'm going to have to actually buy a copy of the Ephron book to remind myself all these things in 10 or 15 years.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Olympic Torch Bearer
I slept on my stomach last night. HALLELUJAH! I slept on some of my softer bits for the first time in 13 days and I wasn't in excrutiating pain. I have never been so happy to be able to roll over since I was probably 4 or 5 months old (I really don't know this- I'm guessing. With no children I can only assume when one begins to roll over.) I hate, loathe, destest, and despise sleeping on my back. I just don't do it. Occasionally sides, but for the most part, I am the Olympic Torch Bearer. Yes, you heard right. Have you ever read those things that analyze the way we sleep and give them funny nicknames? Prior to this surgery I have been on my stomach, usually left arm up under the pillow and left leg up, simulating the torch bearer running towards the glory moment of lighting the flame. The last two weeks has been flat on my back, not moving an inch all night, body subconsciously knowing it would hurt like hell to move, waking up sore and in much need of a back massage.
Well my friends, last night was like the opening ceremonies after four long years. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!
Now that I bring it up, getting out of bed has been amusing and much like an Olympic event. OK, amusing now that I'm not forced to submit to its ridiculousness any longer. With no use of the abs (any of them- and you'd be surprised how much they're connected to everything else in your body), one must flop like a fish from mid-bed to side of bed, using the wall, or whatever else isn't moving as leverage to get where you want to go until you can plant your feet firmly on the ground and propel yourself up in the miraculous and completely ungraceful dismount. The ceremony of it, the 5 minute process of moving a bit, taking some deep lamaze breaths and moving again is a silly, silly, painful proposition. And I feel I should have earned a medal for the daily routines I perfected into a Nadia Comanece-worthy "10".
I have also never been happier to have the weight of my chest off my body for the 8 or 9 hours of slumber I attempt in a given night. My rack, fabulous as it is, is undoubtedly part of the reason I am the torch bearer. I have never felt the weight of my chest, the WEIGHT of it on my ribs, on my abdomen, causing pressure as I have since the surgery. It's a very strange thing. In due time, I'm sure I'll go back to loving and hating my rack for all it represents, but for the last two weeks...not so much.
So I made it back to work yesterday. I started in the morning with a bang, getting more accomplished than I felt I had in the prior two weeks leading up to surgery. It helps of course that I returned to a mountain of work in front of me. That 2 pm time I predicted not long back though was true to its word. I had to leave the office around 2:30. I just had no steam left. Much like I feel now...
What a damn wuss I have turned out to be, hmm?
Well my friends, last night was like the opening ceremonies after four long years. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!
Now that I bring it up, getting out of bed has been amusing and much like an Olympic event. OK, amusing now that I'm not forced to submit to its ridiculousness any longer. With no use of the abs (any of them- and you'd be surprised how much they're connected to everything else in your body), one must flop like a fish from mid-bed to side of bed, using the wall, or whatever else isn't moving as leverage to get where you want to go until you can plant your feet firmly on the ground and propel yourself up in the miraculous and completely ungraceful dismount. The ceremony of it, the 5 minute process of moving a bit, taking some deep lamaze breaths and moving again is a silly, silly, painful proposition. And I feel I should have earned a medal for the daily routines I perfected into a Nadia Comanece-worthy "10".
I have also never been happier to have the weight of my chest off my body for the 8 or 9 hours of slumber I attempt in a given night. My rack, fabulous as it is, is undoubtedly part of the reason I am the torch bearer. I have never felt the weight of my chest, the WEIGHT of it on my ribs, on my abdomen, causing pressure as I have since the surgery. It's a very strange thing. In due time, I'm sure I'll go back to loving and hating my rack for all it represents, but for the last two weeks...not so much.
So I made it back to work yesterday. I started in the morning with a bang, getting more accomplished than I felt I had in the prior two weeks leading up to surgery. It helps of course that I returned to a mountain of work in front of me. That 2 pm time I predicted not long back though was true to its word. I had to leave the office around 2:30. I just had no steam left. Much like I feel now...
What a damn wuss I have turned out to be, hmm?
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Nine Days Post-Op
So this is me. Nine days out. Progress is being made here. A week ago....hell, three days ago I still felt on the verge of death. Pain in the port site, nausea, the weak and dizzies, and I won't get into the bathroom here. I was and have been sitting far left of regretland, wondering what I did to myself. I even went out and bought that "Weight Loss Surgery for Dummies" just to read all the reassuring things I could read for free on the internet- that it was ok to still feel shitty a week out when some were doing laps at the mall feeling fabulous; that the nausea was still present for some, that some needed three weeks out of work when I had been expecting three days tops, and I would finish somewhere around 7. Speaking of which, I go back Monday.
In part I'm gleeful. A week at home post-op is no perfect vacay. You feel miserable, sick, tired, and very, very alone. The phone's no good because you don't have the energy to speak to anyone for more than a few minutes and there's definitely no energy for entertaining guests. That leaves family, and with mine a state or so away, it was go-it-alone time. In that manner I'll be glad to get back to the desk. I'll be glad to see my colleagues and fall into the work rhythm and listen to the usual work-time fracas from my friends there. I will be glad to be sitting at a desk when I get tired at 2pm and want nothing more than to nap.
It will be scary too though. Only one really knows what I went in for. A few others know I had "surgery" but not what kind. I don't know what to say to the questions, especially when the weight starts to come off. I don't want to be deceptive, worse, let some think I have some secret I'm holding on to, but moreso I don't want the questions, the assumptions, the judgments that come when people know weight loss surgery is involved. I'm really feeling Star's predicament about now.
The point of writing now though, is that I'm feeling BETTER! I feel like me again. I don't feel like I'll fall over if I'm standing for more than 40 seconds. I did laundry today. I did dishes. I went outside, sat in the sun and read Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck, and other thoughts on being a woman." Fabulous read by the way. She's writing from the perspective of a sixty-something woman but not only are there relatable things for twenty-verging on thirty-somethings, but wisdom as well. Little part and parcel tidbits to look out for. Good stuff.
In any case, I feel good. The energy is not all the way there yet, but the nausea has lifted long enough for me to get in some protein shakes in. The mornings are still tough. At night I can turn on either side now and stay there a while instead of being stuck on my back for 8-10 hours. When I first wake up though, that's when the port site is most sore, when it's hardest to move, and the stomach feels the most topsy-turvy; but it's improving. I haven't needed the liqud Tylenol more than once a day, and at that it's only been once in three days.
So wish me luck that it keeps going in this direction and I'll be back with updates soon.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Scars: Post Op + 4
The surgery was last Thursday. I meant to blog the night before, capture my thoughts of fear, excitement and anticipation, but the to-do's got to be too much and I never got around to it. Having only had surgery as an infant, I had nothing to measure what I might feel like coming out of anaesthesia. One can hardly compare having their stomach ripped open to a bikini wax or broken arm, after all. There are degrees of pain, and this one went off the charts for me.
A disclaimer: If you're reading this and thinking about the surgery, please take the following passages with a grain of salt, I am a big baby when I'm sick.
Once in the operating room, after a plethora of delays including an emergency appendectomy of some poor sap and lots of waiting around, I was wheeled in and moved over to the right table and five or six people started hooking me up to all sorts of things, boots for my legs to prevent clots, an arm pressure cuff, blood oxygen monitor...you name it. I expected I would be asked to count down, but honestly the last thing I remember is the anaesthesiologist telling me I would start to feel sleepy, this was just the pre-op sedative. That was it though, I was out, gone...in la la land. Big Bird could have come into the operating room and done the surgery and I wouldn't have known the difference. I never even saw the surgeon in the room.
I woke up with lips and throat dryer than I have ever expereienced, but the recovery nurse couldn't give me anything to wet them yet, it was too early. I felt the stabbing pain in my right side every time I took a breath and it was all I could do to communicate that whatever she was giving me wasn't working. I just laid there with tears streaming down my face, moaning that it hurt out of my parched throat. Pretty soon though I was hooked up to my best friend for the next day and a half, the self-controlled morphine machine. The nurse also came over and gave me several shots of something that was very effective at killing the pain, but not long-lasting. It would die down after about five minutes and I'd want more. The morphine still didn't feel like it had kickec in. By the time I had left the recovery room she had given me four shots of that sweet nectar painkiller. She also gave me something of a gauze lollypop, drenched in water to suck on, and it was heaven. I am by no means religious, but God Bless that nurse, seriously.
Shortly after they wheeled me to my room on the tenth floor of that part of the hospital, and by some minor miracle, I got a private room. For this I also thanked my lucky stars. If one should have to be in the hospital, at their most vulnerable, unable to get up without help, unable to move without pain, unable to wipe their own ass (yes...it's true) then one should at least be able to do it alone, or around only other healthcare professionals; not someone else, and someone else's family.
For the first several hours I just layed there. Cathy came in, and brought my blanket and pillow from home, my teddy bear (yes, damnit I brought my bear) and I felt much better having her there. I was so glad I hadn't decided to be independent and stupid and do all of this on my own. So I just lay there, for the most part, trying to get comfortable, clicking that morphine button to the tune of 11cc per hour and I was wonderfully without pain.
By the time night rolled around there were threats of cathetars though, and looming nurses telling me it was time to get up and pee. Your body is a strange thing. They tell you that somehow during the course of the surgery, it can forget how to perform normal bodily functions, and if that occurs, they have to tube you. Something you really, really don't want. So I forced my way over and without getting too graphic, determined not to get a cathetar, made sure that I was not going to have one. Man, that sucked.
I also walked around a bit after that, and made a couple of loops around the ward holding on to my IV stand for dear life. Walking was good, but I only made it a couple of laps before I wanted to go back to the morphine sanctuary of my bed.
The night time wasn't much fun. Nurse's aids came in what seemed every hour to take my temp and blood pressure, which for most of the night was non-existent hovering at about 85/40. They didn't seem too concerned though and I drifted in and out of sleep.
Friday morning after more bathroom adventures it was time for the fluoroscopy, to make sure nothing was leaking and that the port had been placed right. Miserable. They cut you open and sew you back up and the next day they want you to move to an X ray table where they jossle you around and ask you to drink a cup full of foul tasting liquid at the same time. Again, I cried.
They let me out Friday night, after I could prove to them that I could eat the mushy foods they put in front of me. By the time it rolled around, I was so desperate to leave (they had unhooked me from my friend the morphine machine hours previously) that I didn't want to wait the 30 mins for the wheelchair escort. I walked my ass out of Mt. Sinai the way I came in.
It's been a couple of days now. Some pain is the same. The port site is still stabbing and very painful, and the gas trapped in the abdominal cavity is annoying and painful; and I have a numbness on my lower lip area apparently from the anaesthesia that hasn't gone away and is purely irritating.
I was tremedously ambitious thinking I would be well enough to work today. I'm just taking it a day at a time right now, but today I'm thinking it will be more like Wednesday or Thursday. It's getting easier to sleep. Last night I actually managed a couple of hours on my side, but it's still brutal getting up from laying down.
If there is or was going to be a regret moment in all of this, I suppose now is the time. Before I see any results, and when the pain is the worst. It can only go up from here.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
MSRP Rant
There's a lot of deep stuff going on in life at my present course, so I thought it might be cathartic to talk about something less so, and perhaps something that just pisses me off. Aggression is sometimes great therapy, no?
I went to Vicky's on Thursday. I wanted to pick up a few pairs of new panties since I hadn't bought a single article of clothing for myself in three months (quite the record for me). It would have been stupid after all. I mean, why bother to continue to pour money into a wardrobe that I will slowly shrink out of and have to give away, piece by piece. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth. I'm cringing now to think of it.
It had been a while since I went into my usual retail haunts, Vicky's, Banana, Gap, Ann Taylor...and I had forgotten the implicit judgments, the cruelty...the looks. I got the usual nod and welcome coming into the door. Those girls are so bored standing in the front of the store they'll thank anyone who gives them conversation to pass the time. Believe me, I know...I still recall the ridiculousness of my time at Loft. Once you're inside though, that's where it starts.
It's not just weight, it's classist judgments too, that's obvious. Go in wearing tattered jeans, or a cheap T and flips and you'll likely not be waited on even if you're really a millionaire. If you don't look like you're going to spend money, give a name for their commission boost, you'll not get a hello. Well, it's worse for weight. A big girl goes into an upscale shop where the sizes only go up so high, and not only will they not wait on you, you'll get the sneered looks, as if to say "bitch, what are you even doing here....you know you're not going to fit into anything". For the record, bitches, I do fit into the stuff here, but don't come up to me and ask me what size I'm looking for with that expression on your face. There have been times when this hasn't happened of course. You dress up, you wear the right pair of heels, the right line-lengthening pants and it might not quite happen. I know all the tricks. Glamour can tell you how to dress and take of 10 pounds. I can show you how to dress and take off about 30. But I had forgotten.
I was actually pleased, PLEASED when I got to the front of the line with my three little pairs of panties and answered that no one had helped me in the store to the inquiring girl waiting to punch in the employee's ID for credit. It's an asinine ego boost to say in my head, "that's right, none of you bitches wanted to help the big girl." But why do we have to even get there, hmm?
It's like those shows...you see someone like Tyra, or Gwyneth stuff themselves in a fat suit and get on Access Hollywood or some bullshit attention-getting show and throw themselves on video being de-humanized and taunted by critical glares, spoken and un-spoken rude-ness. I'm here to tell you, that's insulting to me. Don't presume you know how it feels because you got made up for the day, or even a week. At the end of the day you peel that off and you get to return to normalcy and say...oh, those poor fat people. Condescending bullshit. Yes, we may have gotten ourselves here, but don't presume to know me.
Which brings up something else, what the hell are they thinking hiring skinny bitches (thank you, Mo') at LB? What big woman who walks into LB with a sigh knowing that the clothes here will fit, and in fact there are many sizes above that that will be too big; a relief-filling experience to be sure, and wants to have someone 1/3 her size asking her if she'd care to have a bra-fitting this afternoon?
I react always with a sweet smile, and think in my head, "now sweetie, I know you get all your bras at Vicky's and because you're an A cup you can get all those pretty little lace bras with lifters and such to give you cleavage...and yes, I'm jealous of that smallness to a degree, but if there's one thing I know...it'll me be pulling my own DDD's into an LB special, shelf-titty-making black lace bra, not you. But thank you for asking."
Thank you, come again.
I went to Vicky's on Thursday. I wanted to pick up a few pairs of new panties since I hadn't bought a single article of clothing for myself in three months (quite the record for me). It would have been stupid after all. I mean, why bother to continue to pour money into a wardrobe that I will slowly shrink out of and have to give away, piece by piece. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth. I'm cringing now to think of it.
It had been a while since I went into my usual retail haunts, Vicky's, Banana, Gap, Ann Taylor...and I had forgotten the implicit judgments, the cruelty...the looks. I got the usual nod and welcome coming into the door. Those girls are so bored standing in the front of the store they'll thank anyone who gives them conversation to pass the time. Believe me, I know...I still recall the ridiculousness of my time at Loft. Once you're inside though, that's where it starts.
It's not just weight, it's classist judgments too, that's obvious. Go in wearing tattered jeans, or a cheap T and flips and you'll likely not be waited on even if you're really a millionaire. If you don't look like you're going to spend money, give a name for their commission boost, you'll not get a hello. Well, it's worse for weight. A big girl goes into an upscale shop where the sizes only go up so high, and not only will they not wait on you, you'll get the sneered looks, as if to say "bitch, what are you even doing here....you know you're not going to fit into anything". For the record, bitches, I do fit into the stuff here, but don't come up to me and ask me what size I'm looking for with that expression on your face. There have been times when this hasn't happened of course. You dress up, you wear the right pair of heels, the right line-lengthening pants and it might not quite happen. I know all the tricks. Glamour can tell you how to dress and take of 10 pounds. I can show you how to dress and take off about 30. But I had forgotten.
I was actually pleased, PLEASED when I got to the front of the line with my three little pairs of panties and answered that no one had helped me in the store to the inquiring girl waiting to punch in the employee's ID for credit. It's an asinine ego boost to say in my head, "that's right, none of you bitches wanted to help the big girl." But why do we have to even get there, hmm?
It's like those shows...you see someone like Tyra, or Gwyneth stuff themselves in a fat suit and get on Access Hollywood or some bullshit attention-getting show and throw themselves on video being de-humanized and taunted by critical glares, spoken and un-spoken rude-ness. I'm here to tell you, that's insulting to me. Don't presume you know how it feels because you got made up for the day, or even a week. At the end of the day you peel that off and you get to return to normalcy and say...oh, those poor fat people. Condescending bullshit. Yes, we may have gotten ourselves here, but don't presume to know me.
Which brings up something else, what the hell are they thinking hiring skinny bitches (thank you, Mo') at LB? What big woman who walks into LB with a sigh knowing that the clothes here will fit, and in fact there are many sizes above that that will be too big; a relief-filling experience to be sure, and wants to have someone 1/3 her size asking her if she'd care to have a bra-fitting this afternoon?
I react always with a sweet smile, and think in my head, "now sweetie, I know you get all your bras at Vicky's and because you're an A cup you can get all those pretty little lace bras with lifters and such to give you cleavage...and yes, I'm jealous of that smallness to a degree, but if there's one thing I know...it'll me be pulling my own DDD's into an LB special, shelf-titty-making black lace bra, not you. But thank you for asking."
Thank you, come again.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Counting Forwards
After the Monometry, things went steadily. I endured the upper GI series...what felt like a gallon of barium required to be swallowed at various consistencies, (thinned out milk and thick like glue) and in various positions- laying down, standing up, turning from one side to the other from my back to my stomach.
I wondered as I lay there if they could possibly come up with a more uncomfortable way to examine the inside of your stomach. Don't eat or drink for 15, 16 hours, so your nice and hungry. Then, you want a drink? Sure, here's a nice hefting glass of thick white foul-tasting goo and then mix it around good and well so you're on the verge of puking it all back up.
I wasn't sure if I felt flattered, or annoyed at the X-ray tech's postulation that I wasn't very big, and how he'd seen oh so much bigger. I was more than annoyed when he asked me how much I weighed, but he backed down when I glared at him. Beforehand he had asked how much I wanted to lose, "what, maybe 40 or 50 pounds?" I nodded to shut him up. He was nice, perhaps overly so, but wanted to know more than I wanted to give. What I wanted to ask him in a fitting sarcastic tone was something more along the lines of "Look guy, you do this every day. Do you really suppose they're willing to cut you open and clamp your tummy if you only need to lose 40 or 50 pounds? Come now...be reasonable." But I remained silent. I just wanted it to be over.
After all, I had waited in the waiting room a solid hour and a half past my appointment time. Par for the course, at this juncture in the game. The GI doc who took the actual images was in fact, very sweet. Grandfatherly is how I'd characterize him. He made the experience slightly more bearable.
As I walked out the door, the tech said "good luck with those 50 pounds, sweetie"....
So here I am...a couple short weeks away from the surgery. I'm not exactly afraid of it. The surgery itself doesn't frighten me at all. A quick hour under anesthesia, and I'm done. The scars...well, I'm not overjoyed about them, but I see them as a necessary sacrifice to getting healthy. What I worry about, what really scares me is what happens that first time I want to gorge myself ridiculously on foods I can't eat....when I'm sitting in my office, and I want that chicken parm wrap from Fresco, or I want that turkey sandwich, and I'm looking at a half cup of barely edible protein shake as my lunch. That terrifies me, and I know I'll be leaning a lot on others, the people I've met in the support groups, friends.
But that's SOOOO very not me. I'm the independent "I don't need anyone else in this life" bitch, aren't I? Isn't that what I tell myself when things are difficult, when faced with pain? It's going to be tough to learn to depend on others.
I wondered as I lay there if they could possibly come up with a more uncomfortable way to examine the inside of your stomach. Don't eat or drink for 15, 16 hours, so your nice and hungry. Then, you want a drink? Sure, here's a nice hefting glass of thick white foul-tasting goo and then mix it around good and well so you're on the verge of puking it all back up.
I wasn't sure if I felt flattered, or annoyed at the X-ray tech's postulation that I wasn't very big, and how he'd seen oh so much bigger. I was more than annoyed when he asked me how much I weighed, but he backed down when I glared at him. Beforehand he had asked how much I wanted to lose, "what, maybe 40 or 50 pounds?" I nodded to shut him up. He was nice, perhaps overly so, but wanted to know more than I wanted to give. What I wanted to ask him in a fitting sarcastic tone was something more along the lines of "Look guy, you do this every day. Do you really suppose they're willing to cut you open and clamp your tummy if you only need to lose 40 or 50 pounds? Come now...be reasonable." But I remained silent. I just wanted it to be over.
After all, I had waited in the waiting room a solid hour and a half past my appointment time. Par for the course, at this juncture in the game. The GI doc who took the actual images was in fact, very sweet. Grandfatherly is how I'd characterize him. He made the experience slightly more bearable.
As I walked out the door, the tech said "good luck with those 50 pounds, sweetie"....
So here I am...a couple short weeks away from the surgery. I'm not exactly afraid of it. The surgery itself doesn't frighten me at all. A quick hour under anesthesia, and I'm done. The scars...well, I'm not overjoyed about them, but I see them as a necessary sacrifice to getting healthy. What I worry about, what really scares me is what happens that first time I want to gorge myself ridiculously on foods I can't eat....when I'm sitting in my office, and I want that chicken parm wrap from Fresco, or I want that turkey sandwich, and I'm looking at a half cup of barely edible protein shake as my lunch. That terrifies me, and I know I'll be leaning a lot on others, the people I've met in the support groups, friends.
But that's SOOOO very not me. I'm the independent "I don't need anyone else in this life" bitch, aren't I? Isn't that what I tell myself when things are difficult, when faced with pain? It's going to be tough to learn to depend on others.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Counting Backwards
I saw the surgeon in early May; and so inspired was I by my decisiveness and motivation that I plotted my way to see all my required specialists in that month, so that I could conceivably have my surgery in June or early July if the timing worked out right with the insurance company.
I plugged away making opportunities with the cardiologist, gastroenterologist, pulmonologist, nutritionist, new internal medicine doc, and psychologist (is that all?) more determined than ever to get through whatever necessary unpleasantness was to befall me in my quest for banding.
The first appointments, not surprisingly, went well. It's easy enough to sit in front of a shrink and talk about your love/hate relationship with food and how it came about. It also helps that I have a lifetime of experience in sitting in front of shrinks. The nutritionist, Amy, was also a good experience, and my first in talking to someone who had a lot of relationships with fat people. She was positive, bright, but not overwhelmingly so. No saccharine-like bubbliness that becomes so annoying you wonder how she maintains it. I could see why she was the favorite of the support group at the hospital. I heard from both that I was an ideal candidate for the surgery and they each had no qualms in recommending me. After those, I was genuinely excited, and on the fast track mentally speaking. My biggest competition was myself, and not getting overly frustrated because I wasn't having the surgery TOMORROW. That's how it went for me for the most part. As soon as I made the decision to have this done, and exactly what type of "this" I was having done, I wanted it then and there. Consider it the instant gratification part of my personality I haven't quite grown out of. Coming to terms with that in the midst of medical bureaucracy and appointments was mind-numbing and frustrating beyond words.
The cardiologist was a breeze. Not entirely comfortable, but not painful. Then, after all, lying on your side in a paper gown and having an attractive, similar-in-age male moving your breast around with something that feels suspiciously like KY Jelly so he can access your heart better is never going to be a moment of ideal tranquility. He was professional, and kind. The kind of doctor you can only hope you get if you have to have one maneuvering around your chest with a plastic instrument.
The pulmonologist was also quick and easy. The most difficult thing was the timing, sitting in his waiting room for a cool hour + counting the minutes I had been absent from my desk was rattling. Now that I bring it up, that too was one of the more major annoyances of this whole ordeal. Doctor's offices are awful, and I mean AWFUL about getting you in on time for your appointments. I don't specifically blame the docs, but it's hard to be impartial when you know that each patient equals such and such amount of money to the practice and that they'll squeeze in as many as they can. At any rate, he was apologetic, and genuinely a very nice man. I have asthma, so the breathing in and out, and holding your breath is routine at this juncture in my life. After half an hour or so, I was gone with the pulmo's blessing.
The first GI (yes, first) was polite, but curt. Not the warmest of creatures. I was in his office for about 5 minutes and then ushered out. Turns out he only did endoscopy, and I had seen far, far too many episodes of ER to be stupid enough to believe I wanted that. Instead, he said I'd need something called monometry, and I'd have to see another guy. Hmm, and here I thought I was just going to this guy for an upper GI x-ray series. WTF? I wondered. I e-mailed my surgeon again (another little tidbit that my surgeon offers, his free time via e-mail to answer any and all questions- I loved this!) and he said that though it wasn't required, I should do the monometry to ensure they were working with a normal esophagus at the gate, should problems arise years down the road.
Then I made a tragic mistake, and looked up the fated procedure online. I am too reserach oriented for my own good sometimes. I'll spare some of the graphic details, but in the shortest words possible for a long-winded chic like me, the procedure involves inserting a flexible tube down your nose and into your esophagus. You are fully awake for this, and have to be to swallow the many sips of water needed once in place to measure the strength of your esophagus. Thankfully, there is lidocaine spray involved, and moreover I had an outright amazing GI doc do the procedure. He had phenomenally gentle bedside manner, and talked me through the whole thing. I am so grateful for that doc's ability.
More on the journey so far later....this one's gotten a bit long.
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