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.

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.

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.

Good Karma

New York is obsessed today with the explosion near 41st and Lex last night. Blocks away from my little shoe-box sized corner of the world, a "frozen zone" has been established, much like the Wonka Factory where no one goes in and no one goes out with the exception of scientists and firemen in appropriate gas masks; and life's little ironies are being curiously pointed at me. If I hadn't elected to stay on the 6 through to 33rd St., and walk down to NYU's support group meeting for the fat (and often irritating) I would have been strolling right past that corner, now a 40 foot crater in midtown. No need for a lap-band when your delicate bits are being blown sky high. Strangely though, only one fatality as a result of the steam pressure blow (NOT terrorism, people!), and that poor bastard went as a result of an MI. I suppose if I had been there, the shock alone of the street blowing up around you could have been a smidge traumatic.



It's funny to me, because I had tossed the idea back and forth for the better part of the day. I could have gotten off at 42nd St. I nearly did. I just wanted to be home, and go to bed, killing what remained of my cold. I stayed on the train though, and because of that tragedy was averted.



So I suppose I should thank the curly red-haired girl from the meeting (who reminds me a bit of orphan Annie, that everyone loves and adores, and is charming and sickeningly sweet, who in secret makes me feel like puking my entire lunch out), who kept us there by droning on about the 89lb woman who formerly policed her eating habits. I should also thank the stereotypic LI jewish lady, who really needs to start looking at the plastics section of the sites, and has a comment for everyone in the room.



Now, I don't wish to be cruel. I can find humor and idiocy in everyone, including me, and I am strangely comforted and fond of these people, those who have gone before me who impart their wisdom, their stories of frustration and anger and sadness and hurt, and most importantly HUNGER. But I am also intensely irritated by a good majority of them. It's like being back at law school, and wanting to lunge across the room and slit the throat of the guy who doesn't ever shut up; the guy who has an answer for everything and lives for the sound of his own voice. Deep down you need this man, because it means that you never have the expectation of talking, but you loathe and despise him as well, because his moronic mentality, and always irritating voice grates against your nerves like nails to a chalkboard.

Approved!!!

I'm starting this blog in part as a precipice into my journey with the lap-band, and in part just to chronicle my life in the center of the apple...the big one that is. For now I'm going to stick with the surgery, as it's at the forefront of my mind.

It started in May. I sat in a surgeon's office on the upper east side, listening to him...well, in truth half listening to him and half wondering if I was really sitting there after years of thinking of having surgery and tossing the idea aside as ridiculous, or not quite being ready.

I knew the office would be way up on 5th, but somehow didn't make the connection of exactly where it was until I was sitting in the cab crossing from Madison on 82nd or 83rd. LITERALLY right across the street from the Met. WTF? Really?? That was my omen. All my internet research, hours combing various sites trying to figure out where to begin, and what surgeon to pick (there were literally dozens) and I was satisfied based not on the number of surgeries this guy had done, or his credentials, or even the quality of the website; no, solely on the fact that they managed to get an office lease across from the museum. Yes, dis bitch is crazy. Ok, perhaps not quite so crazy. I had done all the other research ahead of time after all.

Three months later, I'm approved! Just three days after sending in my packet to the insurance company (SHOUT out to Healthnet!) I have a surgery date!!! Amazing. I want to log all of it. Well, not ALL of it. I have serious doubts that anyone reading will want to know the joys of a monometry procedure. But I'll try to go back over the last three months to help anyone that's thinking about doing this. I'd just like to tell me story here, for whoever is interested. I hope to keep it entertaining.