It's been several years since my last post. I have many reasons, and excuses, for letting this blog slip away- but at the core is simply this: I was redefining me. The initial posts on this blog were about the beginnings, the battles, the beautiful me that I was and was becoming. And then, there I was. Nearly 200lbs lighter, a size 6, a small, and I was healthy. (I'll go back and address the actual loss shortly, I promise!) So I was faced with the looming question of "Now What?". And man, that was a scary question to tackle.
The first couple of years during my weight loss journey were focused on simply losing the weight. That process defined me. People would see me after a month away and would be excited and shocked at my progress. I had to buy new clothes every 2-3 months, I was buying new shoes (and shoe sizes!) regularly, and I was starting to adjust to the mirror image I was meeting every morning. And so it went from the first pound lost in 2007 until my loss halted in 2011.
My weight plateaued, and I was now, who I was going to be. Physically. I was weighing in at roughly 145lbs and I should have been happy, right? This was, after all, the ultimate prize. Getting to this point was the end goal, the final destination, the pinnacle of my efforts and the proof that it was all worth it. Every pain, every frustration, every effort, every drop of sweat and the countless tears- all were shed to get me to here- to this new, thin, me.
And yet, I was left with a feeling of emptiness. I was filled with doubt, and was no longer sure what I was working for, or towards, after years of being solely focused on this one thing. Losing weight. See, I had missed a major step in the journey. Yes, I was redefining my body. But I had failed to see that redefining my body meant I would also have to redefine so much more in my life. I was use to shopping at certain stores, buying certain things, encountering certain reactions that shaped my interactions socially. So when the excitement and the awe fades away, and you are left with a normal-lost in the shuffle-nothing extraordinary about you- YOU... well, you are left with a lot of quiet. A lot of time to ponder what you should be doing now, and if you're honoring your body and the journey that got you there, properly.
So here I was. I was living in Las Vegas and no one knew the old me, so no one was telling me how amazing I was to have overcome that huge hurtle. I was just Laurina. Anyone who met me, assumed I had always looked the way I did and I found myself being judged by an entirely new group of people. Overweight people. Yes, you read that correctly. I started to run into judgement and stares, rude comments and a dismissive attitude from the people who embodied everything I once was. I knew their pain, I knew their struggle and I felt their hurts, and yet- they looked at me like I was the enemy and despite my best efforts to be kind and accepting, I was often ignored by an entire group of people who I had solely identified with for so many years. These were MY people, and now, I was an outcast.
Tack on one more reason I was feeling lost and confused.
I was working for The Art of Shaving in 2010-2011 when I first encountered this type of interaction. I was the manager at TAOS and next door was a tea shop. The manager there, was a woman who reminded me of who I had been only days before my surgery. She was bitter, frustrated and trying her best to convince people that she loved the way she looked- "I'm a woman with curves and I love myself." she would say through a fake smile and faux confidence. Others believed her, but I had said the same things and I knew the lies she was telling well. I also knew the emptiness she felt on the inside. And so, because I felt I could connect with her on a deeper level, I attempted to converse.
I knew I couldn't go up to her and say "Hey, so, you barely know me but I use to be just like you and now I'm not, but I understand how you must be feeling because clearly you're lying to yourself and everyone around you." Yeah, that wouldn't go over well... So instead, I was nice. I looked her in the eye, I didn't stare at her rolls or the sweat on her brow (from the extra effort it took to do the basic every day tasks) as so many people had once done with me. I just saw her beautiful inside. I would go in for a tea and would ask her about her day, about work, about home, her husband, any thing that would help her let down her guard with me a bit. It took months before she stopped giving me the stink eye when she thought I wasn't looking, but one day she brought me a tea without solicitation and looked me in the eye and said "Why are you so nice to me?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" I replied.
"Everyone is so judgmental of me... you don't seem to see my weight, I feel like you see me..."
She was right. People are judgmental of her weight, as they had been of mine, and it was amazing to hear her say that she knew I was different. And so I shared my story, showed her the pictures of the woman I had been, and she let me in. After our conversation, I asked her one final question.
"Why did you judge me?"
She looked at me stunned. Paused. Took a breath.
"I didn't judge you. I just assumed you were like everyone else." she reluctantly and quietly muttered.
I smiled, but decided to press on further.
"You know I get it. So you also know I know you judged me. You decided I was judging you before you ever had a conversation with me... and I know where that comes from and why you felt that way. But how many relationships are you missing out on because you're making these assumptions instead of believing the best in everyone? Just think about it."
And we went back to work.
This moment, this simple conversation, was the beginning of the redefining of Laurina. It was the moment when I knew I had a responsibility to myself to continue to grow, to discover new ways to interact and new ways to behave. I had posted before pictures on Facebook, posted links to my blog, and occasionally reminded people where I had once been and that it was not all that long ago. But I also knew that living in the past was not enough. While I wanted to continue to share my journey in hopes of helping others, I also knew that being this new me, came with responsibilities. I needed to do the things I had made excuses about doing while I was overweight and losing. I needed to embrace my new body and begin to thrive, not just be. It wasn't going to be easy... But it was going to happen or this journey would have been for not. And well, that just wasn't going to happen on my watch.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
October 8, 2007 Part Deux
I remember mumbling something incoherent to my husband (fiance at the time) as they wheeled me away to surgery. No clue what I was trying to say and he had no idea either. My hand slipped out of his as I rolled by and I was soon laying belly up on a metal surgical table.
Four hours went by. Then five, and just as it was approaching six hours, the Dr. came out to see my husband and to let him know I was still breathing. I was taken into the recovery room and a nurse who's breath smelled like Frito's leaned over me and stirred me out of my sleep. Subconsciously I must have thought I would wake up just a little thinner as one of the first things I did as began to come out of my haze was look down at my stomach. It was bigger.
In order to have the proper space to access your intestines and stomach, the Dr's fill you stomach cavity with air, a lot of air, and it slowly retracts over the 48 hours post op. It was puffy and tight and I felt like I'd eaten an entire buffet of food, even the hard boiled eggs...I hate hard boiled eggs.
The nurse asked me if I'd like to see my incisions and I nodded. She lifted my hospital gown to reveal the five tiny slices in my stomach. One cut next to my belly button, one slightly above it and to the left, one on my left side just below my rib cage and it's twin was placed on the opposite side of my gut. The final little soon-to-be-scar was right between my chest close to my heart. They were glued shut, not stitched or stapled. I cried. I felt like Frankenstein, I was bloated like a bullfrog, I was in pain, and I was tired.
When they were finally able to wheel me into my personal recovery room, my pain was pretty intense. Turns out, your insides hurt way more than your outsides do and someone had literally opened me up, jumbled up my internal organs, resealed me and called it macaroni! It hurt like hell. I was on heavy pain killers and a strict ice diet for two days. Simple tasks like peeing and brushing my teeth were only attempted right after the drugs kicked in and I knew I had a few minutes pain free to shuffle to the restroom, iv bag wheeling beside me.
Sleeping was disastrous. I'm a side and stomach sleeper and I was told not to sleep on my stomach at all for at least six weeks to ensure I didn't put any unnecessary pressure on my insides that could lead to leaks, tears or bruising. I was miserable and wanted nothing more than to curl up on my side and doze off for days, but sleep was fleeting and comfort was impossible during those early days.
The Dr's wouldn't let me leave the hospital to go home until I was able to stomach and keep down jello or juice. It took me two days on ice and water before I swallowed my first sip of seriously diluted cranberry juice and kept it down. Prior attempts had not been pretty and that is the extent of the visual I will leave you with.
After two nights in the hospital, I was finally discharged and returned home to finish my recovery process. Prior to surgery I had been given a very clear list of guidelines and rules for a healthy recovery and had to spend a small fortune stocking my kitchen with the foods and supplements I would need during the first six weeks at home.
I was only aloud to have clear liquids for the first ten days, then I could add in broths and protein drinks for the next two weeks. After three weeks I would be able to add in cream soups and possibly some milk but only if I could keep it down. Four weeks in and I could have some yogurt or cottage cheese, soups, juice and protein shakes. After five weeks, I could start adding in some mashed fruit, and even baby food if I wanted! (Really?) And after six weeks of nothing but liquidy and mushy foods, I would finally be able to have one solid meal a day in conjunction with my liquids.
Clear liquids went off without a hitch and adding in chicken broth was an easy transition. I had purchased an entire tub of vanilla protein shake powder and after my first shake, I came to the startling realization that one of the many potential side-effects from the surgery had most likely become reality. I was now lactose intolerant. I was violently ill after that first protein shake (whey protein) and had to return to clear liquids for a few more days before I could reattempt any additional proteins. My mom and husband both attempted to find protein shake alternatives but I had grown wary and turned to a clear liquid protein drink that used Soy instead and stuck with that for the next few weeks.
Not being able to stomach dairy also meant that the majority of the "acceptable" food options moving forward were going to be problems. No dairy meant no cream soups, no milk, no cottage cheese... Cream soup with soy milk is gross, for the record. So, the first six weeks after my surgery included nothing but juice, broth, soy milk, mashed fruits and...well, that's actually all.
The weight was dropping off of me at a rapid rate that even exceeded my expectations. I was losing approximately two pounds a day and at my first check up post op I had already lost 18lbs. Two weeks later I was down by 40lbs and after my six week check up, I had lost 60lbs. It was astounding. It was exhilarating. It was overwhelming.
Six weeks out and I was down 60lbs, down from a size 28 to a size 22 and my face was beginning to take on a shape other than O. I was on the upswing and I was ready to tackle life head on despite that mild food set back. Nothing could stop me.
Yeah. Right.
Four hours went by. Then five, and just as it was approaching six hours, the Dr. came out to see my husband and to let him know I was still breathing. I was taken into the recovery room and a nurse who's breath smelled like Frito's leaned over me and stirred me out of my sleep. Subconsciously I must have thought I would wake up just a little thinner as one of the first things I did as began to come out of my haze was look down at my stomach. It was bigger.
In order to have the proper space to access your intestines and stomach, the Dr's fill you stomach cavity with air, a lot of air, and it slowly retracts over the 48 hours post op. It was puffy and tight and I felt like I'd eaten an entire buffet of food, even the hard boiled eggs...I hate hard boiled eggs.
The nurse asked me if I'd like to see my incisions and I nodded. She lifted my hospital gown to reveal the five tiny slices in my stomach. One cut next to my belly button, one slightly above it and to the left, one on my left side just below my rib cage and it's twin was placed on the opposite side of my gut. The final little soon-to-be-scar was right between my chest close to my heart. They were glued shut, not stitched or stapled. I cried. I felt like Frankenstein, I was bloated like a bullfrog, I was in pain, and I was tired.
When they were finally able to wheel me into my personal recovery room, my pain was pretty intense. Turns out, your insides hurt way more than your outsides do and someone had literally opened me up, jumbled up my internal organs, resealed me and called it macaroni! It hurt like hell. I was on heavy pain killers and a strict ice diet for two days. Simple tasks like peeing and brushing my teeth were only attempted right after the drugs kicked in and I knew I had a few minutes pain free to shuffle to the restroom, iv bag wheeling beside me.
Sleeping was disastrous. I'm a side and stomach sleeper and I was told not to sleep on my stomach at all for at least six weeks to ensure I didn't put any unnecessary pressure on my insides that could lead to leaks, tears or bruising. I was miserable and wanted nothing more than to curl up on my side and doze off for days, but sleep was fleeting and comfort was impossible during those early days.
The Dr's wouldn't let me leave the hospital to go home until I was able to stomach and keep down jello or juice. It took me two days on ice and water before I swallowed my first sip of seriously diluted cranberry juice and kept it down. Prior attempts had not been pretty and that is the extent of the visual I will leave you with.
After two nights in the hospital, I was finally discharged and returned home to finish my recovery process. Prior to surgery I had been given a very clear list of guidelines and rules for a healthy recovery and had to spend a small fortune stocking my kitchen with the foods and supplements I would need during the first six weeks at home.
I was only aloud to have clear liquids for the first ten days, then I could add in broths and protein drinks for the next two weeks. After three weeks I would be able to add in cream soups and possibly some milk but only if I could keep it down. Four weeks in and I could have some yogurt or cottage cheese, soups, juice and protein shakes. After five weeks, I could start adding in some mashed fruit, and even baby food if I wanted! (Really?) And after six weeks of nothing but liquidy and mushy foods, I would finally be able to have one solid meal a day in conjunction with my liquids.
Clear liquids went off without a hitch and adding in chicken broth was an easy transition. I had purchased an entire tub of vanilla protein shake powder and after my first shake, I came to the startling realization that one of the many potential side-effects from the surgery had most likely become reality. I was now lactose intolerant. I was violently ill after that first protein shake (whey protein) and had to return to clear liquids for a few more days before I could reattempt any additional proteins. My mom and husband both attempted to find protein shake alternatives but I had grown wary and turned to a clear liquid protein drink that used Soy instead and stuck with that for the next few weeks.
Not being able to stomach dairy also meant that the majority of the "acceptable" food options moving forward were going to be problems. No dairy meant no cream soups, no milk, no cottage cheese... Cream soup with soy milk is gross, for the record. So, the first six weeks after my surgery included nothing but juice, broth, soy milk, mashed fruits and...well, that's actually all.
The weight was dropping off of me at a rapid rate that even exceeded my expectations. I was losing approximately two pounds a day and at my first check up post op I had already lost 18lbs. Two weeks later I was down by 40lbs and after my six week check up, I had lost 60lbs. It was astounding. It was exhilarating. It was overwhelming.
Six weeks out and I was down 60lbs, down from a size 28 to a size 22 and my face was beginning to take on a shape other than O. I was on the upswing and I was ready to tackle life head on despite that mild food set back. Nothing could stop me.
Yeah. Right.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
October 8, 2007 Part One
I prayed more than I had ever prayed the final weeks leading up to my surgery. Going under the knife, no matter how small or big of a procedure it is, can be daunting. To know that you will be going under anesthesia for many hours, being a very large person with breathing problems, is extremely terrifying. There are so many what-ifs, so many negative scenarios playing out in your head and there is little comfort to be found. I weighed the pros and cons on a daily basis and always found that waking up from surgery with a life of possibility ahead of me outweighed the fearfully driven cons that tore through my mind.
There would be side effects, there would be an intense recovery period, and I wasn't going to wake up thin; thin would take time. I had a long journey ahead of me. I thought I knew how hard that journey would be. Truth of the matter was, I really had no clue.
There are multiple options when it comes to weight loss surgery, all with varying results. I recommend doing a lot of research if you are considering it yourself, but here's a really good site that shows you the basics on all the options. For me, I wanted the surgery that had the highest success rate and the one that would be most likely to give me long-term results. I had read, heard, listened and delved into the lives and histories of people who had walked my walk and I had seen so many of them end up back where they started, some even heavier than before.
Where I found the highest success rate was with those who had undergone the Roux-En-Y Gastric Bypass. It sounds exotic, doesn't it? The surgery would reroute my digestive process, trim my 20-ft long small-intestine down to a quarter of its size, allowing me to consume no more than 1000 calories a day on average in my now silly-putty sized stomach pouch. I couldn't just pick the process that wrapped a band around my stomach, no, I had to pick the one that permanently changed my entire digestive system for better or worse.
Like I've said before- I was not going to risk being right back where my fat feet stood the day of surgery. I wanted a change, a freedom from the back rolls and giant love handles that dictated my every move. I was done with my size 28 pants and I was so ready for anything under a size18! I kept telling my fiance and my mom and my dad that I just want to see a size 16 again. I really would have been happy with just that.
And so there I was, less than 24 hours away from my d-day. I had asked my pastor at the time, my worship leader, his wife, my mom and a few other members at my church to pray with me. There is no denying, I was a complete wreck as I stood in the church clutching tightly the hands of those supporting me. I was scared beyond belief. I wasn't just scared of the surgery, I was scared that I wouldn't succeed afterwards. I was scared that I wouldn't lose the weight that I so desperately wanted to get rid of and that it would all be for not.
Somehow, I managed to pull myself together enough to make it to the hospital at 5am on October 8th, 2007. I filled out the monotonous paper work and I sat in the freezing cold pre-op room as they took my vitals. And then I stood on the last giant-mammal-scale I would ever stand on as they weighed me that final time before surgery. I didn't even look at the number. It meant nothing to me anymore. Change was coming in a matter of minutes and the only numbers that mattered to me were the years I was adding back onto my life because of the decision that I was making.
They had me lay down in an over-sized bed, placed a shower cap on my head and injected the happy drugs.
Deep breath...see you in five hours.
I hope.
There would be side effects, there would be an intense recovery period, and I wasn't going to wake up thin; thin would take time. I had a long journey ahead of me. I thought I knew how hard that journey would be. Truth of the matter was, I really had no clue.
There are multiple options when it comes to weight loss surgery, all with varying results. I recommend doing a lot of research if you are considering it yourself, but here's a really good site that shows you the basics on all the options. For me, I wanted the surgery that had the highest success rate and the one that would be most likely to give me long-term results. I had read, heard, listened and delved into the lives and histories of people who had walked my walk and I had seen so many of them end up back where they started, some even heavier than before.
Where I found the highest success rate was with those who had undergone the Roux-En-Y Gastric Bypass. It sounds exotic, doesn't it? The surgery would reroute my digestive process, trim my 20-ft long small-intestine down to a quarter of its size, allowing me to consume no more than 1000 calories a day on average in my now silly-putty sized stomach pouch. I couldn't just pick the process that wrapped a band around my stomach, no, I had to pick the one that permanently changed my entire digestive system for better or worse.
Like I've said before- I was not going to risk being right back where my fat feet stood the day of surgery. I wanted a change, a freedom from the back rolls and giant love handles that dictated my every move. I was done with my size 28 pants and I was so ready for anything under a size18! I kept telling my fiance and my mom and my dad that I just want to see a size 16 again. I really would have been happy with just that.
And so there I was, less than 24 hours away from my d-day. I had asked my pastor at the time, my worship leader, his wife, my mom and a few other members at my church to pray with me. There is no denying, I was a complete wreck as I stood in the church clutching tightly the hands of those supporting me. I was scared beyond belief. I wasn't just scared of the surgery, I was scared that I wouldn't succeed afterwards. I was scared that I wouldn't lose the weight that I so desperately wanted to get rid of and that it would all be for not.
Somehow, I managed to pull myself together enough to make it to the hospital at 5am on October 8th, 2007. I filled out the monotonous paper work and I sat in the freezing cold pre-op room as they took my vitals. And then I stood on the last giant-mammal-scale I would ever stand on as they weighed me that final time before surgery. I didn't even look at the number. It meant nothing to me anymore. Change was coming in a matter of minutes and the only numbers that mattered to me were the years I was adding back onto my life because of the decision that I was making.
They had me lay down in an over-sized bed, placed a shower cap on my head and injected the happy drugs.
Deep breath...see you in five hours.
I hope.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Laundry List
The first day of the rest of your life is kind of like being born again. It's revitalizing, refreshing and rejuvenating. It's also frightening. There's a lot of pressure to have this "new" life surpass the old one in more ways than one. If you don't succeed, then you've failed at two chances in life and well, I think you only get three total tries, right?
After that Dr.'s appointment in the summer of 2007 when I had made my commitment to changing my life, I had a laundry list or sorts to complete before I could truly start over. First on the list: Cardio Evaluation. There's no secret that the obese are on the top of the list when it comes to heart issues and I had been in denial, hiding from that fact, for so many years that the EKG and stress test awaiting me were, well- causing me stress!
I sat in the waiting room at the Cardiologist very aware that I was not alone in my stature. I could hear wheezing, heavy breathing, the slow and steady pumping of an oxygen tank and the occasional candy wrapper being crumpled after consumption of its contents. I could feel my heart beating faster and harder; I was nervous, afraid. "You can beat this. This life does not have to be what you are destined for. You can bring about change." That was my mantra while I waited for my turn with Dr. Heart. Very Obama, yes?
When I was finally called into the office, I was hooked up to a machine I'd only seen on TV and the EKG began. "Electro-k(c)ardio-gram: (EKG, ECG) is a simple, painless test that records the heart's electrical activity." Painless? Well...it doesn't hurt the skin, but the psyche is a whole different story. The little lines blipping on the screen and the monotony of the printed beating of my heart were what I believed to be the looming proof of the damage caused to my young heart by the fat weighing it down.
After several minutes, the Dr. turned off the machine, yanked the little round discs off my skin and asked me to follow him into the next room. Great. A treadmill. He had me step onto the machine and strapped more of the circular discs onto my upper body. "Start walking." Unlike Ms. Sinatra, my boots were not made for walking, nor was my body, so this was definitely easier said than done. I put one foot in front of the other and slid the mat underneath me back, one step at a time. He slowly increased the speed, watching the machine that was monitoring my "stress" and watching me turn beet red while the sweat pooled under my arms. After ten minutes, he shut down the machine and reviewed the results.
A long pause...
"Well, you are as healthy as a Clydesdale!"
The words were almost cruel and they stung like icy water on a summer day, but they were also beautiful. My heart, had withstood the growing pressure and was healthy. Period. Check one off the list!
Next on my laundry list was the Psychiatric Evaluation. In order to have Gastric Bypass, a head-doctor must conclude that you are making the decision to undergo permanent change to your body of your own free-will and that the decision is made with sound mind and not an emotionally charged one. Whoever came up with that statement has never been overweight, nor have they been given the chance to change their body! The decision was nothing if not emotionally charged and the millions of tears I'd shed in the last few years while staring at my rolls in the mirror could attest to that.
I sat in front of the Psychiatrist, a short, thin, and awkward man with a very obvious bald spot under his comb-over. He resembled Ned Flanders in his sweater vest and khakis and mustache, but wasn't nearly as pleasant, more of a Moe in personality actually. He asked me a series of questions about my mental stability, told me he didn't agree with Gastric Bypass as a way out of my "condition", then signed on the dotted line confirming my sanity and in turn, crossing another item off my list. I really didn't care what he agreed with or not. He had no concept of what it means to be overweight and after one twenty-minute visit with me, really had no more of an accurate perception of the person I was or the person I wanted to be, than the perception that his comb-over was hiding his balding head. Check number two off my list, thank you and goodbye doc!
Next on my list was to check the health of my gastro-intestinal track. This required an ultrasound and a CT scan. Nothing too exciting here, very basic procedures, and aside from the drama with my insurance and the three week wait to get in for both procedures, I was deemed healthy enough to have surgery and I checked number three off my list!
Perhaps the most important item on my laundry list, was the requirement to attend a class on Nutrition, meeting with a Nutritionist and having her sign off that I was prepared and ready for the days, weeks, months and years after surgery. The class was held at Huntington Hospital and I was seated in a room filled with other Bypass hopefuls. I brought my fiance with me so that we could learn "what not to do" together. I shared the majority of my meals with him and we both agreed that while I was the one having the surgery, we were definitely taking this journey together and a healthy lifestyle was going to take teamwork.
The class was four hours long and was filled to the gills with information on protein shakes and drinks for the days immediately following surgery, the probable intolerance to many of the foods we had indulged in that led to our current situation, and the need to truly change our lifestyle to ensure that years down the road we would be able to maintain our soon-to-be lean physiques, preventing us from replumping into our previous forms. I clung onto every word and I filled my mind with as much information as I could possibly get. If I was going through this, I was doing it right. At the end of the class, we were asked to complete a test to evaluate our retention and likelihood to switch gears into a healthy lifestyle.
I passed. I wanted to. I needed to. I forced myself to do well on a test for the first time in my life (ask my high school teachers). I was determined to change my life and I wasn't going to let a test stop me anymore than I was going to let food continue to be my enemy.
Check number four off my list, my friends!
The remaining items on my list consisted of attending another forum class led by my Dr., paying a $500 education fee to my Dr.'s office (they said this was to guarantee continued participation and interactions after surgery to promote weight-loss success), getting the final approval from my insurance, requesting time off from work, buying all of my post-op meals, and scheduling surgery.
October 8th, 2007. Ready or not, skinny me- I was a-comin!
After that Dr.'s appointment in the summer of 2007 when I had made my commitment to changing my life, I had a laundry list or sorts to complete before I could truly start over. First on the list: Cardio Evaluation. There's no secret that the obese are on the top of the list when it comes to heart issues and I had been in denial, hiding from that fact, for so many years that the EKG and stress test awaiting me were, well- causing me stress!
I sat in the waiting room at the Cardiologist very aware that I was not alone in my stature. I could hear wheezing, heavy breathing, the slow and steady pumping of an oxygen tank and the occasional candy wrapper being crumpled after consumption of its contents. I could feel my heart beating faster and harder; I was nervous, afraid. "You can beat this. This life does not have to be what you are destined for. You can bring about change." That was my mantra while I waited for my turn with Dr. Heart. Very Obama, yes?
When I was finally called into the office, I was hooked up to a machine I'd only seen on TV and the EKG began. "Electro-k(c)ardio-gram: (EKG, ECG) is a simple, painless test that records the heart's electrical activity." Painless? Well...it doesn't hurt the skin, but the psyche is a whole different story. The little lines blipping on the screen and the monotony of the printed beating of my heart were what I believed to be the looming proof of the damage caused to my young heart by the fat weighing it down.
After several minutes, the Dr. turned off the machine, yanked the little round discs off my skin and asked me to follow him into the next room. Great. A treadmill. He had me step onto the machine and strapped more of the circular discs onto my upper body. "Start walking." Unlike Ms. Sinatra, my boots were not made for walking, nor was my body, so this was definitely easier said than done. I put one foot in front of the other and slid the mat underneath me back, one step at a time. He slowly increased the speed, watching the machine that was monitoring my "stress" and watching me turn beet red while the sweat pooled under my arms. After ten minutes, he shut down the machine and reviewed the results.
A long pause...
"Well, you are as healthy as a Clydesdale!"
The words were almost cruel and they stung like icy water on a summer day, but they were also beautiful. My heart, had withstood the growing pressure and was healthy. Period. Check one off the list!
Next on my laundry list was the Psychiatric Evaluation. In order to have Gastric Bypass, a head-doctor must conclude that you are making the decision to undergo permanent change to your body of your own free-will and that the decision is made with sound mind and not an emotionally charged one. Whoever came up with that statement has never been overweight, nor have they been given the chance to change their body! The decision was nothing if not emotionally charged and the millions of tears I'd shed in the last few years while staring at my rolls in the mirror could attest to that.
I sat in front of the Psychiatrist, a short, thin, and awkward man with a very obvious bald spot under his comb-over. He resembled Ned Flanders in his sweater vest and khakis and mustache, but wasn't nearly as pleasant, more of a Moe in personality actually. He asked me a series of questions about my mental stability, told me he didn't agree with Gastric Bypass as a way out of my "condition", then signed on the dotted line confirming my sanity and in turn, crossing another item off my list. I really didn't care what he agreed with or not. He had no concept of what it means to be overweight and after one twenty-minute visit with me, really had no more of an accurate perception of the person I was or the person I wanted to be, than the perception that his comb-over was hiding his balding head. Check number two off my list, thank you and goodbye doc!
Next on my list was to check the health of my gastro-intestinal track. This required an ultrasound and a CT scan. Nothing too exciting here, very basic procedures, and aside from the drama with my insurance and the three week wait to get in for both procedures, I was deemed healthy enough to have surgery and I checked number three off my list!
Perhaps the most important item on my laundry list, was the requirement to attend a class on Nutrition, meeting with a Nutritionist and having her sign off that I was prepared and ready for the days, weeks, months and years after surgery. The class was held at Huntington Hospital and I was seated in a room filled with other Bypass hopefuls. I brought my fiance with me so that we could learn "what not to do" together. I shared the majority of my meals with him and we both agreed that while I was the one having the surgery, we were definitely taking this journey together and a healthy lifestyle was going to take teamwork.
The class was four hours long and was filled to the gills with information on protein shakes and drinks for the days immediately following surgery, the probable intolerance to many of the foods we had indulged in that led to our current situation, and the need to truly change our lifestyle to ensure that years down the road we would be able to maintain our soon-to-be lean physiques, preventing us from replumping into our previous forms. I clung onto every word and I filled my mind with as much information as I could possibly get. If I was going through this, I was doing it right. At the end of the class, we were asked to complete a test to evaluate our retention and likelihood to switch gears into a healthy lifestyle.
I passed. I wanted to. I needed to. I forced myself to do well on a test for the first time in my life (ask my high school teachers). I was determined to change my life and I wasn't going to let a test stop me anymore than I was going to let food continue to be my enemy.
Check number four off my list, my friends!
The remaining items on my list consisted of attending another forum class led by my Dr., paying a $500 education fee to my Dr.'s office (they said this was to guarantee continued participation and interactions after surgery to promote weight-loss success), getting the final approval from my insurance, requesting time off from work, buying all of my post-op meals, and scheduling surgery.
October 8th, 2007. Ready or not, skinny me- I was a-comin!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
316
I had my first personal consultation with the doctor from the symposium only two weeks after the night I found hope. While I was there, I would experience one of the worst moments of my life followed by one of the best.
When you go to any doctor for the first time they always have you fill out the multitude of forms that include questions about your mothers, mothers, mothers medical history along with the few additional questions about your personal life that, to be honest, we're not entirely sure they really need the answers to or if they just use that information to brighten their monotonous days. For me, the forms were a grim reminder of what could be if I didn't lose weight. Family history of: Diabetes? Check! Cancer? Check! Depression? Double check! I handed the forms back to the skinny-since-birth-medical assistant, and waddled back to my seat in the lobby. The one redeeming factor in that moment was that every other patient in the room was also of a rather large stature and were desperately waiting for relief from their flabby chains.
The skinny assistant called my name and I followed her down the sterile hallway until we stopped at "it". "Please step up onto the scale." The "scale" was a large metal platform with a small digital monitor velcroed to the wall next to it. It had a rail next to it for people to hold onto and it was no more than three inches off the ground. It could have weighed an elephant but it was meant to weigh me. I was mortified.
I stepped up onto the giant plate and closed my eyes. I didn't want to know the number but clearly the medical assistant didn't see the anxiety on my face and read the numbers aloud. 316. Three-hundred and sixteen pounds. I opened my eyes and stared at the little red numbers on the monitor, sure that she had read them wrong. No luck. I wiped the sweat off my cheek. I blinked. I wiped the sweat off my other cheek. Why am I sweating so much? Wait. That's not sweat. Those are tears. I was devastated. I was in shock. I wanted to hide. I wanted to die. I knew I had gained weight, but to be over 300 pounds? This was just...I had no words.
That was one of the worst moments of my life.
I was ushered into the consultation room and as the door closed behind the skinny assistant, I lost all control. I covered my face with my sausage link fingers and the tears flowed. It was as though the band aid had been ripped off my repressed denial about the grave reality of my size and situation. Every negative comment, insult and slight came hurling back into my mind.
The first time I saw my aunt in over ten years: "Wow, you're a big girl, aren't you!?"
The last show I auditioned for: "You're incredibly talented, but I think we're looking for someone...uh, different."
There were so many of these one-liners that had been shoved into the depths of my gut in hopes of my mass hiding them forever...
The doctor opened the door, walked into the room and sat down in the wheely-stool next to me. He was not surprised to see me crying; it was clearly a site he'd seen before. He offered me a tissue, and then he began asking me questions about my attempts at losing weight in the past. I had tried every diet known to man and had lost no more than 20lbs even on the most successful of attempts. Only five years before, while I was in college I had gained almost 100lbs in a year while I was taking daily dance classes. Nothing I said seemed to surprise him.
After several minutes of dialogue, he put down his pen and looked me in the eye. "Ok, let's do this. It's clear that despite all your best efforts, you aren't going to be able to lose the amount of weight necessary to have a happy and healthy life and at this point, surgery will be preventative which is ideal." He kept talking but I was stuck on "let's do this." It was happening.
There were many additional hoops I would have to roll through over the next four weeks; ekg, stress test, ultrasound, blood work, psych exam, dietary training...but none of that worried me because I had just been given the best news I had heard in years.
That was one of the best moments of my life.
I walked out of the office that day with a laundry list of items I needed to handle before surgery could be officially scheduled but once each of those items had been crossed off, I would be only days away from the rest of my life and that was the best feeling I'd had in years. :)
When you go to any doctor for the first time they always have you fill out the multitude of forms that include questions about your mothers, mothers, mothers medical history along with the few additional questions about your personal life that, to be honest, we're not entirely sure they really need the answers to or if they just use that information to brighten their monotonous days. For me, the forms were a grim reminder of what could be if I didn't lose weight. Family history of: Diabetes? Check! Cancer? Check! Depression? Double check! I handed the forms back to the skinny-since-birth-medical assistant, and waddled back to my seat in the lobby. The one redeeming factor in that moment was that every other patient in the room was also of a rather large stature and were desperately waiting for relief from their flabby chains.
The skinny assistant called my name and I followed her down the sterile hallway until we stopped at "it". "Please step up onto the scale." The "scale" was a large metal platform with a small digital monitor velcroed to the wall next to it. It had a rail next to it for people to hold onto and it was no more than three inches off the ground. It could have weighed an elephant but it was meant to weigh me. I was mortified.
I stepped up onto the giant plate and closed my eyes. I didn't want to know the number but clearly the medical assistant didn't see the anxiety on my face and read the numbers aloud. 316. Three-hundred and sixteen pounds. I opened my eyes and stared at the little red numbers on the monitor, sure that she had read them wrong. No luck. I wiped the sweat off my cheek. I blinked. I wiped the sweat off my other cheek. Why am I sweating so much? Wait. That's not sweat. Those are tears. I was devastated. I was in shock. I wanted to hide. I wanted to die. I knew I had gained weight, but to be over 300 pounds? This was just...I had no words.
That was one of the worst moments of my life.
I was ushered into the consultation room and as the door closed behind the skinny assistant, I lost all control. I covered my face with my sausage link fingers and the tears flowed. It was as though the band aid had been ripped off my repressed denial about the grave reality of my size and situation. Every negative comment, insult and slight came hurling back into my mind.
The first time I saw my aunt in over ten years: "Wow, you're a big girl, aren't you!?"
The last show I auditioned for: "You're incredibly talented, but I think we're looking for someone...uh, different."
There were so many of these one-liners that had been shoved into the depths of my gut in hopes of my mass hiding them forever...
The doctor opened the door, walked into the room and sat down in the wheely-stool next to me. He was not surprised to see me crying; it was clearly a site he'd seen before. He offered me a tissue, and then he began asking me questions about my attempts at losing weight in the past. I had tried every diet known to man and had lost no more than 20lbs even on the most successful of attempts. Only five years before, while I was in college I had gained almost 100lbs in a year while I was taking daily dance classes. Nothing I said seemed to surprise him.
After several minutes of dialogue, he put down his pen and looked me in the eye. "Ok, let's do this. It's clear that despite all your best efforts, you aren't going to be able to lose the amount of weight necessary to have a happy and healthy life and at this point, surgery will be preventative which is ideal." He kept talking but I was stuck on "let's do this." It was happening.
There were many additional hoops I would have to roll through over the next four weeks; ekg, stress test, ultrasound, blood work, psych exam, dietary training...but none of that worried me because I had just been given the best news I had heard in years.
That was one of the best moments of my life.
I walked out of the office that day with a laundry list of items I needed to handle before surgery could be officially scheduled but once each of those items had been crossed off, I would be only days away from the rest of my life and that was the best feeling I'd had in years. :)
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Woe is I, the Daughter of Eve
From a very early age I suffered monthly the wrath of Aunt Flo. I remember having to stay home and lay on the couch watching Andy Griffith and I Love Lucy reruns because I was unable to cope with the cramps that had taken over my teenage body. As I matured, my symptoms lessened and I was able to maintain normalcy during my monthly visits...well, as normal as a hormonal teenager can be.
As I began gaining weight, however, new and rather alarming issues developed. I went from having a normal monthly menstruation cycle, to extended cycles. I'd be on for a week and a half then off for two and a half weeks. This continued progressing for about a year when I realized I was now backwards- on for three weeks, off for one, on for three weeks, off for one.
I went to visit my obgyn or the "Oh Boy You Got Me Naked Dr" as my soon-to-be-mother-in-law calls it, and I was told that it was normal for someone of my "stature" to have irregular periods. Appeased momentarily, though not happy with her answer, I returned home resigned to spend a fortune on feminine hygiene products each month.
A few months and twenty plus pounds later, I was sitting in my office at the top of the highest hill in La Canada, and I fell apart. (Let me stop here and let those with weak constitutions know that they can fast forward a few paragraphs.) I had cramps, bloating and all of the usual monthly friends but as I sat in front of my computer screen typing away, I began to feel something wet seeping through my pant legs. I quickly looked at my water bottle on my desk to see if I'd knocked it over, but alas, it was still there and at that moment I knew what was happening.
I shared an office with another woman so sneaking by her to the bathroom wasn't going to be easy if I did it in the full panic attack I was about to have. Thank God I was in black. I attempted a nonchalant shuffle past her desk and into the bathroom where I discovered the next major side-effect of my morbid obesity. I had bled through all hygiene products, through my underwear and through my pants and clearly my body had no intention on stopping my flow anytime soon. I cleaned myself up as best as I could with scratchy paper towels and cheap one ply toilet paper, made myself a make-shift diaper out of the same products and then shuffled back to my desk, trying not to show the fear on my face or let her hear the rustling of paper products in my pants. This was the first of four identical trips I would make to that bathroom over the next four hours before I was off.
When I finally got home, I undressed, tossed all of my soiled clothes into a plastic bag for disposal- truly no sense in even trying to salvage them- got into a scalding hot shower and proceeded to sob for twenty minutes while I washed off the stain of Eve's sins. When I told my boyfriend about what had happened, he insisted that I go see my Dr. again and so I did. She did a series of exams and came up with a diagnosis. Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. She explained it as a disease that causes the ovaries to produce cysts that can cause irregularities in a woman's monthly cycle. The major kicker was that POS can also cause infertility. My Dr. told me to go home, that there was nothing to be done and that I'd just have to "double up" on my hygiene products during my monthly flows.
For the next three months I did just that, except probably "quadrupled up" not "doubled". I even had a pair of jeans that were a size bigger than my normal 26 that I would wear to cover the wash-clothes I had stashed between my legs. I was wearing these pants the night I went to the symposium about gastric bypass, the night I found hope.
Hope came in multiple ways that night. There is the hope that you'll be able to wear cute clothes again. Hope that you'll be able to go grocery shopping and not have to avoid the cookie and chip aisle in order to conserve as much of your money for real food as possible. Then there was the hope that I received from the Dr. running the symposium. As the event ended and people slowly wheeled and wobbled out of the room, I waited for my chance to talk to him face to face.
I approached him, introduced myself and asked him a few basic questions about the procedure. He answered them just as simply as I'd asked them. I then mustered up the strength to ask him about obesity's effects on a woman's menstrual cycle and told him that I had POS. He asked me one question. "Do you have cysts?" I sat there silently, confused by his question and also shocked because I knew the answer. When I had been through my battery of tests at the obgyn, one of those tests was an ultra sound to look for cysts on my ovaries.
He asked me again, assuming that I hadn't heard or understood him. "Do you actually have cysts on your ovaries?"
"No..." I whispered.
"Well, my dear...you do not have POS and I believe that we can fix that problem of yours. I've had more women come to me with the mis-diagnosis of POS because their Dr's just don't know what else to tell them and after they lose the weight, their periods are regulated and many of them go on to have children."
I cried. Right there in the middle of the room in my too big pants hiding my too big pad. All I could muster was a thank you and he nodded and walked off to greet other potential patients.
Hope. It comes in so many forms, but that night, it came in the realization that there was a future for me where I would not have to be in constant panic about when my home-made hygiene products wouldn't be enough.
I didn't have to think about it anymore. My decision was made. I called the next day and made my appointment for a consultation to discuss whether or not Gastric Bypass was right for me and two weeks later, I would be sitting in the office of the man who had given me the glimmer of hope that I needed to seek out change.
As I began gaining weight, however, new and rather alarming issues developed. I went from having a normal monthly menstruation cycle, to extended cycles. I'd be on for a week and a half then off for two and a half weeks. This continued progressing for about a year when I realized I was now backwards- on for three weeks, off for one, on for three weeks, off for one.
I went to visit my obgyn or the "Oh Boy You Got Me Naked Dr" as my soon-to-be-mother-in-law calls it, and I was told that it was normal for someone of my "stature" to have irregular periods. Appeased momentarily, though not happy with her answer, I returned home resigned to spend a fortune on feminine hygiene products each month.
A few months and twenty plus pounds later, I was sitting in my office at the top of the highest hill in La Canada, and I fell apart. (Let me stop here and let those with weak constitutions know that they can fast forward a few paragraphs.) I had cramps, bloating and all of the usual monthly friends but as I sat in front of my computer screen typing away, I began to feel something wet seeping through my pant legs. I quickly looked at my water bottle on my desk to see if I'd knocked it over, but alas, it was still there and at that moment I knew what was happening.
I shared an office with another woman so sneaking by her to the bathroom wasn't going to be easy if I did it in the full panic attack I was about to have. Thank God I was in black. I attempted a nonchalant shuffle past her desk and into the bathroom where I discovered the next major side-effect of my morbid obesity. I had bled through all hygiene products, through my underwear and through my pants and clearly my body had no intention on stopping my flow anytime soon. I cleaned myself up as best as I could with scratchy paper towels and cheap one ply toilet paper, made myself a make-shift diaper out of the same products and then shuffled back to my desk, trying not to show the fear on my face or let her hear the rustling of paper products in my pants. This was the first of four identical trips I would make to that bathroom over the next four hours before I was off.
When I finally got home, I undressed, tossed all of my soiled clothes into a plastic bag for disposal- truly no sense in even trying to salvage them- got into a scalding hot shower and proceeded to sob for twenty minutes while I washed off the stain of Eve's sins. When I told my boyfriend about what had happened, he insisted that I go see my Dr. again and so I did. She did a series of exams and came up with a diagnosis. Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. She explained it as a disease that causes the ovaries to produce cysts that can cause irregularities in a woman's monthly cycle. The major kicker was that POS can also cause infertility. My Dr. told me to go home, that there was nothing to be done and that I'd just have to "double up" on my hygiene products during my monthly flows.
For the next three months I did just that, except probably "quadrupled up" not "doubled". I even had a pair of jeans that were a size bigger than my normal 26 that I would wear to cover the wash-clothes I had stashed between my legs. I was wearing these pants the night I went to the symposium about gastric bypass, the night I found hope.
Hope came in multiple ways that night. There is the hope that you'll be able to wear cute clothes again. Hope that you'll be able to go grocery shopping and not have to avoid the cookie and chip aisle in order to conserve as much of your money for real food as possible. Then there was the hope that I received from the Dr. running the symposium. As the event ended and people slowly wheeled and wobbled out of the room, I waited for my chance to talk to him face to face.
I approached him, introduced myself and asked him a few basic questions about the procedure. He answered them just as simply as I'd asked them. I then mustered up the strength to ask him about obesity's effects on a woman's menstrual cycle and told him that I had POS. He asked me one question. "Do you have cysts?" I sat there silently, confused by his question and also shocked because I knew the answer. When I had been through my battery of tests at the obgyn, one of those tests was an ultra sound to look for cysts on my ovaries.
He asked me again, assuming that I hadn't heard or understood him. "Do you actually have cysts on your ovaries?"
"No..." I whispered.
"Well, my dear...you do not have POS and I believe that we can fix that problem of yours. I've had more women come to me with the mis-diagnosis of POS because their Dr's just don't know what else to tell them and after they lose the weight, their periods are regulated and many of them go on to have children."
I cried. Right there in the middle of the room in my too big pants hiding my too big pad. All I could muster was a thank you and he nodded and walked off to greet other potential patients.
Hope. It comes in so many forms, but that night, it came in the realization that there was a future for me where I would not have to be in constant panic about when my home-made hygiene products wouldn't be enough.
I didn't have to think about it anymore. My decision was made. I called the next day and made my appointment for a consultation to discuss whether or not Gastric Bypass was right for me and two weeks later, I would be sitting in the office of the man who had given me the glimmer of hope that I needed to seek out change.
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