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!
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