Mom’s Gastric Bypass (and various ramblings)

Today was Mom’s surgery.  I took off from work and headed to the hospital after dropping my youngest off at school (he considers this a big treat, which is pretty cool – usually Rick takes him because of our schedules).  I was joined at the hospital by my stepdad, sister and aunt (Mom’s sister) – all there to support her.  Everything went great – she’s experienced zero complications and even got up for a slow walk before I left around 5pm.

I got disoriented as I left – I just didn’t want to be there any more and couldn’t even explain why. I just wanted to go home.  It hadn’t been an especially taxing day. If anything, it had been really nice to catch up with my aunt as I hadn’t seen her in quite a while.  Still, I got off on the wrong floor, went the wrong way, etc, etc.  Finally, I made it out of the building.

As I was leaving the parking lot, I had to pay for parking.  They only accept cash or checks and I had no cash on me (poor planning on my part), so I wrote a check for $4 and handed it to the clerk.  I gave her a second to look it over, then she raised the bar, so I rolled forward.

“Wait! Ma’am! You put the wrong date on the check – this says 6/1, today’s the 31st! You have to fix this.”

I couldn’t back up because of the line behind me that was already rolling forward, so she leaned out the window and handed me the check and pen…so I could just adjust what I’d already written and make it say 5/31.  I was flustered and aggravated.  Couldn’t she have done that herself?? I mean really. And it was after 5pm by then – they weren’t going to deposit today anyhow. Good grief.

As I drove away, I got myself so angry that I started crying.  What the hell is wrong with me? I thought.  Why am I crying over something so stupid??

Yes, I’m PMSing.  I actually take Sarafem (a fancy name for Prozac you take 2 weeks/month) for my PMDD.  But still… there was something else going on.

Then it hit me.  Today had been a lot more emotionally taxing than I’d admitted to myself at that point.  I hate to sound so selfish…but, well… this is MY blog and it should be about ME, right?

I was supposed to be getting weight loss surgery around the same time as Mom – within about a month of her, actually.  I wassupposed to be there not only as support, but to see how this all goes for her, to brace myself for my own surgery.  I’d read up on both – lap band and bypass – to prepare myself for both of our journeys.  Instead, I shared my knowledge with my aunt and stepdad knowing that I won’t be taking this same path.  Granted, I keep telling myself that this surgery for her is more about reversing diabetes than it is weight loss, but I know she will lose the weight, too.

And then something else hit me: Once she loses the weight, I will be the only fat person left in our family.

Here’s the biggest difference between my mom and me when it comes to our food issues – she shovels no matter who’s watching; I usually do it in private. I’ve always felt like my obesity was a bit overshadowed by people watching how she ate.  They have probably been watching me, too, but I’ve tried not to be too “out there” about it all.

There was also something my aunt said today that really hit me hard. I know she didn’t mean anything by it, and I didn’t say a word in response (we had a distraction, thankfully).  She was talking about how my mom and I have always struggled with our weight, all our lives.  Then she said, “I can remember, even at the age of 3, she was fat!”

I kept quiet, because I love her, and – again – I know she didn’t mean anything negative.  But what I wanted to do was scream, “THAT IS EXACTLY THE MENTALITY THAT MADE HER FAT TO BEGIN WITH!!!”

My mom was nota fat kid.  She was a fucking MODEL.  I’m not using that word as a description of how cute/pretty she was – she actually was a model as a child!  When she got into her teens and started to fill out, her parents started dealing with her “weight problem.”  At the age of 14, she was probably a size 12/14 – but she was also 5’9″!  She’s been curvy all her life!  She’s got the pear shape that I did not inherit whatsoever.

When my parents were helping me deal with my perceived weight issues at a young age (my issues were more about high cholesterol than weight, but that’s another matter), she shared some of the pain she went through.  Her hope was to not put me through the same thing her parents put her through.  I will say that my parents always had the focus on health, even if weight was considered part of that package.  She told me a story about how, at one point, she was so stressed out by everyone wanting her to be thin thin thin and watching everything she ate…that she snuck a tuna sandwich into the bathroom to eat it.

Just as a reference point, I wore a size 11 when I was in about 7th grade…and I barely fit into my mom’s wedding dress (she had me try it on as a joke). Part of it was that I was pretty dang barrel chested.  Part of it was that she wasn’t fat back then.  She already saw herself that way, though. (I wish I had pics to show you of her before I was born, but I don’t have any handy.)

This was Mom right after I was born. Even after 9 months of pregnancy, I wouldn’t say she looked “fat” by any stretch.

 

I saw myself as fat by about age 10.  That was roughly the time we found out I had high cholesterol and triglycerides. Both of those words mean “fat,” so if you have high levels of both, that must make you fat, right?

I was 5’6″ with a C cup by 8th grade. I was a size 12/13.  I’ve since seen pictures. I remember how self-conscious I felt, how huge I thought I was.  I wasn’t.  I was tiny.  I was healthy.  I played volleyball and rode my bike all over town.  But I let everyone tell me I was fat until I just agreed with them.

8th grade – see how fat I was??

I’ve rambled. I tried writing this blog in my head on the way home from the hospital. I had an hour-long drive and I spent a good deal of it crying.  And trying to remind myself that I’m on the right track and I don’t need to bury my sorrows in some random fast food along the drive back.  I knew that wouldn’t help for more than 30 seconds…then I would feel worse.

I made it home with just water and some sugar-free gum to take my mind off things.  I dried my eyes and had a healthy dinner with my family.  My husband understands where I am and where I’ve been. He’s a wonderful man and I’m beyond lucky to have him in my life.

I wish I could go back in time to my 13 year old self and tell her to ignore everyone.  I wish I could do that at age 17, even.

Instead…I just have 32 year old me here and now…and she knows there’s no time like the present.

Psych Eval

I went for my psych eval today – one of the final steps in meeting my insurance requirements. I wasn’t remotely worried about this evaluation until sometime last night.  I started worrying that he’d think I’m under too much stress or maybe I’d answer something incorrectly, etc.  I told myself these were baseless fears, but still I was a bit worried.

Pretty sure I did just fine. He quizzed me on all things Lap Band, which really surprised me. No one had told me that was what this would be all about. I thought this was just a get-inside-her-head-and-make-sure-she’s-capable-and-not-insane evaluation.  He liked my description of the band and I already have a firm grasp on what to do pre/post-surgery.  He was impressed that I’d already found www.lapbandtalk.com (I’m eyeononederland there, too, if anyone wants to check it out!) and also impressed that I’m blogging as well.  I told him I’d seen both ends of the spectrum when it comes to using the band as a tool. My ex-boyfriend did all the wrong things – shoveled down junk food, vomited several times a day, gained and lost all over the place.  My husband, however, has done an amazing job and the inspiration he’s given me is what made me finally decide to take this step.  He’s worked out, eaten fairly healthy (my cooking skills have helped!) and he hasn’t gotten truly stuck in quite some time.  He listens to his body and he stops when he’s full. He’s lost roughly 180lbs in about 2 years (50 during pre-surgery and 130 with the band). Even better, he’s kept it off for almost a year now.

After the 30 minute consult, I was given the lovely MMPI – Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. He cut it down to a mere 370 questions – all T/F. (Okay, not really “questions” – they’re statements and you have to agree/disagree.)  I’d say at least 100 of these were aimed at paranoid schizophrenics. (“I hear voices that no one else hears.” “I would be more successful if everyone wasn’t out to get me.” “Sometimes I see animals or people who no one else can see.”)  Another 100 were to determine whether I’m party girl or a closet case. Around question 305, I started dozing off.  If it hadn’t been for the nodding off, I’d have been done in no time.  All in all, the consult plus questionnaire took 1.5hrs.

Through it all, I noticed something odd: Whoever wrote this thing really likes the word “oftener.”

Oftener??!

Yes, “oftener.”  I wasn’t even aware that was a word.  I’ve always just said “more often.”

(whoo-wee…”often” is one of those words that starts to make my brain hurt if I stare at it too long. I’ll try not to do that oftener than usual.  Oy – see?!? That doesn’t even feel right!  OFTENER)

Anyhow.

—

I’ve decided on a tracking method for my journey. I plan to weigh myself once/week and measure myself once/month.  You can check those results here on my Stats page.

Today’s starting stats were a doozy.  I can’t imagine having hips.  I find it hard to believe I could one day have a waistline less than 4 feet in circumference.

But I will get there.

Fear

I thought about getting Lap Band about a year ago. I went to my first visit and talked to the doc.  I went to my first weight loss doc appointment, too. And then I changed my mind. (This is when I tried the phentermine.)

Over the past year – all the ups and downs – I’ve been asking myself one question.

What am I so afraid of?

Is it the surgery? No.  Scarring?  Not really.

And, don’t worry, I’m not about to tell you that I’m afraid of being thin.

The only thing I could come up with was this: I’m afraid of not being able to eat whatever I want whenever I want.

I mulled that one over for a long time.

Haven’t I spent 32 years of my life shoveling food down my piehole whenever I felt like it?  Yes, yes I have.  I’ve shown real self control with food for maybe one year (cumulatively) out of those 32. There isn’t a damn thing out there that I want to eat that I haven’t at least tried.  And you know what? If something new comes along, I can try it even after the lap band.  I can TRY it.  Not eat the whole damn thing. Not bury myself in it. 

Am I making better food choices now than I was 5-10 years ago?  You betcher sweet patooty I am.  But I can still put down a restaurant sized portion of just about anything if I don’t stop myself.  Why am I afraid of losing that ability?  It’s not as though I’m afraid I won’t be able to eat what I need to eat to survive.  I’m afraid that I won’t be able to drown my sorrows in a cheese plate when I really need to.

And you know what?  I don’t need to. No one needs to do that.

What I need is to get healthier and stronger.  What I need is more energy so I can enjoy my kiddos while they still want to play with me! 

What I need is to get over this ridiculous “fear” of losing my ability to sabotage myself.

 

I’ve come to grips with that.  I’m done worrying about all the yummy stuff I might not be able to shove past that band in the future.  (I’m also trying not to have that, “oh, this is going to be my last chance!” mentality when presented with delicious opportunities in the meanwhile.)

 

What are you afraid of?