And admit up front that have had this surgery also.
I’ve not said anything because I’ve seen a very negative attitude both here on the boards and in life in general.
My entire family is stockily built. Most of my relatives were very large people - “Eastern European peasant stock”, as Baba used to say, “good solid people of the earth”. And most had the bad joints, overstressed hearts and microfunctioning lungs that went with bein overweight. I’ve always been heavy
And I’d head it all:
“Go on a diet.”
Tried them all - Atkins, Pritkin, Weight Watchers, TOPS, personal nutritionist, pills, starvation.
“Eat less, exercise more.”
I ate smaller portions. I gave up sodas. I tried all the above. But it’s hard to exercise more when you are gasping at every step. And still gaining weight when your body wasn’t burning it off.
“You wouldn’t be that way if you’d put down the fork/ push away from the table.”
See the two-ounce burger, no bread no condiments? See the three oz. salad greens, no dressing? See the glass of water (not soda)? How much less could I push away from?
And many others.
The worst?
“You’d be so pretty if only…”
At least I felt somewhat vindicated when after extensive testing, we found my thyroid was barely functioning at all. The fire in the metabolism furnace was out, so all the fuel would add up, no matter what I did.
It was a very tough decision. It was not something I took lightly. I knew it would be a permament rearranging of my internal organs. I knew it was a drastic measure. I knew there was the risk from invasive surgery. I knew it would be a complete change in lifestyle - no more chocolate, soft breads, pastas, popcorn.
Damn, no more Gummy Bears. Ever.
But my other choice was an early death, and dying from the complications from obesity was not in my plans.
My blood pressure was triple digits on both sides of the dividing line. My lungs were shot: I couldn’t hold a note longer than a few seconds (and I was a classicaly trained vocalist). My resting pulse was 98; unmeasureable when I tried to work out: just a straight buhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuh. Scared the nurse during my pre-physical check-up: she thought her stethoscope was malfunctioning. My knees and hips were achin every time I moved. Stairs? HA! Wait for me at the top landing for half-an-hour: that’s when I’d finally make it up there.
Add to that the social stigma: fat = lazy and stupid. I and my friends knew I wasn’t. But it’s hard to make new friends when all they see is the outside, not the inner me.
The big kicker was that I loved fencing. I wasn’t the greatest fencer, but I really, really enjoyed it. But I just couldn’t do it any more. Not with the bad knees, triphammer heart and diminished lung capacity. Imagine the Pillsbury doghboy sounding like Darth Vader. I could no longer do what i loved to do. And that’s what hurt the most.
Like I said, not a decision I made lightly. It was a long time coming, and I finally made the decision.
November 13th, 2001 - I went under the knife.
It is April 15, 2002.
I’ve just weighed myself.
I have lost a total of 98 lbs.
I can walk without sitting down every twenty feet.
I have a normal pulse rate and normal blood pressure.
I an sing again without gasping every two bars.
I can once again cross my legs at the knee without having to physically pick up my foot and hoist it over the other knee. hell, the biggest revelation was that I did this unconsciously, then realized, "day-yam! I did it!
I can jog without accidently setting my underwear on fire from my thighs rubbing and chafing.
I can wear clothes that I haven’t fit in for years. And I’ve saved money on the retro fashions: just pull pants and sweaters out of storage.
I can tie my own shoes while they are on my feet, not before then have to slip them on.
I can wipe my butt. Completely. (Trust me: this was rough when I was larger.)
I have hipbones.
I have a waistline.
I’m developing a backbone. [Confidence follows with all the small victories I’ve mentioned above and many more I haven’t.]
Okay, the breasts are a little sagging, but hell, I can finally buy the frilly lacy bras, not the “Commie-mama” industrial-strength, iron-clad underwire ones.
I’m a cheap date: two teaspoons of beer and I am almost under the table. That’s a once-in-a-GREAT while occasion. I don’t/can’t drink like I used to: this is another good thing
And I can fence without breaking into a sweat on the first thrust. Still not very good at it (yet), but I’m enjoying it like I used to.
It’s not something I would recommend to everyone. But I had an excellent experienced surgeon (he’s been doing this surgery for 30 years). And a great support group. And supportive friends and family. And the most important reason of all: my health. I haven’t felt this good in years.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention: clothes that fit properly, guys that take a second and a third look, people who “didn’t recognize” me. Trying on my old jeans from two months ago and having them end up around my ankles (and that’s WITH the belt on. And shucky darns, I just have to go clothes shopping again: all my clothes are loose on me. But at least the people at the thrift stores appreciate me: the stuff I donate has been barely worn. (Thank goodness for Ross and other discount chains! Nice clothes and not that expensive.)
Makes me wish I could figure out how to hook up this dad-blatted scanner. (I’ve lost fatness, but still don’t have computer know-how. Surgery doesn’t cover everything. Sigh.) Some of you have seen me before: I’d like y’all to see me before and after.
Yeah, I still get the occasional “cow/pig/Shamu” comments, but they are from the folks who don’t know me, or what I used to look like. Tough.
I like me. I am a thinner me. More importantly, I am a healthier me.
And I’ve found sugar-free Gummy Bears. An occasional treat.