Love My Peeps

I have mentioned a few times over the course of my blogging days that my job drives me crazy.  And it does. There are a lot of times I want to punch people in the head.  You have to be on some of these people constantly and you have to do some babysitting.  However, with all that said, I do like the people I work with...I mean most of them, there are a couple I'm kind of on the fence about. Some of them do make me crazy, but overall, they are good people.  They are no different than me.  They come to work everyday and do the best they can with whatever the company throws at them.  And, to be honest, the company has one hell of a pitching arm.  Things are not always easy and times get tough, but at the core of it all, at the end of the day, they are good people. Fun people. Real people.  And no matter what their check shows on payday, if you ask them to donate to needy families, or do volunteer work,  or whatever cause the company is supporting, they are all over it.  That is just how they roll and I am lucky to know many of them. Back in the day, I used to be an on-line rep., I know what most of them go through on a day to day basis.  I, personally, hated it.  I didn't hate the customers, I hated the pressure of it all.  Making your numbers, taking enough calls, not deviating from your schedule, etc.  So, with all that in mind, I try and make them laugh.  I send humor their way and I help them when I can.  Doesn't mean I don't want to lose my mind when the 10th person tells me there are no paper towels in the bathroom, but I know people in high places, and those people can get paper towels, so I make it happen.  It's what I do. I take care of my peeps.

I can also appreciate what the supervisors and managers go through as well.  Being in the admin role, I sometimes  see what is coming down the pipeline for them before they do.  I know the struggles they have with the day to day job and I sympathize.  I mean, don't get me wrong, if they make me  mad, I chew their ass, but I like to think it is with love. Expense reports, people, come on!

I say all of these things because I really do have a lot to be thankful for and in a strange twist of Angry Pony emotions, I wanted to say "Thank You!"  With everything going on with me, I've had a lot of people asking how I am and being concerned.  The supervisors got together and sent me some beautiful flowers to cheer me up and I have another friend that crocheted me some cool pink slippers.  And then, today, Valerie brought me a care package from my peeps at work.  Apparently they took up a collection and went out and bought me some things they thought I would enjoy doing on my journey to recovery, plus threw in some money for clothes when I lose some weight.  It was the sweetest gesture and I am truly touched by their generosity and the thought they put into it. My favorite gift in the care package was this Unicorn Dream Lite.  How did they know I had almost bought one of these for myself several times?!  I am so excited, I can't even wait until it gets dark tonight.  Will wasn't as excited as I was, but he will be sleeping while I will be laying in bed watching unicorns and stars on the ceiling!!!

Unicorn Dream Lite!

So, when people ask me why I stay at the Glass Palace if it drives me so crazy, this is why.  The people there are good people and we are all in this together.  Eventually, this whole thing will either fold, or I will reach my limit and then it will be like the Titanic and I will be pushing women and children out of my way so I can get on the first life raft out of there.  Until that happens, thank you so much work peeps!  You are the best and you made my day!

And, since I don't know when I am going to be all thankful again, I want to thank everyone else that is not a work peep for their support during this whole ordeal lately, and for all the other times in the past that I've needed them.  I'm a pain in the ass and I'm an over-sharer and dammit, I still can't shake you guys, so I think that makes me pretty damn lucky.  Oh, and the best husband ever.  Can't forget him. That reminds me, that Nerf gun that my work peeps got me, I almost shot Will's eye out.  Valerie witnessed it.  That gun is KICK ASS and I am going to get into so much trouble with it!  Can't. Wait.  I actually think Will is going to have a bruise on his temple.  For the record, it was an accident.  I was over stimulated from the Unicorn Dream Lite and I lost my mind a little.  Sorry, baby.

Here's to the best friends an Angry Pony can have and to a new year of adventure in 2013!

Now...come on darkness!  I NEED to see that Unicorn Dream Lite in action!

Two belly buttons?

Progress report: I think I am on the mend.  I have been cleared to have liquids now.  I'm on a broth, Jell-O and popsicle diet right now and will move to "full liquids" tomorrow.  Full liquids being like, yogurt, pudding and protein shakes.  I'll do that for like a week.  I'm not going to lie, I want "real food" so bad I can hardly stand it. Will made hamburgers last night and I pinched a little piece off and chewed it.  It was heaven.  Then, I spit it out because I'm not allowed to have that yet. It was more magical than licking saltines! I am also getting weaned off of my IV feeding over the next 6 days.  I'm on half rations and only have to wear it for 12 hours at a time now.  This is very exciting that I am able to walk around without the "short bus backpack."  I should also start to see some weight loss now that I am getting off the IV, which is good, because you know, that is why I went through this whole ordeal in the first place.  Being kept hostage with IV fat calories was not in my plans.

On Wednesday of this upcoming week, I also get to have my drain tubes taken out of my belly.  I can't even express how happy I am about that.  Having these two grenade like clear balls pinned to your waistband is a little gross when you go in public.  People look at you like you could be the link to some bio-hazard that is going to kill us all.  It's just a little gut fluid, come on, pull it together.  I try and poke them up under my sweatshirts, but inevitably, they fall out. I thought about stuffing them into my bra, but if they come uncorked, like they sometimes do, then it is going to look like I'm lactating profusely.  Anyway, yesterday, as I was taking my luxurious sponge bath, I pulled all the bandages off my incisions. Let's just say, between my original surgery to put the lap band in, the surgery to take it out and now the surgery to do the sleeve, I look like a cutter. One day I'm going to connect all the scars and see if it makes a fun animal or object, and if it does, maybe I will tattoo it.  What is most disturbing is that the incision from the lap band removal that kept exploding has now formed into a second belly button. There is this line and then it drops down into this little hole.  I didn't ask for this.  Having a second belly button is NOT sexy.  The IV nurse said to me yesterday, "Is your belly button really all the way over there?"  I looked at her and said, "no, that is my scar."  Thanks, IV nurse.  Like I wasn't feeling self-conscious enough.  I mean, it isn't like I'm going to run out and buy a bikini, but seriously, this is not cool. It's like I'm a case of soda where you punch the two holes in and pick it up with two fingers.  I don't want anyone trying to pick me up like that.  You don't know, it could happen.

Second Bellybutton, it's real. You can't tell from this picture what the depth is, but it dips down considerably.

Anyway, that is my update. It's also been several days since I've needed Depends, which is also excellent news.  I think I might be in the clear again.  I mean, I'm not going to run around farting and showing off or anything, but I feel things may be better in that department. 

Here's hoping I have something more exciting to report next time.

Can't Take Mom Anywhere...

So, the powers that be decided I can now start "cycling" off of the IV pack, effective Christmas Eve.  This is good news, however, after being off of it for 4 hours the the first day, I had a little blood sugar crash.  No biggie, but today, they decided I could go 8 hours off of it.  I felt free as a bird.  So amazing to not feel like the kid waiting for the short bus, if only for 8 short hours.  During this brief time of freedom, I had a doctor's appointment and because no one wanted my blood sugar crashing while I was driving, my Mom took me.

I'd like to rewind momentarily to Chrismas Day.  I was having a hard time with all the food and snacks laying around, so at one point, I licked a Ritz cracker. And, I mean, I licked it passionately and romantically.  And then I licked a tortilla chip.  It was magical and it made me miss food all the more, but it was nice to have a taste in my mouth that didn't remind me of rotting monkey ass like my meds do.  I fed the soggy and lifeless cracker and chip carcasses to my good dog Spanky.  Mom looked at me and said, "Cassondra, you'd better stop that, when you lick something like that, it's hard not to swallow."  Will, who had been eating a chip, stopped mid-crunch.  His mind clearly in the gutter. Everyone gave Mom a bad time for her comment and we moved on. I don't need to hear these things from my Mom.  Geez.

Fast forward to today.  Mom is sitting in the doctor's office with me and I'm telling the medical assistant and the doctor about how it has been going, where my pain level is how I've crapped my pants via innocent farts and that I had a confession to make, I had licked a cracker.  My Mom, who had been fairly quiet until this point, chimes in and says to my doctor (who is a very attractive man), "And do you know what I told her when she licked that cracker?  I told her that she needed to be careful licking something like that because then she would want to swallow."  My eyes got big and I said, "MU-ther!"  She giggled and I looked at the doctor. Luckily he laughed it off and said, "That is when you say, 'Mo-THER!'"  And then we transitioned to other things.  What on earth possessed her to say that?  I can't take her anywhere. We would discuss this in the truck later.

So, the short and long of it is, tomorrow I get to go to the hospital and get another CT scan to see if my leak is healed.  I am hoping with all my heart that it is. The doctor says I might be able to drink clear liquids by the weekend, if I'm lucky.  I'll still have to wear the IV pack for a short time while I transition, but it would be progress.  Tonight, praying for progress.  I need a break.  Oh, and I still have to get that pesky poo sample, but the medical assistant has finally given me the kit that should make it all possible.  I said, "Well, I hope I can catch it in the bucket instead of my underwear.  She says, straight-faced, "Well, if it does, you can just squeeze it out of your underwear into the collection bowl." Wow, graphic. Here's hoping no more kamikazee fart sniper sneak attacks.

And that is today's update.

Shit Happens - Now I totally understand...

The thing about being sick is that you do not get to call the shots with your body.  You don't get to be in charge.  When you are sick, your body does what it needs to in order to get the yuck out and heal.  In my case, it's oozing out my drain tubes and creating a bit of an adventure in the bathroom.  My guts are constantly making noise.  Like, it sounds like Jurassic Park in there.  Like two dinasaurs are going at it.  It's unnerving, but usually innocent enough.  The doctor says the sounds are normal and good. Without them, he says, I would be in the hospital.  What the doctor doesn't think is normal is the explosive nature of things when they do happen.  I mentioned in my last blog that they want a poo sample.  Well, it's kind of hard to get a sample in these conditions.  I was supposed to pick up a "poo kit" at the lab, but the lab says they never got an order, so no kit.  Seriously, what exactly is the problem with giving me the kit?  What am I going to do with the "unauthorized" kit?  Is there a high demand for these things?  Are they afraid some unknown person will just bring poo in and then they won't know whose it is?  Will they put it in the lost and found?  Or, what if I'm coming in to pick up someone else's poo kit and then I poo in it instead of the person that it is really for.  I mean, are there problems with rogue poo samples?  I just know I want my poo to get under control, so I need to know what is going on.  I guess I've got to break out the Tupperware and MacGyver this shit.

I sat down today to write the medical assistant an email letting her know that my James Bond 007 attempt to get a poo kit was unsuccessful at the Everett Clinic.  I told her I could just "capture" some and put it in the freezer or whatever needed to be done until my next doctor appointment.  She responded back that I don't need to freeze it, I can just put it in the fridge.  Okay. This sounds good.  I'll label it "figgy pudding" or something fun. 

As I am finishing up my email, my stomach turned.  It turned in a way that I knew was potentially hazardous. This situation was just upgraded to Defcon 4.  I stood up and my body convulsed.  I did a butt clench, but a fart escaped anyway.  Not just any fart.  The fart that would forever change my adult life.  My face fell, I instantly knew I was in trouble.  This was what happens to toddlers after their first feeding of strained peas.  I did a butt-clench run to the bathroom.  It was as I feared, I needed a full diaper change.  If I had been wearing a diaper, it would have oozed out the comfort stretch leg bands.  I'm 41 years old and I just crapped myself.  This has to be the low point of this whole ordeal.  Forget my guts exploded during a staff meeting. Forget my ass was hanging out as I did the walking in the hospital the night of my surgery along with Boxer Guy and Puke Lady.  Forget I have a leak in my stomach. Forget my drain tubes spooged on me in public the other day. Forget the Asian lady copped a feel on my boob when she hooked me up to the IV.  Forget all the humiliating things that have happened.  Today, I crapped myself.  I don't know if it gets any lower.  This is what happens to other people.  It doesn't happen to me.  I've joked about needing diapers before when I thought about taking laxatives, but this, this was an injustice I was not prepared for.  This is the kind of thing I have told Will if he ever does when he gets old that I will spank his ass for.  Thankfully, no one was home.  The dogs just looked at me like, "dude, and you get mad when WE poop in the house? Wow."  They couldn't even look me in the eye.

I got cleaned up and did a load of laundry.  I'm now shuffling around in my pj's with a loose waist band for emergency "drop trou" purposes listening to my stomach roar wondering if these pajamas will make it through the night.  Should I have Will run downtown and get plastic sheets for the bed? Do I need Depends?  I don't know.  Right now I'm mostly upset that I didn't just put my undies in a Tupperware container and put them in the fridge.  There, poo sample complete. 

All I do know for sure is that between the IV feeding and this new event, I'm scared Will is going to put me in a home for the elderly.  I'll be good, I promise.  Please don't send me away. 

Medication...

So, in light of my surgery complications, I finally got some medication out of my doctor for my acid reflux and my nausea.  You know, I've only been struggling for a week with these issues, so I was very happy to get to the pharmacy to pick my items up. I didn't know what the doctor had ordered up for me, but I was going to take whatever she offered.  Upon arriving at the pharmacy I get the girl that I can't stand.  She's an idiot.  She says my prescription isn't quite ready, so Will and I are waiting patiently.  Then she comes over and says she can't find one of my prescriptions.  It's been filled, but she can't find it.  No worries, it probably just got put in the wrong bin, so she is just going to fill it again.  Whatever.  She finally gets my stuff together and gives them to me.  She never asks if these are new prescriptions or if I have any questions, just sends me on my way.  What a tool.  I immediately dig in the bag for the anti-nausea and find it.  Hooray! It's a pill you put on your tongue and allow to dissolve.  It doesn't taste that great, but at this point, I don't care.

When we got home, I put my bag 'o drugs on the counter and went about the business of relaxing on the couch.  A couple of hours later I decided to get my drugs put away.  I open the bag and notice that I have two big bottles of the reflux meds.  The dumbass at the pharmacy couldn't find my prescription because she already had it in the bag.  Now, I have two.  Seriously glad her nose is attached to her face so she doesn't lose it.  Then, I notice this other prescription says, "Refrigerate."  Um, this would have been nice to know that I had a medication that needed refrigeration.  Hello, Will keeps this place 80 degrees with the wood stove!  I'm so over these people.  Drugs are important and if you are a pharmacist, you should be paying attention and telling people this stuff.  A simple, "Okay, here are your new meds, just so you know, one of them needs to be kept refrigerated.  Now, I notice these are new prescriptions for you, do you have any questions?"  Isn't that what is supposed to happen?  I mean, I'm not a trained professional, but I have been to the pharmacy a time or two.

All that mediocre service aside, I had a bigger concern.  One of the two the anti-nausea medications the doctor prescribed is a suppository. What? At this point, does the doctor just have a great sense of humor, or what?  I've got tubes sticking out of my guts, my stomach looks like a cutting board and now I have an IV sticking out of my arm attached to a very short cord that leads to my backpack.  It hurts to bend over and now I'm supposed to do some sort of injured fat girl rodeo to stick a pill up my ass to fight nausea?!  I will probably throw up during the process of trying to get that damn pill up there! I looked at Will and said, "remember our vows? In sickness and health?"  He looked at me and said, "oh no...I'm not doing that."  He then picked up the iron poker we use for poking wood in the stove and said, "If I can't use this, I'm not doing it."  I bet if I had a butt plug he'd be all over that, but bring up a suppository and he is shutting this situation down.  Whatever, I don't want him putting anything up my butt anyway.

In other medical news related to my butt, the doctor is concerned about my fecal production. I told her there hasn't been much and what activity there is could be considered explosive.  Another reason not to go back there poking around.  This concerns the doctor and she wants a stool sample.  I am supposed to pick up the testing kit at the lab.  I asked my Mom, "how exactly does one collect a stool sample?"  She advises me you get gloves and pick it out of the toilet.  I said, what if there isn't anything to pick up?  She says, "Well, maybe you can hold a cup under your butt when you go to the bathroom...?"  Would you put your hand in the middle of lit dynamite?  No, you wouldn't.  I'm not sticking my hand with a stupid Dixie cup back there while trying to hold on for dear life when the big event happens.  I wonder if splatter in a cup will work?  I don't know how this is going to happen, but apparently, I am supposed to accomplish this.  Will?  No, he doesn't want any part of this either.  I've probably got a few days to think of ideas before anything happens again. I'll think of something.

In closing, I'd like to make a plea to all the manufacturers of liquid pain medication.  If you could PLEASE make your medications taste like something other than toxic monkey ass, I would greatly appreciate it.  When I gag down the reflux meds I do a yippie-ki-yay primal yell/shudder and my body convulses.  Give a girl a break already.  And no, I don't want it in a suppository!

Status Update and why I'm an IV Fatty

So, I haven't blogged since my last entry declaring to the world what my intentions were about my surgery.  I've been rather out of commission due to some complications.  The ironic thing is, I asked the doctor about what complications I could encounter during this process.  He told me, "There is about a 2% chance of complications.  However, when they happen to you, they become 100%."  Well, isn't that deep?  So, to cut to the chase, I had a 2% chance that has me currently 100% involved in a complication.

I should have known when my guts exploded during "phase one" of my process (Lap Band removal) that  I was not going to be an easy case.  Another sign was when I woke up from the "phase two" surgery (Gastric Sleeve procedure) there were no unicorns like before. I did not wake up saying, "I rode a unicorn!"  This time, I was crying, "It hurts! It hurts! I'm so nauseous!"  The nurses consoled me, from what I remembered from the fog, and said they were giving me more meds.  Well, they did.  They knocked my ass out for several more hours to shut me up.  Who needs the one hysterical girl in the recovery room? No one, let's drug her up!  Kind of off-topic, but I wish they would do that at work. Like, when I get out of hand, they just walk over and say, "Cassondra, take your medicine, don't argue, just do it..." and then they hand me a glass of water and a little pink pill.  Then, a few minutes later, I'm all, "heeyyyyy, how you dooiinn?"  I'm just saying, it would make things so much easier. 

So, anyway, after sharing the recovery area with Boxer Guy and Puke Lady and doing our laps every couple of hours and letting our asses hang out as we went up and down the hallway, I thought, "this was hard, but it's going to get better each day from here on out."  We are all belching, bleeding all over our gowns, asking for meds, sipping water and shuffling around in the socks given to us that have the cute traction stuff  in the shape of little feet on the bottom so none of us busts our ass on the hard floor when we stumble from dizziness.  It truly was a night to remember. 

I went home the next day and followed doctors orders.  I kept waiting for the unicorns to show up, but I fear they are dead this time as they have yet to make an appearance.  I miss them, but I carried on. I was sipping my water, sipping my broth, sucking down sugar free Jello, I was doing all they asked me to do.  On day four, post-op, I woke up with horrible pains in my shoulder.  It isn't uncommon to get these pains after the surgery since they put air into your belly so they can do the surgery lapriscopically.   I dealt with them all day and also fought off some nausea. The morning of day five and I was pretty miserable, so I emailed my doctor's medical assistant at approx. 6:00AM.  By 6:35AM, I received a call from her.  She wanted me to come in right away, she was worried about a leak.  Holy batshit, Robin!  This was my worst fear.  This is serious.  I mean, you can die from that!

I went to the doctor and they ran some tests and then sent me over to the hospital to have further tests done. As I am sitting there, no makeup, wearing sweats and my drain tubes hanging out, this woman in a wheel chair zones in on me and says, "God bless you and heal you honey, Merry Christmas...."  I thanked her but wondered why she didn't say anything to anyone else.  I'm thinking, crap, she knows I'm dying.  She was sent by God and she is trying to comfort me in my final hours!!!  Just then they called me back to the testing area.  Turns out they were not really ready, so they sent me back out to the waiting room.  I said to my sister, who was with me, "did you hear that lady, she blessed me...weird, huh?"  My sister said, "yeah, after you left she started going on about how she had a Xanax and that she didn't know how to drive her wheel chair and started bumping in to people."  Oh.  I don't think God would send me a drunk driver, do you?  Clearly not the sign I thought it was.

After spending a long day in the hospital and more time at the surgical center, I was informed that indeed, I did have a leak and that the way to treat it was to allow my body to heal and watch for infection.  That meant that I needed to come back to the hospital the following day and have a pic line IV put in so I could be fed through my IV.  I was advised I would not be taking ANYTHING in by mouth for the next 14 days. Not water, not gum, not food, not pills...nothing.  I was devastated and scared.  I looked at the doctor, tears streaming down my face (it was my best theatrical performance of the year, so far) and I said, "Dr. L, I don't want to die."  He said, "Well, this is good, that means we are on the same page."

I'll skip over the multiple meltdowns (go ahead and ask Valerie how many times I cried on the phone with her), the IV installation, the severe reflux, nausea, stomach pain and the good folks at Walgreens coming and hooking me up to my IV and super cool backpack that I get to wear if I leave the house. Ok, so one thing about the backpack, I got this stupid ugly blue one.  You'd think they would want to cheer people up.  You know, maybe give me a choice of a Power Puff girl back back or Transformers or something.  I mean, I'd prefer something with a unicorn, but hey, I get that not everyone is into unicorns. 

So, I have to sleep downstairs on the couch sitting up because of the pain and the stupid IV bag.  I take enough unicorn enhancing drugs to sleep a few hours and then take more in the middle of the night.  Life is freaking grand.  To top it all off, the special mix of IV nutrients they are giving me are such a high mix of nutrients and calories that I have gained two pounds this week!  ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME???? I haven't eaten anything for over a week (two entire days went by where I really did not eat or drink anything) and now this.  This is not okay.  This is not, "let's blimp out the fat girl on calories!"  They keep telling me that they have to keep my calories high and we will worry about weight loss later.  Later? What?  The one consolation I had was that at least I was going to lose some weight over the next 14 days and now even that has been taken from me.  I mean, I don't really want to die, but I don't want to be an IV Fatty either.  There is absolutely no justice in this situation.  And to all those that have gone before me and had this surgery and had no problems and are dropping weight, I hate your guts.  Traitors. Over-achievers.

Oh, yeah, and I know this was elective surgery, I would just like to have elected out of the complications.  It's always going to be something with me.  Always.  This is why the pony is always angry.

Anyway, that is the update.  I guess the only before and after pictures will be those of me skinnier BEFORE the IV and then fatter AFTER it.  But, I'm not bitter..... Like hell I'm not.

My Story

It was a cold November day 41 years a go.  A petite woman from a petite family gave birth to a fat baby girl. She was a big girl and stayed a big girl from that day forward.  The doctor said she was "off the charts."  This isn't good news for a rock band, it wasn't good news for this young girl.  As time went on, the fat girl went to school where kids were mean to her.  She went home crying and her Dad said, "Baby, I can't go to school and beat all those kids up for you, you are going to have to get thicker skin."  It broke his heart to see his fat little daughter upset, but what could he do?  And so, the fat girl grew into a fat teenager.  She went to nutritionists, went on diets, went to see the doctor - none of which helped.  Her parents did not know what to do.

The fat teenager was sad as time went on and she wanted to be normal like the rest of the kids. In retrospect, wearing that one pair of ugly leg warmers in the 6th grade was a bad idea, but those were the only ones that would fit. She didn't know fat girls shouldn't wear those.  And then, she liked a boy in middle school and he called her Jabba the Butt.  Isn't he a clever little asshole? And so, her skin became thicker than ever and her sarcasm and self-loathing humor intensified.  Isn't the fat girl funny?  She was.  And then high school.  There was no sweet 16 kiss, there was no date to the prom, there was no boyfriend in high school.  She was a girl that "would be pretty if she just lost some weight," as some said.  But she was funny and she was talented and she was strong on the outside in all the ways that counted.  Never mind her heart was broken.

After high school and into college she spent the next ten years thinking that no one would love her because she was too fat and hid from the whole dating scene.  One day, she realized she might die the last American virgin, and so, she put herself out there and found that there were people that would like her and even found one that would love her for who she was.  He not only loved her, he thought she was beautiful.  Sure, he was half-blind, but that just meant he saw her heart.  The fat girl thought this would be enough. To be loved.  She was wrong, because after time she realized, she did not love herself and her body was breaking down.  She no longer found joy in the things she loved.  And so, her journey in trying to lose weight intensified as never before.

That is my story...well, the first half.  The reason for me sharing this story, as pathetic as it may be, is to bring up my current plan of action.  I wasn't going to talk about it or tell anyone.  My weight loss journey is personal.  It's painful. It's full of failures and trial and error.  It's full of people judging me and my choices.  For all of those reasons, I just wanted to keep it under wraps.  I shared my lap band removal story because it was what was happening and it was a choice I made that did not work and I was at peace with that.  The part of the story I was not sure I wanted to share is that, tomorrow, I am going to have the Gastric Sleeve procedure.  A procedure where they will take up to 80% of my stomach out and make it so that I can only eat 3/4 of a cup of food at a time.  It's drastic. It scares me a little bit, to be honest, but it is a choice I have made so that I can live my life and not just survive it.  I really don't need anyone's opinion about it.  I don't need questions about it.  But, I'm an open person, I'm not going to hide it.

I think it is humorous when people say that weight loss surgery is the easy way out.  The process leading up to this choice has not been easy.  The process of  having surgery will not be easy.  The life long change in eating habits is not easy. And, I could die as a result.  But I might die if I do nothing.  To everyone that says, that I am not accepting who I am.  Bite me. Live in my body for a day.  I think that whole "Big is Beautiful" thing is crap.  I'm not saying that big girls aren't beautiful, but I don't buy into the whole "more cushion for the pushin" or there being more of me to love.  I don't know about anyone else out there, but I'd like less cushion during sex.  It's a lot going on and I'd like to be able to do half the positions in any given sex book.  I don't see "The Blob" listed in any sex book as a killer orgasmic move.  So, save it Big diva's.  And, another thing, there is nothing sexy about peeling off multiple layers of clothes, then having your man try and get you our of your Pranx in the heat of the moment.  They are rolling up, one boob is out, then your arms are over your head and you're stuck.  A real seductive move.  Then, your tights, that were made for an Amazon woman, go all the way up to your boobs and you look like a stuffed sausage.  Again, not sexy, I don't care how blind my man is. And yes, there are men that prefer women that are bigger, but there are also men that will have sex with a cantelope, so really, save that argument.

And, don't get me started on the clothes.  I will probably never escape from the Pranx, especially if I do lose a lot of weight, because I'll have all this skin to contain.  Check and check mate, Pranx.  You bastards. I'm sick of shopping at Porky's Place in any given department store, or as they call it, Women's World.  It's not a world I enjoy.  A world of stretch fabrics, jeggings, mu-mu's and an elastic waist.  All the while some little skinny pop tart of a girl helps you find your "dream jeggings."  I'm over it.  I hate it.  I'm tired of walking through and entire floor at Macy's that I can't even shop at.

To those that say that I could lose all the weight with my diet, you clearly don't know what it is like to be a life-long fat person.  You know, just because I might share about a day that I had too much chocolate, that doesn't mean I spend every day like hat.  You little crack-whore, you don't get to call me out for sharing about a bad day.  What about the bad day where someone goes home and drinks, does drugs, chain smokes, enjoys retail therapy, kicks the dog, yells at their kids, etc.  All forms of abuse. All forms of imperfection.  Me having a bad day eating chocolate  for one day does not mean I am clueless and deserve to be fat and that I've done it to myself.  It means I'm human.

Anyway, this is a lot of rambling to say, this is what is going on with me.  I hope my guts don't explode again.  I hope I do get to go on another unicorn ride.  I hope I don't die. I hope recovery isn't incredibly painful.  I hope I succeed in losing weight for the first time in my life and maybe one day I walk past a mirror and take a moment to linger and look instead of shuddering and being full of shame.  And to those people that want me to be angry and share funny stories.  That won't stop with losing weight.  I won't lose who I am. I'm still an angry pony full of stories to tell (regardless of how boring I've been lately).  I'm just hoping they will be better as I get to do more and get out there and really involve myself in life.  And, if you are reading this and you are overweight, I don't judge you, I don't dislike you, I don't tell you to lose weight, I won't tell you this is the answer for you and I don't tell you that you are not beautiful.  Hell, you might have a sex life that rivals any Victoria Secret model.  I don't care.  That is your story.  This is mine.

My First Fan Encounter!

I know recently my blog has been reading more like an internet diary than an entertaining blog, but that is my life.  And my blog is about my life and my views, so if people don't like it, they can suck it.  Today, however, I realized, some people still like it.

I was sitting at my desk at work when this girl I had never seen before approached.  She said, "Are you Cassondra White?"  In retrospect, I should have found out more information before giving myself up so easily.  I mean, a girl can't be too careful.  She might have been a tax auditor or some sort of bio-hazard inspector.  As it turns out, she was a fan of Angry Pony.  She said, "My name is Zumba Spooner (this isn't her real name, of course...and I think she is the big spoon) and I love your blog, I just had to meet you and shake your hand!"  I was taken aback.  This is big.  I mean, I have a fan.  So this is what Justin Bieber feels like?  Wow.  I shook her hand and she was ever so sweet about telling me how much she enjoyed my blog. I apologized to her for all the details of my life that she has been subjected to, but she seems to enjoy hearing about my trials and tribulations.  I felt like I should grab something and autograph it.  I mean, she did come all the way up to the penthouse in the glass palace to meet me.  Alas, I was not prepared.  I should get some Angry Pony head shots done and copies made.

It got me to thinking, maybe I need an agent.  Or a handler.  I mean, what if she brings friends next time and they come and snap pictures of me while I am Jib Jabbing?  That is a sacred process, that cannot go viral. What if I am in the bathroom trying to decide what stall to use based on the amount of feces, dead flies or bodily fluids on the floor and she comes in and watches me?  What if I'm in a stall with a Pranx situation going on or cutting my tights off and a camera appears under the stall wall?  I'm not saying Zumba Spooner is a stalker, I'm just saying, what if this first encounter leads to other encounters and my life is suddenly "exposed."  And then, I calmed down, because I don't really know how much more exposed someone could make me, aside from pictures.  I mean, I've told stories about everything from stepping in dog crap in the middle of the night to 50 Shades of Oversharing to referencing my "easy bake oven" and cooking "bread in it."  I think I've done a good job of doing damage control if my fan base increases to say two or more people.

So, thank you, Zumba Spooner.  Thanks for reading!  I mean, I don't know what it says about you that you enjoy my graphic regurgitation of my life, but you're in  good company.  Of the followers I have that I know, I can tell you, you are in truly good company.  I don't know about socks and sandals guy, but Zumba Spooner, you're one of us! 

Footnote: For those of you wondering why the name Zumba Spooner, I have seen a picture of her doing some sort of floor exercise right next to another  girl at Zumba.  I promise, I'm not on any narcotics.

Dear Diary, my guts exploded again...

I returned to work yesterday after having two weeks off for my surgery.  It was an uneventful day, especially since my boss is on vacation this week and out of my hair, oops, I mean, out of the office.  I was hoping the rest of the week would go smoothly as well.  Today proved that "smooth" is not in my vocabulary.

The day was going okay until it was time for the staff meeting.  I hate staff meetings.  They are long, boring and well, someone usually gets on my nerves.  Either from talking too much, for being a dumbass, or for making us stay longer than three hours by their insistence that we talk about their issues until we have run them into the ground.  I have to take notes, so I need to pay attention.  It's exhausting.  Today, however, the boss is out of the office and Life Coach Barbie is running the meeting.  She says she is going to make it quick.  I had hope.  I never had hope. 

Today was a prime example of why I don't have hope.  The meeting was going on and on about this one topic. They were trying to set some parameters for a new process.  They kept changing what they were saying and I was getting irritated, not that it takes much to do that.  My belly was kind of throbbing, so I rubbed it a little and hoped the meeting would be over soon.  Finally, it was.  I stood up and as I did, my belly felt warm and I looked down and on the outside of my sweater there was a spot.  It was a wrap around sweater, so I opened it up and my white tank top thing underneath had a huge orangey circle.  My guts had exploded again.  It finally happened, the staff meeting made my guts explode.  It was just a matter of time, I guess.  It was inevitable.  A few people saw the spot on my shirt and their eyes got big.  I left the room and retreated to the ladies room.  I pull up my shirt and sure enough, we have a situation.  My bandage that was fresh this morning was now soaked, it had gone through that, my FCD, my tank top and my sweater.  Shit.  I'm especially pissed because now, I am exposed and I am in an environment that could be breeding anything from Malaria to Small Pox to the Plague.  AND, there are no paper towels in either dispenser.  It was at that moment that Cupcake in the head Lady came in.  There I was, belly hanging out, fluid dripping and at this point, I am so mad and frustrated, I am starting to cry.  Cupcake in the Head Lady got me toilet paper and we stopped up the hole.  I looked up in the mirror and what a site I was.  I haven't showered in about five days because of this damn stomach issue.  I mean, I've done liberal sponge baths and washed my hair, but it isn't the same. My hair looks stringy, greasy and it's up in a clip and then I have pins in it to hold back the falling pieces.  I have a zit coming in on my chin and a big-ass bio-hazard stain on my belly.  I'm a mess.

I returned to my desk and the consensus was that I should go home.  Apparently, no one wanted me oozing at my desk, so I went home.  I had been exposed, all I could do now was rush home to my Neosporin and fresh bandages.  When I got to my truck I called the doctor's office and talked to his medical assistant.  She says, "where you doing anything stressful when this happened?"  I replied, "Well, I was sitting at a staff meeting with a bunch of managers I wanted to punch in the head, but it wasn't physically stressful."  It was quiet as she typed her notes.  Then she asked, "Is the incision warm?"  I said, "Well, it is warm, but it is also under three layers: my fat controlling device, my tank top and my sweater, so you know..." Again with the typing.  This girl has no sense of humor.  I'm the one with oozing guts, cut me some slack.  So, now, I'm pretty sure my permanent medical records reflect that I wanted to punch people and that I wear an FCD. After all that, basically, I was told to keep bandaging it and keep an eye out for infection. Oh, and come see the doctor on Thursday.  Fine, if I don't bleed to death in my sleep, I'll be there.

I headed for home, but was feeling the meltdown coming on, so I did what I do when these meltdowns happen, I called Valerie.  Valerie is a good one to meltdown with because she will listen, be sympathetic and then say, "it's okay, honey, we'll figure this out."  And, mostly, no matter how hysterical I get, she's calm as a cucumber.  I dialed her up and she answered the phone all happy to hear from me and I started the conversation like this, "Well, are you ready for the meltdown, because it's happening."  She was quiet, preparing herself for the onslaught.  I figure, why bother with "hello, how are you?" let's cut to the chase. Valerie understands this.  I told her my guts exploded again, I told her how that was going to impact my next surgery, I told her how I burst in public, I had been exposed to malaria, yellow fever and small pox, I told her how I had really bad hair and it was stringy and I was ugly and that I had a zit and that I had a big stain on my brand new white tank top and how I had the potential to have bread baking in my "easy bake oven" thanks to the anti-biotics and how I was tired  of this. Tears were streaming down my face.  An occasional hiccup and sob was inserted.  She did the appropriate lash-out at the doctor and told me this was just temporary and that we would get through this.  She kept asking me where I was now, she wanted to make sure I made it home safely.  She talked to me from Everett all the way to Silvana.  After I finished the final drama filled synopsis of my utter state of repulsiveness, she said, "now where are you?"  I wailed, with every fiber of my being, "I'm in freaking (sob) Silvana...(sob, gasp, hiccup) where all your freaking dreams come true!"  Valerie is laughing, probably because she doesn't know what else to do, but I am out of control. I finally sucked it up and a couple big sniffs and a nose wipe on my sleeve and I give her a pathetic good-bye.  I hate my guts.

So, I guess I'll double up on the padding and hope I don't need a transfusion in the morning.  At the current rate of gut explosions, I gauge the next one to be on Friday.  I'll be ready this time.

The Day My Guts Exploded

 Disclaimer: The following is gross and TMI.   If you're not into gross, don't read it.

Today was my last day in captivity.  My last day of medical leave from the surgery I had to remove my lap band.  All was going according to plan and I was healing well.  This is what I thought, at least.

This morning, I get out of bed and meander downstairs.  I go out, feed the ponies, come in, poke the fire and then go in the kitchen to make my protein shake.  I'm standing there, minding my own business and I'm like, why is my shirt wet? Did I lean on the sink?  I pull it up and my biggest incision is spurting out an orangey-red fluid.  Not dripping, not oozing, SPURTING!  It was like a bad horror flick where the killer hacks at the teen-age girl and then blood spurts everywhere.  Just like that.  I'm sure my eyes were the size of saucers.  I'm like, "oh, shit, this is not normal!" And then I think I said, "Oh God...Oh God..." I lean up against the sink where the fluid can create the least amount of mess and then I started thinking, crap, I need to stop this before my guts combust, pieces of flesh splatter everywhere and this gets out of hand!  I grabbed two large sheets of Bounty paper towels.  Within seconds the paper towels are soaked.  Apparently they are the "quicker picker upper," but they are not bio-hazard friendly.  I looked around frantically and then decided on a clean kitchen towel.  It is one of my horsey kitchen towels.  I put it on there and stand there, dumbfounded. Now what?  This isn't a 911 situation, I don't think.  I mean, the spurting has now reduced to an ooze.  I call the doctor's office.  They aren't in yet, but their answering service says they will pass the message along.  Great.

It was at this moment that Will was texting me about his bluetooth for his phone.  I'm walking around the house, a towel clutched to my belly, looking through his laundry and other locations for the damn bluetooth.  This is nuts, my guts are falling out, I don't have time for this! I called him, "I don't really know where it is right now...and I've got a problem, my guts are spurting out."  I reassured him that I had it under control and had a call in to the doctor.  He seemed skeptical, but didn't have any way of assisting since he was at work.  I called Mom, "hey Mom, my guts are spurting out, do you have time to take me to the doctor if I need to go?"  And here is the thing, she didn't even seemed phased.  I mean, she was mildly concerned, as any Mom would be, but it was almost as if every other phone call I had made her to this date had prepared her for this moment.  Like, there was nothing I could say that would surprise her.  What have I done to this woman?  I don't have time to think about it, I was applying pressure and the horsey towel was working overtime.  My sister gets on the phone and says, "so what happened?  And you didn't do anything to cause this?  You and Will weren't like, you know...?"  Oh geez, I hadn't considered that, what if Will and I had been having sex and my guts burst open?  We would have been scarred for life!  I assured her that nothing of the sort had happened.

About 40 minutes went by and still no word from the doctor, so I called them again. They agreed my guts should not be spurting, so they made me an appointment for as soon as I could get there.  Mom came and picked me up and as we were driving in, the doctor's office called to see what was up.  I guess they just got the memo from the answering service.  I'm seriously glad this wasn't urgent.  I think two hours is kind of ridiculous for a call back.  I mean, I was oozing!  Seemed important to me.

I arrived at the doctor and told him of my horrific experience.  He said, "I know what the problem is, we can fix this."  Apparently, when we took the lap band out of my guts, it left some empty space. I guess my body isn't about having empty space, so it filled it up with fluid.  Then, it just kept making fluid, like it makes cellulite apparently, stupid body, and then pressure built up.  In rare cases, this happens, the doctor tells me. Well, aren't I special? I'm rare. He put's some anti-bacterial on there and bandages me up.  He informs me that the worst of it should be over....however, this could lead to infection.  If that happens, that is bad.  But, since my second surgery is planned in two weeks, we can't really give me anti-biotics because then I could be at risk for other serious infections like CDIF.  CDIF is highly contagious, apparently.  My Dad had it when he was sick and everyone that came in his hospital room had to wear hazmat-like suits.  You know, it just causes watery diarrhea, fever, sepsis...death.  No big deal.  But, if they don't get me on anti-biotics, I could get an infection and then all bets are off.  I'm sitting there, oozing, trying to remain calm.  Bloody Finger doctor goes to talk to my other doctor that is now back from vacation, or where ever doctors go for weeks at a time.  They both come back in the room.  I knew my guts spurting was  big deal, but having both doctors in there made it seem pretty intense.  They have decided to put me on a 3-day anti biotic regimen. And, if my guts don't stop oozing, or if they get irritated or red, I need to come right back in.  Great.  In addition, no bathing until the oozing stops.  Sponge baths only.  Wait.  What?  I don't want to take sponge baths.  I want to be clean and smell pretty.  But, what's a girl to do?  I don't want deathly diarrhea.

I'm on my way home and my buddy-ol-pal Valerie is demanding a status.  I call and tell her the news.  I tell her I am pissed because now all my plans could be shot to hell and I'm pissed.  She informs me that my bigger problem is that the high-power anti-biotics are going to give me a yeast infection.  I hadn't considered this.  Damn it!  I can't be bending over ooozing and scratching other stuff at the same time!  That's gross.  I can't be at work with a blood stain on the belly of my shirt and riding my chair like I'm looking to make 30 seconds on a mechanical bull.  This won't work...at all.  Then, Valerie starts talking about how Will can sponge bathe me and it will be so romantic.  No. When I had my foot surgery, I couldn't even get him to shave my legs, he's not going to sponge bathe me now. And, I may not know a lot about romance, but no where in any of the 50 Shades of Gray books did it talk about spurting guts and a sponge bath. This was not a good news kind of day.

So, basically, it is time for me to return to work, but I can't bathe, can't get sick, can't risk an infection and need to control the oozing.  How am I supposed to go to the bathroom in that place?  My God, there is disease and bacteria everywhere!  It's a death trap!  I need to acquire a hazmat suit, anti-bacterial spray, gel, wipes and lotion, and then, there will be no hugging.  I don't care if you are clean, no hugging.  And if you have children, stay away.  I know they have germs and you are a carrier of said  germs.  On the up side, I guess I probably won't have to worry about the hugging if I'm not showering.  And hey, how am I supposed to get back to the gym?  I can't risk getting sweaty or popping a gut on the bike!

Between the stress from before the previous surgery, the stress of not knowing if the second one will happen and hating the holidays, I think I should have been prescribed some valium, too. It really would be the gift that kept on giving to everyone.  Valerie says God doesn't give you more than you can handle and that he is checking on my tolerance level.  This does not comfort me.  What should comfort all of you, though, is that I promise, if I do get a yeast infection,  I won't blog about it.  But, if you see me seeming agitated in my chair, please, just keep walking, deal?

Kiosk Mall Dude

Yesterday, I had my post-op appointment with my doctor.  On the way, I decided I should pay my phone/internet/TV bill which are all bundled into one package.  I would hate to lose my only source of entertainment. I mean, if I can't get a marathon of some sort of skinny girl turmoil, what purpose do my days have? 

My provider of said services used to have a store in our mall.  I went in there and found it no longer there.  What the heck?  I found a little kiosk in the mall with my company's name on it.  Apparently, the dude was representing the "Wireless" segment of the company, even though the kiosk says it can help with my phone, internet and TV as well.  I ask this kid, "So, is the Glass Palace store no longer here in the mall?"  He looks at me like I have two heads.  He advises me that the store is no longer here in the mall, but that he can help me.  All he needs to do is look up my account.  I advised him that I work for the company and so I am all set up, I just need to pay my bill.  He then says to me, "If you work for the company, why don't you know where to pay your bill? You would think you would know that?"  What? Did he really just say that to me?  How does he know I'm not the Vice President to the Executive Dude in Charge of Everything?  I advised him that I usually pay my bill on-line but that the system didn't seem to be working today.  He then proceeds to tell me how much my company sucks and that Comcast is so much better and that we just have nothing but problems on-line.  Now, I'm not going to lie, I whole-heartedly agree, but I don't go around telling people I don't know that.  I asked him if he knew where the Glass Palace store is now.  He does provide me the address.  Then he says, "Yeah, I've been thinking about transferring over to the main office."  Well, that just happens to be my area.  I told him a little about the job.  He is wanting to make $1000 a week in commission.  I burst his little bubble about that.  I told him he would have to apply for a position when it becomes available and has to get certified, etc. if he wanted to come over.  He's like, "I'm already certified."  I looked at this kid that had just totally talked trash about the company that signs his check and said, "You are not certified to talk to our customers on the phone."  I said, "Look, I'm the admin, so I can't tell you whether it would be better than what you do now or not."  He looks puzzled, "What's an admin? You lost me...."  I said, "You know, the administrative assistant for the center..."  He shakes his head, "Nope, I still have no idea...."  I sat there, kind of stunned. I thought of something he might be able to identify with.  I thought of many descriptive terms, but decided to be professional about it.  I said, "You know, a secretary?"  He just shook his head and gave up.  This is the face of my company at the mall.  I feel good about our future.  Yep. I do.

I'm about ready to leave and he says, "yeah, that girl at the front desk, she's nice."  I said, "yes, Palace Enforcer, she is nice."  He says, "yeah, I was always promising to bring her coffee, but I never did."  What do you say to that?  I was like, okay then, gotta go pay my bill now....

I did manage to find the Glass Palace store and pay my bill.  At least now, I am guaranteed intelligent interaction on TV. Thank goodness.

The next stop was the doctor's office.  By now, I was super hungry, I hadn't eaten since some cereal this morning and it was now 3:30pm.  Right around the corner from my doctor's office is Dick's burgers.  I love Dick's burgers.  This is not exactly what you want to eat on your way to see your bariatric surgeon, but we were in a pinch and I was hungry. I thought about it some more and decided this was a bad idea.  I told Will to nevermind, but while I was on my cell phone trying to calm one of my friends down that just had a run in with the IRS, he pulled in to Dick's and ordered me a burger.  I ate it.  It was delightful.  Then, I panicked. My appointment was 15 minutes away.  I said to Will, "I can't go into my doctor's office with Dick on my breath! I need gum!"  Two pieces of minty gum later, and I was on the way to the doctor.  I wonder how heavy that cheeseburger was?  The first thing they are going to do is weigh me.  Crap. 

I got weighed and got through the appointment without incident.  I really don't know why I had to drive all the way down there for the doctor to look at my incisions and say, "looks good" and then ask me how I feel.  We could have covered this over the phone.  Oh, well.  I guess, if I hadn't left the house, I would never have met Dude at the mall and gotten a Dick's burger.  Considering my last week of pajamas and couch habitation, I think this was a very exciting day. 

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to recover from it.  Kitchen Nightmares is on.  Oh, and I need to get Will on those Christmas lights.  They don't hang themselves!



 

Am I the Last Unicorn?

Disclaimer: Some of this may be a repeat from the other night when I came home, but this is the story in it's entirety as I remember now that I am out from under the fog.

I had surgery Monday, as planned.  My first words after coming-to in the recovery room was, "Did anyone see the truck that hit me?"  Sure enough, just like any perfect crime, no one had seen anything.  Then, the doctor, the bloody fingered doctor from my pre-op appointment, came over to see how I was doing.  Through my drug induced stupor, I said, "Hey, do I still have my spleen?"  He looked confused and said, yes, it was still there.  I said, "what about my intestines, did you cut any out?" He said they were all still there too. (If you read my earlier blog last week or so, I had concerns about this.  The doctor is apparently not a follower because he had no idea what I was talking about.)  Dr. Bloody Finger walked away.  I think I might have scared him.  It was at this moment I noticed I had a fat lip.  How did that happen?  I asked my nurse, "Did someone rough me up?"  She didn't know anything.  None of them knew anything. Sure, lie to the drugged up girl. Someone knew something.  Clearly this is a job for Scooby Doo and the Mystery Machine. I think they were trying to get that damn tube down my throat and I cowgirled up on them and then a fight ensued and then someone threw a $20 into the ring and one of them jumped on me, held on for eight seconds, wrassled me and then crammed that tube down there.  I can't prove it, but it is a theory. 

I don't think they were prepared for my comedy routine while coming out of the anaesthesia and I think they really wanted me out of there.  This little nurse comes over and tells me that as soon as I can walk, I can go home.  I looked at her and said, "seriously? YOU are going to catch me if I fall?"  She smiled and nodded yes.  I was seriously tempted to test her upper body strength, but thought better of it since I had four incisions in my belly. Proving my point might not be in my best interest.  I managed to do four laps up and down the hallway while Will took pictures of my butt almost sticking out of the hospital gown and then yelling, "She just made another left turn!" like he was calling a Nascar race.  I begged him to stop.  There was one other man in the recovery area, at least he seemed semi amused.  We take this show on the road folks, for the right amount of medication, we can recreate this routine for your amusement!

I finally got to the safety of the truck to go home.  Now, when Will signed that piece of paper saying he was the "responsible party" for my aftercare, I think there should have been some additional questions asked.  As soon as I got settled in the truck, I was like, "hey, let's call people and give them a status!"  Will said,"here, let me hook up the blue tooth..."  A responsible person would have stopped me and advised me it was a bad idea.  Not my husband.  And, what made matters worse is that while I was coming out of my drug induced state, he had led me to believe I had taken a magical unicorn ride while I was in surgery.  I told the nurses this in the hospital and then I proceeded to tell every person I called on the way home that I had taken a unicorn ride.  And, everyone was so nice about it, they were all like, "Oh, REALLY? ?That must have been fun...."  I didn't find out until the next day that I hadn't taken any special rides.  It was pretty disappointing if you ask me.  In addition to the unicorn ride, I had apparently invited several people to a marijuana confessional circle like on that show called That 70's Show. I apparently also said everything was "Effing Awesome." I don't really remember everything that I talked about on the ride home, but Will laughed a lot.  Again, he is not a responsible party.  I guess I'm lucky he didn't video it, because if my sister had picked me up, she would have for sure.

So, I've been sleeping, taking my prescribed narcotics and sleeping and basically just chillin.' I realized it might be time to stop taking my meds yesterday as I went in the bathroom to get cleaned up to make an appearance at Thanksgiving dinner and I noticed one of my pupils was huge and the other was small.  I noticed I could see my full reflection in my one pupil.  I was trippin' out.  Seriously.  I came stumbling out of the bathroom and I grabbed the phone and called my sister.  Will is like, what the hell are you doing?  I shooshed him.  I called and Theresa answered.  The following conversation took place (It helps if you have seen the movie, The Last Unicorn);

Me: Theresa! Do you remember the movie, The Last Unicorn?
T: Um, yeah....why?
Me: Do you remember how the unicorn was a unicorn until that magician guy turned her into a human because the bad guy was after her and then she was a woman and then she went to the bad guys castle where all the unicorns were being forced into the ocean but the bad guy didn't know she was really a unicorn and then she fell in love with the prince guy but then the bad guy looked into her eyes and he could see his reflection in her eyes and he was like, "why can I see my reflection in your eyes?! Why!???".... Theresa, I could be a unicorn!
T: O...M...G...what is wrong with you? What did you take?
Me: Nothing, just my ...stuff.  I think I'm a unicorn.
T: You are not a unicorn.  Maybe you should stop taking the medicine.
Me: I'm fine.  So you don't think I'm a unicorn?  I mean, I could be...
T: You are not a unicorn.

Then, I went on Facebook and posted that my pupils were different sizes and it was weird.  Now the phone calls started.  No one wanted to talk to me, "Let me talk to Will."  Next thing I know, Will is looking for my doctor's number.  I'm like, "hey, it's Thanksgiving, I don't want to go to the doctor....okay, okay, I'm not a unicorn.  I mean it, I don't want to go to the doctor.  Will, I'm fine, I'm not a unicorn, I mean it, I promise, I won't say it again, please don't call the doctor."

Will looked some things up online.  Turns out the pupils weren't a huge deal.  The side effects didn't mention anything about someone thinking they were a unicorn, so we called it a draw on that.  He would just keep an eye on me.

Anyway, I survived and things are starting to become more clear.  My pupils are normal again. I haven't had any narcotics for over 24 hours. Now, my tummy just hurts a lot and I'm just kind of in a haze.  Apparently a tree fell down outside our house today while Will was gone at work.  I didn't hear a thing.  So, I guess if a tree falls and no one hears it, I guess it still really does fall because there it is, laying on the ground.  I don't know why people pontificate about this question.  It's too deep of a conversation for me now.  Trust me, I mean, I was a unicorn yesterday, people.  Baby steps.

Mean Girl - Get a Life

Last week I had a fellow blogger friend that was attacked by an anonymous asshat on her page.  The comment  was mean, uncalled for and immature.  Not to mention, hurtful.  I told her how I might react to the situation, if it had been me, but understood that her demeanor and mine were quite different. I suggested that she take some time to think about it, and strike back intelligently and with purpose.  She did just that, with all her style and grace and I was proud of her for taking a stand.

Apparently, tonight was my night to be tested. I've had a rough couple of weeks, for many reasons, but I am a survivor and I managed to muster through.  I credit my family and friends for being there for me and being such a wonderful support.  Anyway, I'm minding my own business tonight.  I'm at my Mom's house.  It is our first Thanksgiving without my Dad, so it is weird, but we are making the best of it.  I'm still recovering from surgery on Monday, so I am a little woozy and laying low.  Had a small dinner and was hanging out with my sister.  My phone buzzes.  I check it and it is a message from a girl that used to be one of my 4-H kids back when I was a 4-H leader.  Mind you, I haven't seen this girl, haven't talked to this girl, I mean no contact in over 15 years.  I have heard from a few different sources over the years about her life and what she has been up to.  She was even a Facebook friend, but she didn't really comment much.  Some of her pictures and comments seemed ridiculous to me, but who am I to judge, it's her life.  I believe in living and let living.  Her life is none of my business.  Doesn't matter what I think of her, it's not my life.  Tonight, however, out of the blue, she sends me the following personal message via Facebook:
"You know what kind of posts i hate reading? pathetic ones about how fat someone is as they eat another candy bar....good bye cassondra."

What the hell is she talking about?  I sat there and contemplated my recent posts and my recent blogs.  I don't recall saying in my posts "oh, I'm so fat and I don't know why...I've only had 3 candy bars today, I just don't understand..." I don't recall posting anything like that.  I do poke fun at myself for making bad choices. I do poke fun at my life as a fat person.  I do comment on my struggles.  And, sometimes, I get pretty down about it. I have no intention of giving up my fight with my weight and it will always be a struggle.  I don't think that makes me pathetic.  I think it makes me honest and real.  And, no one has to read what I write. This statement she made to me infuriated me.  I wanted to tear her apart.  I wanted to call out all of the things in her life that make her pathetic in my eyes.  But, here is the thing, aside from what I have heard about her, I don't really know who in the hell she is anymore because she has not been in my life.  I have no more right to trash her than she has to trash me.  I'm just still sitting here amazed at her.  What a joke she is.  What a poor excuse of a person to think she is so evolved and so much better than everyone else that she should have the power to tear me down.  Hey little dreadlock bitch, go F yourself.  In case you haven't noticed, you were not needed in my life the past 15 years and I sure don't see you holding any sort of importance in the next 15 years. It must be amazing to be you, because you are perfect and you are the moral compass for good vs. bad and right vs. wrong. How fortunate for you that you have made only good decisions in your life. You really should go on the road as in inspirational speaker, because clearly, you are tuned in to what is going on in people's lives.  

This girl means nothing to me, but she struck a nerve.  So much so, I read many of my recent FB posts and looked at some of my blogs.  I don't even know what tonight's attack was about. I haven't talked about eating candy bars. Actually, I have been talking about how I have been trying so hard to be good, and going to the gym, etc.  I don't know what she is referring to.  I'm the kind of person that likes to understand the why's behind these types of personal attacks but, here's the thing, I'm not going to know and that is okay.

Most people that read my blog respond positively to my method of venting or expressing myself.  They enjoy the comedy of it because they can relate on some level, or they appreciate that I can laugh about it.  Let me be clear to anyone that might not enjoy it - STOP READING IT.  It's that simple.  I'm not asking for your acceptance. I'm not asking for your approval.  I'm not asking you to be a follower.  I'm not asking you to agree with what I have to say.  If you don't like what you read here, MOVE ON.  I make no excuses for who I am, how I act, or what I decide to write about.  If tearing me down makes you feel better about who you are, I can assure you, you are exactly the kind of person I couldn't give a shit less about in this life.

So, to the person that sent me that message tonight, get over yourself.  You will not be missed.  May I not encounter your mean little spirit ever again.  And, thank you for reminding me how thankful I am for the amazing people that I do have involved in my life that love me.

If anyone else shares her views, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.
 

I'm totally high...

So, I went to my surgery appointment today.  Made my weight goal, since the doctor's scale is lighter than mine.  Thank you, God.

I don't really know what just happened the last few hours, but I am totally stoned on drugs.  I'm effing awesome and I want some people to come over so we can sit around in a circle like that 70's show and talk about what's awesome.   Will said while I was knocked out I went on a magical unicorn ride and you know what? I  believe him.  It was effing awesome!  I like unicorns.

When I was starting to come out of my anesthesia, I saw my doctor at the foot of the bed and I asked him, "Do I still have my spleen?" He said yes.  I said, "Are my intestines intact too?" He said yes.  Whew, that is a relief after him almost cutting off his finger on the wood working tools. However, what I don't understand is how I got a fat bottom lip with two marks.  Is my doctor a Twilight fan? Did he bite me?  Did I get out of hand and they whacked me?  I don't know, but it is FAT.  No one is talking. The nurses aren't talking.  I need to know.  I also asked if they had given me a boob job, but they said no.  Damn. So hard to get good service. They did give me pictures of my guts though, that is also awesome.

I walked up and down the alley in my gown with the nurse.  She said she would catch me if I fell and promised my butt wasn't sticking out. I don't belive that she would catch me, but I went walking anyway with my little rolly drug bag thing and the nurse on the other side. I did three laps without passing out, so I guess I was good to go home.  Will was at the other end of the hall yelling, "it's just like Nascar, she just made another left turn!" I asked the nurses to drug him up, but they declined. 

One the way home, I called my brother to see if he wanted to come be "stoned" with me.  He declined.  Everyone else I called on the way home seemed to enjoy the fact that I am on good meds and don't even care that my incisions hurt. 

I'm home now and will probaby go pass out.  Being high is a lot of work.  I just wanted everyone to know I lived and to not divy up my desk toys yet.

I'm going to crash now.  Thanks for the support!

Sauna Suit & Laxatives...

Any day that starts out with an all-out melt-down at 5AM is not going to be a good day.  I knew it, Will knew it and soon, the world would know it.

I have surgery scheduled for next Monday and in order to be ready, I still need to lose a few more pounds.  In the last 10 days, I have lost approx 13 pounds, but the doctor has a target weight he would like me to be at in order to have surgery in the surgery center, instead of the hospital.  Let's just say, this morning, in spite of all of my efforts, I was up a pound.  I LOST. MY. MIND.  Are you freaking kidding me?  I have been perfect, I haven't even thought about an M&M or potato chip.  I have gone to the gym, I have consumed nearly a gallon of water a day, I have cut carbs out of my life and now this blatant disregard for my efforts being thrust in my face by that damn weight watchers scale?!  I hate your guts!  Mother trucker!  How am I going to reach my goal?  What is it going to take? What if I don't make my goal and they cancel the surgery?  This is SERIOUS!!! Will came over and placed a hand on me and said that he loved me and was sorry. He then left for work like a man that had just been let out of prison after a 25 year sentence.  He was gone.  Smart man.  

After reining in the tantrum, I headed in to work. I shared with a few people what my issue was. Everyone had ideas on how I could lose weight fast.  Some of their ideas seemed drastic. I was skeptical about some of them, but I had other problems to deal with.  I had an ultrasound scheduled this afternoon at 2:30PM.  The doctor wanted to see my gall bladder one more time before making the decision to take it out or not.  My instructions were to not eat anything until after my ultrasound and to consume 24 oz of water one hour prior to the appointment and not pee after drinking those 24oz.  I hate those instructions. Oh, and today just happened to be a big 'ol Thanksgiving potluck, so all I smell all day is food.  You people kill me! Anyway, I started in on my daily water intake right away and by 1:30pm had consumed 96oz of water.  24 of those ounces had been consumed  without peeing.  Off to my appointment I go.  After waiting until an agonizing 2:40pm, the lab tech came out and got me.  She asked me how I was doing.  I said, "other than wanting to pee myself, I'm fine."  She says, "oh really? Do you want to use the bathroom before we do this?"  WHAT????  I told her how I was instructed to drink the water and not pee.  She says, "Oh, not sure why they would have told you that, it isn't necessary for what we are doing today."  Seriously?  I wanted to punch her in the head.  I mean, it wasn't her fault, but someone had to pay. I was almost crying it hurt so bad.  I ran to the bathroom and peed with abandon.  It was almost the best feeling ever.

So, once that appointment was done, I stopped by my natureopathic doctor's office and talked to Diet Barbie.  I asked her what I should do about this weight loss dilemma.  She said, "Well, what has everyone else suggested?"  I listed off the ideas: water pills, laxatives, colon cleanse, Hollywood diet, wrap at Desert Sun tanning salon, time in the sauna, use a sauna suit, stop drinking water, drink more water, cabbage soup diet, eat nothing but water and raspberries, eat fruit an water only, and work out like a maniac.  The doctor considered this an said, yeah, most of those, please don't.  She said she has a friend that does a Colonic before every vacation so her tummy looks flat.  At this point, it would take one hell of a colonic to make mine flat.  I considered it.  Did I really want someone sticking something up my butt and roto-rootering it out?  I don't think I'm ready for that. She also said she had tried the wrap at a Desert Sun tanning salon and the girls were not trained and had the heat on so high it almost left burns all over her.  Great, if that happened to me, the whole place would start smelling like bacon and then people would start coming out of their tanning beds asking where they could get their bacon.  No, those ideas won't work.

After much discussion, we decided I would try the sauna suit and I would do a Fleet laxative. The sauna suit is basically a suit made out of a plastic bag that is supposed to make you sweat the water out.  Ideally, you should use it with exercise.  I'm not so sure I will wear it at the gym, as fashionable as it is, but I might wear it here at home and see what I can do to work up a sweat.  You know, like clean the horse stalls and clean house or maybe use the Wii and workout.  Probably not a good idea to use it during sex, though. Sounds hazardous for geriatric folks like us. Will might be a cowboy, but if I was in a sauna suit, he would have problems holding on for eight seconds, for sure. Anyway, after some additional discussion, we decided I should not use the sauna suit while under the influence of a laxative.  I don't need to crap myself while in a plastic suit.  It just sounds...problematic and unsanitary.  Speaking of the laxative, I'm not super excited about it.  I've never had to use one before.  I'm not sure how it is going to work.  I mean, will I crap myself suddenly?  Or will I be sitting there and my stomach cramps into one horrendous knot and then I explode?  We decided I had better do this on Saturday when I could stay home and not have any plans.  I'm not going to lie, I'm scared.  What if the laxative doesn't kick in until I have surgery on Monday?  What if I crap myself on the operating table?  That isn't sanitary.  Then, I wake up and I'm wearing an adult diaper and the nurses all hate me.  I mean, if I am going to wear a diaper, I want one of those My Little Pony diapers, those are awesome.  I want to be stylish.  Besides, who is going to make fun of a fat girl in a pony diaper?  Most people would be speechless, I would assume.  I wonder if they even make a pony diaper in my size.

So, in conclusion, on Saturday, don't call me, don't come see me and for crying out loud, don't ask to use the bathroom, Will.  Go outside.  Here's hoping this takes care of those last few pesky pounds.  Oh, and if I do crap myself, I will try to not blog about it.  But, if I do end up wearing a pony diaper, there will be pictures to follow.

Wish me luck!

Rockin the Sauna Suit...

Hope Floats...in a Toilet...

Back in 2007, I decided to do something drastic about my weight.  I have fought it all my life and had grown very frustrated.  I decided to have weight loss surgery and had the Lap Band procedure done.  After the fact, it came out that the band was not all it was talked up to be.  It mostly caused me pain and frustration.  I spent more time choking and "sliming" than losing weight.  Oh, you don't know what sliming is?  Well, picture this, you have just put a piece of meat in your mouth and chewed it and chewed it.  You swallow.  It gets stuck because the band is too tight and the food can't go down.  Your meat can't go anywhere, so your body tries to lube you up and get it out of there.  You sit there and choke and start producing more drool than a toddler with overactive glands.  You do this until you yak it up or it passes.  Usually the yaking is the answer.  Anyway, it didn't get me to where I wanted to go, so I had all the fluid taken out of it a couple of years ago and it has pretty much just been sitting in there doing nothing except giving me heart burn and some random pain on occasion.

The reason I'm sharing this with you is because it leads in to today's adventure of being Angry Pony.  You see, I have decided to have the band taken out.  I'm tired of the heart burn and other side affects.  To this end, I have been working with the doctors, the insurance company and various other key people in the process for months.  It has been exhausting, but after quite a bit of recent struggle, I had my surgery date all scheduled for next week.  Hooray.  Indeed.  All I needed to do was meet my surgeon today for my final appointment. Or, shall I say the surgeon that is going to fill in for my surgeon because my guy is on vacation and one of his partners is going to take care of me. I can handle that, it's okay.  I'm sure this guy is perfectly qualified.

I arrive at my surgeon's office ahead of schedule. I check in, sign all the paperwork, etc.  The little medical assistant takes me back to his exam room.  All seems to be going fine.  I hear some scuttlebutt outside the door talking about my doctor. Seems he is not here.  The medical assistant sends me over to get my blood work done because, after all, by the time I'm done the doctor will be there.  I go to the lab and there isn't a soul in there, so I breeze right through and return to the doctor's office.  Again, I am ushered into the exam room.  My appointment was at 1pm.  It is now almost 2pm and I hear someone say he will be here within 20 minutes.  I'm staring at the door where there is a flyer that says, "Do you want to share the experience you had with us today?  If so, log on to....."  You should never leave me in a room for that long and have that be the only thing there is for me to read.  Do they really want to know about my experience today?  I doubt it.

Finally, the doctor shows up.  He comes in and talks to me about the surgery. He wants to take my gall bladder out too while he is in there, but wants me to have more tests. Additionally, he would like me to lose 10 pounds before I have the surgery so that I can have it done in the surgery center vs. having it done in the hospital.  He doesn't think I can lose it by next Thursday.  I am pretty frustrated at this point because I want this done badly and I have already made all the arrangements.  I said, "Isn't that what Colon Blow is for? I could clean this baby out."  He was not a fan of this idea.  I suggested I could also vomit for a few days.  Again, he was not going for it.  I felt sad and depressed.  And then, Will, who was with me, noticed that the doctor had his finger all wrapped up and you could see a little blood coming through it.  It had been hiding under my chart the whole time he had been talking.  We both became alarmed.  How did he do that?  He claims it was an accident with a tool.  What kind of tool?  A scalpel? Was he taking someone's band out and, "Woops!"  He said it was a wood working tool.  Will seemed satisfied.  I was not.  I looked at him and then looked at Will and said, "Sure it was a wood working tool...sure it was..."  My mind was reeling.  I pictured this doctor...this surgeon...he is in his garage and then a tool slips and then he is dancing around cussing and saying "owie, owie, owie...oh God....oh God...." and then passes out.  I'm sure that isn't how it happened, but it is how I visualized it.  What if he slips on my guts?  "Woops, there goes her spleen!  Ah shit, I just slipped and cut her intestine...does anyone have duct tape?  Nurse?"  I'm suddenly a little nervous.  I'm sure it will be fine, right? I mean he is cancelling my surgery date for next week, so now he should have plenty of time to heal and get that steady hand back.

Sad and disappointed, we left.  It was time to go to my weekly therapy appointment.  Since Will was with me, he tagged along to the session as well.  The room was warm and the couch was soft.  I felt him settle in next to me.  I'm pouring my heart out.  I hear his breathing change.  I look over and he is sleeping.  Hey!  I'm trying to make sense of this world!  If you could participate that would be great.  I looked at the therapist and said, "you see what I am dealing with?"  I slapped his knee and elbowed him.  He's like, "what?"  Seriously.  Who falls asleep during therapy.  I mean, I know it isn't him we are focusing on, but a little participation would be good.  I just told him the other day about this kind of thing.  The other morning, I was getting ready to leave for work and I was sharing some things that were bugging me and he is shining a laser light on the wall and is making it go all over the room and the dogs are chasing it.  Um, HELLO, I'm talking here!  This is why I have to pay someone to listen to me once a week.

So, I guess I'll probably have the surgery the following week. Maybe.  Now, I just have to wait for the girl I like to call, "Schedule Bitch" to call me.  It was bad enough we played phone tag earlier in the week and she didn't call when she said she would and then I had to hunt her down and then she told me I only had to lose three pounds by next week and basically lead me astray.  They say she will be calling me, but rest assured, I will be on the phone first thing in the morning.  She doesn't know who she is dealing with.  You don't jerk fat girls around, they get mean.  You'd think she would know this based on working where she does. 

Anyway, this was my day in a nutshell.  This is why I don't have hope.  You get hope and then some doctor with a bloody finger takes it all away.  And then your husband falls asleep in therapy.  Makes the hopeless little  pony angry.

People Love Pot(s)

I woke up today to Facebook exploding about election day and who had won and what initiatives had passed.  It looks like in my state marijuana is going to be legalized.  Everyone acts like this means anyone can grow it and strike up a doobie and that every person is this state will be stoned all the time.  Newsflash, anyone that wants to smoke pot, already does.  Anyway, not going to get into the logistics of all of that, but really, what if we were all stoned?  Consider this, at work, you walk in and say to your boss, "Hey dude, I'm totally going to get to those expense reports today...or tomorrow at the latest.  I'm just gonna see how it goes." And then your boss says, "Awesome!  I'm gonna go sell some chickens on Farmville and take some conference calls while I "mellow out."  My boss is such a buzz kill..."  Then, you walk past this chick that really annoys you and you are all like, "Hey Buffy, nice tye dye shirt."  And then she is totally like, "Thanks, man...."  Beats the hell out of being uptight and wanting to punch people.  Let's all get stoned.  Better yet, let's eat some pot brownies and laugh until it hurts (or you pee yourself, not saying I've done it, but also not saying I haven't) at least once a day.  I've heard that laughter actually improves your health.  The only thing we would need to care for is that there were enough Doritos and Cheezy Puffs down in the vending machine, because from what I hear pot makes you hungry.  Of course that is going to make us fat, then we are going to need Segways to get around at work, who wants to work out? No one.

Some of you are wondering, why in the hell is she going on about pot?  I'll tell you why.  Today, in a very ironic twist of fate, my company decides they are going to give our employees a token to commemorate Veteran's Day.  This token is a pot.  That's right, it is a little pot with flower seeds inside and instructions on how to grow them.  To avoid confusion, before I passed them out, I sent an email out advising them that I was bringing pots around, but that it had nothing to do with this being the same day we are legalizing pot.  As it turns out, this was not helpful.  Each person thanked me for their pot and made a joke about it.  That's fine.  It's all in good fun.  I just could not get over how excited each person was about these little pots.  I mean, you would think that there was actual marijuana in them. People asked if they could have a second one and they wanted to make sure no one was left out. One person spotted me heading towards his area and said, "Just so you know we've all been moved around, so you might have a hard time finding us."  I advised him that  I would be able to figure out where people sit.  He said some of the cubicles still looked like people sat there, but in fact, they didn't.  I, once again, assured him I would be able to handle this. He seemed skeptical.  I said, "Here, take it now then."  He declined, apparently deciding to trust me with his pot.  I went along my merry way and passed out the pots.  I gave them to everyone and even left one at his desk, as promised.  I then got over to my pal Valerie's desk and left her a pot.  She has been gone for a while on medical leave, but she is coming back soon.  I continued on to the other side of the area.  Suddenly, I hear the "concerned citizen" yelling at me, "Cassandra, Cassandra, no one sits here!" and he is holding up a pot while standing at her desk.  I was instantly irritated.  Why in the hell is he checking all the desks I left the pots at?  I yelled back that yes, someone does sit there.  Mind you, ALL of her stuff is still there.  And, I mean, my word, she has like three pairs of glasses, post-its everywhere, umbrella's pictures, general memorabilia, it's clear it is inhabited. I advise him again, yes, that is Valerie's desk and she is coming back.  He argued that he had never seen anyone sit there.  I argued back that I know she is coming back soon. Slowly he put the pot down, but you could tell he didn't believe me.  I finished handing out the pots and I wondered, was the concerned citizen going to go around and steal everyone's pots?  If so, what was he going to do with them? Was he going to start his own growing operation?  I mean, he does have a tye-dyed t-shirt.  I sense a movement is upon us.

I returned to my desk wondering why people were so stoked about these little pots.  I guess I'll never know because I have been trying to kill two plants at my desk for 3 years with only semi success.  Oh well, I guess I'll just let it be an enigma.  I wonder if the presence of the pots will somehow create a calmer workforce.  It might be a fun experiment.  Maybe some of those seeds should be changed out.  We'll have a control group and placebo group.  Yes, this could be fun!  Now, where do I get pot?  Anyone?