Final Week of Captivity

I'm in my last week of captivity. Next Monday I return to my dream job and my working peeps. The Glass Palace awaits. I'm admittedly kind of glad as I am starting to feel good enough to be restless. I want to get back to the grind of a "normal" life.  I'm starting to feel unemployed, which is scary. I have a sneaking suspicion that when I go to work on Monday, I will regret saying I'm glad to be back. The newness should wear off in about 15 minutes.  Nah, I'll give it an hour. 

My biggest challenge, as I see it, will be saying goodbye to my yoga pants and unharnessed boobs.  It's been an amazing run of freedom and I shall miss that.  The hippies were on to something and I have a new respect for them.  I think we should all be free....peace, man. I wore a bra yesterday and the day before and it was really starting to pinch me by end of day.  Is being perky and upright really that important?  I mean, I guess it is.  I do kind of look like I have moobs (aka man boobs) if I don't wear one.  Sigh.  And, let's talk about the yoga pants.  They are amazing! They are like a best friend that gently gives your ass and tummy support without cutting into your waist.  I mean, I'm not saying I have any friends that do that, so no frame of reference there, but I do believe yoga pants are my friend.  No yoga is even required, they are just there for you.  Waiting for you to want to do yoga one day.  Secretly they know that you will never want to do yoga when you are that relaxed, but if you do, they are going to have enough stretch to allow you to get yourself into a downward dog peeing on a hydrant formation and breathe deep.  That is the kind of support I have been looking for all these years and now I have to leave them home when I need them most - sitting on my ass at work all day. I can only assume Monday will be just as traumatizing as a woman leaving her six week old child at daycare for the first time and going to work.  Yep, just like that.

Another thing I'm going to miss is getting out of bed at 8AM.  It just so happens that 8AM is the start of my shift at the Glass Palace.  I'm going to have to start getting up early to feed the ponies, go through my new morning routine of vitamins and protein shakes and getting my ass out of the house by no later than 7:15AM. I'm going to have to get up at, like, 5AM.  Seriously, it takes a bit of time to get this party started in the morning.  I have only done my hair a handful of times in the last almost two months I've been off of work. And make-up, must do make-up.  And then there is the mental pep-talk, "I don't want to do this today."  "Get your ass moving, Bitch, someone has to pay the bills."  "But I don't feel like it."  "Look, you've got shit to do and if you don't do it, who is going to? No one, that's who, now hand me that mascara."  "Maybe I'll take a vacation day."  "Don't waste your vacation time now, stupid."  "Fine. I'll go, but I'm not going to enjoy it, at all."

What I am not looking forward to is the daily wardrobe crisis.  I mean, I haven't worn an FCD (Fat Controlling Device) in almost 3 months.  It's been liberating. No Pranx, no special underwear that double as a deep sea adventure up my butt crack or hoo-hoo.  No traveling tights (in an unrelated topic, why is there only one "L" in "traveling?"  I always want to put two, but auto-correct says that's wrong. It's been a lifelong curiosity for me, really).  Anyway, as I said earlier, I've been living free and my body likes it.  However, now that I have two belly buttons and things are starting to sag a little, I think it is time to reign it back in.  Hey, Body, we'll always have this time to remember, November 2012 - February 3, 2013.  Let's not ever forget.

And, finally, daytime dog snuggling will be over.  No pink pony comforter, no Spanky on my lap and Chip and Lilly at my side. No more narcotics that make me go on unicorn rides and definitely no more napping. I know, I know, it sounds so glamorous, but if you also consider being on an IV for food, not eating or drinking, being poked (and not in a good way), getting infections, having drain tubes, a short-bus backpack and then crapping your pants,  I think you might agree that going to work everyday isn't so bad.  Being a working schmuck like everyone else should, in theory, feel good.  I'll get back to you on that next week. 

Blind Willy & FB Friend dowgrade

I do not like starting my mornings at 4AM, however, this is what I am subjected to today.  I hear Will downstairs getting out of the shower and he exclaims, "F*CK!" but without the asterick.  I have to go to the bathroom anyway, so I manage to stagger downstairs.  Apparently, he broke his glasses while cleaning them.  They broke right off on the nose piece, but not like in the middle where we could tape them and he could rock the nerd look, rather, they broke right at the seam of the nose piece.  I mean, he could put a little cord on them and go like that guy on the Peanut packages, but I imagine that would also be tough.  Will does have a backup pair of glasses, but they are the old prescription and he apparently has no depth perception in them.  This is just the kind of person you want on the road for the morning commute.  I guess as soon as Pearl Vision opens we will have to go in and get him new frames.  Hopefully they can do it today and not charge us an arm and a leg because, frankly, I'm cranky and I'll make them sorry the day they ever sold us glasses in the first place.

Anyway, it's not enough that there was a disturbance in the force this morning, but then Will decides to come back to bed and bring all three dogs with him.  This is a bad plan and I'll tell you why this is a bad plan.  The dogs get excited when they get to come to bed and they like to lick my feet.  All three of them scramble for position and angle.  It makes me crazy. Then, when they have decided they are done, they attach themselves to me like little leaches, which means I can't freaking move.  If I roll over, they reposition.  Then, they get too hot, so they come out from under the blankets and shake, thusly flapping their ears and smacking my bare skin. Little bastards.  Then, they go back under the blanket and in doing so, pull the covers off of my shoulders.  So, I have a wiener dog rodeo going on under the blanket (and rest assured, this has nothing to do with sex), Will is snoring and I'm clinging to the edge of the bed because three wiener dogs are making my life hell.  My head is starting to throb, but I'm almost back to sleep when I am attacked by two dogs dragging the covers off of me and ear flapping again.  I. Lost. My. Mind.  I yanked on the covers so hard it woke Will up.  He's like, "heeeyyyy..."  I said back in a woman-on-the-edge tone, "I'm effing tired of these effing dogs! I've been listening to you snore for AN HOUR, I can't sleep, I have a headache, the dogs won't get off me and I'm clinging to the edge of the bed!"  It's a California King bed, people, there is plenty of room except tall guy over there sprawls out diagonally and then the dogs cling to me, so what room is left for the chubby wife?  The edge.  That is where I seem to be a lot lately...."the edge."  Sensing a full on meltdown, Will tells the dogs to go to bed and they reluctantly get down.  You know, it's one thing when Spanky crawls into bed with me each morning after Will gets up.  He knows the rules and is a good bed partner, but when gang mentality sets in, it isn't pretty for anyone...except Will.

With any chance of sleep ruined, I get up.  I'll just see what is going on in the world of Facebook.  As soon as I log in, I get a message, "morning..." and then I am being asked to go to websites and blogs etc.  WHOA.  Too early for interacting with anyone and I'm crabby.  I make my morning status update and share a couple of pictures and then my cell phone starts going off.  One of my lifelong friends, Snarky Malibu Barbie, has refused to get a Facebook account, but her partner, Sunlovin' Barbie has friended me on Facebook. SMB is texting me and advising me that because of my early morning status updates, her and SB are going to have to downgrade me from "close friend" to "everyday friend" so that my posts don't make her phone vibrate.  While she loves me, she needs her sleep.  Well WHO DOESN'T?!  I advised her of a study that determined that people rested better when turning their cell phones off.  She countered with, "Studies show you're a bitch, but again, we love you."  Well, fine.  First of all, I didn't realize an actual study had been done.  Observations, yes, but an actual study?  What was the criteria? Who were the participants? Was it a double blind study? Was there any sort of placebo affect involved? Was any experimental medication given out? Because I could really go for some medication.  I actually would like to see this alleged report. 
Anyway, I informed her that this is how it works in the universe, my sleep is disturbed and I pay it forward.

Meanwhile, Will is still upstairs snoring and the dogs are snuggled in their own beds...hmph.  To recap, I've been disturbed, violated and forced from my own bed and all I have to show for it is a headache and a friend downgrade on Facebook. And, it's only 7:42AM.  I'm going to need to pace myself at the current rate.

To everyone else, I hope this blog in no way affects your sleep...wait, who am I kidding, I don't give a rats ass if it does! Suck it up!

Frustrated Pony

Having a ho-hum kind of week.  The nutritionist and doctor have cleared me to go forth and eat like a normal person.  Well, a normal person with the gastric sleeve.  I'm still in this weird phase where they are saying, "Now keep in mind, you had a set back and you need to be patient and learn to listen to your body, let's not do anything drastic, what you are doing now is fine."  First, I'm not patient. Second, I didn't have weight loss surgery to coast.  I want to get this party started.  I've also been told because I'm a conversion (went from Lap Band to Gastric Sleeve) my process is a little different.  And then you throw the complications in there, I'm practically a freaking unicorn.

In an effort to seek support from "my people," I logged on to ObesityHelp.com.  You know, to get an idea what my peeps are up to, what they are eating, how they are doing.  What some of them are doing is different from what I'm doing.  So, now, I'm stressed out.  Am I not doing the right thing?  Should I really just be eating eggs and chicken and not exceeding 500 calories a day?  My nutritionist has me on a 1000 calorie suggested diet. Hmmmm.  I'm going crazy here.  I just want to be successful and now I am scared I am going to fail.  Because of my rough start and because I have fallen into this whole  "small percentage" group, I'm a mess.  I'm trying to listen to my body and you know what? My body is a bitch and I hate her guts right now.  Therein lies the problem, I'm sure.  For those of you that can't grasp what this might be like, consider this: First, you like food. You have just made dinner. It's meatloaf and potatoes.  You dish yourself up approx 3 oz of meatloaf and an amount of potato that is smaller than an egg.  You are three bites in and your stomach is like, "I'm out, we are done."  Your mind kicks in and says, "I effin want to eat my effing meatloaf, we are not done."  And then your stomach says, "hey, stupid, I said we are done."  And so, full, but mentally unsatisfied, dinner is over.  Fine.

My nutritionist wants me to start focusing on things other than food, so she sends me a handout called, "101 Things to Do Besides Eat When You're NOT Hungry."  I think my gut response (no pun intended) to these suggestions could be an indicator of the trouble I'm in.  For example:
Suggested Alternative

•  Feel your feelings (my feelings are that I want a cookie)
• Get it off your chest (NO ONE is ready for this, least of all me)
• Think (I think I still want a cookie)
• Check the stock market (Are you effing kidding me? I barely understand my bank statement)
• Meditate (And try not to think about cookies or potato chips)
• Rearrange some furniture (If I were to attempt this in my home, I would block all exits or cause a fire with the wood stove)
• Set your goals (You know, don't eat any cookies today)
• Scream (It's been done)
• Do a Honey Do list (I can't be writing checks Will's body can't cash)
• Tell someone how you feel today (I feel like I want a cookie and some potato chips, get me some)
• Plan a party (where there is no friggin food you are allowed to eat)
• Dance (Does Gangnam style count?)

Who wrote this list? Seriously? If I wrote the list, it would go something like this:

• Quit your bitching and go for a walk fat ass
• Get your fat ass out of the kitchen
• Start a blog about how fat you are
• Have someone take pictures of your fat ass
• Go try and squeeze your fat ass into those jeans that you know don't fit yet, now, go think about how you're not going to be fat anymore
• Don't share you feelings with skinny people, they don't get it, call someone fat and reminisce about how you used to eat ice cream and how it gave you the shits after the fact.
• Cry. When the sobbing gets a hold of you, you can't eat anything because you are too upset.
• Do online shopping and use search words like Mu Mu and Plus Size Lingerie.  You won't be able to eat a damn thing after seeing that.
• Try and ride a bike...oh wait, the bike seat still going up your enormous ass? Well, then you don't need that cookie, do you?

Anyway, that is more my style.  This whole deep breathing, make a list of goals and wash your dog list is crap.  Normal people might feel a sense of accomplishment from this, but I think we established early on in my blog history that I am not normal.

So, I find myself still struggling to figure out what is right, how my body feels and keeping it all in perspective. What if I can't do this?  What if it doesn't work? What if I screw this up?  These are the ramblings of a mad woman.  These...are the days of my life.  Welcome.

A Small Percentage...

Had another check up with the doctor today.  It was an uneventful appointment, for the most part.  The doctor went over how I was feeling, my progress and really, how far I had come, considering the gut explosions after the first surgery, the leak situation after the second surgery and then all the stuff that followed that.  You know, the things that happen to a small percentage of people.  And, as luck would have it, his medical assistant had shared my blog with him and the other doctors about the break-up of Ben & Jerry, so he was up to speed on my activities over the last week.  It seems there is a certain percentage of people that have these reactions to foods high in sugars and fats.  Guess who is part of that percentage...yep, me. 

The doctor went on to tell me about what my focus should be and what kind of hurdles I may encounter.  He said, "Now, you are ready for the hair loss?  You've heard about that?"  I told him yes, I had heard of that happening and said, "Don't tell me, I'm probably going to be part of the percentage that loses their hair..."  We shared a laugh about that percentage I seem to be part of.  What else can you do but laugh? Seriously.  I'm not super thrilled about being a bald fat girl, or a bald kind of fat girl with loose skin.  It's a good thing I have already captured my mate and locked him into a contract, because this might get ugly.  And, when I say ugly, I'm not talking figuratively.  This is what I picture: mostly bald with a few stray strands that I do a Donald Trump comb-over with, saggy arms, legs and belly, a rooster waddle on my throat, four belly buttons from surgery scars and sunken eyes.  Can you say GLAMOROUS?!  I said to the doctor, "So, I will probably lose my hair on my head, but there is probably no chance my leg hair will cease to grow, is there?"  He agreed, I'm screwed.  I practically had to fire up Will's chainsaw to shave my legs today after not shaving them for a month.  Will said it was like I was a Wookie.  Anyway, the doctor also said I looked young for 41 years old.  I told him, "Yeah, because I am fat and my skin is all stretched out, and when I start to loose weight, it will get all wrinkly and I will look old."  It is noteworthy to point out that he didn't say, "oh that's not true."  He agreed with me and said, "I have had patients that have experienced that."  Well, three cheers for his honesty.

So, as luck would have it, I continue to be part of percentages that you usually hope other people are a part of.  My question is, why can't I be part of the percentage of people that are naturally thin?  The people that win the lottery?  The people that are good at science and math and get good jobs?  The people that live happily ever after? The people that don't have acne as adults? The people that don't have to wear glasses?  The people that look good in spandex?  I can think of hundreds of "small percentage" groups that I would like to be part of.  I guess I'm just lucky that the intestinal/digestive/overall health lottery was mine to win.  Don't get me wrong, I acknowledge there are worse percentage groups to be part of.  And, I should take a moment to pause and be thankful for groups I am not part of.  I am not part of The People of Walmart (not yet anyway, but if the hair thing happens, I'm just letting this whole body go to shit, and I'm going to Walmart to celebrate it...while wearing a thong and too small yoga pants), I am not homeless,  I am not stricken with a deadly disease (that I know of yet), I'm not lactose intolerant, and I'm not part of the percentage of people that get their trailers/homes relocated by tornados on a regular basis and end up on You Tube talking about it.

See ,there I go being positive again.  This is part of the small percentage of times I'm positive.  Look at me breaking down boundaries.

So, for those of you looking for me to crop up somewhere looking all skinny, beware, I could be part of a small percentage of people that don't react to weight loss surgery with actual weight loss.  You know, just other side effects like, leaking guts, pants shitting, baking bread in your easy bake oven, mouth sweaters, IV feedings, becoming a yeast farmer (are those track marks from doing drugs?  Nope that's where I planted more yeast!), losing hair, vomiting ice cream, you know, the basics.  Don't get me wrong, I'm hoping to be part of the percentage that kicks the crap out of obesity and rocks a normal size pair of jeans, but as we discussed before, hope is not a strategy.  I wonder what the percentage is for the number of people achieving their goals by having hope...? I don't know, but I'm not part of the percentage of people that will take the time to research that.

Ben, Jerry...it's over.

This week nothing that exciting is happening (although, I did get my IV out today), just still struggling with getting my body to accept food.  The IV feeding I was on was delivering 3050 calories a day, so the doctors said to try and get as many calories in as I could so that I didn't experience a major crash to my system when I stopped the IV.  This has been a challenge, for sure.  I never knew grazing and getting enough calories in could ever be a problem, but when your stomach is super small, and angry, it really is a problem.  I have, however, ruled out two foods that can no longer be part of my life.

Food funeral #1 - Cookies.  I was so excited the other day when Will's sister sent us our Christmas present and it was home baked cookies.  Specifically, peanut butter kiss cookies. My FAVORITE!  I didn't get to eat all through the holiday's, so I thought, "damn it, I earned this cookie! And, this fits the catergory of high calorie."  So, I bit in with glee.  I had half a cookie down and my stomach turned. It was angry. It didn't want that much sugar.  It punished me with queasiness for about a half an hour and then forgave me.  It is a good news, bad news story.  Good news that my body is rejecting the very thing that kept me fat when I couldn't behave.  Bad news that I would not be able to enjoy the occasional cookie.  But, this is for the best. I understood when I started this journey that sacrifices would need to be made and that a new lifestyle would be required.  I am at peace with this, albeit a little sad.

Food funeral #2 - Ice cream.  This is the grand daddy of all foods.  I love ice cream.  It's my favorite food, ever.  It's been there for me through thick and thin.  Rocky Road was there for me every month when PMS kicked in.  If Will even sensed it was "that time of the month," he would arrive home with Rocky Road and Oreo cookies.  A good man, a scared man.  He knew ice cream was his defense against the angry demeanor of PMS.  Ice cream was my "I'm sad" food.  It was my comfort food.  It was my happy food. It was the perfect food.  And so, while grocery shopping yesterday, I thought, I want to have some ice cream.  I poured long and hard over the selection.  I didn't want a lot of ice cream.  I mean, this was just a one time splurge, not a continuation of a poor lifestyle.  I selected a little pint of Ben & Jerry's Mint Chocolate Cookie.  It wasn't my favorite flavor, but I thought it would do.

After dinner I went to the freezer and got the ice cream out.  I ate it slowly and carefully, savoring each bite and trying to decide if my body was going to reject it.  It was going down so smooth.  I hadn't had very much, maybe about 6 spoonfuls.  I put it away.  This was a reasonable amount of ice cream for a girl that really shouldn't be eating ice cream.  Back in the day, I could have put that pint away in one sitting, easily.  And then, just when I thought I had successfully achieved ice cream success, that is when all hell broke loose.  My chest started to hurt. My stomach was beyond angry, it wanted to puke or something worse.  My intestines were immediately alerted of the intruder.  I started to sweat.  Oh shit.  This is what they call "dumping."  What did I do?  I was miserable and breathing heavy trying to keep from puking.  I grabbed my  Cosmo and headed to the bathroom.  I sensed I would be in there for a while.  I tried to focus on "25 Ways To Kiss A Naked Man," but I couldn't. This was no time to think about nakedness or look at pictures of a bunch of skinny bitches that could eat ice cream.  I could not get comfortable.  I came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but my shoes, socks and underwear.  I sat on the couch and hugged my pink pony comforter.  I laid down. Oh God, no this is bad.  I sat up and rocked.  Back into the bathroom. My body wasn't sure what it wanted to do, but it was angry and it wasn't releasing anything.  I would have given anything at that moment to either vomit or crap my pants.  Will just looked at me and laughed a little.  Not a mean laugh, but a laugh that said, "good Lord, what am I going to do with you?" 

I continued to sweat and breathe heavy.  I remembered I had anti-nausea drugs.  I hoped I had some left,  I didn't want to have to resort to the suppositories that the doctor gave me.  This was no time to be shoving anything up my can.  I paced around the house moaning and cursing the day I ever met ice cream.  I hated Ben & Jerry.  How could they betray me like this?  Why did they have to use so much sugar in their ice cream?  I vowed, at that moment, to never forget this feeling.  I vowed at that moment that me and ice cream were over.  The threesomes that Ben, Jerry and myself had shared were over.  I have to say good-bye to the most perfect food ever.  It was a painful moment physically and spiritually, but I was so relieved about 30-40 minutes later when my body calmed down.

Ben, Jerry and all of your ice cream friends, we are over.  Don't call me, don't follow me, don't bang on the glass doors of the freezer section as I push my little cart down the grocery store aisle and don't call out my name.  I mean it. I'm moving on.  I'm not looking back. 

Na na na na....na na na na...hey, hey, hey....good bye.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dO1PYvloBtk

Yep, it was that dramatic.

Epic Tube Wednesday

Today was an epic day.  Today was the day I got my drain tubes/balls out.  Between having the IV feeding tube thing on the right and the drains on the left, it has been a challenge.  But, today was the day to have them taken out.  I drugged up, as instructed, before going to the appointment (don't worry, I wasn't driving), and headed to the doctor.  I thought about taking my new Unicorn Dream Lite with me just in case I needed to stare at the ceiling while this painful process took place.  I decided against it, no reason to bloody up my sleep light. 

Upon arriving, the doctor informed me that he is actually the best at taking these drain tubes out, so I was hopeful it wouldn't be too bad.  I laid back and cringed a little as he cut the stitches out that were holding the tubes in.  I just stared at the ceiling.  He kept me busy by asking me questions and chit chatting with Will, who was sitting in the room watching.  Next thing I know, it's over.  I was like, "what? that's it?"  Damn, he is good.  So, now, in addition to my extra belly button and cutter marks, I have two holes.  He says they will heal up in a couple of weeks.  My concern is, what if they end up being like the second belly button incision and decide to randomly explode?  I mean, fluid has been draining out of those tubes since December 13th, now what happens to that stuff?  Does my body just absorb it, or will it store it like last time and then randomly spurt it out?  I think I should avoid hugging or anything that involves pressure on my belly.  I could be standing there and then all the sudden I look like a sprinkler.  I could twirl and make sure I get good coverage.  Ugh. Let's hope not.

The doctor asked how everything else was going.  I told him about my mouth sweaters from the thrush I still had in my mouth.  That prescription that the walk-in clinic doctor gave me did not take care of the problem, so Dr. Tube Genius gave me a new prescription.  Great, just what I needed, more drugs.  Dr. TG also told me I could eat "soft food" now.  WHAT?!  Food?  I can have REAL FOOD?  And, what's more, I was told to go off the IV feeding.  HOORAY!  I have to leave the IV pic line in for another week just in case I have a set back, but no more hooking up to that damn food bag and sleeping with the backpack toddler.  That was the most amazing news ever and if I hadn't been drugged up on preventative pain killers, I probably would have shown more excitement.  I staggered out of there relatively happy.

With this new news of food, Will and I stopped to get some food. I mean, I am still only brave enough for soup at this point, but still. While we were walking in, I said, "My holes itch."  Will stopped and looked at me.  Okay, apparently that isn't something you want to say in public.  Whoops.  During this whole process, I've lost all sense of any decency.  Hey, once you've crapped your pants, there is no where else to go.  Anyway, we got some soup without further embarrassment.

Now, while I am on the mend, the doctor says I am still not in the "weight loss" stage yet.  He wants me eating all day (which isn't saying much as I can only eat about a 1/2 cup of food at a time) and getting as many calories as I can until I "stabilize."  Seriously, this is killing me.  He says he understands that, but really wants to make sure I am fully recovered from this ordeal before we focus on the weight loss.  He says not to worry.  So, to everyone that is looking to see me just melting away, I'll be melting at the speed of the ice in Alaska in say, March.  Hmph.  Patience.  God must be bored and is trying to teach me patience.  He needs to do Words with Friends or something and let me get on with this.  So anxious to be a real girl again.

So, that is the news.  Baby steps I guess.  I'll settle for being excited to sleep without any tubes except the IV in my arm.  OH, and, I get to have a shower!  A fer reals shower!  He showed me how to wrap up my IV so I could shower.  I'm going to go in there and shower for like, an hour and all Will is going to hear is me screaming, "yes! Oh, yes!"  like that old Herbal Essences commercial.  Seriously, you don't even know how much I want a shower.

And that is the the story of why my day was epic. The end.