Thursday, May 14, 2009


Yesterday, it all hit me like a ton of bricks: I need two major surgeries, the rest of my year is pretty much shot. I didn't feel like being a g-d grownup about it. I felt like crap, my ankle was throbbing. I was weepy. I wanted my mommy.

Moments like that don't happen to me very often, because I never had a mom. I know there are people in the world who do--sometimes it feels like everyone does, but I know better than that. In reality, hardly anyone has that kind of mommy. But that doesn't mean I can't have a human moment and wish I was one of the lucky ones, even at the age of forty. Because I am fiercely independent and just handle myself--even if I feel barely taped together--I don't think most people I know remember that I'm not just a Kryptonite self-cleaning oven of an individual, even some of the people that are closest to me in the world. It has always been expected of me to be that way.

I tried to tell a close friend of mine how I felt yesterday, and she said, "You'll get through it" and changed the subject. She wasn't having a great day herself, and we talked it through, but I initially felt like I'd been punched in the stomach--it was really hard for me to even confide these feelings in anyone. I would rather die than ask people for help, and have a hard time accepting help when it is offered, so it's partially my own fault.

Mr. Salted is incredibly supportive. He will take every bit of time off work given his choice, but he's the sole breadwinner right now and what savings we have is hemorrhaging to pay medical bills. We are barely squeaking by. All our credit cards are maxed out. I had never been unemployed longer than six weeks in my life before this past year, and it is making me *completely* nuts. I don't mind not working, I mind depending completely on someone else. Seriously--it's my idea of hell, probably because it's never been a viable option for me. Even when I was alone and had my hysterectomy five years ago and had to be home for six weeks, I had a good job and paid leave. I feel incredibly guilty about putting all of this pressure on Mr. Salted, and he is a mensch. "If the roles were reversed, what would you do?" he asked me yesterday.

"Take care of you," I answered. "Without even thinking about it."

He said, "I know that. I love you, and that's what I'm doing. We'll get through this. You are not a burden, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me." Of course, he made me feel a lot better; he is fabulous, I could not ask for a better husband, and I love him so, so, SO much. I am just concerned about actual logistical conflicts--there is no way the man can take a month off work and just hover while I can't walk. (And I hate anyone hovering. Ugh.) I'm worried this place will catch fire and I'll have to scoot out of it on my butt. I'm worried that I'll set fire to it myself after a scorching combination of not enough Demerol and one too many episodes of "Divorce Court".

I'm worried about the fact I can't cook and have to learn how to make all this soup stock and weird food for post-op--can't I just eat baby food? Seriously, I'm going to ask my nutritionist. I'll put some protein powder in it or whatever. Mr. Salted is willing to fend for himself. The post-WLS mantra, after all, is: food is fuel, food is fuel, food is fuel. I'm just so over this food crap. It just isn't worth letting it have all this power over me. None of it tastes THAT good.

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Seattle, WA, United States
This blog focuses largely on a personal journey to and through weight-loss surgery. It's also about reading, writing, animals, photography, love, humor, music, thinking out loud, and memes. In other
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