"We're cutting you loose."

This is what my ankle doctor said to me at my final post-op appointment earlier this week. "Everything looks great, it sounds great, you can opt to have physical therapy or you can give it more time, you can start working out or you can give it more time. It's all up to you."

I thrilled to the sound of that, because I am a good deal happier when things concerning me are also up to me. If they are not up to me, I try very hard to make them become up to me PDQ. And hilarity ensues. Or not.

We chatted then about working out. "Three times a week would be optimum for you to work up to," he said.

This statement was so reasonable, so grounded in actual reality, that I nearly swooned. If I had a dollar for every time some scrubs-clad nimrod with a sheepskin and a stethoscope has chastised me, "YOU SHOULD BE EXERCISING EVERY DAY (invisible hot-pink neon sign flashing: you fat, lazy sack of skin)!" I could afford to take a couple of luxury cruises every year for the rest of my natural life on Earth.

Refraining from any personal declarations of undying love, I then asked, "Can you talk to some other doctors I know? Can I give you their numbers? Please?" He laughed, but nodded too. I expanded on my experiences with such doctors and he rolled his eyes and appeared visibly annoyed. "I don't know why they do that," he said.

He related that his wife wanted them to start doing cardio together and that he had agreed, saying, "Great, I'm all for it. Just not every day." His wife persisted-- positive they should do cardio every day--but he stood his ground and said, "No way. We'll burn out."

EXACTLY.

Most people do not exercise every day. Not even thin people. Many thin people actually never exercise at all. For instance, I happen to be married to a man who has never in his life--not once--exercised on purpose. Yes, he has an active job, but it has not always been thus--and yet, he has always been thin. I know many others like him, just as I know many large people who exercise regularly and remain large.

Exercise is a wonderful thing--in theory if not always in practice. It has a multitude of well-documented and rather obvious health benefits, and we should all be doing it regularly to the best of our ability--but that doesn't mean it needs to happen every day. Furthermore, exercising every day is not a realistic expectation-- particularly if you hate, dread, and have to force yourself to do it.

My ankle doctor and I agreed on this very thing. In those exact words. It was an absolutely lovely conversation that validated several thousand moments of frustration I have weathered throughout my entire life. It was definitely worth the co-pay! I joked (with Freud's seed of truth heavily present) that one shouldn't exercise every day for the simple fact that one should have not exercising to look forward to, and he agreed with that, too. Sometimes one is coming down with a cold, has a thousand other things to do, or doesn't want to go out in the horizontal rain. Sometimes one just doesn't freakin' want to!

This is not a moral failing, this not wanting to exercise every day. I suspect I am not the only person who would be happy to receive external validation of this fact from a certified medical professional. Whether I weigh 98 pounds or 398, I have the right to say, "You know what? I don't feel like it today."

So--doctors, haters, clueless wonders--put that in your juice box and suck it.

Yesterday

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.