Pre-op consult with surgeons

I never blogged about this yet; it was fairly uneventful. I was taken in by a nurse or medical assistant who was probably 100 pounds soaking wet and who talked a mile a minute. I heard all about her life, how she never knew anything like bariatric surgery really existed, how she thought at first it was just an easy way out, and how she felt like apologizing to all of her patients now because her outlook has just totally changed. Me being me, the first thing that popped into my head was, "You were mean to fat girls in high school, weren't you?" I refrained from saying it, however, as I wanted prescriptions for all the painkillers that I will be needing. I just smiled--very hard, crinkly eyes--and nodded (and ultimately walked out of there with scrips for Dilaudid, Valium, etc. Mission accomplished).

The surgeon came in with someone in training. She looked like a deer in the headlights, and the poor dear had me as her next patient. He went over my health history and recent test results, etc. At one point, he said, "Looking at these lab results, you aren't diabetic, are you?" I replied, "They diagnosed me with type II ten years ago, andI take metformin; I changed my diet drastically and immediately, but I only lost about 20 pounds. However, my blood sugars have tested in the normal range for the last several years." The surgeon turned to the trainee and said, "That's very common. There are a number of physiological factors that keep people heavy." I got this big old grin and said, "See, that's why I'm here!" He said something about how the rest of the medical field needed to catch up, and I insulted the first idiot bariatric surgeon I consulted with, we smiled at each other, and you could feel the love in the room. (At this point, I don't think the trainee knew what to do with herself; I could see the wheels turning in her head. Do I agree? Do I nod and smile? What's appropriate here? )

He told me a little bit about how long the surgery takes and things like that-- nothing I really didn't know. I then meandered along toward the scheduling people, who kindly called a nearby pharmacy and found me a pill crusher that I could go and buy (I'd looked all over for one of those damn things), and we went over more stuff. My check-in time is at 5:30 AM on August 3. (I don't think even God is up at 5:30 AM. Poor Mr. Salted will have to rally. I'll be all doped up in short order, so I don't feel as sorry for me.)

They asked me if they could take a before picture, assuring me I could not be identified. I said fine--I trust them, and I think I remember seeing photos like that at the seminar I went to, with the faces obscured. Yippee! Miss July, Poster Girl for Morbid Obesity. I told them, "You know, I'm a photographer, I can take good, flattering pictures of myself where my body shows and I'll still weigh 270 pounds in them." But no, they had to take one THAT DAY, when I was broken out, not wearing any makeup, and very, very hungry--and not a little testy--because it was Day 1 of Carb Deprivation: This Time It's Personal.

Being hungry and still fat has always put an angrily buzzing bee in my bonnet. I'm sure I've written about that before--walking around high school with a travel mug full of Slimfast when I was bulimic, lightheaded, sweaty, and still getting called names that pertained to my weight. (And I was 100 pounds + lighter.) How many times have I had a salad and a Diet Coke when my skinny husband/friend/coworker has had a massive plate of fries and a Philly Cheesesteak? Every fat person has these stories. I'm sure they get old, but so does living them. I, for one, want mine to be over.

I just want to be average size. Nondescript. If someone is looking at me, I want it to be because they think I have cool shoes or something. It seems like such a simple thing to want. I'm extremely determined to make this work--SO determined. Every time I see people eating food that might look or smell fantastic now, I cannot forget: for me, it just isn't worth it. I always thought food was my friend--sometimes my only friend; my only balm, my one reliable source of pleasure that one could take away. However, it's killing me,and I cannot let it kill me, or continue to let it make me sick. That's what I am keeping as my focus. I'm eating to stay alive--and that's all.

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.