My Gastric Sleeve

A (Relatively) Long, Hot Walk

The picture I'm using for my post today was taken about two weeks ago. It shows my mom standing beside a sign posted on Main Street of a small Kansas town. The sign reads: "Satan Called. He wants his weather back."

Ain't it the truth? For the last two weeks the temperature has registered 90 degrees or more by ten o'clock in the morning. We've had maybe three drops of rain during that time period, and all the local weather forecaster has to promise is more of the same.

This kind of summer heat wave is miserable for anybody, but when you're overweight, it's agony. Last summer when the weather heated up, I could only bear to walk about ten steps at a time before I had to pause and rest. Sweat soaked my clothes, ran down my face, and stung my eyes. By breath came in painful gasps, and my heart pounded so hard I actually worried it might just stop altogether.

Phantom Fat: The Lie in the Mirror

 
I wrote last week about how a colleague of mine convinced me to weigh myself, but I didn't relate how that came about. She had come back to my office to talk to me about a patient issue and found me despondent at my desk.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I don't think the surgery is working anymore," I told her. "I'm gaining weight again. I can tell."

Her eyebrows almost disappeared into her hair line. "Gaining weight? I don't think so. Your clothes look looser every day."

"They're not," I said. "I'm gaining. I can tell."

So she dragged me to a set of scales, where I learned that my subjective reality was not objective reality--in fact, I had lost seventeen pounds since my most recent visit with my bariatric surgeon.

5 Things I Wish I'd Known Before My Gastric Sleeve

 
First of all, if you're considering weight loss surgery, don't let this post discourage you. I don't for one moment regret having a gastric sleeve. I'm slimmer and healthier right now than I have been in more than a decade, and it's a great feeling.

I hope, however, that this post does inform you. In spite of my surgeon's best efforts, I was somewhat naive when I had my procedure. If I could go back and have a talk with my pre-surgery self, there are a few things I would like to tell her.

Five Myths About Obesity

 
A few years ago, I ordered a bag of popcorn with extra butter at the concession stand at a movie theater. As I collected my popcorn and turned around, the man behind me said, "Do you know that's fattening?"

I smiled at him, gestured to my more-than-ample figure, and said loudly, "Honestly, do I look like I care?"

The other people in line laughed--at him more than at me, but the words and laughter still stung, and I was glad for the anonymous darkness of the theater. I don't remember a single thing about the movie I had paid almost ten dollars to see.

Weight Loss Surgery - A Cosmetic Procedure?

 
I made it through the rest of the work week, but I was definitely dragging come Friday afternoon. I got home, fell into bed, and slept like a baby. Today, Saturday, I'm taking it easy, doing a little writing, paying bills, but most of all just resting.

Speaking of paying bills, my health insurance company refused to pay one single cent towards the cost of my gastric sleeve. When I called them to ask why, they informed me that weight loss surgery was considered a cosmetic procedure.

Gastric Sleeve Tomorrow - Eyes on the Prize

I can't believe that tomorrow at this time, I'll already be at the hospital. In just over two hours, they'll start my surgery.

Today, I'm on a clear liquid diet--tea, coffee, broth, Jell-o, Popsicles, and shhhhh.....don't tell anyone, but I'm going to sneak in a Diet Coke while watching the Super Bowl. It will be my last one for a while.

The day should pass in a haze of activity. I have cleaning and laundry to do, last minute errands to run, cats to console, and hospital bags to pack. I also have a few last-minute freelance assignments to finish up.

But now, it's 7:00 AM, and I'm sitting sipping a cup of herbal tea at my computer...and I'm scared. We've all heard the joke that the only minor operation is the operation that's happening to someone else. Suddenly, what is happening to me seems very major indeed. I dread the physical procedure and the pain, but even more I dread losing the ability to use food for comfort.