What a week.

Surgery was on Monday at 8 a.m., and Friday was the first day I felt like a person. In fact, I felt magnificent. I made all the beds, got myself and untitledson dressed for the day, and fixed him breakfast and lunch. I also did some surfing online and one load of laundry. Oh, I also rode my exercise bike for 15 minutes at my target heart rate of 150. I never thought I’d feel this good on day five, after feeling so lethargic, emotional and sore for the previous four days. Pain pills only do so much.

The hardest part physically is sleeping. It hurst like hells bells to lay on either side, or to make the journey from back to side. This sucks ass, because I am a side sleeper. I have learned that I get my best sleep on our sofa sectional, where my back is semi-propped, and I am supported on one side by sofa, and the other side by a big pillow. Ain’t nothin’ right if momma’s not sleeping.

On Tuesday – Thursday, I was having plenty of throat discomfort (very strep throat-like, from the surgical breathing pipe) and stomach pain (like 70 percent of the pain from a c-section, from the five one-inch incisions). The surgery itself (laparoscopic Roux-en-Y) took five hours, from what I’m told, and it went textbook. The found a hernia while they were in there (a by-product of my 2003 c-section), so they fixed that. I never noticed it, because my belly fat protruded more than the hernia. How sad is that? Hernias often lead to bowel obstructions, which can be deadly. I probably would’ve brushed it off as bad Chinese and died on the turlet like Elvis, all because I was so fat.

I made sure to ask my surgeon if I had managed to shrink my stomach and liver down adequately, given I had spent my last three weeks on the bemoaned blended diet. He said there was plenty of room, which instantly made me think what a tool I was for not getting in more “lasts” (french fries, sesame chicken, chicken fajitas with white queso). Oh dastardly trans-fats, why do you mock me so?

One thing that’s kind of bizarre is this abdominal (Jackson Pratt) drain coming from my stomach. From the outside, it looks like 12 inches of small clear tubing with a clear rubber grenade at the end. I empty this grenade twice a day (about 1.5 ounces of what looks like the most disgusting white zin on earth). The rest of the time, it stays tucked into the waistband of my pants. I am strangely intrigued by this foreign pathway to my inner sanctum. I find myself pulling the grenade out of my pants a few times a day, inspecting my juices for pulp and whatnot. It’s the same instinct that forces me to open my Kleenex after I blow or inspect my toenail clippings. I mean, when else do you get to see what’s floating around inside your abdomen? The JP comes out next Thursday, so I have to enjoy the freakshow while I can.

These past few weeks have been bizarre, watching the world eat while I sip. The whole blended diet thing changed my relationship with food (but don’t think for a moment that I wouldn’t re-kindle that love affair, if even for a moment, if my stomach wasn’t the size of a walnut). I have a gamut of emotion, from pride to isolation to sorrow. Normal people are eating PIZZA right now. But alas, normal people don’t weigh 300+.

Before surgery, I would read how people would say this procedure made them “not hungry.” This made me nervous, because I need to be more than “not hungry” to eat. Well, I am happy to report that I am full. Like Thanksgiving Day, god-I-need-to-burp full. I get this full from a few ounces of skim sugar-free chocolate milk, or 2 ounces of broth. Seriously — it’s bizarre. Food still sounds damn good, so I devote a few minutes each day to mentally “eating” anything I want. I find a quiet chair, close my eyes, and actually make small chewing motions. Of course, untitledson views this as his opportunity to ask for the twentieth time if our Jeep is a race car and “Why Not?” “Can’t you see I’m EATING here?” It sounds a little whack, but it does help. I guess it depends on how good your imagination is. Next week, I can move on to full liquids (like tomato soup, etc.). I slowly ramp up my foods until by two months, I am eating a relatively normal food (albeit healthy, and in small quantities). The day I can eat solid chicken sauteed in fajita seasoning, I will let EVERYONE know. There are some foods I may never be able to eat again, but I won’t know what these foods are until they make me “dump” (nee hellacious two-hour bathroom sessions).

Here I am rambling, and you all just want to know the stats and see the “before” photo. Well, here goes (I can’t tell you how painful it is to type this first number):

Original Weight (before pre-surgery diet): 366 (but I was a slim 366, OK?)

Day of Surgery Weight: 343

Current Weight (five days after surgery): 338

Surgeon’s Goal Weight for Me: 212

My Personal Goal Weight: 199

Here is my “before” photo (I weight about 345 here):

untitled - 2/1/07

Here is what I eat right now (this is per day):

24+ ounces of ice water

22 ounces of skim sugar free chocolate milk

4 ounces of fat free low-sodium chicken or beef broth

Here is what I do every day, in the way of exercise:

15-30 minutes of light cardio (walking or recumbant bike)

Due to water gain during surgery (and every month for that matter), I was given the sage advice to pay attention to the tape measure. In five days, have lost four inches around my waist. My body is apple-shaped (OK, Michelin-shaped), so I gain and lose in my abdomen first. I would expect this is where I’d see the most dramatic numbers. But still, four inches in five days. That’s pretty fucking cool. I tell you now that there will be weeks where I loose nothing, and then lose 10 pounds overnight. This is typical. But for now, let’s meditate on those blessed four inches (ohhhhhhhm).

Even though this last week has been physically challening, I am still glad I did it. I feel hope. I feel in control. And I look forward to buying clothes in stores other than Lane Bryant. I find myself wondering why I didn’t do this 15 years ago. I always thought I wasn’t fat enough (even though people around the 250 range have this surgery). I did have an “a-ha” moment at my surgeon’s office after I got all my pre-surgery tests back. My blood pressure, cholesterol, heart rate — everything was normal. My nurse told me that biologically, my body is perfectly happy weighing this much (but that it would eventually catch up to me). As a result, my fat cells fight like hell to stay fat when subjected to a diet. They send out heroin-level cravings for food when I deprive them, so they can maintain their lifestyle. They are also extremely efficient at shutting down the metabolism when faced with hunger. For once, I didn’t feel like a weak snod for not being able to simply resist, to push away from the table. I hope this makes it all easier for normal-size people to understand how hard it is for us big people. This surgery gives people like me a tool to fight through those cravings and succeed.

Well, at any rate, I’m glad to be on the losing side of this process. Did I mention that the stairs are already easier?

In the vein of “Saving Ryan’s Privates.”

When I picked up untitledson from Montessori the other day, his teacher told me that he loved watching the movie “Snow White” during nap time when the other children sleep.

This is no surprise to me. He loves anything on TV. He’d watch a “Judge Judy” marathon if given the opportunity. But what I wouldn’t give to curl up on his little blue mesh cot and catch a few winks, and he’s just frittering it all away. لعبة الشيش Oh, the folly of youth.

He loves the “Hi Ho” song as sung by the seven dwarves. In particular, he enjoys the part when they hold the “ho,” as in “Hi HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! نادي دورتموند ” So I asked him, “Can you sing me the ‘Hi Ho’ song?” He did so, but in his version, the words are “My Hole.” Or more like “My HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLE! جدول اليورو 2024 ” So in context, it goes like this: “My hole. My hole. It’s off to work we go.”

I always knew those damn dwarves were up to no good. It just goes to prove my theory — never trust a man wearing a tunic (or one that lives in the woods with six other men, for that matter). I must remember not to laugh at untitledson. It’s not his fault. He springs from the loins of a man I caught singing along with Stevie Nicks using the words “Just like a one-winged dove.”

God is good.

I have seen much in my 36 years. I have seen Ratt live in concert. I have watched my Dad piss on his neighbor’s car door handle (another post altogether). And most recently, while at untitledmother’s house for Christmas, I watched on as untitledsister-in-law gave her one year-old son (my nephew) a drink of Mountain Dew straight from the can. What, no Jaegermeister? I hear it’s good for teething.

This wouldn’t be such a huge friggin’ deal if this child had not been born 13 weeks premature, or if this was the first time June Cleaver had lifted a can of tin can tooth-rot to the lips of a child. If there is a parenting mistake to be made, untitledsister-in-law has made it. ivermectin long term safety studies Setting her children in front of the TV for hours on end – check. Taking a one-month old baby camping in the Midwest in February – check. Smoking while pregnant – check. how to obtain ivermectin

Now ask me — how could I possibly dedicate one hour of my week (an early morning hour, no less) to a god who would allow such fuckupedness? I am a prudent consumer. I don’t frequent Taco Bell cause their refried beans give me the shits. And I most certainly don’t spend an hour each week worshipping an invisible being who rewards incapable parents with more children.

Perhaps you think me bitter. Perhaps you’d be right. But it’s hard to be a ray of sunshine in the face of such shitty circumstances. And no, I don’t want to see your ultrasound pictures, dear cousin (untitledhusband’s cousin, actually). I really don’t want to think about how you and your husband were handcuffed and hauled away in front of your two children for manufacturing meth in your home. ivermectin nejm And I don’t want to hear about how after three years in prison, you reunited and got pregnant with your third child within one month. Being that we tried for two years to have a second child and could not, this is somewhat difficult for me. I’m sure god has a plan, and that there is a little lesson nestled in this shitnest somewhere. Perhaps I’ll find it on Sunday morning while I’m at home in my sweatpants, reading the Satanic Verses.

Greetings and salutations from the land of mush.

So I’m on this curs-ed three-week liquid diet before my Feb. 12th surgery. I just can’t quit talking about it, can I? I will tell you little concerning my last meal, in which I ate three chicken fajitas and an entire basket of chips and queso. But I will share in detail the proof of my struggle and determination that has come to bear itself over the course of this… this… this… hazing.

Today I’ve completed just over one week (almost two!), and it’s all I can do to stop from shaking down the vending machine for some Cheez-Its. Another temptation – the blasted M&M dispenser. I believe the profits (which are considerable when charging 25 cents for six M&M’s – an obscene gesture in itself) go to the Lions Club. I wonder how an organization as benevolent as the Lions Club sleeps at night knowing the treacherous ways in which they procure their money? I’d buy a big bag of my beloved M’s and keep them in my desk drawer, but we all know how that would go.

Anyways… you put in a quarter and out rolls about six M&M’s, gumball style. It’s notorious for shooting the candies onto the floor shotgun-style, and sending one to ponder the most primeval of thoughts. “Should I pick that M&M up off the floor and eat it, or should I lick the soles of hundreds of strangers’ shoes?”. Me, I’m the type to pick up my rogue M&M’s. And I expect you are, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this desperate wasteland of a blog. I figure my constitution can handle it, being that untitleddog has been known to sneak up on me and slip me the tongue when I least expect it. A mouth that has indirectly licked dog balls can handle a little street dirt.

Well, I am happy to report that I have hit a new low. For a moment, I considered picking up a STRANGER’S M&M – a solitary brown fellow – up off the floor and eating it. It could’ve been there for days, weeks, who knows. I walked away sans M&M, but you must know that I paused. After I left the scene, I even thought about walking back for it. Oh, the depths one will sink to when you have eaten Potato Buds every day for nine days straight.

I can’t possibly imagine that there are others out there who have survived the liquid diet ritual without thinking such heinous thoughts. So I conducted a little research. Turns out that most bariatric programs require a pre-surgery liquid diet of less than one week. Some don’t require it at all, saying that it is inhumane. SO WHAT IS UP WITH MY HOSPITAL REQUIRING A THREE-WEEK LIQUID DIET? Even death row inmates are given a last supper. The program coordinator just goes about her daily business, handing out these liquid diet orders just because she is skinny and I am fat and she can. She says it’s to help me lose weight before surgery, which will help make it possible to do things laparoscopically. To this, I say “You first, bitch. See how batshit YOU get when reduced to Jello, sugar-free applesauce and cream soups.”

Dear me. Have I gone too far? Have I crossed that line? I see that I have. Well then. In the immortal words of Tim Gunn… carry on!

Problems with Cumments

You may have noticed that you haven’t been able to comment on my latests posts. This was a mistake. I’m trying to combat the spam fucktards who send through comments that include lovely lines like “hairy pussy fisting… العاب تربح منها فلوس cumshots closeup anal entry wet pussy masturbation.” I did this by turning off comments on my older posts, forgetting that I need to turn the switch on to allow comments on new entries. تركس Anyway, I apologize. I think I have it straightened out now.