Stomach under seige, day 4.

Like I said in my previous post, I am now on my pre-surgery blended diet as of Monday. And I will be on it for two more weeks until my surgery on Feb. 12th. I am happy to report that I haven’t cheated once. I haven’t even licked a potato chip. The reason for the blended diet — to help me lose even more weight before surgery, shrink my liver and shrink my stomach. For those of you who interpret “blended diet” as an endless buffet of strawberry margaritas, let me clarify:

BREAKFAST

1 serving Coco Wheats

SNACK

16 oz homemade smoothie (fat free sugar free yogurt, banana, 1/4 c orange juice)

LUNCH

1 cup instant mashed potatoes

1 Soup at Hand soup, no noodles or chunky items

1 fat free sugar free pudding cup

SNACK

1 fat free sugar free jello cup

1 package of instant oatmeal (prepared with water)

DINNER

1 cup fat free refried beans, thinned with taco sauce

1 cup fat free sugar free pudding cup

1 cup pureed hamburger

Also, no carbonated beverages are allowed, along with no drinking during meals. I must drink 8-10 glasses of water a day (which hasn’t been hard for me). Putting more into the gullet has never been an issue. I’m also trying to scoot glasses of milk into my routine as often as possible (milk is a recommended drink post-surgery, given the high protein).

For anyone out there who thinks I’m being a pussy about this, I challenge you to try it for one day. Sure, it seems like a reasonable amount of food, but here’s the thing — it’s all BLENDED. This means your stomach never has anything to glom on to, and you never get full. OK, you are somewhat satisfied for about 45 minutes after eating the mashed potatoes or the refried beans. And by somewhat satisfied, I mean the fullness you experience after you bogart the green olives from your grandma’s relish tray before Thanksgiving dinner. At all other times, you are hungry. Pull-a-cheeseburger-out-the-trash hungry. Squirt-condiment-packs-of-mayo-into-your-mouth hungry. Knaw-your-own-arm-off-eat-it-throw-it-up-and-eat-it-again hungry.

I feel myself entering a state of starvation zen. I see the normal folk eating their sandwiches and popcorn and chocolate chip cookies. I feel a million miles away from them, sitting in my cube at work, sucking down my cream of broccoli. How in hell did I end up at this point? Damn you, Snickers! Damn you, Cheez-Its! Damn you all to hell.

I’m trying to just accept the hunger. I’m sure if I were to hork down some sesame chicken — just this once — my doctor would probably never know. But I can’t open that door, because I won’t be able to close it again. I really want to do this right. I know I’m working towards a goal — one that’s easily visible from here. I just need to hold on for a few more weeks. It’s the whole week thing that seems unachievable. Getting through this one day, I can do that. Now I just need to keep getting through the days until February 12th.

I have told three people about this surgery – untitledhusband, untitledmother and untitledmother-in-law. Oh, and my boss (thought she might wonder where I am for those two weeks). I plan on telling no one else, besides you all. I don’t know why I want to keep things so private, but I think it has something to do with the public nature of being fat. You have to wear your demons on the outside, for everyone to see. Now, I just want to pull the curtain and deal with this in private. I don’t want to be the subject of whispers and gossip. I don’t want every pound lost or gained to be a matter of public record. Soon enough, the weight loss will be obvious. If anyone is brazen enough to ask me where my ass went, I will be honest. But until then, I’ll just sit here and quietly starve.

The jihad has begun.

I’ve talked a bit in the past about bariatric surgery. Well, I have been approved by my health insurer (which was a huge friggin’ surprise) and we’re a go for February 12th. This all sounds somewhat sudden, but it has been a work in progress for about eleven months.

Anyways… in about three weeks I will undergo a laparoscopic surgery in which my stomach is stapled down to the size of a Tic-Tac, all in hopes that I will one day be able to shop at Banana Rebublic. You were hoping I was going to say Hot Topic, weren’t you? I can’t wait to buy clothes I actually like (hello booty pants), as opposed to clothes that just fit. I can’t wait for the day that people don’t look at me with disgust. And I can’t wait to get on an airplane and sit comfortably in my seat. It’s tough being fat. No matter what you achieve, you’re still viewed as a slob, and you’re still ashamed to go back to your high school reunion.

Anyone who thinks this is the easy way out, well, let me tell you. I first had to be on a physician-supervised weight loss program for six months. I wrote down everything I ate for 180 days. Then came the psychiatric evaluation. Do they really think I’m going to unfurl all my freak when I’m trying to prove I’m sane? Then the hospital where I’m having the surgery made me lose weight — they wanted me to lose 10 pounds in one month — over the holidays no less. I did them a few better and lost 13. This weight loss happened after they reduced me to tears, telling me they wouldn’t let me have surgery unless I proved I was “compliant.” Being able to say no to Christmas cookies — if that isn’t compliant, I don’t know what is.

Now I have to be on a blended diet (jello, applesauce, mashed potatoes, oatmeal) for THREE WEEKS prior to surgery to shrink my stomach, my liver and help me lose more weight. What kind of sick fucking joke is this? The only thing getting me through this is the thought that somewhere on a remote deserted island, the Survivor contestants are eating less than I am. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK! Don’t think I wouldn’t slit your throat with a plastic spork for some queso and tortilla chips right now. I could do it, and no court of law would convict me.

I mean, it’s not that I don’t know HOW to diet. I could, for example, tell you how many calories and fat grams are in that Ding Dong you’re holding, as well as how many turns you’ll have to take on untitledmother’s Ab Lounger to burn it off. Did someone say Ding Dongs? Just give me a moment here…

OK, I’m back. The thing with us fat people is that we have some sort of chemical disposition that makes food like a drug to us. We feel incomplete unless we eat. It consumes our every thought. Me and chocolate — it’s like Whitney Houston and her crack pipe. And I’m saying this in all seriousness. The only time I wasn’t subject to this Vulcan mind control was when I was pregnant — which makes me think that fatness (I refuse to use the word “obesity” or god forbid “morbid obesity”) is hormonal or chemical.

I want you all to take this journey with me (I KNOW you want to come), so I’m going to post pictures of myself along the way, along with updates and musings on what it’s like to eat a pureed peanut butter sandwich. I imagine it will go something like this: “Today I ate a piece of bread and was stuck on the shitter for FIVE hours.” “I wonder if I can blend Swiss Cake Rolls?” “I bet I could make me a handsome set of luggage with this leftover skin.”

I hope that when the year has passed, you’ll get to see something cool — kind of like when you were in second grade and got to watch the butterfly emerge from its cocoon. It’s either going to be like that, or like watching a stick of butter melting in a pan.