I Didn’t Die
My last post was 2 days pre-op and I swear, I didn’t die on the table. Not only did I not die (and believe me, I was pretty sure I was going to be that freak 1%), today I feel like the clock has been turned back a good 10 years. My right knee is back to normal. My left knee is a normal level of sore but fuck it, it works!
A year ago this month my husband and I went to Mount Sinai for our first informational meeting. It was large and impersonal. The lecture hall style room was filled with people objectively less fat than either of us. We went. We listened. We read the slides. We suffered through those objectively less fat people asking objectively stupid questions. We huddled together like bad students flirting through Algebra. When it was over, we all filed out, pamphlets in hand. A woman overheard us chattering about whatever concerns the whole thing had brought to mind. She craned her neck our way as she moved through the lobby, “You’re gonna do great. I had the surgery about a year ago. You won’t regret it.”
Sometimes New Yorkers come through.
Seven months ago I let a strange (though highly trained) man cut out most of my stomach. Contrary to others’ experiences, the hours and days that followed were filled with excruciating pain. I couldn’t wear a regular bra for over 3 weeks; the underwire sat against my highest suture & the pressure of the band was too much. The first few weeks were full of raging hormones releasing from fat stores, abdominal pain, gas, and regret. I would have killed a man for a burger - not because I was hungry, I wasn’t, but because I missed the physical act of eating. On multiple occasions I was startled awake during the night because I’d punched myself in the mouth. Dreaming about eating bread. Oprah ain’t got nothin’ on me.
About three months post-op it stopped hurting to drink water! I could even take an almost-gulp! It may not seem like much, but if I’ve learned anything from this process it’s to appreciate the small victories: sleeping on your side or stomach again, eating a food (tiny though it may be), walking without getting dizzy. The morsels of progress where what kept me going in the beginning. Even with my pain levels. Yes, I felt like I needed to be taken out back and put down for about 3 weeks, but every day I did feel incrementally better. The increments were minuscule, but it was enough. It was progress.
So here I am, month seven post-op. At my highest weight I was 302. Today I’m 210. 8 pounds shy of having lost 100 pounds. 11 pounds shy of “one-derland.” All my clothes are too big. Even my underwear. Even my glasses. My 3X winter coat, which I refuse to give up or replace until next year cause also I’M SO COLD ALL THE TIME NOW, fits me like I’m burrito-ed in a down comforter. I’m in size 16 jeans for the first time since the 90′s. How nuts is that? And my feet? My feet have permanently de-hobbited! All this to say, it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. All the pain. All the tears. All the feels. Tiny meals. Skipping alcohol. Taking vitamins. I’m back at the gym & walking my dog. I’m sitting in booths & movie theater seats. I’m back to cursing the subway everyday cause it smells and is late and crowded but goddamnit I’m on it regardless of stairs or long connections. I’m just living my life.
Talk about “non scale victories.”
