I never thought that I would ever have something in common with the infamous Starr Jones. Particularly when the news of her gastric bypass surgery finally came out. I couldn't understand why she would have kept it hidden. Or thought that she could have kept it a secret. At least, that's what I thought all those years ago.
And then I accepted a job in Charlotte, NC. After gaining over 30 pounds in a few months, thanks to changes in medication, diet and exercise. Plus age. As I drove to my new job the first day, I passed a medical office building that housed a bariatric surgeon. I saw the signage and thought "that's convenient, if I ever get to that point"
As I grew more settled into my new job, which included a crazy commute, that eradicated any semblance I had of a personal life or life outside of the 8 hours a day I spent at work, my weight exploded. I fought as hard I could to keep it from getting more and more of a burden, but it was a losing battle. From August 2012 to August 2014, I gained over 120 pounds.
I could say it was all the fault of insulin. Funny fact--no one tells you when you're a diabetic that the drug that saves your life also prevents you from losing weight. That it even causes you to gain weight.
I could say it was because I ate my way through the grief of losing my beloved dog, Leo.
I could say it was because I went through another bad breakup (again) with the man I thought was the love of my life.
I could say it was because I became a hobbit once I started driving over 200 miles a day to and from work, often stopping for second breakfast and for snacks.
I could blame it on my parents. My sisters and brother. I could blame it on so many things.
However, when it all comes down to it, I put the food & drink into my mouth. I made the choices. As I struggled to fit into my "fat" clothes and realized one day, when the button on a pair of pants popped off, that I had to buy bigger clothes, after dieting and exercising, all the way down to a size 8, I had gotten to the point where even a 20 was too snug, I died inside. And ate some more.
However, I stopped. I found a therapist. I am working through why I eat, as it isn't because I'm hungry. I could rhapsodize poetically about what food is to me, but I won't.
After 6 months of working with a therapist, a horrifically embarrassing doctor's appointment and growing so tired of the blob in the mirror, I decided to put my librarian hat on and do some research on that bariatric surgeon within walking distance of my work place.
I picked up the phone and found out what I had to do to make an appointment. I filled out over 20 pages of forms. I faxed them in and waited to hear if my health insurance would cover any form of bariatric surgery.
I got the call. I had an appointment. On April 8th, 2014, I went to meet the surgeon. Part of me hoped that he'd laugh at me, tell me there was no way I was heavy enough to qualify for surgery.
Not only did I qualify, I was an ideal candidate. He and I discussed the various procedures, and decided that a rNy would be the surgery for me. Hopefully, by October, I would be ready to undergo a procedure that would involve having over 80% of the stomach made unusable, and the rerouting of my intestines to make the absorption of fat much harder.
But first, I had hoops to jump through. I had a sleep study to do. I had 4 months of medical management appointments with my GP. I had to have a psych evaluation, even though I regularly saw a therapist. I had to go to a nutritionist. I had to meet with a trainer to discuss exercise. I had to have a swallow study done. I had to have a pulmonary function test, a chest x-ray, at least a dozen vials of blood drawn. It is not as simple as waking up and deciding to have the surgery.
I sailed through all of the requirements, only to be told that the surgeon's office had made a mistake--my health insurance would not cover it. I cried and resigned myself to living a life in a body I hated, because diet & exercise were not working for me at all. I started to fight my health insurance, to get them to cover the surgery.
And after weeks of this fighting, I got great news--my employer had decided to add bariatric surgery as a covered benefit. I just had to wait until 2015.
So, I waited. And kept it a secret from almost everyone I knew, except my parents, a few chosen friends and my therapist. I had several last meals. As 2015 approached and I learned that the months of medical testing I had already done did not need repeating, I began to hope that I would have my surgery by Valentine's Day.
It did not happen by then. I switched surgeons and procedures. I started to tell more people about the upcoming surgery. My packet, a medical file several inches thick, was sent off to my insurance for approval. And the waiting game played on.
In early February, I got my letter saying that I was cleared to have the gastric sleeve performed on March 2, 2015. On February 16th, I began the two week liquid pre-op diet. I gulped water in an effort to stave off hunger. I talked to my therapist a lot and just prayed much more than I ever had in my life that this was the right choice.
On March 2, I woke up at 4:00am, took a shower, put on my comfy clothes and posed for a picture in front of my fireplace. Then, my parents and I headed to the hospital, because I had a hot date to get sleeved at 7:00am. And when I woke up, I had a stomach that could only hold 4 ounces of food at a time.
So, why could I identify with Starr? I was planning to keep it a secret. I was embarrassed that I have gotten to the point where surgery was my only way out of the blob I had become. Plus, I did not want comments from the peanut gallery, so to speak. And there's a stigma to weight loss surgery, that it's the easy way out, that it's for lazy people, etc.
However, when most of my stomach was removed, when my ability to dull myself by shoving food down my mouth was removed, I started to become the Darcey I had always wanted to be, but was terrified to be. Which has nothing to do with my size.
And I continue to transform into this Darcey. It's not easy. Anyone who says that weight loss surgery is the easy way out deserves a swift kick in the genitals. The past three months have been one emotional roller coaster. And that's the way it will be for a while.
The surgery is working. I am shrinking, but since I refuse to weigh myself often, I don't know by how much. Last time I was at the surgeon, it was close to 50 pounds already. And to show how messed up my mind has become, I beat myself up for not having lost more in the two months since surgery, since I thought 50 pounds in under 3 months wasn't good enough. That is why my home scale stays hidden.
And part of becoming this new Darcey is that I no longer want to keep my surgery a secret. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I had weight loss surgery. Life has not ended.
No comments:
Post a Comment