whosebody

[whosebody]

Walden Farms’ Thousand Islanc Dressing

I bought some of this, the Thousand Island kind, months ago, but hadn’t tried it yet because I was still using up a bottle of Kraft regular Thousand Island.  I only use Thousand Island when I make a Reuben on my trusty panini press, which I do more often than I probably should--maybe once a month--but not often enough to run through dressing at any kind of speed.

But last night I opened the bottle and my thoughts on this stuff are very simple.  It tastes wonderful! The texture is utterly unimpressive. It is very watery, not creamy at all.

That is a price I am willing to pay.  I’m also willing to pay the >$3 per 12 ounce bottle since I use so little.  On the other hand, using full calorie probably didn’t hurt either, because I use so little.

The sweetener in it is sucralose, in case that matters to you due to sensitivity or any other reason.

I’m thinking of trying another kind if I ever use up any of my ridiculous collection of sauces that currently fills every inch of space in my refrigerator door.

[whosebody]

me - 1, fat brain - 0

I just dumped the new bag of kitty kibble into the food grade buckets where I store it to keep dogs from unauthorized feasting.  When I do the bucket dump, I always spill a few kibble thus creating some windfall goodies for any circling sharks, I mean dogs.  And although there are three cat "feeding stations" in this house, and one outside, Darkness has to come search for missed kibble. He's still a stray in his head. And if Oliver is any indication, he always will be. Oliver always *worried* if his dish got even a little bit low.

So I'm watching the Darkness prowl the perimeter and I'm thinking about weight loss and how, even when your body gets thinner, your head is still fat (at least in a lot of cases, including mine, although surely probably not in *everyone's* case). And so I find myself prowling for missed kibble, and I'm not even hungry. Last night a craving struck for mustard and pickles, and I found myself at the fridge looking for something to put mustard and pickles on, when an epiphany struck. I could just have mustard and pickles. I don't need a hamburger or a ham sandwich before I can have mustard and pickles.

So I squirted mustard on a saucer and dipped a few dill pickle chips in it, and it was SO DELICIOUS. My inner alley cat shut up about wanting a hamburger, and a half hour later, I went to bed.

Lesson learned...for now. I'm sure I have to learn it twenty or thirty times before it sticks.

[whosebody]

I got some complainin’ to do

A friend accused me of never being happy because I complained about loose skin.

“Didn’t you know that was going to happen?” she whined.

Yes, I did. I expected loose skin at my upper arms, abdomen, and thighs. I expected the turkey neck.

I did not expect my crotch to droop, my boobs to completely disappear and drop into the waistband of my panties, or--now here’s the one that really threw me for a loop--my BACK to form wings and hang over my bra backs.

So yes, I did cry out in dismay, “I have back skin!” and I assume this is what she was referencing.

(I also did not expect the loose skin to make *noise*. My apron goes plop plop plop if I walk in loose underwear.)

And no, I am not exactly happy about it. 

HOWEVER...

I traded twenty-seven problems for three. I traded diabetes, high blood pressure, constant pain, sleep apnea, an inability to enjoy life, an inability to buy attractive clothes that fit, constant exhaustion, shame, fear of falling, fear of being in public, an inability to fit behind the wheel of all but the largest vehicles, and on and on and on...

I traded all those problems in and instead got, shrinking out of clothes and rings and even eyeglasses I love, I got not liking food I used to love and being unable to use food to self medicate, and I got loose skin.

Oh, and bills. I got lots of bills. Of course I had bills before, but they were for all those damn drugs I used to take. I’m still paying on those bills. Victoza, goddammit.  And I had good insurance.  Now I have gall bladder bills. But that is ok, because the crippling reflux I used to have (and complain about) has retreated almost entirely. It still flares a touch once in a while, but it is manageable.

Anyway, if I seem complainy, I apologize. These are new problems. I don’t actually have coping skillz for them...yet, and my old coping skill--food--is no longer there. But I’m resilient. I’m sure I’ll figure it out in due course. And in the meantime, if people are tired of hearing me complain, I think they should (1) make sure they NEVER COMPLAIN ABOUT ANYTHING, or (b) go away.

Either we all get to vent now and then, or no one does. I am not the Empress of the Stiff Upper Lip here.

[whosebody]

surgery date

I have a date, but not a time, for my gall bladder removal. I have to go off my eliquis and back on the lovenox for a few days.

Hopefully afterwards I am not so sick. Being sick is bumming me out.

In other news, my youngest has a surgery date for her VSG, so pretty soon I’ll be learning all the differences between that and RNY.

[whosebody]

gall bladder drama

I have been having some pretty uncomfortable reflux, and I’m not supposed to have reflux with roux en y, so my surgeon did an endoscopy and didn’t find anything wrong (no ulcers, no fistula) so he ordered an ultra sound and a scan of my gall bladder, and a barium swallow test. The office called and said the gall bladder has to go. So more surgery, whee.

I have to go into the office to sign consents, so I made my appointment for that on the same day as my daughter’s appointment to go in and sign her consent because she (finally!) got approved for sleeve surgery.

The staff person who called cautioned me that I could pretty much have “an attack” at any time, and I figured, ok. I’d rather risk that than make that long drive twice in ten days. Besides I’m not having any pain or anything other than the reflux. I’m going to leave the birds in the bush.

I do have some discomfort under my ribs, but it is very faint and very fleeting.

So lots of drama coming up between her surgery and mine.  But hopefully afterwards things will settle down to a dull roar.

I am now down 165 from my highest ever weight, 147 from the day I decided to pursue the surgery, and 130 from surgery day last June.  

Yesterday I was lying on the sofa because the reflux had kept me up half the night. A cat and a dog both looked like they might be considering jumping on me, so I rolled onto my back and pulled up my feet to give them a landing pad.  This left me watching TV over my knees and I saw something moving...down there.

It was the TV. I could see it through my thigh gap.

That was what prompted me to weigh in. I don’t weight that often, and when people ask how much I’ve lost, I generally have no idea. But now I do.

I now weigh less than I did when I met my husband. Less than I did when I got pregnant either time. I wear a larger size because of the excess skin though.

It is all so strange.  No wonder other people don’t recognize me. I don’t really recognize myself.

[whosebody]

another EGD

It took over a week of playing phone tag to get the dang EGD (endoscopy) scheduled. I about went bananas because the scheduler kept calling while I was not home, and probably driving. Once I careened across four lanes of highway traffic and dove into three parking spots at an Arby’s in an attempt to answer the damn phone, and still missed the call. And of course when I tried to call back, no one answered ever, even though I called back less than two minutes after they called me.

Frustration.

Anyway, I eventually got it scheduled. The most frustrating part was where, when I scheduled it, I told the dingbat I was on eliquis and should I stop taking it before the procedure and she said no. But less than 24 hours before the procedure they call for a pre-admission interview, and this new dingbat tells me I have to call the prescribing physician and get permission to “hold” (not take) eliquis before surgery. I was like, (a) I already took it, and (b) have YOU ever tried to get you people to respond to a phone call in less than two days?!

For a miracle, a person at the blood doc actually answered the phone and actually got an answer from the doc, and actually called me back within 40 minutes of my call to her, and yes, it was okay to “hold” the eliquis. That’s a blood thinner, if you’re wondering.

So, eventually, yesterday was the day. So I was NPO after midnight, couldn’t sleep, and got up at four am. Tom (The Old Man) took the day off work and drove me the hour and a half to the hospital. Did blood draws, went upstairs, got into a gown. Answered a bunch of the same questions over and over again. Went back to the procedure room, Cutey McSurgeon came in, they started arranging me on the table.mThe nurse anesthetist tells me I’ll feel warmth and/or tingling in the IV arm, but I don’t. I’m there one minute and gone within seconds. I have no rmemory of any transitional periods from awake to unconscious, nor from unconscious to awake, just like last time.

When I woke up I was still in the procedure room, and then they took me to a recovery room. I was quite stoned. I normally don’t like that feeling but this time I kinda did. I got into a chair. More people talked to me. Tom was there, guarding my purse. I got dressed. Cutey McSurgeon came and told me there was nothing to see down there and he still doesn’t know what is causing my reflux, which as you may or may not know, isn’t supposed to happen with Roux en Y gastric bypass.

The problem may still be caused by my gall bladder; I have three more tests scheduled to determine that--a scan of some sort, a barium swallow test, and an ultra sound, for a total of two appointments. If not the gall bladder, the refulx could be caused by scar tissue that’s formed too far down to see with endoscopy.

He also said something about, if I don’t want to schedule surgery (yet) they could do a CT scan, but I wasn’t sure what that would do or what the purpose would be. As I said, I was pretty stoned.

They said not to make any major life decisions for 24 hours due to after effects of the anesthesia, ha. So I didn’t sell the house or agree to surgery. Not that they asked me to.

So Tom and I grabbed a bite--I had eggs at Bob Evans--and I came home, put my earrings back in, and took a very long nap. So that’s the end of Act One, for now.

[whosebody]

nine month follow-up

I saw my surgeon today and he said, according to my A1C, I am no longer diabetic. I may also be unprescribed from my biPap machine, if we can ever convince the insurance durfwads to approve another sleep study.

Those are the good things. On the downside, I am up for a bunch of tests to find out why I am having so much acid reflux. People who get RNY aren’t supposed to have reflux, so it may be an indication that I’m developing an ulcer. I need another endocscopy and an upper GI to find out for sure. They are also going to do some tests to find out if my gall bladder is going south, because I have some symptoms of that, namely pain under my right ribs radiating around to the back.

I almost forgot about the pain though, because it’s so occasional and so fleeting that it isn’t really a thing I think about when it isn’t hurting, which is most of the time. The doc and his PA prodded around on my abdomen quite a bit looking for a touchy response, but when it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt at all.

So I’m good. I really don’t want my gall bladder out, although I bet if I did have it out that would take care of the constipation issues for like...ever.

The hospital is supposed to call to schedule the tests. So we’ll see how that goes.

When the doc came into the exam room, he asked how I’m doing and I said, “I’m good!” and the PA I had been talking to said, “She’s not good.” Which made me feel less good, but I had to say, “But I feel good!” which physically is true. I have not been feeling emotionally good though. For one thing, my elderly cat died a couple of weeks ago after a fairly labor intensive (and messy) final illness, and I’m emotionally wiped out. He was so much a part of my life for so long--since 2003. He was at least a year old when I adopted him, and possibly as old as four, so he was quite old.

The rest of the menagerie remains, but I miss him. And it feels like nobody (human) wants to give me the time and space I need to grieve for that cantankerous, mean, smelly old cat.

So that’s what’s up with me. I’m down 156 pounds from my highest weight and 121 from surgery day last June. I had stalled for a while, but the scale is moving again, albeit much more slowly.

Ahh well. I could’t keep losing at that rate indefinitely. I’d end up a hair.

49 pounds to goal.

[whosebody]

clothes

As I posted last time, I lost two rings. They simply disappeared off my fingers in the course of my ordinary day. I had lost one ring before that, and one since! It makes me terribly sad. None of the lost rings seemed too loose to me.

I am also struggling with clothes. If I thought weight loss was going to mean an end to stretchy pants, I was far wrong. I need them now as much as ever, at least if I want them to fit for any length of time. At least a couple of times a week I pull something out of my closet and no, just no. Not going to work.

The same day as the lost rings, I pulled out a pair of jeans. They were stretchy jeans with an elastic waist. They were kind of loose but not too bad. I figured I could wear them a few times before consigning them to..wherever (wearever) I ultimately decide to send them. (More on this later. I actually have clothing drama.) This pair may have originally come from Wal-Mart, but I got them at Goodwill. I put them on and started my daily routine. Let dogs out. Feed old cat. Let young cat in. Make broth. Make protein milk. Let dogs in. Let young cat out. Feed old cat again because young cat polished off all his gooshy fudz. Let dogs lick yesterday’s gushy fudz dish. Load dishwasher. Go downstairs to reboot laundry. I kept hitching the pants up. Maybe I would only wear them the oncet, I thought.

It was coming back up the stairs I started having problems. The pants slid down just far enough I was walking on the cuffs. Which pulled them farther down. Halfway up the stairs, my butt was hanging out. It’s hard to hold your pants up and hoss a basket of clean laundry around at the same time. I had to set the basket down, climb two steps while holding my pants up, then move the basket up two more steps.

By the time I got to the top of the steps, it was like the darn pants wanted to be down. I went back to the bedroom, holding onto the legs of those jeans like I was wearing hoop skirts. That pair is now retired, and has joined the basket of clothes I was hoping to sell, but no one apparently wants to pay for even though most of them are brand new.

I am a little irritated by that because my weight loss has triggered something of a feeding frenzy among my friends and acquaintances.

When I posted on Facebook that I had lost a hundred pounds (from my highest weight) I got quite a few supportive comments, but I also got a couple of “give me your clothes” comments. Naturally these comments were from people who rarely comment or interact with or express an interest in me in any way. Really? No.

To quote Eddie Murphy, who was apparently quoting Janet Jackson, “What have you done for me lately?” If the answer is nothing...that’s what you’re getting from me.

One or two postings ago I said that I don’t know who I am anymore, and I was not being facetious. I really don’t know a lot of the time. “What have you done for me lately?” is not a question I would ever have asked.

I am still steeped in guilt most of the time. If I wanted to give my clothes to someone, how would I fairly decide to whom? But I kinda just don’t. I kinda just want people to get off my back. If I can’t sell the things (I could really use the money to buy new bras) I can cart them to the thrift store who will gladly take them off my hands with no muss or fuss...or guilt. But the real river where I stop to cross and wonder who the hell I am is the one where I say this is just too much hassle. I’d rather go to the movies than deal with deciding who gets my un-grown* pants.

And this is even more alien...then I do. I totally go to the movies and don’t give anyone my pants.

I am going to give away this nasty chocolate protein powder I bought at Aldi. I used to like it before surgery. Now it tastes like Count Chocula. I hate Count Chocula, yuck.

*Un-grown is another word I made up. So much better than out-grown!

I have a basket full of un-grown pants now. I suppose eventually I’ll have to decide what to do with them. I posted my too-big bras on a Facebook free site and provoked a whole ‘nother kind of feeding frenzy, so I’m in no rush to do that again. But today I’m  not going to decide anything.

Today I’m going to see Wonder Woman.

[whosebody]

The right pill splitter is important.

My favoritest pill splitter that I had since oh, 2011 or so, quit working so I snagged another one from someplace or other, figuring they were all pretty much the same.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Not all pill cutters are created equal or even close. See that little orange thingie in the picture? Most don’t have that. And that is what keeps the pill from sliding. These other pill cutters, sans orange thingies, were just shaving pieces off here and there. I tried a crusher even, but the taste of crushed pills made me barf. I barf enough as it is. And my pills are enormous.

When I figured out the orange thingie was what I needed, I went to Amazon. They had one, but they wanted nine dollars for it. I would have paid that, but first, and now that Amazon had supplied a brand name, I checked google. Walgreens had them for two dollars cheaper. So I bought both they had in the store, and got a flu shot while I was at it.

All in all, a productive day. And my pills are now neatly cut in two approximately equal pieces instead of shaved up like baking almonds.

[whosebody]

nothing much new here

Apparently there is only so much to say, and I have said it all.

Just when I think the barfing is over, I hit a bad day or two and get seriously depressed about it. But an entire week went by without a single bout of Old Faithful erupting, so I remain hopeful, at least when I am not actually barfing.

I know I should look for more, well, active activities, but found a budget theater near-ish me, and I have been going to that...all by myself! I swear I do not know who I am anymore. But they have certain movies one day a week for a dollar. Not recent releases, mind you, but ones that aren’t on Netflix or HBO yet.  Movies for a dollar, yo! And on Tuesdays it’s 1.75, and the rest of the week it’s only 3.00 full price. The place is seedy and run down, and I don’t care. I am seedy and run down myself. The theater totally suits me. They have daytime movies through the week, and usually there are only a couple of other people there so I can manspread all over the place.

Regarding activities, I really want to walk the dogs, but I don’t yet feel steady enough on my pins.  Day before yesterday I tripped over a rug and fell onto all fours. This has been a major fear of mine, because the last time I got down on the floor I couldn’t get myself up again. Hell, the last time I sat on the edge of the bathtub to shave my legs I couldn’t get myself up again. I have had flash-forwards* where I fell and had to call the squad to chainfall me up again and they had to shoot the big dog, who is crazy.

I know this would not actually happen. If I had to, I would just stay on the floor until someone came home to either help me up or put the dogs out before calling the guys with the engine hoist. And let’s face it, if I were genuinely hurt I probably wouldn’t be able to call help anyway. That would be because I am forever wandering off without my phone. I leave it in the car, I leave it on the charger, I leave it. Yeah, I just leave it.

*A flash-forward is like a flash back, except it’s about something that hasn’t happened--or at least not to me--and might never happen. I think I made this term up, but it’s a real thing, anxiety related, that happens to me. I picture in my mind awful things that might happen, and they are so real it is like these things *are* actually happening. Sometimes this happens to me with regards to something that happened to somebody else. I can hardly hear the word Chappaquiddick without feeling like I am drowning.

Anyhow...

I hit the floor, but I got myself up again without assistance. I had to pull myself up by a chair, and this was not made easier by the greetings of the aforementioned dogs, who were delighted to see me on their level, although the little one was on the chair I was using to pull myself up. She licked me enthusiastically throughout. I was ungainly as hell, but I got up! I am absurdly proud of myself for this.

I lost two rings this week. They were both on the same finger and simply vanished. I know I should be happy to be losing weight, but it simply isn’t all mai tais and yahtzee. Also, one was my wedding ring. I had taken to wearing it on my pointer finger because it no longer fit my ring finger, but hey, wearing the wedding ring on an index finger was good enough for Laura Ingalls Wilder, it should be good enough for me.

Thankfully it was a simple band made of stainless steel. Like the seedy theater, stainless suits me. It’s sturdy and affordable. And even though I’ll miss it terribly--I have ransacked the house and have failed to locate it--at least I don’t have to commit suicide over its loss.

Until next time...

[whosebody]

tmi undergarments

I have been having more good days with regard to the vomiting issue, but now none of my bras fit.

I shrank out of my first set, but found some “outgrown” ones in the basement. I had purchased them and only worn them a few times before realizing they were too small. Normally I don’t save outgrown clothing because nobody ever fits back into those, right? Never in the history of the world. And even if anyone ever did, I never did, so.

But these I couldn’t bear to part with because they were like new and I had got a magnificent deal on them, so I put them in a bag, and then in a box, and stashed them downstairs where I fully expected I would never see them again, and they would probably become part of the estate.

So I remembered those, and they fit...but not for long. So now I am in a position of needing bras that fit, but I don’t want to spend any real money for them because they probably won’t fit for long either. So two cheap bras, I needz them.

I was a little tickled that I would be able to go to a regular store like a regular person and buy a regular cheapass bra at a regular price.  It has been years since I was able to do such a thing. So I went.

I had no idea what size to get. Because I’m not a dummy I measured myself and looked those measurements up online. According to the internet, I should be wearing a larger size than the ones that are already too big. That was no help. So I tried to guess, based off of the size of the bras I have and the size I think I used to wear the last time I weighed this much.

Mind you, the last time I weighed this amount was close to twenty years ago.

I failed. I bought a bra in one smaller cup size but two smaller band sizes. I bought two smaller cup size and one smaller band size. I bought jog bras, which members of an online support group seemed to think was the best way to go when losing large amounts of weight quickly.

Let me just say, cheap bras suck.

Somehow the straps manage to dig into my shoulders while simultaneously refusing to stay up. How is that even possible? Cups both sag and overflow, because my boobs are not the shape of the right aircraft fuselage.  And the jog bras?  SNORT. Those things give me uniboob. Boobs are not supposed to look like a single sandbag strapped to a gal’s chest.

Thankfully I already dribbled chili on one of the jog bras. Hopefully none of these lycra spandex disasters last any length of time so I can justify throwing them the hell away. UGH. Horrid.

At this point I would gladly spend whatever it takes to get a couple of bras like the basement ones, but they are apparently no longer made in that style--kind of like jog bras, but with actual CUPS.

So for now, I am going to wear whatever intolerable garment I can best tolerate on a given day, and hope and pray that I can find something I actually like when my weight stabilizes. Or, yanno, even before then.

[whosebody]

these days

The magic noodles wore off, sadly. But I have been barfing less and less in spite of that. Yesterday was a bad day. So far today is a good one, but it’s not quite noon so there’s plenty of time for a reversal of fortune...and digestion.

Last Monday I went to the support group. The topic was Ask the Doctor, but the doctors were from a different (but affiliated) hospital and I didn’t know them. The one woman who I had been kind of hoping to make a buddy of was not there. I stalked her on Facebook and learned she is moving out of state. I can’t say I’m not quite disappointed. I’ve had no life for so long. It’s not going to be easy to make new buddies at my age, I think.

Neither doctor had heard of anyone whose AHI worsened after weight loss, which yeah. That’s a thing I’m dealing with now.

Or trying to.

My biPap machine has been sending me email about increased AHI, and not a small increase. Like 50+ an hour. Holy cow, I was at 70+ when I was diagnosed.  50 feels like almost back to the start.

So I made an appointment with my pulmonologist thinking he might look at the data on the biPap’s data/memory card and tell me what the hell is going on, but no. He told me not to worry about it if I’m feeling good. I was like, “Are you serious? I’m not feeling good.” So he ordered a new sleep study for titration (it’s been 2.5 years).

Our lovely new insurance is refusing to pay for it though, so no new sleep study for me. The sleep lab told me to call the doc, but I haven’t yet because I am too frustrated and annoyed to be civil to anyone. Just look at the damn SD card, ok?

I will call him. But first I want to look at the card data myself. Unfortunately my hard disc has been making some scary noises. Scary to the point that I ordered a new HD. Of course by the time it arrived, the scary noise had stopped. For now I’m using my computer time to back things up to various places. Lord help me find it all when I need it again, ugh.

So that is life here.  My tuna salad in a half a low-carb wrap seems to be staying put, glory be. I’ve tried this combination four times and I’m batting 500. Oatmeal, on the other hand, is on my personal no-fly list. That stuff is a terrorist cell I tell you. I would rather go to the dentist than risk that level of heaving again.

In fact, I am going to the dentist.  At least some part of me will be filled, ha.

Until next time, be well.

[whosebody]

support group #5

This time I took my friend C with me. I didn’t want to for a few reasons, but I did it because she has no one else. It added an extra hour total onto my driving time, which is already over an hour each way. That is a lot of driving, but whatever.

The topic was, “The good, the bad, and the journey.” The hostess put up three sheets of paper and we discussed good things, bad things, and neutrual things about weight loss surgery.

Under good, there were things like increased mobility, being able to travel more easily because you can fit into airplane seats, being able to ride rides at amusement parks, feeling better, better health, going off medications, and such things.

Under bad, there were things like breaking relationships (for various reasons), not being able to eat certain foods that you really want to eat because of the effects, such as dumping or vomiting, the expense of replacing clothes, being overwhelmed by trying to balance vitamins (more expense!), fluid intake, protein, and etc..

Under the journey was a whole lot of other things, most of which I don’t recall. It did include things we have to learn to cope with, such as how to handle eating out. It was kind of a list of things that are troublesome, but either the thing passes or you just get over it.

That was pretty much it. Then I came home. It was still light when we left the building, and maybe that helped me not get lost on the way home, ha.

I am deeply concerned about C. As much as I am struggling right now with weakness and fatigue, she is worse. She barely made it from the side of the building to the front door. I feel like I am dragging ass most of the time, but I could have done laps around her. This did not make me feel good about me, it made me feel badly for her. I am currently having trouble with things like stepping up onto curbs or lifting my legs high enough to swing them into the van. I am terrified to try the basement steps, and on Sunday I sat on the edge of the tub to shave my legs and couldn’t get up again. Even with my substantial and strong husband hauling on me I almost didn’t make it, and started crying because I was afraid a squad of men were going to have to come chainfall me up or something, and the bathroom was not company ready because I am half dead all the time, yo.

But I still think I get around better than C. I can walk a store, as long as I have a cart to hang on to. I don’t need to ride a scooter--yet. Not that it’s a contest.

But she was approved for surgery this week by her insurance (Medcaid) even though she hasn’t gone through the nine-month supervised diet ordinarily required. Probably because she has so many things wrong with her, and she can’t really go through the nine-month program because she is too heavy for her doctor’s scale.

Now I am worried about how she is going to get to all the upcoming appointments (also she has to have a heart cath done first) and how she will afford all the things you need afterwards like eight thousand different kinds of protein supplements you buy looking for the one that won’t make you vomit.

More on vomit later...

I suppose she’ll be all right. I hope she’ll be all right. But I’m worried.

[whosebody]

TMI barfing

Everybody’s favorite topic is puke, right? I’ve been putting off discussing it because I love it sooo much.

I barfed the first time the day before my one-month follow up. It was the dreaded “foamies” or slime. I got a pill stuck, a metformin. Metformin is my arch enemy, because I have been barfing ever since. If I take the entire horse pill, it gets stuck and voila, slime. If I cut it up, the edges scrape on the way down and voila, slime. If I crush the goddam things the taste makes me sick and no slime, but plenty of ordinary barf. I guess making me throw up all the food is one way to keep my blood sugar down.

The surgeon’s PA told me that one month is where a lot of people start having trouble swallowing, that it’s part of the healing process. So at least I was semi-prepared. Well, not prepared, but at least not completely clueless as to what is going on.

But it’s not only the metformin. the smell of cat food makes me barf. In fact all kinds of smells make me barf; it seems like I can smell everything. If a cat farts in the neighbor’s yard, I smell it and throw up. I can smell must in the basement, laundry in the spawn’s room,

The other main thing making me ill seems to be food. Especially the protein food I am supposed to be focusing on. Protein powder, protein shakes, protein bars. Tuna, eggs, cheese, beef, pork, fish. (I am allergic to chicken and turkey which is a whole other challenge but one I am relatively accustomed to.) Forget legumes. I ate a soybean and was in agony for the rest of the day.

The slime is the worst, because the texture makes me even sicker.

And so for two months I have pretty much lived on bouillon and almond milk with genepro in it. The Unjury makes me sick every single time. The genepro only occasionally makes me sick. I can occasionally keep down a pork rind, which seems like the most unhealthy thing a person could put in her mouth, but damn after (practically) not eating for three months I am desperate.

And I can never tell. I ate broccoli and cheese soup one day and it was fine and the next time it turned me into a broccoli and cheese geyser with a side of slime. So after I (try to) eat, I can’t leave the house because I don’t want to be sick in the car, or worse, wherever I am going. I don’t get much lead time between when I realize whatever-it-is is coming back up and when it arrives.

Between the barfing and the weakness and the blood clots, I have been feeling really sorry for myself, I can tell you. I started wearing Sea Bands, which helped with nausea but not with actual puking. Sea Bands can’t keep metformin from getting stuck in your throat.

But then. Four days ago, the Spawn made beef and noodles. I am not supposed to be eating noodles. But I have been so hungry, and how bizarre is that to barf constantly and still want to eat? But that’s what was going on. And I figured, what the hell? I’ll puke it back up anyway, so how many carbs can I possibly absorb? So I ate about six medium shell noodles, shells being the only pasta left in the pantry since I stopped buying pasta months ago.

They stayed put. Not so much as a grumble out of my belly. So I ate six more.

OMG they were the most delicious things that have ever crossed my tongue.

The next day I ate a quarter cup of them left over, and I pieced a few more cold out of the fridge as well. Then later I had a cheddar cheese cube.

I have not barfed since. It is like those were magic medicinal pasta shells.

The trouble is, now I want everything. Not a lot of anything, but a little of everything. Before surgery I went through the Last Meal syndrome where I wanted to eat everything because I was anxious about not being able to have it again. I knew at the time that was not likely to happen, but anxiety made it seem like it might happen; that’s what anxiety does. During the worst of the barfing, I was starting to feel like maybe anxiety was right and not only would I never have anything good again, I might never have anything solid again.

But since the magical noodles, I’ve had four days of digestive peace and quiet. And for that, I could not be more grateful.

[whosebody]

in the hospital

I am so late on updating. I am sorry. I am just not in a very good state of mind right now.

So while I was in the hospital, I was in a lot of pain. Any time I put my affected left leg down, I wanted to cry, and often enough I did. The hospital told me not to get up unassisted, but then no one would come in time. Since I didn’t want to pee myself, I got up unassisted quite a bit.

On my second or third day some very needy (and loud) (and male) person was admitted to the floor. Suddenly my room became a ghost town, with me as the only ghost. I could not make out what this loud and needy person’s problem was, but I was torn between understanding that I am not the only human being on the planet and wanting that person to get the truck out of my corner of the world so someone could help me to the bathroom.

That’s sort of my entire emotional life, in summary. Empathetic but selfish.

The doctors continued debating whether or not I had cellulitis. I expressed my frustration to the hospital doc, Dr G, who said, “Well it’s really easy to tell if you have infection. I’ll put you on antibiotics, and if it gets better, it’s an infection.”

Yes! Yes, let’s do that!

So he did, and three rounds of intravenous antibiotics later, I could walk without crying. Not without pain, but without crying. It was kinda nice to be able to use the damn iv port, since they did this to me putting it in.

And Dr G discharged me on Saturday. There was some difficulty because he discharged me so late in the day the pharmacy was closing soon and I needed to have my prescription for Eliquis filled before morning. Eliquis is a blood thinner. In the hospital they had been giving me lovenox, which is the same injection I had been giving myself at home for the first thirty days after surgery. I must say while lovenox worked, I hated it. The injections were twice as painful as either the Victoza, Tresiba, or lantus I took before the surgery, and if you think the bruise on my arm up there is spectacular, you should see my abdomen. It looks like post mortem lividity all over my sagging belly, ick.

Another difficulty was that he discharged me all of twenty minutes after Tom and the Spawn had left from visiting. They were on their way to the grocery store, since it was my usual shopping day but obviously I wasn’t going to be doing any shopping. I called them back. Tom was driving his van, which is a cargo van with only two seats, so he had to take the Spawn home and come back for me.

Then my ordinarily loving husband decided he couldn’t handle all the Eliquis coupons that had to be used in order for us to afford Eliquis, because OMG $$$. So I had to hobble into the store and to the pharmacy. Thank goodness it wasn’t the olden days when the pharmacy was clear at the back. Now the Meijer pharmacy is right up front.

Even so, I would have used one of those little motorized carts if there had been any, even though I have sworn to never use one of those.

““Why?” asked a friend. She uses them all the time.

“Because people are so mean about fat people using those,” I told her. “They assume you’re using the cart because you’re too fat and lazy to walk around. They never think, maybe she’s fat because there’s something wrong with her that makes her also need the cart.”

“You might have to get over it,” she said.

“I’m not going to get over it,” I assured her. “Besides, using one of those would feel like admitting defeat.”

Well, I would have been willing, if not to admit defeat, to at least retreat a little, but as I said there were no motorized carts available.

We did end up getting the prescription in time, although before it was over I was in quite a lot of pain again and thought I would die on the way back to the car. My intention was to rest on one of the benches in the foyer, but wouldn’t you know it, both benches had employees parked on them, one each, manspreading all over the place so no room at the end. I cast baleful glares at them both and hobbled and wobbled my ass out to the van, which thankfully was parked just past the accessibility parking spots.

I wondered hatefully if those spots were being occupied by employees as well. I was not feeling my usual level of Meijer love just then, let me tell you.

Eventually we made it home. Then Tom and the spawn went out to do their grocery shopping. I was okay alone. Thanks to the loud man at the hospital I was kind of used to being alone by then. At least I had all my DVR shows to keep me company.

Hospital TV sucks, just saying. I might have had to kill myself if not for Roseanne and Reba reruns.

[whosebody]

back to the hospital

A week ago Monday (or so, I disremember exactly when) I woke up in the night with a charley horse in my left calf. I’ve had these nocturnal cramps off and on since childhood and thought little of it, especially since I’d been reorganizing cupboards and etcetera around the house and had been doing a lot of reaching and stretching. But this charley horse didn’t let up. In fact, it kept building.

So, since I’ve been having a little extra trouble with nausea and vomiting lately, I assumed this was probably an electrolyte issue. I took a potassium tab I had leftover from when I also used to take lasix (a diuretic), and also drank as much Powerade Zero as I could stand, and threw down a couple of magnesium tablets and two extra calcium supplements for good measure. None of that helped, and my next trip to the  medicine cabinet found me looking for some Tylenol 3 leftover from a dental procedure.

I am  not a pain pill kind of gal, and I don’t know why I didn’t take those old T3s to the pill take-back box a couple of weeks ago when I took everything else. But I can’t have NSAIDs after RNY, so I dug these out and took one. This also did not help, although it could have been because they were so old.

On Tuesday night, at NINE PM, OMG, my husband suddenly remembered this urgent bank errand that has to be done right this very second...well, tomorrow. But by then I could barely walk. Not trying to be dramatic, but on a scale of 1 to 10 I would have rated my pain at blinding agony. I was using an old cane I had purchased years ago during my spell of dizzy spells. Since I began treatment for my cataclysmic sleep apnea the dizzy spells have disappeared and the cane has mostly served to hook dog toys from under the sofa, but now I was using it to assist my hobble.  But he still got annoyed when I told him no, I would not be (a) going to the bank, or (b) standing in line at the bank, while in blinding agony.

Expecially not when I am legit having a crisis of my own.

Anyway, you know that rule about not going to bed mad? It does not apply to me! I was totally mad at him.  I was so desperate to escape the pain that I had zero trouble lapsing into a coma. I slept almost twelve hours, but when I woke up I was in tears. I peed myself on the way to the bathroom because I couldn’t walk right or fast enough. And then I cried all the way to the back door to let the dogs out so they could pee. And then I collapsed into a chair and texted--yes texted--my youngest daughter who actually lives here. She normally sleeps most of the day, particularly now that college is out for the rest of summer, and I normally hate bothering people, but I couldn’t stop crying from the pain.

I don’t consider myself a wussy, and just for the record neither does my dentist. She calls me Iron Woman.

My message said, “I need help.”

To her credit, she popped right out of her room. She said, “You’re lucky I’m awake or I wouldn’t have seen your text.”

I said, “You’re lucky you’re awake, because in two minutes I would have started calling and blowing up your phone.”

She helped me get ready, got the dogs in, ran up to the store to get my almond milk for my morning protein. She brought me my pills. While she was gone, I called the surgeon. They were at lunch, but called me back in a few minutes and told me that the leg pain and nausea were probably two different issues and I should go to the nearest emergency room. So Spawn took me. (Tom was at work.)

This is my ER room:

Yes, I was watching Beverly Hillbillies. And yes, I wear velcro shoes. Not because I am too fat or too lazy to tie my shoes, but because they were (a) brown, (b) the right size, and (c) on clearance for $8. Also (d) super freaking comfortable! And (e) get pretty good traction.

Anyway once they decided to admit me, I texted Tom and let him know, and also told him that the staff didn’t think I was in any imminent peril and there was no need for him to rush home from work. I kinda think he likes having a “special needs” wife who requires him to rush home from work...except he really doesn’t and recent events are not representative of what being married to me is really like. I am not that high maintenance.

Next I dispatched the Night Spawn, who was super tired from  not having slept most of the day, to pack me a bag and have it ready for Tom to pick up after work on his way to the hospital.

They took me upstairs and parked me in a room. I have pictures, but most of them have personally identifiable information, so I will not be posting those. But here is a shot of the view from my window. 

And there’s the bag the Night Spawn packed for me. She accidentally packed my Office On Wheels Bag instead of my hospital bag, but it worked, so who cares. I try not to be critical when people are trying to help me, even if they don’t do it quite the way I would prefer. I try. Not that I always succeed.

While they were wheeling me up I started getting Facebook messenger messages on my phone from a certain friend who likes to share every molecule of drama in her life, but then goes radio silent whenever I have anything going on. I am sure I am a huge disappointment to her lately because I have so much going on. By which I mean, I am not really available to mollycoddle her because I GOT MY OWN PROBLEMS.

So she started telling me all about these issues which, in my opinion she brings on herself via her absolute refusal to ever set any boundaries whatsoever (but I relate to how difficult that can be, boy do I ever) and I hugely broke with tradition and said:

“I can’t talk now, I’m being admitted to the hospital for blood clots and cellulitis.”

And she said, “Are they giving you any percocet?”

Because, you know, I’m a percocet dealer and this is the most important aspect of what I’m going through.

And then she went back to prattling on about the drama(s), and eventually I passed out again to escape the pain.

Just for the record, they didn’t not give me percocet. I could barely get them to bring me (regular) Tylenol over the next few days.

I am starting to hurt from sitting here for so long, so I am going to end this entry here and try to finish it up next time.

Spoiler alert:  I lived.

[whosebody]

now

Well here I am, seven weeks out. I have lost 81 pounds from my highest ever weight, and 41 pounds from my surgery date. I am currently in some kind of stall/plateau, but at least I broke the 300 pound barrier before that happened.

I think a lot of what I lost was water. I had a lot of edema in my legs before all this started, and now I have almost none. My shoes are loose. My super-expensive compression socks are not so compress-y. Most of my rings are loose. I moved some of these to fatter fingers, and ordered a cheap temp wedding band to wear until something stabilizes. Too bad I can’t do that with shoes!

My fat man t-shirts hang past my shorts, but I love them and plan to wear them until they fall off or are half-past rags. My shorts still fit, all but one pair, because they are elastic and were too tight anyway. Of course that one pair is my absolute mostest favorite. My underwear is still hanging in there, but honestly quite a few of them were too small as well.

I feel cranky about the number of friends, relatives, and acquaintances who are circling like vultures hoping to make off with my clothes. Mostly because the sheer numbers require me to decide who to give things to, and I don’t want to pick and choose. I’d rather cart everything to goodwill and let capitalism do its job.

One lesson I’ve learned here is never save things! I am still saving a suit and a pair of dress shoes, for however long they fit, for funerals and job interviews (heaven forbid I should ever have to use it for either thing). But other than that, if I love it, I’m wearing it! All these nice clothes that I saved for some day, and now I’m nursing a migraine because I have to figure out who needs them more. If I had worn them out, this would not even be an issue. The shoes I love would be all worn out instead of like new and flopping around on my feet.

I had bought these fancy dessert plates to eat off of because they say we should eat off small plates to make the food look like more. 

They are flowery and girly and utterly unlike me, but I love them ridiculously so of course I didn’t want to use them, but I did, and then I broke one by dropping it in the sink. I froze for days, afraid to touch these plates again. But you know what? I bought them to use and enjoy. I got them at goodwill, for dog’s sake. I am going to use them until every single one is ceramic dust in the landfill.

Use it. Use it up. Wear it out! It is more of a waste to leave it for my kids to send back to goodwill when I die than for me to wring every drop of use and enjoyment out of it while I am alive.

This is my new philosophy. Wear the shoes you love. Don’t save them for a later that might not come.

The high point of a given day should not be finding a coupon in the cat chow bag--even though that is pretty cool. Enjoy that, too.

You know what else I didn’t do? I didn’t try to glue that plate back together and keep using it. I thought about a quote by Tupac and threw that plate in the trash.

Here’s the quote:

“You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could've, would've happened... or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.”

My pieces were in the sink, and even if they were on the floor I wouldn’t leave them there for people and critters to step on and bleed, but the point remains the same. It was a plate. Clean it up and keep living. Get over it.

So that is a major change besides my weight.

At my one-week follow up they took out the JP drain. Goodbye you hateful piece of shit, how I hated you. That is the only wound that still has a scab. Ugh, it grosses me out so much.

At my one-month follow up we mostly discussed food. Like, everything tastes foul and I’ve begun occasionally vomiting. The PA, a fella this time, told me that is typical for this stage in the healing process. Tissues apparently thicken, and some people begin having trouble swallowing. This was two days after a pill got stuck and I had my first encounter with “the foamies.”

I have issues with mucous. I can’t even discuss them for any length of time without gagging and vomiting, never could. When the pill got stuck--a (half a) metformin, of course--and all this slime started arriving to grease it free, I thought I would die. The slime was worse than the pain, and the pain was considerable, which is to say I felt like I had been shot.

It has happened quite a few times since then. It is so miserable, ugh. I am unhappy and uncomfortable a lot. The PA said it’s normal and the next two months would be rough and to ride it out. To back off on my diet and give my stomach a rest when I need to. And to call if the vomiting gets persistent. It’s happening twice or four times a week, so I’m not sure if that’s persistent. It occasionally interferes with my ability to take my medication, but do I need metformin if I had nothing to eat? I’m thinking not. I think not being able to keep down the disolvable calcium and vitamin Ds is going to be more of an issue long term.

I’m also feeling weak and tired most of the time. I get dizzy if I bend over. I’m watching my blood pressure, and have stopped taking the amlodipine (it’s a throat-sticker anyway) and one of the two losartan hctz. I didn’t consult my primary before doing this because, frankly, I’m afraid he’ll want an appointment. I feel very much interfered with all the time, and I just don’t want any more appointments all the time.

I quit trying to take the huge statin also. I’d need to run over that sucker with my car to grind it down far enough to swallow.

Another change we went through around here, unrelated to #wls, is Tom changed jobs. He hung on at the old one until my surgery was over because his old company’s insurance covered it and the new company excludes it. I’m very nervous about this because if I have any complications, the new insurance won’t cover that either.

He also had cataract surgery. I felt a little resentful of how soon he scheduled it after mine. I’ve had cataract surgery also, so I know a person wants to see for crying out loud, but I didn’t feel like I had time to get my feet back under me before I was expected to slip into the exhausting role of caretaker (and chauffeur).

Honestly, I’m still not up to it, and he’s already back to normal, although he hasn’t had his new spectacles cut. It’s still too soon for that.

I forgot to mention, during my one-month follow up the PA released me to try any food “as tolerated” although, as I’ve mentioned, I haven’t tolerated much. He also released me from physical restrictions. I was allowed to vacuum again...during Shark Week. That amused me greatly, since I have a Shark vacuum. I was glad too, because the housework help around here was not all I had been promised it would be.

Today I am exhausted and run down. Yesterday was a foamy day, ugh. And for the last two days I have had cramps in my left leg. I need to do some laundry, which will involve climbing up and down the stairs somehow hopefully, but I am a little worried about not making it due to the cramps and weakness. Some days I am so weak I can’t make it up a curb. I still try though. But I will be so glad to get to the end of the three months and start feeling better.

I really wonder how people with small children and/or jobs manage. But they do, and presumably I can too. Because I have shoes and pretty flowered plates and problem solving skillz. Look out, world. I’m feeling like onion soup with protein powder.