You know that scene in one of the Rocky movies when he’s training? He runs through the streets of Philly as his fans cheer him on, then he runs up those stairs and throws his arms in the air in victory as the then-inspiring but now nauseating “Gonna Fly Now” song blares in the background. Remember?
I had a Rocky Balboa moment on Sunday. Well…I thought I did.
When I first bought my elliptical trainer, I could only do 5 minutes before I was jumping off in a sweaty, oozy heap. I hated clunking along on the damn thing, feeling like a hippo stuck in quicksand. It wasn’t very motivating.
Since I don’t normally enjoy feeling like a hippo stuck in quicksand, I avoided the elliptical trainer frequently. Because naturally what you should do if you’re trying to get healthy is avoid exercise, am I right? And then when I was done avoiding exercise I made sure to give myself a very healthy dose of guilt…because who doesn’t love guilt, right? It’s so good for morale, really. It perks you right up. This is the kind of misguided thinking that got me to gain 220 pounds in the first place…trust me.
It took a few weeks, but I finally came around to realizing that sitting on the couch and mentally berating myself for avoiding the elliptical trainer wasn’t getting me where I wanted to be. In fact, after I hit the sacred 45 pound mark I was eager to get to 50…so I made a deal with myself last week that I would just give it a shot. I promised myself that I would get on the elliptical every day last week for at least 10 minutes and see where that got me.
Monday came and I did 10 minutes of stuck-in-the-mud hippo leg pumping. I started hurling mental crap at myself for not being able to do more. (Because that’s helpful, right?) I actually had to tell myself to shut it. And I did. I focused my attention back on what I could do.
Tuesday came…10 minutes. Wednesday came. I begrudgingly tried 15 minutes. I’m pleased to inform y’all that I did not, in fact, die. I was just fine. Thursday came. I dropped a pound and did 15 minutes. Friday came and I set the timer thingy for 15 minutes…but as my 15 minutes were coming to an end, I realized that I felt just fine. I knew I could do more.
I finished Friday with 25 minutes…and for the first time, I felt a little glimmer of pride. I was also really sweating for the first time since I’d started this experiment. Don’t get me wrong, 10 minutes of leg-pumping hippo cardio is great…but I wasn’t left feeling particularly productive at the end of it. I wasn’t even really sweating. All I had to show for it was sort of a pasty, sticky feeling…much like what I’d get if I accidentally got too close to a Kardashian, I imagine.
Saturday I woke up, stepped onto the bathroom scale, and discovered that I was 1 pound away from hitting 50 pounds lost. Holy shit…1 more pound. This is where it started to get away from me. Just a tad.
That morning I climbed onto my new BFF, aka the elliptical trainer, confident that I could hold my own for a respectable 25 minutes…and I did. I went about the rest of my day with a saucy little spring in my step. I was no longer Sit-On-The-Couch-And-Feel-Guilty Dianne…I was becoming Badass-Who-Works-Out Dianne. And I liked it.
When I woke up Sunday morning, I piddled around a bit but I was eager to see my BFF again. What a change from Monday, right? It wasn’t too long before I tucked my ear buds in and was ready to go. The hippo was gone. I wasn’t gracefully gliding away like the 120 pound beauties I used to see at the gym, but I was pumping away with new found confidence. It felt really good.
As I went about the rest of my day, I kept thinking about the fact that I’d lost 49 pounds. One more pound to go to my first major goal. I was proud of myself – and that’s extraordinary for me. I’m used to telling myself I can’t…I won’t…I shouldn’t. I’ve got 20 years of negativity under my belt…so what happens when I suddenly start to feel a little confidence? A little positivity? A little moxy?
I think I’m Rocky Balboa.
Suddenly I wasn’t content to bask in the glory of my 25 minutes on the elliptical. Nooooo. I wanted to push the envelope. Feel the burn. Poke the angry badger. Well, I’m not too sure if that last one is an actual saying…but you get the drift. I wanted more of this feeling-good-about-myself stuff. I decided to do another 25 minutes on the elliptical. Hell YEAH!!!!
After finishing some more housework, I updated the status on my Facebook fan page to let everyone know I was going for it…and I climbed onto the elliptical and started up. And y’all cheered me on…just like the screaming fans that chased Rocky down that street (except we’re all much more attractive and would never be seen in public in crappy gray sweats or pleather pants).
I finished my second round of 25 minutes, although honestly I spent the last 10 minutes of it wondering what the hell I thought I was doing. I was sweating in places I didn’t know I had. And muscles…they hurt. At least I think that’s what they were. I haven’t used them in a very long time. Do humans have muscles in their asses? Because I just thought I had two lumps of memory foam with a crack down the middle, but wow…even my ass muscles hurt when I was done.
I posted my victory on Facebook which, in this scenario, is the virtual equivalent of Rocky thrusting his fists up in the air as the city of Philadelphia cheered around him. Screw that piddly first 25 minutes I did that morning…now I’d really accomplished something, right?
I half-collapsed onto Hot Mess Hubby’s chair (with him in it) for a few minutes. He gave me a reassuring hug, chuckled, and said in an I-told-you-so tone “Yeah, I thought you were crazy…”
He was right. He speaks from experience. Because when I’m super motivated to do anything, I instantly turn into Clark Griswold from National Lampoon’s Vacation movies.
You know Clark. He overdoes everything…and so do I. By the time Downton Abbey started, I was waddling around the house like a 90 year old rodeo queen. Didn’t sleep too well either. Every time I rolled over or…took a frigg’in breath…my muscles screamed in pain. And the next morning? Yeah, I couldn’t put on my pants. That’s probably not a good sign.
So…lesson learned. I promise to remember that I’m more Clark Griswold than Rocky Balboa (and that’s really okay because Rocky couldn’t enunciate for shit and I can’t hang with talking like I’ve got a sock in my mouth). Plus when it all comes down to it, I’d rather be guilty of a little too much enthusiasm.
I declared Monday a rest day. Enthusiastically. And I enjoyed every minute of it.
Oh and I lost 3 pounds during my experiment. I also eventually got into my pants.
Tonight’s goal is 30 minutes. I’ve got this…and, hopefully sometime this week, I’ll be able to tell you that I’ve lost my first 50 pounds.
Have you ever overdone it? Don’t leave me hanging out on a limb here…share your story and make me smile.
Biofreeze Pain Relieving Roll On, 3-Ounce (Pack of 3)
There are numbers everywhere.
Thirteen. The age I was when I went on my first diet because a dance teacher said I was fat. (I wasn’t.)
Ten. The number of weeks since my gastric sleeve surgery.
Three-eighty-three. The most I’ve ever weighed.
But the number I want to talk about today is 45.
As of today, I’ve lost 45 pounds…and it’s significant because I have gained and lost these same 45 pounds twice in the last two years. I would push and struggle and cry and use every ounce of my energy to lose it and for some reason I’d run out of steam around the 45 pound mark. Months of eating boring food, working out my 383 pound body until I got stress fractures in my feet, and guilt tripping myself for being so fat in the first place would finally take its toll…and I would limp to the couch and call for pizza. Or grab a candy bar. Or curl up on the couch with a pint of mint chip and watch “The Biggest Loser” until I cried.
Those of you who’ve been fans of my blog for a while know how hard I’ve tried in the past. The ups, the downs, and the conflict I felt as I finally considered gastric sleeve surgery. It hasn’t been an easy road – but the day I decided to have surgery, I knew one thing for sure: failure would no longer come so easily. (Failure is possible, by the way…but that’s a blog for another day.)
I remember the nurses at the hospital smiling at me during my pre-op appointment and asking brightly “Are you excited?”
No, I said to myself. I’m about to have major surgery. I’m going to go through a lot of pain. My life is about to change in many ways – some of which I’m sure I can’t even imagine. No. I wasn’t excited. I was scared. But it was what I knew I needed to do for myself.
Afterwards, many friends asked the same thing as I started to lose weight. Are you excited? No, I still wasn’t – because I was losing the same damn 45 pounds I’d already lost and gained twice in two years. In a way, I felt hugely ungrateful to be not very excited after giving myself such an amazing tool in my battle with my food demons – but you can’t control your feelings…only what you do about them. And so I decided to focus my attention on learning how to live my life as a healthy person.
I’m grateful for every pound I’ve lost, but it’s all felt a bit like an episode of déjà vu that wouldn’t end. Until today.
(And yes…that is the Gandalf stick from The Wet Fart from Hell post in the background…)
I’ve finally wiped the slate clean. Sure, I still have a lot more weight to lose…but these first 45 pounds were the worst. They hung over me like a dark cloud, reminding me of my failure. And they’re gone. They’re finally gone.
I feel free. I feel blissfully and happily free from years of guilt I heaped on myself because I couldn’t get a handle on my food demons.
Okay one more number: Five.
Five more pounds until I’ve lost fifty. That’s territory I haven’t seen in twelve years. Now I feel excited…and a little bit bad ass.
What’s your magic number?
I haven’t really used my closet in years. It’s mostly full of clothes that are too small for me. Some outfits are just too cute to give up…and, of course, there’s the guilt that I’m so good at heaping on myself. When I’d get too fat for something, I’d just push it to the back of the closet and pretend it wasn’t there…telling myself that I’d be able to wear it again next week…next month…next year. Then I’d heap impossible expectations on my shoulders, set myself up for failure, and I’d be curled up on the couch in my stretchy pants with a pint of mint chip by Friday. That was my cycle for years…and my stuffed-to-the-gills closet is proof. Now that I’m through the looking glass and on the other side of things, my closet isn’t the downer it once was.
I’ve worn the same five size 32 outfits to work for a long time. Too long. I chose the tops not necessarily for their style or color, but because they covered the absolute nightmare that is my hips. The tops, along with all the black pants I wear, have seen better days. I wear them, I wash them, and I hang them just inside the closet where I can get at them easily. That way, I don’t have to step inside and look at all the cuter stuff that I haven’t been able to wear in such a long time.
I think I shared with you a week or two ago that I dropped a size. I was walking to my desk at work and realized that I kept playing with handfuls of fabric on my pants…and I thought to myself “I wonder…did I drop a size?” I quick-stepped it back to the ladies room, dropped my pants and pulled the tag out so that I could read it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d thought I was wearing a pair of my size 32 pants, but as it turned out these were size 30. And they were pretty big.
I stopped at a plus sized store on my way home and headed straight for a rack of pants. I didn’t give a crap what they looked like, it was the size I was after. I had to know, peeps. I had to know. Just for the hell of it, I grabbed a couple cute tops as I waddle-sprinted toward the back of the store. I was in a dressing room with a pair of size 28′s quicker than the old me would have mowed through an order of super size fries.
And guess what?
They were a little snug-ish to get on, but they fit. The tops I tried on were still too clingy in the middle for me to be able to wear…yet. I still grabbed one that I really liked, having complete faith that I’ll be able to wear it soon enough. For a brief moment, I considered putting it all back on the rack and walking out of the store – but I knew there were no size 28 pants waiting for me in my closet. So I decided right then and there that I’ll buy myself a new outfit every time I drop a size.
As I made my way up to the register, the two women who worked there were chatting behind the counter. One was gulping down a huge burger and fries…and she looked over at her friend and half groaned, half laughed as she said “This is my second damn dinner.” The other woman giggled and shook her head as she replied “Get it together, girl.”
The young woman scarfing down the burger was pale, sweaty, and fairly unhappy looking. Her hair was tousled about – not in a sexy, come hither way but in a I’m so fat I’m uncomfortable and I hate myself way. Her skin was dull and sallow…and the light behind her eyes said “I give up…I don’t care.” And I felt it all. Right in my heart. In that moment, she was a defeated spirit.
I’ve been where she was so many times. I understand. I get it. And when I saw her eating away her stressful day, my heart wasn’t filled with judgment or disgust or shame for her…it was filled with compassion.
I don’t know how many days I spent feeling like she probably did that day, but I’m unbelievably grateful that I finally had the balls to do what I needed to do for myself. There was a moment for me when something just clicked and I thought to myself “How many times are you going to lose the same 45 pounds over and over again before you realize what you’re doing isn’t working?” In that moment, I realized that I needed to put my pride aside and grab hold of the opportunity that was right in front of me. That was the moment when I embraced hope and possibility.
That moment is what I want for all my struggling, overweight brothers and sisters out there. It doesn’t matter how it happens, but it will happen. If you haven’t had your moment…you will. Something will click and change will begin to happen. And whether you take control of your food demons by natural or surgical means, you’ll be okay with the sacrifices you have to make and the hard work you have to do. And no matter how you decide to handle it, all that matters is that you do what works for you.
I’ve thought of that girl behind the register every day since – and every time she pops into my head, I send positive vibes out into the universe for her. I pray for her. I hope for her. I want her to have her moment…because I understand all too well the mental beat down she was going to give herself later because she ate all that food.
We’re all at different stages of this journey. Here I was doing the happy dance in the dressing room and rejoicing at dropping a size, and just a few feet away one of my sisters in the Battle of the Butt was grieving and tired and eating away her stress. I know from experience that there is nothing I could have said or done for her that would bring her out of it – even if she and I were the best of friends. So I did the thing I knew I could do: I sent good thoughts to her…I prayed for strength and healing and hope for her…and I was kind to her.
Before my surgery there were days when I would roll out of bed, throw my hair up in a clip, do a shoddy job with my make up, put on clothes that may not even match, and schlep off to work. I barely looked good enough to run to Target on Saturday morning…I certainly didn’t look very professional for work. But I didn’t care. My spirit was defeated by more than 200 pounds of crap I’d heaped on myself. So that girl behind the register? I get her. I was her.
Now? I bought my one celebratory size 28 outfit…but what’s just as exciting is that I’m starting to care about what I look like again. I don’t enjoy looking in the mirror much more than before, but I don’t shy away from it. I care about how I look before I leave the house. I take time with my hair and make-up…not because it’s expected of me but because I enjoy doing it. For me. I think about my outfits before I put them on – and, this is kind of a big deal, I’m even matching my earrings and the occasional necklace with my outfit. Holy crap…who is this woman?
This is the me who’s learning to embrace all the possibilities that lay before me. It’s an amazing and wonderful experience and I want it for all my butt battling brothers and sisters…including that girl behind the register. Someday I know she’s going to open her closet and see her own rainbow of possibilities.
Have you had your moment? Have you crossed paths with a stranger you could really relate to? Share your story here…you never know who might really need to hear about your experience.
In the comments on my last blog post, reader “DFW” asked what I eat…and I promised that my very next blog post would give some juicy details in that area, so I’m here to deliver.
First, I have to give a little shout out to my nutritionist Amy…who is a total badass with super powers in patience. I swear, this woman has answered more insanely anal questions from me than should be allowed – but she’s weathered the Hot Mess storm like a champ. She’s instructed me not to pay attention to anything but my protein requirement of 80 – 90 grams of protein a day, so that’s what I focus on. Having a tiny tummy means it’s impossible for me to get that much protein from actual food each day without a protein supplement. Generally speaking, an ounce of chicken or meat contains about 7 grams of protein.
Since I have to eat so often and because I’m a bit of a geek, I renamed all my meals after Hobbit eating times. No judging. What the hell, right? Whatever makes it fun. Hobbits eat like they’ve got a hollow leg. Their meal times are Breakfast, Second Breakfast, Elevensies, Luncheon, Afternoon Tea, Dinner, and Supper.
Let’s start with breakfast.
I’ll be honest. I hate protein shakes. Even the most palatable shakes I’ve found are still a challenge for me, but I’ve found that if I get one down first thing in the morning the rest of the day is a breeze. So breakfast for me is one Premier Protein Shake. Chocolate. I have the Vanilla in my refrigerator but I haven’t been brave enough to try it. I have no trouble getting liquids down quickly, so I chug through my protein shake first thing in the morning while I’m waking up and watching the news. That’s 30 grams of protein before I ever leave the house. Then I chase it down with a sugar free peppermint to get the protein funk out of my mouth. Blech.
Before long, it’s time for Second Breakfast. Fortunately, I don’t have room for the crispy bacon, sausages, and potatoes that a Hobbit would eat for Second Breakfast. My Second Breakfast is much more reserved: one container of Kroger Carbmaster Yogurt. It’s quite tasty and they have unique flavors like Spice Cake and Pumpkin Pie, although I much prefer the Banana Cream Pie and Key Lime varieties. 9 more grams of protein down the hatch.
Next is Elevensies. 1 – 2 ounces of chicken is my usual choice here. That’s 14 more grams of protein towards my daily goal. I would love to alternate that with ground beef or ground turkey at some time, but I’ve learned from experience that they’re both too dry to be worth the effort. I could probably get more down if I liked any kind of dipping sauce with either of these options, but I prefer them sauce-free. At best, I can get down an ounce of either…and that’s not enough to be effective. I need to be sure that I can hit that protein goal every day – so chicken is my BFF.
For Luncheon, I usually go for another yogurt or piece of cheese. Sometimes I’ll eat a little bit of grapefruit, which isn’t a protein food but I have a bunch in my refrigerator and I don’t want it to go to waste. It’s packed in water, not sugary juice, and the fiber is good for me. I also occasionally enjoy a few reduced fat Triscuits and a wedge of Laughing Cow Light Cheese. The Garlic & Onion flavor rocks!
Afternoon Tea is usually more of the same: yogurt or cheese. I burned myself out on cottage cheese the week I graduated to soft foods after surgery and it’s like curdled white death to me now, so I stay clear of it. I’ve tried the Premier Protein bars, but they’re insanely high in calories for the same 30 grams of protein I get in one of their shakes. And they make me gassy.
It’s nice to have things to crunch on, but my post-surgery life requires that I eat protein first at every meal…and my tummy is so tiny that I can’t get much in after that. If I’m craving something crunchy or salty, I’ll eat my protein first and then I’ll eat 3 of HMH’s tortilla chips. Yep…just 3 tortilla chips. A far cry from the half bag I used to be able to mow through. I’m grateful.
Dinner is usually more chicken. Or carne asada. HMH’s steak tacos are amazingly awesome, but I don’t have room for the tortilla anymore so I just eat the carne asada…sometimes with some blue cheese crumbles dumped on top. Yum!!!
By the time Supper rolls around, I check my food log to see what my protein total is and then I make my decision based on how much more I need. Usually another yogurt will do…or some leftover chicken. I’ve recently discovered Atkins Caramel Chocolate Peanut Nougat bars. Incredibly awesome! They taste like a Baby Ruth candy bar. They’re too high in calories (180 per bar) to be an everyday snack or meal replacement, but if I’m craving something sweet this hits the spot 100% and gives me 10 grams of protein. If I’m way behind on my protein at the end of the day, I’ll choke down another protein shake (followed, of course, by another sugar free mint).
I average 80 – 90 grams of protein a day and 800 calories total. I have timers set on my phone to remind me to eat because I never get hungry.
“Head hunger” is another thing, however…
I still want to eat. I get the urge to graze mindlessly when I watch football – especially if the Cowboys are playing. It’s hard to be a Cowboys fan and not stress eat. Thank God I’m out of my misery for another season.
If I find myself in a situation where there’s tempting food around, I follow my surgeon’s advice. If I really want a taste of whatever it is, I cut myself a very tiny portion (about two small bites). I save whatever it is until it’s time for my next meal. I eat my protein first…and then I enjoy the little tidbit of whatever it is. I have yet to feel deprived following these rules.
There are so many times when I find myself wanting to eat. I’m never hungry now, as this surgery removes the portion of the stomach that secretes the hunger hormone (hence the reminders I’ve had to set on my phone). My head doesn’t know that, though. My head wants me to eat potato chips…and pizza…and ice cream. My head wants all those things. Technically speaking, I could eat them if I wanted to. I’m not restricted anymore. I simply choose not to. Those foods are gateway foods for me…and I don’t need to poke at my food demons right now. I didn’t put myself through a bunch of pain and drama in order to go right back to snuggling up with my food demons.
Right now, food is only a tool. I get nutrition from it and that’s all. Although I choose foods that taste good to me, I don’t necessarily enjoy them on the same level that I used to. I have to eat slowly. My food is often cold before I’m done and I have to go heat it back up again. I have to chew a million times before I swallow. I have to wait a minute or two before I take another bite. It’s a slow, calculated dance when I eat.
If I don’t eat slow, chew thoroughly, and wait a moment between bites then my stomach fills up super fast…and I feel massive indigestion-type pain…and then I throw up. Try something for me the next time you’re eating something that requires chewing. Take a bite, chew it well, and swallow. Now pay attention to it as it travels down your esophagus. Pay attention to how slow it moves down to your stomach. It’s an eye opener. When I think about how fast I shoveled in my food before surgery, I’m amazed. As soon as I’d swallow, I was loading up my fork again and putting it in my mouth. Eye opening.
I spent years practicing “mindless eating”. The slow, deliberate way I’m forced to eat now takes some of the “fun” out of eating for me – but I know that’s just because this change is still so new to me. In time, this will become my new normal. And what was fun about my old way of life anyway? Mindlessly eating until my stomach hurt. Lumbering around on sore feet. Endless guilt from eating crap I knew I shouldn’t be eating. I don’t miss any of that – so while I may still feel a little clunky about my new way of life, I couldn’t be more thrilled…because I can’t sabotage myself anymore. My food demons may still lurk about, but the self-sabotaging demon is dead and buried.
May she rest in peace.
Atkins Advantage Caramel Bars, Chocolate Peanut Nougat, 5 – 1.6 Ounce Bars (Pack of 3)
Peeps, the holidays got the best of me. I’m so sorry for being negligent when it comes to catching y’all up on my post-op experience – and boy, was it an experience! Today I’m going to catch you up on the first days after surgery.
I’ve often bragged about how well my surgeon and his team prepared me for surgery and this whole experience. In fact, he warned me that the day after I got home from the hospital would probably be the worst day of my recovery. He was right.
What I didn’t expect, however, was the debacle that will forever be known as the Wet Fart from Hell. I know you’re thinking “Hey, HMP, it’s cool…you don’t need to share this part of your experience with us” but I can’t do that to you! I promised I’d share everything…and so into the smelly, awkward, slightly moist truth we go. Together.
As I was waking up from a hydrocodone coma, I felt a tiny little fart bubble up. How cute, I thought to myself. As I relaxed and started to let it go, I quickly realized that this was no tiny fart. In fact, this was no fart at all. This was the demon spawn created by a week and a half of liquids only…and it was banging at my back door, demanding release and threatening my clean sheets. Jesus!
I wasn’t able to pull myself up out of bed because the incision on my left side hurt so much. Hot Mess Hubby (HMH) had to help pull me up. I called out for him and he bounded into the bedroom to find me frantically motioning for him to help me up and yelling “I’ve gotta go! I’ve gotta go!!!” He pulled me up too fast and I doubled over in pain as I slid out of bed. Yowch!
No time to complain…I gotta go!
I waddled forward, frantically waving at him to get out of my way. “Move! Move!! Oh, God…please don’t let me poop my pants…” In two seconds, he was fully out of my way but my steps were tiny and careful because I was still so sore – not to mention hopped up on pain meds. I shuffled along as fast as I could, crossing the bedroom and waddling towards the bathroom doorway. There was a brief moment of panic as I felt another gas bubble coming, but I finally plopped my lily white booty on the toilet seat and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
I’ll spare you the details of what happened next, but suffice to say…I’ve never heard my body make such noises before. Ever.
Before long, it was time to gather what was left of my dignity and waddle around the house for my afternoon walk – but as I leaned forward and tried to pull myself up, I realized the complete horror of my situation: the toilet in our master bathroom is not bolted to the floor.
See…HMH is very “devil may care” when it comes to household repairs, I’m sorry to say. One day after watching too much DIY tv, he took our toilet apart in an attempt to fix a slight wobble. He was never able to figure out how to bolt it back to the floor. When I suggested we call a plumber, he insisted that he would figure it out.
That was two years ago.
So there I sat on the potty, unable to get up on my own. If I leaned forward, the entire toilet came with me…water and all. I had no choice but to call HMH back into the room.
Ya know…there’s nothing that kills the remaining mystery in a marriage like having to call your husband into a bathroom you’ve just polluted and asking him to pull your weak ass up off the toilet. I would have felt guilty about it, but part of this was his bad karma for taking two years to fix the damn toilet.
As it turned out, I was sitting too low for HMH to be able to pull me up. Every time we tried, I got a horrible burning pain in my side. I couldn’t do it. The walls are at a weird angle in the master bathroom and I couldn’t get a firm enough grip on anything to pry myself up. Great. There I sat…my ass going numb…wondering what the hell to do. Then HMH disappeared.
I heard him thumping around in the closet for something. When he returned, he handed me the wooden walking stick we bought together on our first trip to Sequoia, California ten years ago. It’s about 5 feet long and made from a gnarled old tree branch…kind of like Gandalf’s staff. Suddenly all I could think of was that scene in The Lord of the Rings when Gandalf faces off with the fiery Balrog and yells out “You shall not pass!”
Great. Now I’m frigg’in Gandalf.
After several more minutes of pushing, pulling, grunting, and wheezing I was finally free from my wobbly porcelain prison. Thank God. And Gandalf.
The first couple of days were rough, but why wouldn’t they be? I’d just put my body through a huge ordeal and I was hardly getting any nutrition. I wasn’t sleeping well. I’m a side sleeper and it was much too painful to sleep that way. I was surviving on sugar free popsicles, sugar free jello, and water. Oh and…Isopure.
Isopure is a clear protein drink that I was supposed to drink starting on day 5 post op. You can buy it at GNC stores and it comes in cute flavors like Grape and Alpine Punch…but that’s not what it tastes like. It looks like Kool-Aid or Snapple but it’s just another lie the dillholes at Isopure are trying to trick you with. Trust me. It tastes like dish detergent and bile. Not. Even. Joking.
I only managed to get one down a day. It should have been two, but I just couldn’t do it. As if the taste isn’t bad enough, my tongue felt like carpet after I took a swig. It’s the nastiest stuff imaginable and I couldn’t do more than a bottle a day – in fact, I would take a swig of Isopure and two swigs of water. That’s what I did all day, every day. By the time I got to Day 8 post op and full liquids I was ready to hump the leg of the guy who invented the protein shake.
Lastly, I know some of you are interested in the gory details of this surgery. How many scars, what did they look like, etc. I have five fairly small scars on my tummy: four in a row across my middle and one very tiny one just under the center of my boobs.
I took a picture of my scars the day after I got home from the hospital – however, I have no desire to freak y’all out the way some people do in the online support groups. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been scrolling through posts and BOOM there’s a hideously gory picture of someone’s bloody stomach spread out on a surgical tray. It’s beyond vile.
If you would like to see the photo of my scars, you can click this link and you’ll be able to see it. The only scar not visible is the tiny one that’s up under my boobs. I couldn’t hold my shirt up and work the camera…sorry!
I’ll be back in a few days to talk about the weeks following my surgery. In the meantime, feel free to ask questions or share your own wet fart horror story. By all means, don’t leave me hang’in out here on my own!