So…let’s back up a bit. Or, more accurately, let me share some of my frenzied investigation after receiving the news that I was well on my way to *gasp* morbidly obese. Gastric bypass surgery was all the rage at the time. A girl I bowled league with had recently undergone the surgery. Hers was a life or death decision. Being just over five feet tall, and weighing in at close to three hundred pounds, her body had just about had it. Her doctor had indicated to her that, due to her legs being just about ready to throw in the towel and a plethora of other weight-related health issues, she would be in a wheelchair before her young daughter graduated high school. She would not see her daughter graduate from college. Her overworked heart was already throwing up warning signs that a cardiac ward was going to be a regular stop in her life very soon. Excercise was impossible, as she could barely walk short distance without having to sit and rest. There were no options for her outside of surgery and a drastic change in her life. She found the best surgeon possible, mortgaged her home and had the surgery.
I talked with her about her experience. The surgery was grueling. The medications she had to take had side effects. The post-surgery meal plan was restrictive and she had to make regular trips to Miami to follow-up with her doctors for at least the first year after the surgery. She had regular psychological counseling to attend and physical therapy to track her progress and monitor her health. But…it gave her a chance at maybe living to see her child grow up. The weight she had carried for years had done damage to her body…but the surgery at least gave her a chance.
So, then I dug in to research. The surgery was not for everyone. I read stories of people who had the surgery and ignored the after-care. I won’t even go into the details…but it wasn’t pretty. Especially the stories of people who were not morbidly obese, and had the surgery as a “simple” fix to simply being overweight. The recovery was not pleasant or quick. Not addressing how they became overweight in the first place, and returning to the same eating habits, often resulted in worse medical complications than just simple being fat. Add to that, the expense of the surgery (which at the time, if one saw a reputable specialist) was huge. Giving up what little we had, simply so that I could find a doctor who would do the surgery…even though I really wasn’t a candidate, seemed selfish to me.
So…I talked to everyone I knew who was trying to, or had succeeded at, losing weight. My conversations ran the gamut from people who were (no way to put this nicely) hooked on speed masquerading as diet pills to people whose lives had become consumed with obsessing over every morsel that touched their lips. I talked to people who had become gym-junkies, working out six days a week and who could talk of nothing but their battles with the bulge. I talked to people who had tried but given up…accepting their being overweight, yet living with the knowledge that, in the future, health would become an issue. They seemed defeated and angry. I talked to plenty of people who were on the same diets, diet pills, supplements and TV-advertised “miracles” that I had already tried. And I talked to a few people who attended Weight Watchers. Some were happy with it, some were not…but all of them had seen some success.
The one defining factor with everyone I talked to was that they all wished they had tried to do something prior to turning forty.
I was on the horizon of seeing forty…so if I was going to make a real effort to shed the weight, it would seem now was the time.
So…I made a list. I listed the things that my weight was stopping me from doing and the things that my weight made uncomfortable. Everything from the superficial to the embarrassing. I couldn’t shop in mainstream stores due to size restrictions. I had to consider the sturdiness and width of chairs I sat in. Running, after or away from anything, was not impossible…but resulted in much sweating, wheezing and most usually toppling over at some point. There were parts of my body I hadn’t been able to see in quite some time. My love of pretty underwear was trumped by my need to buy granny-panties. My digestive issues had me constantly worried about where the closest restroom was and worrying about who would hear me when I was using one. Sex was, to put it delicately, a dicey and somewhat stumbling affair. Yearly bathing suit shopping always resulted in my crying in a dressing room. Family members either tip-toed around the issue of my size, or jokingly made mean comments. The list went on and on. To be fair I made a list of the positive points as well.
That I was perceived as “jolly” and had a “pretty face” did not outweigh the cons.
Finally, I went back to the photos. I hadn’t always been heavy. It had slowly crept on over the years. I hadn’t been born this way. I was the master of my own creation. I had gone from your classic kid…
to your average high school student…
to a college student full of adventure…
And somewhere I had lost control…or maybe just ignored simply being sensible. I just stopped paying attention to me, and got lost in worrying about everything and everyone else.
My first realization, albeit a fleeting one, was captured in my wedding photos. This…is a whole butt-load of lace.
This kid, who wanted to be an Olympic swimmer/actress/model/vet/model/writer/princess…
did not deserve to end up being this woman…
…who was currently afraid of cameras, mirrors and folding chairs…and had stupid coffee-table-induced injuries simply because bending over restricted blood flow to her stubborn brain.
It was now or never. So…on an early Saturday morning I found myself, feeling beaten…embarrassed…angry and a little bit excited… climbing out of a car in the parking lot in front of a Weight Watchers meeting center.
And yes…I was wearing those overalls.
Losing It 