Designated Fat Girl (20 page)

I continued with the necessary steps to have the surgery. I met with the nutritionist, I had the ultrasound done on my legs, I completed all the pre-op paperwork. All that was left to do was set the date. And even that worked out beautifully: The doctor could perform the procedure on March 18. My mom would be able to stay with the kids while I was in the hospital and while Michael worked—and then Michael already had scheduled vacation time for the following week, when I would be recovering at home. The money worked out. I passed all the tests. Child care was arranged. All the signs were there.

It finally occurred to me that my choosing to have weight-loss surgery was doing it “on my own.” I was making the only choice I had in order to improve my health, in order to be around to watch my children grow up. By having a gastric bypass, I wasn’t giving up and my weight loss wouldn’t be a less-than effort. I was finally choosing to do what was best for me, no matter what anyone else thought. And that made me feel incredibly free.

I can look back at my childhood and identify the exact moment
I lost any hope of believing in myself. As adults we can reflect on things that happened to us as kids and realize that they shouldn’t have mattered so much—that in the grand scheme of things, they weren’t that important. But even now the memory of the events of that hot July day back in 1982 still stings. Living it as a ten-year-old scorched my self-esteem beyond recognition.

I’d gone swimming with my friend Shannon at the local Ramada Inn. When she called with the offer, I’d jumped at the chance; we didn’t belong to a pool, and the chances to swim that hot and sticky summer were too few and far between. The motel along the interstate had an Olympic-size pool, and local residents could pay three dollars to swim all day. It hadn’t taken much pleading on my part—I was bored and climbing the walls; I’m sure my mom was glad for me to have something to do.

As much as I would learn to avoid the pool at all costs as an adult, I absolutely loved to swim when I was a kid. I excitedly went to put on the brand-new OP bathing suit my mom had bought for me at the beginning of the summer—only, I couldn’t get it on. It was too tight across my belly. I pushed and pulled and stretched—and one of the straps popped right off.
Panicked, I called for my mom. Shannon would be there any minute to pick me up, and I didn’t have another suit.

Frowning, Mom thought for a second and then disappeared into her bedroom. She came back with one of her bathing suits. “I can’t wear your suit!” I protested. But my mom told me to just try it, and she was right—it did fit. In fact it was a little snug. It didn’t occur to me then how sad it was that I was a ten-year-old who could fit into my thirty-two-year-old mom’s bathing suit. I also didn’t realize that the suit wasn’t entirely appropriate for a kid or very flattering for me in particular: It was black with white horizontal stripes and it was strapless. I had no boobs, and my skin was freckled and pasty white—I was quite the sight. But who cared? I was going swimming! I was young and innocent enough that my appearance didn’t yet rule my every action. Sure, I knew I was chubby; my brothers reminded me every chance they got. But my being overweight wasn’t always at the top of mind yet, and I suppose I hadn’t yet formed an opinion about whether or not I was pretty or attractive.

That naïveté would be gone by the end of that day.

We arrived at the pool around 10:00 a.m. We swam all morning on a beautiful, cloudless day. For lunch we ate hot dogs and chips at the poolside canteen, watching a group of older kids goofing around in the shallow end. I couldn’t stop staring at this one boy in particular. He was at least sixteen and had a mop of sandy blond curls. You could tell he was the leader of this group of about five or six teenagers, and the girls in particular hung on his every word. So did I. I soon forgot all about Shannon and openly stared at everything this blond god did. If he was in the shallow end, I was too. If he and his group
moved to the deep side, then so did I. I didn’t try to join the group or anything; I suppose I just gawked from the sidelines. It didn’t occur to me to be shy or discreet or embarrassed; I just thought he was cute and liked looking at him. Shannon teased me about it, but she agreed—he was gorgeous. I heard one of the others call him Scott, and I whispered the name to myself over and over. He was really tan and a really good swimmer. He dove perfectly off of the diving board time after time. Almost everything he said drew laughter from his friends. He was the most perfect thing I had ever seen.

Before I knew it, it was late in the afternoon and Shannon’s mom was going to be at the pool to pick us up at any minute. The thought of never seeing Scott again made me want to burst into tears. As he floated on a raft in the deep end, a girl on either side of him, I hung out at the ladder, treading water and stealing last glimpses in his direction. Shannon was already out of the pool and waiting for me, but I couldn’t make myself leave—I was trying to memorize everything about his face: his blue-green eyes, his sparkling white teeth. I closed my eyes and listened to his laughter, hoping to commit it to memory. I was having trouble doing that, however, because the laughter of the two girls was starting to drown his out. Annoyed, I opened my eyes to see what the problem was, and I was shocked to find myself face-to-face with the god himself. He was off of his raft and approaching the ladder, and there I was, dog-paddling and slack-jawed, directly in his way. The two girls laughed even harder from behind him as he made his way over to me.

I gulped. My face was red hot. My heart was beating so fast, I was sure drivers out on I-85 could hear it. I was scared,
but excited. Scott clearly was going to talk to me—and despite my nerves, I couldn’t wait to hear his voice so close to my ears.

“You know what?” he asked, his piercing eyes looking deep into mine. I was glad I had the ladder to hang onto, because I was sure I would faint dead away from his beauty.

He didn’t wait for my answer.

“You are ugly as hell.”

The glint in his gorgeous eyes and the sparkle of his smile helped mask his disgusting words, if only for a second. It took me a moment to register what had just happened. The gales of laughter coming from behind Scott jolted me back into reality, and the object of my desire helped me along by giving me a shove out of the way as he climbed up the ladder and out of the pool. He went to towel off and left his friends there, laughing and pointing at me. I swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the burning sensation in the back of my throat. I felt like I’d been slapped across the face with enough force to knock me down. It was as though my legs carried fifty-pound weights, paralyzing me in that spot of the pool. I was in shock. Soon my tormentors seemed to tire of waiting for a response from me; they moved to the other end of the pool. Shannon called from the gate to tell me her mom was there. My friend had missed the whole horrible exchange, thank God.

I got out of the water and grabbed my towel as quickly as I could, wrapping it around my body. I was pretty sure Scott and his gang had moved on, but I wasn’t taking any chances; I looked down at the ground as I hurriedly made my way to Shannon and through the gate. I had been so excited to be at that pool and so sad at the thought of never seeing
the beautiful Scott ever again. Now I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

When I got home, I told my mom I was tired and went to my room. I was so relieved to be by myself, behind a locked door. I slowly took off the towel and walked over to the mirror hanging on the back of my closet door.

It was as though I saw myself for the first time. I was fat. I don’t think I had ever stopped to really think about it before that moment—never took the time to contemplate my physical state of being. But looking in that mirror, it was undeniable: I was hideous. My stomach hung in rolls. My thighs rubbed together like two large slabs of beef. My flat chest was accentuated by beefy arms that seemed way too short for my big body. I was covered almost from head to toe—my face, my chest, my arms, my legs—in freckles, and they were vile. My skin looked like bright pink bologna. My long brown hair hung limp and lifeless, stringy and sad. As I stood in my room, looking in that mirror, I knew I couldn’t blame my wonderful Scott for simply stating the truth. I was absolutely disgusting looking.

It was one thing to be told by my brothers that I was fat or ugly; it was something entirely different to be assaulted with those words from a complete stranger, one whom I’d decided within two seconds of seeing his face was the closest thing to God on this earth. The way I thought about myself was forever changed that day. It never once occurred to me that Scott was wrong. I never thought to tell myself to brush off his words. Instead I took them deeply to heart, and they helped shape many of my actions throughout the rest of my life. Whenever I liked a boy, I relived that scene in my head, talking myself out of
pursuing it. When my friends tried to tell me I deserved more than the abusive relationship I found myself in for five years, I told myself I was lucky to have any guy even look at me. When I finally met the man of my dreams and he tried to show me affection, I tried to push him away, remembering Scott’s words and convincing myself that I didn’t deserve the attention. From where I sit now, I am saddened that I allowed that pool incident to play such a large role in my life, but it did. I figured Scott had no reason to want to hurt me, no past action for which he sought revenge. He simply told me the truth, and if it helped him score laughter points with his friends, then all the better. I was uglier than hell. I was sure of it.

In March 2008, I was weary. I had been fighting myself all my life—never smart enough, never good enough, and never, ever pretty. I liked to look at my past and pick out the bullies and blame them for the way I was. My dad didn’t show me enough affection. My boyfriend cheated on me and made me feel worthless. A beautiful stranger cut me with words so deeply that I carried them around like fresh wounds, even decades later. But none of those people were really to blame for the hurt that made me so very tired. I was. I couldn’t give myself a break, no matter how hard I tried. Something deep inside of me resisted happiness as forcefully as I pursued it—and no matter how much I fought, my inner demons always seemed to win.

As winter slowly ended and spring began to emerge, I knew I couldn’t fight myself anymore. I either had to give in, to let my
inner hatred take over completely, or I had to take steps to stop the war once and for all. I couldn’t do the push-pull thing anymore; I didn’t have the strength. I finally realized that if I didn’t step in and put a stop to it, no matter what it took, I would lose my life. If it were just me I was fighting for, I probably would have let it all end there. But I had two beautiful reasons to stay on this earth, and my children’s existence alone led me to take a step that I never thought I would.

I had gastric bypass surgery.

I had waited sixteen years for my a-ha moment to strike. It never came. So I made one up. The lady in the children’s boutique told me I would lose weight when I was ready. In March 2008, I was finally ready.

Now, that doesn’t mean I didn’t make the most of my days, presurgery. I had resigned myself to the fact that I would have to give up soft drinks forever; there was no way I was going to go to all of this trouble and have the surgery fail. So I spent the weeks leading up to the procedure drinking all that I wanted. And eating? Forget about it—I went on a “good-bye tour” of all my favorite haunts. Of course I ate something from McDonald’s every day. But I also had a meatball sub and declared it my last, and I polished off a plate of barbeque and hush puppies and bid the food farewell. At my pre-op appointment, I met a man about to have surgery who said he had done the exact same thing, visited all his favorite places for the last time. Of course the doctor anticipated this kind of behavior and warned that if I gained a lot of weight before my surgery, it could be canceled. In fact they wanted me to lose three to five pounds before March 18. I wasn’t so sure that would happen, but I did
try to keep things under control somewhat, especially considering my diabetes. It was still out of whack, and the surgeon said if my blood sugar was too high on the morning of the surgery, the whole thing could be called off. Same with blood pressure. My doctor had put me on medication weeks before because it was high as well. So there were a couple of things to consider going into the operation, but I figured it would all work out. The day before the gastric bypass, I would have to fast, drinking only liquids, and in the afternoon I would have to start drinking some vile concoction to clean out my system. With all I was used to consuming in a day’s time, I figured a day’s worth of fasting would take care of most of my presurgery sins.

Once I finally made the decision to have the gastric bypass, I was pretty darn giddy. I felt great relief, as though a weight had been lifted. I sailed through the pre-op preparations with a spring in my step, telling anyone and everyone what I was having done. I suppose some people have some shame about having weight-loss surgery, or they at least want to keep it private. I figured I certainly wasn’t fooling anyone; all you had to do was take one look at me to know what my life’s struggle was. I was actually eager for everyone to know that I was finally doing something about it, instead of sitting around waiting for a lightning strike that never came. I was excited.

One bump in that road of hope was a conversation I had with one of the nurses at a pre-op appointment. She mentioned that she had had the surgery five years earlier. I was amazed—she looked great, and you’d never know she’d once had a weight problem. I peppered her with questions, mostly about what she ate and how long it took for her to lose the weight.
Offhandedly I asked her about side effects, and she hesitated. I could tell something had happened to her, and I pressed her on it. She reluctantly filled me in: She had a really bad time. Her newly formed stomach pouch had developed a leak, and they’d had to go back in to repair it. The second surgery left her sick for months, and she lost all her hair. When she’d finally recovered from that, doctors discovered a lump in her breast. Surgery and months of chemotherapy followed. She was all better now, she reassured me, and she was so glad she’d gone through with the gastric bypass. But her story gave me pause; I’d never really stopped to think about the possibility of complications. I had had two C-sections and recovered with little to no problems. I just figured I was good at surgery, and this would be no different. My surgeon had me sit through a meeting with other patients in which he went over all the things that could go wrong, including gastric leaks, abscesses, stroke, even death. At the time, I barely paid attention, believing it had little to do with me. But the nurse’s very real experience left me thinking about what I was about to get into, and I was a bit worried.