Designated Fat Girl (24 page)

This realization helped me stop taking the Percocet. Well, to be honest, I ran out of the bottle left over from my second C-section, and I couldn’t find the bottle from my first. I wasn’t quite desperate enough to try lying to my doctor or breaking the law in order to keep the pill habit going, thank God. I did, however, turn the house upside down, looking for that other bottle of pills. I am so grateful that I never found them; another bottle’s worth and I may have had another addiction on my hands. I realize that it could have happened, just like that.

I slowly started to put my life back together. I gave up sleeping in the recliner, and I put the Lego table that had become my portable medicine cabinet back in Eli’s room. I finally returned phone calls and started catching up with all the friends who had been so worried about me. Of course they all understood that I had been through a lot, and they didn’t hold any grudges; all they cared about was that I was okay. And I was starting to
actually feel okay with going out in public. For the many weeks after the surgery and subsequent hospital stays, I avoided public situations as much as possible. I took the kids to preschool as early as I could, and I picked them up early in order to avoid the other moms. I stopped going to church. I even withdrew Emma from her ballet class. Every time I had to go out, I felt all eyes were on me, and I knew that most of the curiosity was truly out of concern. Everyone had heard what a hard time I was having, and they wanted to know if I was okay. But I felt so self-conscious, like such a freak, that I wanted to avoid public scrutiny as much as possible. I turned down playdate invitations, and I feigned excuses to miss birthday parties. My kids and I were holed up in my house, with me unable to deal with any kind of social pressure.

I knew that in order to return to any semblance of normalcy, I would have to slowly reintegrate myself into the mommy world. And it started at the end of May, when Emma’s preschool class hosted a Muffins for Mom event. The kids were working so hard to put on this party for the class moms, I knew I had to go, even if I didn’t feel quite up to seeing everyone. Figuring out what to wear, it occurred to me that this was the first time since the surgery I had really contemplated my appearance. I had been so caught up with being sick, and trying to figure out what to eat, I hadn’t stopped to consider my weight. I was even still wearing my presurgery clothes; the baggy shirts and stretch pants fit perfectly with my mood. Of course I knew I’d lost weight; you can’t go for two months without eating without losing some pounds. But I had no idea how much I’d lost, or how my body was adjusting.

I stepped on the scale, naked—278 pounds. In almost two and a half months, I’d lost close to sixty pounds. The very thought took my breath away. I remembered all the times I had struggled to lose even five pounds, all the effort it took to get through even one day without giving in to the urge to binge eat. It had been weeks and weeks since I felt the need to destroy myself with food, since I had stuffed myself so much that I thought I would vomit. When I stopped to consider that, I felt incredible relief. Yes, the past two months had been really, really hard—much more than I’d ever bargained for. But I was finally starting to see a bit of the sun, and knowing that the storm cloud of food addiction wasn’t hanging over my head made me feel as though I could do anything. I felt free.

I went to the Muffins for Mom event in a black sweater that I hadn’t worn in two years. Yes, I was still wearing black, and yes, I was still closer to three hundred pounds than I liked to be, but for the first time in a very, very long time, I felt I was moving in the right direction. The other moms greeted me warmly, all concerned about how I was doing and all commenting on how good I looked. More than one person said I was starting to get my color back. I knew what they were talking about. I was starting, ever so slowly, to feel like myself again. Not the bloated, out-of-control eating self. And not the sickly, pill-reliant woman I had threatened to become. I was finally starting to feel like just Jennifer. And that was finally starting to feel like it was enough.

I’m at the Pumpkin Patch with my four-year-old daughter’s
preschool class. Even though we are surrounded by bales of hay, barrels of red apples, and stacks and stacks of bright orange pumpkins, the air is warm on my cheeks and all I can think about is spring. Several months before, after my gastric bypass surgery, I missed the birth of spring; because of the complications, I hardly noticed the pink blooming azaleas or the grass turning from brown straw into a rich field of green. But now, in this moment of my life, it feels like springtime. Hope renewed. A rebirthing, if you will.

Emma has a classmate named Will-Parks, a cute little blond boy she’s known since they were babies. I tell her all the time that Will-Parks’s daddy is a hero—he’s a soldier stationed at Fort Bragg, and we’ve watched him deploy overseas several times over the years. I’ve always admired the way his mother cares for her children while her husband is away, seemingly with such ease. I can’t imagine having that kind of strength. I’ve also enjoyed watching Will-Parks’s dad over the years when he is home, because he is such a loving, doting father. All the kids in Emma’s preschool class love him.

On this day, Will-Parks’s dad approaches me as we wait for the slideshow to begin in the farmhouse. The kids are happily munching on homemade ice cream, and he leans over to get my attention. I smile warmly at him; it has been a while since we’ve seen each other. He’s tentative, which is kind of unusual for him. Finally, he says, “I … I hope it’s okay. Can I say … can I tell you … how great you look?”

If my smile were any bigger, my face would be permanently disfigured.

He’s instantly relieved that I’m not embarrassed or offended, and this makes me admire him even more. It’s scary for a man to say anything even remotely related to weight to a woman; I’ve definitely learned that over the years. He got past that because he thought it was important that I hear what he had to say, and I am so grateful that he did. Women do need to hear compliments, especially from dashing, good-looking soldiers. I needed to hear a wonderfully warm compliment, unsolicited.

Take that, sun god Scott.

I lost one hundred pounds in six months. Just writing that statement is mind-blowing; living it has been an unbelievable whirlwind. I can’t tell you how much I dreamed over the years of losing one hundred pounds, how many different plans and schemes I hatched trying to reach that goal, only to fail time and again. To finally have it happen, to finally be out of the morbidly obese category is something I find difficult to describe. Joy. Relief. Freedom. Those are the words that come to mind.

Anyone who thinks having gastric bypass surgery is taking the easy way out really needs to come and live my life, from the beginning, on March 18, when I was rolled out of the OR in such pain and it took months to recover. I did finally get over the physical pain, and I am making strides in the psychological arena as well. But make no mistake: No part of this has been easy—not even close.

I sometimes wonder if I will ever eat “normally” again. And I guess I should figure out how I define normal; certainly how I ate before the surgery wouldn’t qualify. I guess my question is … will I ever blend in? Will people ever stop taking account of what I’m eating or asking me about what foods I should avoid? Will I ever be able to take a trip again without some elaborate plan to have foods that I can tolerate? Really, I’m dying to know how this will all play out.

For now, I am getting nourishment daily, and that is certainly progress. The crippling nausea is gone, thank goodness, and I have a pretty good idea of what foods agree with me and which ones I should avoid. Despite my best efforts, I still get in too big of a hurry sometimes, and I don’t chew my food thoroughly. When this happens, food gets stuck in my esophagus, and I have to remind myself first of all to stay calm. Usually I then get out my familiar green bowl. It’s become known affectionately in my house as “Mommy’s throw-up bucket.” When my food gets stuck, I have to get it out the old-fashioned way. I have thrown up more in the last year than I have my entire life. It’s such a regular occurrence, my children don’t even notice it anymore. It used to be quite upsetting, and I’ll admit, it still isn’t my favorite thing in the world. But I’ve learned to live with
it, and I am convinced it is getting better. My stomach pouch will stretch over time, and as I continue to learn what foods to cut out, I’m sure much progress will be made.

The number one question I get is, “What do you eat?” Indeed, everyone is so curious about me at mealtime, it’s kind of amusing. I know a couple of people who had a gastric bypass who resent this kind of attention. But really, I don’t mind it at all. I understand it, in fact; I’ve always been deeply curious about how all this works. I just worry that I am not a model patient and perhaps not the best example of what to do and what not to do! In any case, protein is the order of the day. Now that I finally have gotten the message that carbs are not my friend, I eat very few of them. It was never my intention to cut out carbs entirely; they just don’t agree with my stomach. So I don’t eat sandwiches or pasta or potatoes. Well, I guess that is not entirely true; I will eat a bite of spaghetti or a french fry or two. But truly, I’ve lost my taste for high-carb foods, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Besides, I’ve eaten enough plates of spaghetti to last me a lifetime!

I have two scrambled eggs every morning, usually with some cheese. For snacks, I eat slices of pepperoni or tablespoons of peanut butter or a handful of nuts. I still enjoy lean red meats, but I have trouble tolerating hamburger, and I still haven’t found any chicken that I enjoy—something about it is too chewy for me. Really, if it weren’t for cheese, I wouldn’t survive!

Of course, the one million dollar question is: What do I drink? Have I fared well with the no-soft-drinks rule? The relief-filled answer is an easy yes. Truly, it was the one thing I
was most worried about, and it is actually what I have missed the least. Maybe in that way, the complications after my surgery were a blessing; I was too preoccupied with illness to obsess over my inability to have a Coke. And I found that once I didn’t have them often, I didn’t miss them—not at all. I’ve had conversations with other gastric bypass patients who’ve tried to tell me it would be all right to have a drink every once in a while, but I am not going there. I’ve been through too much to risk it, thank you very much.

In fact during the 2008 Christmas season, I took my daughter to a cookie exchange at a girlfriend’s house. The moms hosting the event thought it would be cute to make Shirley Temples for the little girls to drink. I guess I’m an idiot—I had no idea what was in a Shirley Temple. When they handed me Emma’s pink drink, I sipped some off the top so she wouldn’t spill it all over herself. I immediately tasted the carbonation and almost spit the drink out all over the table! I didn’t realize Shirley Temples are made with Sprite. Truly, it tasted awful, and Michael has said the same. He gave up soft drinks the same time I did, although every once in a while he gets served one by mistake. He says when you’re not used to it, the carbonation is dreadful. I’ll just take his word for it. Other than that one sip, I haven’t had a soda since March 17, 2008, and I don’t plan to ever have one again.

It doesn’t mean I’ve said good-bye to sweet drinks, however. After the surgery, I had a huge problem with dehydration, but water just didn’t do it for me. I needed to find something that I would drink regularly—and I turned at first to my kids’ juice boxes. I loved the sweet taste, and the small amounts
were just what I needed. Of course they had too much sugar in them, and I’m sure my surgeon would frown about me drinking them. Again, I don’t claim to be a model patient; I just had to do whatever it took at the time. I did eventually give them up—but for pleasure, I now turn to the wine of the south, sweet tea. It gives me the sweet taste without the carbonation of soda. Yes, it is full of sugar and calories and not the best thing in the world for me. But I like it, and I allow it, and that’s all I’m going to say about it (believe me, I get plenty of grief from Michael).

Something I’ve taken great pleasure in is my absolute indifference to fast food. I used to live in the drive-thru line, and now I couldn’t care less about it. The only reason I ever go at all is if my children want the latest kid’s meal toy; I rarely get anything to eat for myself. I find most of the food too greasy and it upsets my stomach. What a victory this is! Although I must admit that it is not terribly convenient. If I’m out and about and have to find something to eat, it makes things a little trickier. I always have the need to plan in advance, but really, that’s only a small nuisance. The fact that I can pass all those fast-food signs and keep right on driving is thrilling.

Another mild irritation that comes as a result of having a gastric bypass is not being able to drink with my meals. To allow room in my stomach pouch for my food, I have to stop drinking anything thirty minutes before I eat, and I have to wait to have something to drink for at least thirty minutes after I eat. I knew this before the surgery, and I thought of all the changes I would have to make, this would be the least bothersome. But it has actually turned out to be the toughest to get used to. I
mean, it’s just natural to want to sip something while you eat, especially when you eat things like cheese and peanut butter! But I’ve really had to train myself not to, and I’m getting there. When I go to restaurants, I purposefully don’t order anything, because even if it’s just water, I will pick it up and drink it out of habit. Drinking while eating makes eating really uncomfortable, so I’m learning to avoid it, albeit reluctantly.

I am so very happy to report that my diabetes has gone away, as has my high blood pressure. I can’t tell you what a tremendous relief this is; being diagnosed with type 2 diabetes after Eli was born really put me over the edge. The thought of being on medication, and possibly on insulin shots, for the rest of my life was unfathomable. Getting rid of those two conditions alone was worth having the surgery, even with all its complications.

I do struggle with vitamin deficiency, as most gastric bypass patients do. The way my body absorbs vitamins from food has been changed forever, and I will always be on supplements. I take multivitamins twice a day, plus a calcium supplement. And after having recent blood work, my surgeon has me on a vitamin D supplement. I hate having to take pills every day, but it’s a small price to pay; I’ve learned not to take good health for granted.

In fact, it was the vitamin deficiency aspect of all of this that led to perhaps one of the worst postsurgery complications, at least for personal reasons.

I lost a lot of hair. Now, it’s well-known that this is a common side effect for gastric bypass patients; after the surgery your body is in such shock that every available vitamin and nutrient
goes to support your major organs and body systems, and things such as hair, skin, and nails miss out. It’s not uncommon for gastric bypass patients to go through quite a bit of “shedding”—and doctors advise their patients not to be alarmed, the hair will come back. But if you’ll recall, I’d been going through hair loss for quite some time leading up to the surgery. For years I’d been self-conscious about my protruding scalp, wondering if everyone else noticed that my hair was thinning. I was warned about this side effect before the surgery, but I guess I didn’t seriously contemplate the ramifications. I just wanted the weight off, no matter what it took. But about three months post-op, once the complications were finally behind me and I was starting to live again, I started to lose gobs and gobs of hair. It was frightening. My previous hair loss was way more subtle—a few strands in the shower, on my clothes, and so on. This time fistfuls would drop into my hairbrush every morning. I’d find tangles of hair in the washing machine from my clothes. I was shedding everywhere: on the carpet, in the car, on the plate of food at the dinner table. More than once two-year-old Eli came to me, saying, “Mommy hair in my mouth.” It was humiliating, and it did a real number on my self-confidence.

Had I really come all this way, only to look like a complete freak? Sure, I was losing weight, but how would anyone notice? They’d be too busy staring at my bald scalp! I tried to comb it and style it in a way that hid what was happening, but truly, each day, I was so scared to look in the mirror, afraid to see even more hair gone. I didn’t know what to do.

When I went in for my sixth-month checkup, the hair loss was the only concern I brought up to the doctor. He nodded
and said it was quite common, and that it would grow back, perhaps even thicker and fuller—all the things I’d read. Only, I’d suffered hair loss before the surgery—would my situation be different? Did that mean my hair would not come back? The doctor didn’t know—he’d never been asked that question. I was as confused and scared as ever.

I seriously started to think about getting a wig. I was becoming so self-conscious; I didn’t want to leave the house. That was frightening, considering I was just rebounding from the surgery complications and depression. I couldn’t believe I found myself wanting to hide again. Maybe a wig would make me more comfortable; after all, they make really good ones now, in all kinds of styles. They are quite realistic looking. And maybe I wouldn’t have to wear it for long; if what the doctor said was true, my hair would come back. Perhaps a wig was what I needed to get through the interim.