Designated Fat Girl (25 page)

I started researching and found that wigs are very, very expensive. If I wanted one that was going to fool people, and indeed I did, it would cost me at least a thousand dollars. I struggled with this. On the one hand, I thought it would do me a lot of good in terms of self-confidence. But on the other hand, we had a lot of medical bills to pay, plus we weren’t exactly rich to begin with. Could I justify spending so much money on something I was truly hoping was only temporary?

While I was mulling it over, I decided to share what I was going through with some friends. Whenever someone asked how I was doing, or remarked on how great I looked, I thanked them and admitted that my only problem was my hair. Most people seemed concerned, and I explained how the
doctor had said it was only temporary. Everywhere I turned, I received kind words and encouragement, and in the end, I decided not to invest in the wig. I figured if I suddenly showed up with a full head of hair, everyone would know it wasn’t real, and that would instantly cause talk and speculation. What was the point? By being open and upfront about the problem, I found myself liberated from being so self-conscious about it. Instead of letting it control me, I took control of it. That felt wonderful.

I am happy to report that my hair is coming back, albeit slowly. I have tiny little hairs standing straight up all over my scalp. Yes, it looks freaky, but I don’t care. I love every single hair, and I gleefully point them out to anyone and everyone who asks how I am doing!

There have been many victories to enjoy so far on this path. The very last week of May, as I was just beginning to come out of the post-op complication fog, we took our kids to the beach for a weekend trip. Normally I’d rejoice in the timing of the excursion; late May is usually too cold to get in any kind of water for very long, and as a fat person, I could easily be excused for not putting on a bathing suit. Even though I’d had gastric bypass surgery and was on my way to a healthier me, I was still quite heavy, and didn’t relish the thought of going half-naked in public. But we were going to a resort with an indoor water park! Hooray! Bathing suit required! Shoot me now, right? Wrong. I planned the trip, on purpose, knowing what was involved. And I embraced it. Well, perhaps
embrace
is a little strong; it was still quite difficult for me to imagine wearing a bathing suit in front of a lot of people.
But something changes when you’re headed down the scale instead of going up. The idea of taking a risk is somehow more tolerable, especially when it pertains to your kids having fun. I bought a Delta Burke bathing suit, in black. It was a size 2X and had a little skirt on it for extra coverage. But by God, it was a bathing suit and I wore it. I swam with my kids, for hours on end, listening to their laughter and glee. Every time I had to get out of the water, I felt as though everyone was staring at me. I fantasized about calling everyone’s attention to announce that, yes, I was heavy, but just so they knew, I was finally doing something about it. I didn’t want everyone to take one look at the miserably fat woman in the bathing suit and feel sorry for me. When I dwelled on stuff like that, I was a little down. But I knew next summer would be different, and the next and the next. And that felt priceless.

Later that summer we actually joined a pool. I had wondered for years how my kids would get the privilege of swimming if I wasn’t able to do it with them, and finally I was not only able but willing. I wore the same 2X bathing suit all summer, even after it was clearly too big for me. I was self-conscious at first, but after a while, I let it go. I was there for my kids to have fun, and I didn’t care what strangers thought about me. I knew I was losing weight and getting healthier every day, and that was truly all that mattered. It was so liberating.

Over all the years I struggled with trying to lose weight, I would fantasize about all the clothes I was going to wear once I was thinner. As I gained weight and slowly grew out of all my thinner clothes, I held on to them like trophies, vowing one day I would wear them again. Old dresses, suits, and even
jeans all hung in my closet, waiting to be worn again. Of course when I finally started to really shed the pounds, some sixteen years later, most of the clothes were grossly out of style. Acid-washed jeans, anyone? No, wearing my old clothes, for the most part, was not an option. But I was able to make it through the first several months postsurgery thanks to hand-me-downs from friends who had lost weight. My sister-in-law, Mandy, in particular, saved me thousands of dollars in clothes. She gave me tons of high-quality tops, pants, and dresses that started in size 2X and went down to size 16. For many months after the surgery, I didn’t have to buy anything, and that was a good thing, too. Shopping now intimidated me greatly. I was woefully unprepared to look for clothes when there were lots of options to be had; I was used to having to settle on whatever I could find that would fit me. Suddenly I was faced with having lots and lots of styles and colors to choose from, and I had no idea what was hip and what kinds of clothes were flattering on me. I needed help, fast!

Things only got worse once I sized out of the “today’s woman” category of clothing. The regular-size parts of the department store were so intimidating to me, I didn’t know where to begin. I tried a few times to shop, and I swear I had panic attacks. My mind got swimmy, my heart beat fast, and I had to get the heck out of there. One time I was so scared, I retreated to the big woman’s section and actually convinced myself that some 1X tops still fit me. When I put them on at home, my mom, who was visiting at the time, couldn’t believe her eyes. Why had I bought such big shirts? Funny, to me they hadn’t looked that big in the store, but she was right: They
were way too big for me. Such a revelation should have made me happy, and it did, but I was also scared of the unknown. I hadn’t bought regular clothes in more than a decade. I didn’t know what in the world I was doing.

The weight loss was happening so fast, my mind had a hard time keeping up. The scales said one thing, but inside I felt the same. I knew I was thinner, but it was hard for me to believe I had lost so many pounds that I could now wear an extra-large instead of a 2X. To someone who’s never battled a weight problem, this may not seem like much, but trust me, the difference is huge.

I walked around with baggy, ill-fitting clothes for a while. I knew I could do better, but I felt paralyzed. Finally a special occasion approached, and I needed a new outfit. Desperate, I went to a small department store with an even smaller ladies’ department. The bigger woman sizes were smashed in right beside the normal clothes, and before I knew it, I had crossed the line and was looking at tops in 14, 16, and 18. I quickly drew in a breath, waiting for the panic attack to settle in. Surprisingly I remained calm. I looked for something I liked. I found it in a 16. I went to the dressing room. And … it fit! And it looked great. I couldn’t believe it. Up until then, whenever I’d wandered into the regular-size section, I half expected someone to tap me on the shoulder, telling me I didn’t belong. Finally, I knew I did.

I’ve had many people ask me about gastric bypass surgery. So many seem to know someone who they think would benefit from it, and they want to know if I recommend it. This is a tough one for me. On the one hand, I do not regret at all
having had the surgery. Even though I had a lot of complications, and it certainly hasn’t been an easy road, I know the path I had been on was one that led to premature death. That may sound overdramatic to some people, but please believe me: I was slowly killing myself with food. And what’s worse, I knew that’s what I was doing and was unable to stop myself. Finally making the decision to have a gastric bypass saved my life—I truly believe that. Was it fun to have the abscess, the collapsed lung, the depression? Of course not. But the way I was going, it wouldn’t have been long before I suffered a stroke or a heart attack. I could have easily dropped dead, leaving a husband and two children behind to mourn what could have been. So yes, I am happy I had gastric bypass surgery and I would do it all over again.

Would I encourage others to do it? No. I just couldn’t, not after what I went through. I endured months of pain and depression. I still don’t know what the future holds in terms of side effects. But at least I know that I made this decision myself; I didn’t let anyone else talk me into it. And that’s what everyone else has to do, too. Before agreeing to have this surgery, you must really understand what it entails—and what could happen. And you have to be willing to live with the results. It takes a lot of research and soul-searching. I am happy to share my story with anyone who wants to listen. But such an important decision has to be made by the individual themselves.

As the weight has come off, I have given much thought to addiction and the ramifications of this hideous disease. For years I felt like a rat trapped in a cage. The harder I tried to get out, the more stuck I became. It occurs to me now that I
couldn’t really fix the problem since I didn’t know what it was. Meaning, I bought into what society tells us about weight loss: Put in the hard work and you will see results. When you hit rock bottom, you will find your way back up. How many rock bottoms did I hit over the years? How many nights found me on my knees, begging God for answers? I thought I would find the solution with a new diet plan, a new exercise routine, or a new bottle of pills. I never really understood that the food and the weight gain were only symptoms—they were tools in my arsenal of self-destruction. Now that I’ve had weight-loss surgery, I have taken away my ability to hurt myself with food, and I thank God for that every day. But unfortunately, my desire to hurt myself has not entirely gone away.

At the same time that I was put back into the hospital with complications from the surgery, my mother was diagnosed with colorectal cancer. She kept her diagnosis from me for weeks, worried that I would turn my back on my recovery to focus on her. When she did finally tell me, I was scared to death. But we rallied as a family to see her through the treatment. She had six weeks of radiation and chemo, followed by surgery. After a week in the hospital, she was sent home to recover before another six months of chemotherapy. It was a scary and stressful time, and I stayed with her for her first few days at home. I had to go to the pharmacy to fill her bottle of Percocet. I laughed a little to myself as I purchased the one-hundred-count bottle of painkillers; hadn’t I been frantically searching for these pills just months before? I was so glad they made me so sick, sure that I could have become addicted to them if they didn’t. I gave my mom her medicine and started to cook dinner.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the pills. I remembered how they took away the pain, and not just the physical pain. They helped me to not feel anything: the hurt, the feelings of failure after my surgery went wrong. I was so scared I had made a mistake, that I would never be normal again, and the pills helped me stuff all those problems away, much like food had. Being with my mom, seeing her in pain, and not knowing what the future held for her scared me to death. I’d lost my dad four years before; the thought of my mom dying was too much to bear. My mom had one hundred pills—she wouldn’t notice if I took a couple, right? I just wanted a break, I wanted to feel good for a change.

Once I made the decision to do it, I felt giddy. It reminded me of how I felt once I finally relented and ate my brains out after a day of going back and forth with my demons. Once I was on my way to pick up the food, or in the drive-thru line, I felt relief, like I was getting away from crushing pain and guilt. This was much the same—ever since I’d picked up my mom’s medicine, I wrestled with myself over trying them, just once. I knew it wasn’t right, that I had no business taking those pills. But I finally decided to do it, and I was excited.

I ate first, trying to stave off nausea. I made sure my mom was all settled in for the night. And then I took two pills. I sat on the couch in front of the TV and waited. It was only about fifteen minutes before I was flying higher than a kite. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins, and the rush was terrific. I could almost see myself sitting there with a big, stupid smile on my face, and I was disgusted.
What in the world am I doing?
I thought to myself. I was the kid who never drank
in high school, who never even tried smoking a joint. Now I was taking prescription painkillers recreationally? Just as the doubts started creeping in, the room started to spin a little. The familiar waves of nausea started to hit, and I felt so, so sick. I was hot and sweaty, and my heart was pounding. I lay down under the ceiling fan, trying to get cool, trying to calm down. I wanted to throw up so bad, but this kind of nausea isn’t that kind—you’re stuck at the point of wanting to vomit but not quite being able to. It was torture, and it went on for hours.

I finally passed out on the couch, and when I awoke the next day, I was still reeling. The thought of breakfast turned my stomach, and the room still spun as I made my way to take care of Mom. I felt so completely stupid for what I had done, and also suddenly very sober about the possibilities. What if I wasn’t so sick? What if all I felt after taking that Percocet was the incredible high and that wonderful fog, removing me from reality and all its problems? I could have very easily become addicted to those pills, and I knew it. It scared the crap out of me. Suddenly it all made sense.

Something within me doesn’t sit well with happiness. Things start going well, life is good, and the beast inside rears its ugly head. It used to be a destructive boyfriend. For many, many years, food was its weapon of choice. Now, it was dormant, but its heart was still clinging to life. The beast was looking for another tool to use against me, and I knew I was in trouble.

Thank God painkillers make me too sick to function. But what if something else destructive takes a liking to me? Alcohol, street drugs, gambling, overspending … there are a number
of ways to ruin your life, if you’re hell-bent on doing so. And apparently, I was. It scares me to death.