Tag Archives: being fat

A New Adventure Begins

22 Friday Sep 2017

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Discerning readers will vaguely recall that I had my first heart attack the day before last New Year’s Eve. This surprised absolutely nobody, as my BMI is pushing 50 the way those guys on the Tokyo subways cram in the commuters. It wasn’t a BIG heart attack, feeling more like recalcitrant indigestion, but when they got inside with the widdy-bitty camera, my right coronary artery was 95% blocked. A little bit of titanium fixed that mo-fo, but in the recovery room, a nurse shared that they called situations like mine “One cheeseburger away.” (Hear that, Elizabeth? I’m comin’ to join ya, honey!)

Since then I have been on three new meds and had the dosage cranked on the Lipitor. And I’ve felt fine, except for a rather Victorian over-attention to my heart. I went in to see the cardiologist for the six-ish month check-in this Monday expecting only to possibly be released from a pill or two.

Instead, he scolded me for letting the baby aspirin lapse, and told me I was taking it for the rest of my life. And while he was on the topic of “the rest of my life,” he in so many words intimated that it would be a short story unless . . .

“Have you ever thought of bariatric surgery?”

Now, every fat person in the Western world has at least thought about it, so I parried by sharing my PCP’s aversion to the practice. (Malabsorption issues.) The cardiologist pooh-poohed this; said they had that under control, and went down the list: Diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and the ever-looming sin of having a heart-attack at only 54.

Now, I am something of a fat activist. People were saying stupid stuff to me about my weight back when I was only 170, which is a hundred pounds or so ago. *I* was saying stupid stuff to myself back when I was in high school, at 129. I got tired of it after I had the kids and found that the baby weight had come to stay. So I left myself alone about it–started buying jeans that actually fit instead of jamming myself into a number that I thought was more reasonable than reality. I started being nicer to myself, which was groovy, seeing as sporadic attempts to Do Something about it kept putting another several pounds on, topped with the five I picked up from being sidelined by the double knee replacement last year.

I now weigh 274; been told I carry it well, but apparently my coronary artery wasn’t listening to the compliments.

The cardiologist, a former Marine, doesn’t do bullshit, but he doesn’t do fat-bashing, either. He was just laying out the facts, and this week I heard him. (It didn’t hurt that the podiatrist told me last week that my clumsy attempt to continue cutting my own toenails wasn’t gonna fly and I had to leave it to the professionals, ’cause I can’t really reach them anymore.)

I got referred to Local Hospital, which my insurance told me was out of network, and then went to (sigh) Beth Israel, where I had my knees done, so at least I know them there.

I discovered that the road to bariatric weight loss is long and dotted with hurdles: Mandatory info sessions. Psychologists. Social workers. And of course nutritionists and exercise physiologists and about a billion nurses. I need to have tried (failed) at least two formal attempts to lose weight. This is a bit of a sticking point for me, as I’ve never done Weight Watchers or fen-phen or any other fad, because I already knew what the surgery people posted in their PowerPoint: Only 5% of the people who do them succeed. At least I had a little time with a personal trainer. Sigh.

I don’t know how this story ends, but that’s the sitch whenever I begin a new book, so I guess we’ll have to wait and see. A big part of me wants to hide under the covers and pretend it’s not happening, but I know I need to be really social about this and have support. (Besides, it’s a Rule of the Blogosphere.)

Next stop for Beth Israel: I join a “new patient group.” Next stop for me: I tell my PCP on Monday. Yeep.

Haven’t heard from YOU, either!

23 Saturday Jan 2016

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The boy (25) is off at a furry con all weekend; the girl (26) just reamed my sheep about being lax on him. I blame teh interwebs.

Teh interwebs are apparently all full of people claiming that they have Asperger’s and thus should be immune to Things They Dislike, like trying to find Aspy-friendly work. She sees her brother as having embodied this attitude, which is untrue.

The girl finds fault with everything the boy does; the boy feels like he’s double teamed and that we are out to get him. Meantime, the real problem is that he’s a teenager in an adult suit. I am still parenting him, and parenting is more complex than making rules that carry consequences. The girl (who never plans to have children) can’t see that. So I have a war going on at my house all the time. She snarls when he’s here; she takes advantage of his absence by yelling at me about what a bad parent I’m being. In my opinion. she needs to open up a 20-ounce bottle of Detachment and rub it all over.

Part of this tangle is that she blames him for having been housed and fed by his father while we were off having Adventures with Homelessness, losing bunches of our stuff and being fed rice and beans every night (not our culture). Needless to say, she can find tons of compassion, support, and excuses for her well-homed (and jobless) boyfriend, so it’s not like she’s a work ethic Nazi. No, there is just something broken in her brain–she has had a hard life, and now she has a personal demon. It’s not fair. Between that, and that she offers “suggestions” in a near-snarl–it’s hard to accept her as co-parent de facto. (Mind you, she’s sweet as pie to Me. I consider her one of my best friends.)

They were both very sympathetic when I came down with one of those norovirii last weekend. I’m still fighting the residual fatigue, and this is the first writing I’ve gotten done since I semi-quit my job. (I was depressed to see a panel at Arisia entitled “Don’t Quit Your Day Job.” I was too sick by that time, which is probably just as well.)

I made the mistake of not being firm with the Arisia volunteer team that I needed a sitting job; instead, the cane got put in a corner and I was run off my feet by a gluten-free vegan (sorry, GFVs. Every one of you I’ve met has been bossy) drill sergeant barely out of her teens, meaning that her people skills were still shaky. I escaped to eat lunch and found the staff den. Wish I’d had my test meter bundle, as I was wobbly, sweaty, and nauseated. Next time I will pay more attention to self care: (I should assign myself that sentence as a punish lesson.) “No, see the cane? I’m not physically able to scamper about putting food out. At least, not for long.” *sigh* Next time. . . . While waiting for the Ride in the lobby, I had the great joy of watching the costumes. Everybody was there. from Princess Ozma to Carmen Sandiego to a patient Pyrenees in golden leather armor from the Golden Compass.

Next time it might be a moot point, because my right knee is getting replaced in two weeks, and as soon as it heals (3-4 months) I’m putting the left knee on the chopping block too. We shall see. I’ve picked up 15 pounds since losing the cardio of the walk up the hill to work, and I’d like to get out of this body. I’ve never been this fat before, and it gets in my way. I’m still just as supportive of fat acceptance as ever, but the most intimately close chapter of it has closed for the winter.

I want my body back. I’m 5’3″ and 280 lbs.

Oh yeah, I’ve heard BAD things about long-term outcomes for “the surgery” so for once my conservative PCP and I are in agreement. It will have to be dietary changes (needed for the diabetes as well) and exercise, which is where the knees come in. Wish me luck.