Yesterday was 15 weeks post op (4 months next week? how is that possible?), and today I had a check-in at Beth Israel. I was nervous and called my best friend on the drive into Boston. "I'm wicked hormonal, and I've eaten 2 cups of sesame sticks in the past few days," I said, and it felt like a confession. "But then I went to the gym."
"Do you know how different that behavior is?" she asked. "Sesame sticks — and going to the gym?"
She's right. I really am living a different life.
I know some people ask why bariatric patients, if they work so hard after surgery, need surgery at all. Why not just do it without surgery? I wonder that sometimes myself.
The answer, for me, is that I need the restriction of my new, smaller tummy. Yes, I concentrate on protein first and 80-90% of the time, I make healthy food choices. But my ability to take in food (healthy or not) has been drastically reduced. One day last week, I grabbed a handful of tortilla chips. I ate 4 and put the rest away — I was satisfied. Before surgery, that never would have happened. I could, and would, eat far more, possibly without ever feeling satisfied.
Another piece of the answer is that after surgery, my body responds better to healthy eating and activity. Last July to December, I watched what I ate and drank, and went for walks — and I lost 10 pounds total. As overweight as I was, I still don't understand why weight didn't come off more quickly. Now, after surgery, I feel like my body works better. When I exercise and make healthy food choices, the weight comes off.
I also was nervous, I think, because I see people in my support groups losing weight faster than I am. When I isolate myself, I'm perfectly happy (thrilled, in fact) with my loss and the timeframe, but inevitably, a little part of me compares my progress to other people — and I come up short.
But Erin, the bariatric nurse, and Dr. H, the medical director, were very pleased with my progress. Dr. H said the percentages of body weight loss and excess weight lost are right where they should be, and they both said my loss is right on track. They were thrilled when I said I go to the gym, work with a trainer, go to yoga class and walk with my husband and the dogs.
Over the scale in the bariatric area, there's a quilt. In the center, it says "Now I can..." Some squares have statements written by patients, things like "have my grandson sit on my lap" or "cross my legs comfortably." My square, I told Erin this morning, would say "live my life." I don't feel trapped anymore, or limited. I feel FREE.
The numbers
I'm down 53 pounds since my highest, 37 pounds since surgery 15 weeks ago. I put those numbers out there for other sleeve patients who might think they're "slow losers." According to my medical team, we're right on track.
This afternoon, scrolling through some of my online support groups, two posts in quick succession caught my eye. One woman posted a before-and-after photo, saying the before was "humiliating." Another woman posted that she went to the doctor today and said, when she saw her weight, "Ew, disgusting."
My heart aches. I know what it's like to feel humiliated. I know what it's like to feel disgusting. I know what it's like to feel helpless and hopeless. I want each of us on this weight-loss-surgery journey to be proud of our progress — but more than that, I want us to love ourselves.
I worked hard for years (in therapy, in receiving energy work, on my own) to love myself and my body, no matter its size. Not being happy with my appearance or size or health is one thing; talking down to myself is another. It's a fine line, and one I've certainly crossed, no matter how hard I've tried. But seeing someone feel shame, which is connected to humiliation and disgust, truly makes my heart ache.
So you, reading this, whoever you are — a friend who's never struggled with their weight or someone on this weight-loss-surgery journey — please, try to love yourself. If you can't do it, try sending a little love your way. Imagine how you would treat a loved one, and then treat yourself that way. You deserve it.
Tomorrow marks 13 weeks post-op. The scale hasn't been moving much, so I've been trying to focus on my non-scale victories. I really like my life and myself right now. I feel so blessed.
Two weeks ago, in yoga class, I shared my surgery story with the class. People were wonderfully receptive and open. I talked about grace — how fortunate I am to be in a place where progress and movement come easily, and how I wish I could share that with everyone.
This morning, driving to yoga, I was thinking that for me, grace comes after a period of hard work that seemingly yields no results until BAM! I jump forward. That place where hard work and grace intersect is a place that interests me, a place of growth and of transformation.
And then I realized: hard work continues in the state of grace — but somehow it doesn't feel hard. It's completely manageable.
Different topic, same approach?
This
morning I also was thinking about writing. I write all the time in my
head but rarely actually type the words. That's the scary part. That's
the part where I could fail.
And
then I thought of where I am with exercise. I'm walking, I'm going to
the gym, I'm working with a trainer, I'm going to yoga. I'm trying not
to mind, and mostly succeeding, that I'm the slowest person on a
treadmill. I'm not letting my inexperience stop me from doing yoga. I'm
not letting fear or shame stop me from doing personal trainer sessions.
If
I can do all of that, things that a year ago seemed impossible, then
surely I can apply the same attitude to writing. I am where I am. I
might be slow. I might be clumsy, out of practice. But I can begin, and
be gentle with where I am, knowing I'm transforming.
And... a scale victory
The scale moved the middle of last week, then again over the weekend. I've lost 51 pounds since July, 35 since surgery. My next scale milestone: 7.5 more pounds, when I'll officially be classified as "obese" on the BMI scale, rather than "morbidly" or "extremely obese."
I work in an Episcopal church, and one of the parishioners is an extremely talented photographer. Sunday was the bishop's visitation, and I was at work with my camera; a few parishioners brought cameras, too, including A, whose work I so admire. She showed me one of her shots, and I thought, "Why am I even here?" I was discouraged.
Yesterday morning, I was talking to my coworker Sarah (the wise friend who suggested I reward behaviors instead of scale progress) and said I either need to learn more or give up my aspirations. "I love looking at your pictures!" Sarah told me with a hug. She praised my eye and reminded me not to compare myself to A, or anyone. There's room for different talents, she said.
She's right, of course. A has studied and is semi-professional; she has an amazing eye and the technical skill to back it up. I'm an amateur with a passion, and I've taken exactly one photography class: in high school.
Against that backdrop, I had my second personal trainer session yesterday afternoon. I was nervous but showed up and even mustered excitement. I asked Sal if we could reconfigure the 5-minute warm-up into sets, because even though he doesn't expect me to not need breaks, the breaks feel to me like I'm failing. We did three sets of 12 jumping jacks, high knees and kicks. Then three sets of walking lunges, three sets of low planks (holy cow, that was tough — I shook and sweated and shook some more), three sets of crunches and finally three sets of arm exercises with weights. The sets worked great for my mind — they were manageable amounts that I made it through.
Towards the end of my session, Sal's next client came in and started the 5-minute warm-up. I told Sal that my goal at the end of our year of sessions is to do the 5-minute warm-up; he said I'll be able to do it much sooner, and his next client chimed in and said, "Don't worry. You'll totally be able to do it." As I walked out, I thanked her for her encouragement; at that point, she was doing jumps. "I started in November," she said, "and there was no way I could do these then. You'll be surprised how much progress you make." Which is exactly what Sal is always telling me.
At the gym, I'm improving my physical strength and skill with my training sessions. I don't expect to be able to do what someone who's been training longer can do. I didn't compare myself to the next client: I stayed focused and finished my workout, where I am right now.
With that in mind, this morning I emailed A and asked if she has recommendations on places or people that offer photography classes. In the light of a new day, I don't want to give up my aspirations. I want to pursue them.
My goal for today is to embrace where I am right now — with my physical health, my surgery journey, my photography — and not compare myself to others.
Recent non-scale victories:
~ I wrote a separate post about this, but it's worth repeating: I completed my first session with a personal trainer. And I'm going back.
~ Although I'm living with as few clothes as possible (right now, 1 pair of jeans and 1 pair of cropped yoga pants that are the right size), Wednesday I went shopping — I had to get black clothes for a funeral. Pre-op, I was wearing a size 26. For a few weeks, I've been in 22s. Wednesday I bought a pair of 20s that fit. And the sweater was an 18/20, down from a 26/28.
~ The funeral was a few states away, and we stayed with one of my brothers and his son. Last night, my husband and I played Monopoly with my nephew for a good hour. I started out in a chair but ended on the floor, constantly shifting. When it was time to get up, my husband started to help me, then stopped. "Your exercise is working," he said, and I could hear his smile. "You don't need help getting up off the floor."
Yesterday was 11 weeks post-op.
This week's big news: Monday I had an assessment with a personal trainer at the gym.
I've been feeling proud of how far I've come — walking several days a week, down 48 pounds total and 32 since surgery, off three prescriptions. I've been enjoying yoga and the gym.
And although all of that is true and important, equally true is that I'm really, really out of shape. Realizing that was humbling.
Sal, my trainer, said he starts everyone off with a 5-minute warm up: 1 minute each of jumping jacks, high-knee steps, kicking butt steps (these are my names, not his), squats and burpees. He told me to take a break whenever I needed it.
I did the jumping jacks, with two breaks. My body felt so awkward. After a long break, I did a minute of kicking heels to butt, again with a few breaks. Another break, and I did a minute of squats, focusing on form (sitting back, knees over heels). We skipped high knees and burpees.
Sal asked me questions after each exercise. Did I feel it in my breath? Muscles? Balance? All of the above, I said.
Next I did a line of walking lunges, followed by arm circles. After that, Sal took pity on me and we finished talking (he checked in on nutrition, things we would work on, etc.).
In my mind and heart, when I joined the gym, I committed to 1 year. So Monday I committed to 1 year of one training session a week.
Gulp.
Expensive. Intimidating. Exciting.
Week 3 at the gym
Tuesday, I went to the gym and walked on the treadmill. I was stressed, and I pushed my pace and increased my time by another 2 minutes for a total of 34.
Today, Wednesday, I had my first session with Sal. He took my measurements and then we went into a classroom downstairs. We started, as he'd promised, with the 5-minute warm-up. I did 1 minute of jumping jacks, with breaks; 1 minute of high-knees, with breaks; 1 minute of butt-kicks, with breaks; and 1 minute of squats, no breaks. Today Sal put a chair behind me when I did squats so I would feel safe going lower, knowing I wouldn't fall. It totally worked.
We tried lunges next, but my trick knee was tricky. Then we moved to some upper-body: with a 5-lb. weight in each hand, I started with hands together in front of me, then raised my arms to shoulder height. Three sets of 12 reps. I was hot, sweating, flushed. My arms shook on the last reps. I was ready to keep going. Sal decided we were done. I didn't argue.
My approach to the gym has been to be very gentle and very reasonable with myself. The first two weeks, I wanted 20-30 minutes on the treadmill, three days a week. I could have done more — but I didn't want to do so much that I became miserable and didn't want to go back. The beginning is partially about physical activity — but equally about building habits. Finishing my first session ready for more seems perfect.
