How surgery helped me

Yesterday, someone posted this question in a support group: "A question for postsurgery people: In retrospect, could you ever have gotten to your goal WITHOUT the sleeve? If not, how did the sleeve make success possible, at last?"

I'm posting my answer here because although I've said all of this in different places, I like having it in one place. 

The most important thing for me is this: the thought of surgery gave me hope. I'd given up on losing weight (tried everything except surgery, of course). I'd been morbidly obese for many years, and I'd reached a point, at 40, where it hurt to walk less than a mile. How could I walk if it hurt to do it? How could I lose weight without walking? I was trapped.

Starting the surgery process gave me hope. I'd thought about it for about three years. I started seeing a therapist to work on the mental and emotional pieces. I pushed through the physical pain of walking and started changing my eating habits, to prove to myself I could follow the program.

I'm 6 months post-op next week, down 70 pounds overall. After surgery, the restriction affects me and helps me the most. I want to be healthy, and since I can eat so little, I have to make my food decisions based on nutrition. If I slip (as I do), the sleeve means I can't eat much of an unhealthy choice.

Now, for the first time in many years, my body doesn't hold me back from doing what I want to do. I have my life back, and I absolutely don't believe that would have happened without my surgery.

NSVs

It's been a while since I posted NSVs, so here are a few recent ones. 

• I did a bunch of yard work with my husband this past weekend. I used to love working outside, but for years, I haven't had the energy or the strength. This year, returning to yard work is one of the things I've been looking forward to. We weeded an area we're turning from lawn to garden, put down landscaping fabric, and mulched. Then, with pruning snips, I attacked the one dead and other mostly-dead butterfly bushes. I worked easily for a couple of hours, and it felt minor and like no big deal. 
• Lately, it's been so beautiful that I'm going for walks in our neighborhood rather than going to the gym for the elliptical and treadmill. This past week, I noticed that what used to be the long loop (1.2 miles) is much too short. The past few nights, Paul and the dogs and I have walked 2 and 2.25 miles, which feels much better.
• The heat, so far, isn't bothering me this summer. I just turned on the AC — but only after I looked at the panting Siberian Husky (who now, 10 minutes into AC, is napping happily). 

Reality

Do you know how they say addicts have to hit rock bottom before they change? I resist calling myself a food addict, but I admit I've used and abused food. In fact, I did it again Friday. As you know, I've been fighting urges for junk food and comfort-eating as I grieve Roo. Thursday morning, when I bought my iced coffee, I also bought a small bag of Doritos. I tucked them away but ate them over the course of Friday, all 3.5 servings. 

I love and enjoy the crunch. The salt. The cheese. I don't love seeing the calories, fat and sodium in my daily tally. But most of all, I don't like that I gave in and did some mindless eating. 

Because it *was* mindless, in spite of the fact I thought about it for 24 hours and made the decision. It felt like mindlessly using food for comfort. And I didn't even go to the gym. 

I'm grieving. I'm depressed. I'm hormonal. All true, and yet — they sound like excuses. 

In spite of my unhealthy choice, I ate all my protein and did better with fluid than I have been. And the scale the next morning, shockingly, was down 2 ounces. I'd almost feel better if it had been up — a kind of penance. 

The next day, I got back on track, focusing on protein and mindfully eating, and I did my cardio workout at the gym. I'm reminding myself of all the changes I've made, how different my life and thought patterns are. I bought a small bag (not huge) of chips, thought about it for a full day (instead of eating them right away), and then ate them slowly (not in one sitting) throughout the day. I'm blogging about it (not hiding it like a shameful secret). I went to the gym. I made sure my nutritional needs were met. 

I might not be as far along as I'd like (never struggling — ha! Not realistic, I suspect), but I guess, all things considered, I'm in an okay place. 

Progress

Last summer, when I started the surgery process, I created a Healthy Successes Jar. I took an old mason jar, and I wrote on slips of paper healthy choices I made — drinking extra water, going for a walk, ordering a salad instead of onion rings. 

This winter, after surgery, I created an Activity Jar, writing down things I want to do as I become healthier. I've done some: walking UP the biggest hills in our neighborhood and planting red currant bushes (symbolic of getting back into yard work and gardening). I'm still working towards others, like kayaking (by the time I was interested in kayaking, I was too big to fit in one).

One of the things I was simultaneously most looking forward to and most nervous about was hiking on Monhegan. (For those not from Maine, Monhegan is an island about 10 miles off mid-coast Maine; visitors aren't allowed to bring cars, so you walk and hike.) 

I first went to Monhegan in my mid-20s and found it to be a magical, beautiful place. I've been back a handful of times, but the hiking and walking always have been difficult. It became a metaphor for my depression: walking in the woods, doing the tough work, was symbolic of working through things in therapy. The gorgeous ocean views at the end of the trails were my reward and progress. (And then it's back into the woods for more hard work.)

This time, aside from being nervous on the steep parts of the trails, I enjoyed the walking and hiking. Did you hear that? I enjoyed it. For the first time in many years, my body didn't hold me back from what I wanted to do. It was awesome. 

Another great non-scale victory: my husband's fleece fits me. One of my non-scale goals is to weigh less than my husband. (It's a reasonable goal, since he's several inches taller than I am.) 

And another: my husband's sister came over the other night for a visit. K and I met in college and became best friends (her brother and I started dating 16 years later). She's known me since before my depression and weight gain, and has seen me through the worst times. The other night, as she was leaving, she gave me a big hug and said, "It's so good to see you smiling again."

I need to count these NSVs today, when I'm tired and depressed. We said goodbye to our beloved dog Roo a week ago. Being away on vacation helped distract me, but now that I'm back home, I'm still tempted to eat my feelings. This is hard work, changing patterns and creating new behaviors — but I'm determined to create a healthier me and a healthier life. 

 

Victories and challenges

About a week and a half ago, I checked Ray LaMontagne's tour dates. The concerts in our area were a week later, and my husband and I decided to go. This was a big deal for me. I love music but haven't been to a concert in about 10 years.

I've never liked crowds. I'm sensitive energetically and pick up other people's junk, and then when I became morbidly obese, I hated crowds even more. So many people to be bigger than. So many people to mock me or judge me or pity me.

This past week, though, I've been excited to go. Getting into the city from our suburb was easy (I grew up in the country, so driving into Boston always slightly stresses me), the walk from the parking garage was easy (at one point, walking just 3 blocks would have been challenging), and standing in line, I felt like a normal person.

When we were let in, Paul and I got a glass of wine and stood leaning on a table, overlooking the water, appreciating the afternoon sun and our date night. I was so happy — I wasn't worried about fitting in the seat, I knew I wasn't the biggest person there, I wasn't worrying about what other people were thinking of me. During the concert, I didn't worry when I squeezed by people sitting next to us — I knew I would fit fine. I danced without worrying what I looked like. 

Then we got home, and our elderly dog Roo was bleeding. Roo is almost 15 and has cancer in a few places. We've been considering him a hospice patient for the past few months, happy for each day we get. The tumor we had surgically removed in late January is back and bleeding again. We won't operate again. That means it's time to say goodbye. 

I'm heartbroken and grief-stricken. I feel flat and in pain. 

I had my session with the trainer this morning. Having something to focus on helped, but when I came home to lie down for a nap, I told Paul I thought about buying a big bag of chips and eating them — but I don't want to do that. 

It helps knowing that I've lost more than 67 pounds since July and more than 51 (!) since surgery. It helps that I physically could eat a small bag of chips, not a huge bag. But there's more going on. 

I'm committed to creating healthy habits, a foundation that will carry me through the times when my stomach has expanded and I CAN eat more than a small bag of chips. I'm committed to my health, including my mental health — and right now, that means finding a healthier way of dealing with my grief than eating. I think I need to just be with the grief when it rises, as painful and raw as it feels.