Goodbye 2012 Hello 2013

The New Year will be upon us all in but a few hours.  Hard to imagine that 2012 is done already!  This has not been an easy year for us.  A year ago we started Operation Stork, and honestly I was pretty convinced that it would happen within a couple of months.  But alas, it was not meant to be I guess.  This year also saw the deaths of a couple of close family members which was difficult for sure.

However, 2012 has been a wonderful year in some ways.  I will always remember this year as the one in which I was sleeved.  Even though it was only 3 weeks ago and therefore really at the end of the year, the procedure was definitely my high point for this past year.  Before this, I had been drifting aimlessly waiting for either the Stork or for surgery, and at least one of the two happened!

I can't help but wonder what might lie ahead in 2013.  The most obvious wish that I have would be that I lose a little weight and gain healthy tendencies.  I have absolutely no idea what I can expect with regards to weight loss, but at least I can expect to lose.  After the epic fail of last night, today my total intake has been liquids (mostly water and a little apple juice), 1/3 of a bowl of oatmeal, and 1 scrambled egg with a slice of low-fat cheese.  And I was stuffed after each "meal".

This coming year will certainly be one of discovery as I get to know my sleeve and what it will (or more prominently will NOT) tolerate.  I am enjoying the feeling of restriction in a way that has never been possible.  With every morsel that I ingest or even every sip that I drink I constantly have to evaluate my body's response.  This, in turn, makes me far more in tune with my body than I ever have been before.  I look back at all of the mindless eating of my past, and I'm boggled at how quick I could shovel in a major amount of food and not even have to think about how my body reacted to it.  I am thankful and ecstatic that I am not able to do that anymore.  I am also really happy that when I have a little bit to eat or drink, I quickly fill up and feel very satisfied.  Hunger has not been a part of my life now for 3 weeks, and life is completely different.

Honestly I have no idea if I'll ever get pregnant.  But, at least now I do know that I'm going to be much healthier and much happier.  I will be a better person - and hopefully a better Mom - than I would have been had my weight continued to climb. 

Specific things I'm looking forward to for 2013: re-joining a local gym (I think I'll start back with Curves because I had SUCH fun there), re-joining Zumba, re-joining Water Fitness.  Actually, I'm looking forward to re-joining living my life. 

I can't imagine how much better I will be a year from now.  Not solely because my weight will be lower, but I'll be actively pursuing life instead of watching it drift by. 

In 2013 I will continue to get to know my new sleeve.
In 2013 I will learn to eat based on nutrition.
In 2013 I will be active and will pursue physical endeavours.
In 2013 I will travel to Europe for 3 weeks.
In 2013 I will NOT have to wait for a stork, or wait to have surgery.

In 2013 I will LIVE.

Happy New Year to us all!

Under Pressure

It might be hard to believe that I'm a perfectionist, given that I let my weight get up to over 400lbs.  My house has its usual complement of dust bunnies, and the inside of my car is not show-room quality.  I might even have a few garments hanging in my closet which are beyond "well worn" with buttons missing and the like.  And trust me, the list goes on...

Perfection, as elusive - impossible - and even imaginary as it is, remains something that I seem to pressure myself about in certain aspects of my life.  Thankfully I have known this about myself for a long time.  I can actually pinpoint the exact moment when I became self-aware.  It was in the Fall of my Grade 4 year which would put me at 9 years old.  I had always done very well in school (being born a total people-pleaser made me try my hardest to do well academically to please my parents). In the early grades of Elementary school my academia consisted of things such as drawing trees, playing recorder, and learning about Roy G Biv and the colors of the rainbow.  However, in Grade 4 there was a tangible difference in the level of learning.  Tests were suddenly more challenging, and back then the results came in the form of a red number (a percentage) instead of a letter such as A+ at the top of the page.  See, with an A+, it would not be unusual for others in the class to receive the same mark.  Once the numbers - as in percentages - started to appear, I knew I was in for trouble.

My competition was a nice girl named Leslie.  All I knew about her was that she owned a horse, and could draw beautiful pictures of it.  She was friendly in a shy sort of way, and soft-spoken.  Sitting across from me, I could easily see her results on any project or test that was handed back throughout the rows in the classroom.  The two of us had pretty much been the kids in the class who did the best.  Now, however, with the introduction of these forsaken percentages, it was clear who was actually on top.  You guessed it, it was Leslie.  I'll never forget the moment when I saw the bright red 100% gleaming on the top right corner of her test.  It was if time had stood still.  The person behind me had to kick my desk to remind me to keep passing the tests back down the row.  When I looked down at my own paper, I had been given 98% (I had made an unusual spelling mistake somewhere in the page).  Immediately the floodgates opened, and I had a new source of self-torture.  On top of wondering things such as if I was actually the fattest kid in our town, if I was pretty enough, if I was gifted enough, if I was popular enough... I now had a concrete and irreparable source of comparing myself to everyone else - in the form of a bright red percentage on the top of every test.  This led to me basically giving up.  I still did ok in school, but once I received that first mark that was lower, I no longer saw myself as smart as I had before.  In turn, I sank even further into my own dark world of not good enough - all because I had a mark that would still have been an A+ if I had just looked at it in a different way (OR chosen not to compare myself to others... OR chosen not to look at a classmate's paper!).

Fast forward 30 years.  Thankfully some of the bumps along the road have been ironed out with a little maturity.  I no longer compare myself to everyone in the room.  BUT, I do have certain tendencies about perfection. 

My VSG journey has been a source of such torment.  During the 2 week liquid trial last spring, I lost 18lbs.  I was delighted about this until I heard in our support group that another person lost 20lbs.  The all-too familiar pangs of "not the best" started in my head.  I pushed them aside.  After all, this journey is about becoming a better me - not a perfect one - because let's face it, perfection is impossible.  Besides, who in their right mind would want the pressure of being perfect????  I think that this is also playing a major role in my decision not to weigh myself, but I'll write more on that next time.

Last night officially marked 4 weeks that I have been on liquids (one week pre-surgery, and 3 weeks post.)   While the liquid stage is prescribed for 4 weeks post-surgery, many of my friends in our support group have moved up to the next stage of mushy food at the same point that I am at.  I had initially planned on being the "textbook" patient, and if liquids were advised for four weeks post-surgery, then this chick would be doing them exactly by the book.  A couple of nights ago I was delighted to meet with 3 other girls from our support group - all of whom have been sleeved this Fall.  We compared notes, and they encouraged me to stop being so analytical about my progress. (I had been afraid to swallow many things even though they are approved at the liquid stage).  When I proclaimed my intention to stay on liquids for one more week - they laughed.  Turns out I had been approaching this all wrong, as one explained.  The liquid phase is meant to boost our recovery, and gradually introduce new foods to our new sleeve.  (I had been hesitant to even consider adding anything new, and had not even started to conceive of adding a little texture other than fluids).  Oops.

Armed with the knowledge that I had been putting myself under too much pressure to have a perfect journey (sensing a theme here....) I went home Friday night and tried a bowl of Cream of Wheat.  By bowl of course I mean 2 spoonfulls.  And although I detested Cream of Wheat as a child - I thoroughly enjoyed it and it went very well.  The next day I even tried a slice of cheese (by "try" I mean that I nibbled a small corner and chewed it 30 times).  It tasted like heaven and also went very well.  Armed with the knowledge that I should at least consider trying some items from the mushy stage at this point, I moved forward.

Well.  Last night I figured ok, try something else.  I had 2 very thin slices of turkey breast from a deli and a small teaspoon of potato salad which I mashed to a paste.  I took 20 minutes to chew these items thoroughly.  It went well - or so I thought.  Then the pain struck.  Pain doesn't actually even begin to describe it.  It was if there was a giant clamp on my innards, and that every scrap of the few morsels that I had ingested were suddenly at war with my digestive system.  I sat at the table for an hour, head in my hands, and was so uncomfortable that I removed every piece of jewelry that I had on.  I also got the shakes, and was freezing cold.  I went to bed at 8pm wearing thick socks with my pajama pants tucked in, my pajama shirt tucked in to my pants, a sweater, and a wool winter cap.  All of this was underneath fleece sheets, an electric blanket which was up as high as it could go, and 2 quilts. 

I'm sitting here typing this at 3am as I could not lie down any longer.  My stomache is still at war with my body, and there is an incredible amount of acid ascending my throat.  Even the prescribed meds aren't helping... but I feel like things are easing off a little.

I have broken my record of perfect patient.  I am no longer textbook.  I pushed the envelope a little, and I failed miserably.

But - I learned a very important lesson in the process.  I am not meant to be a perfect patient.  That person doesn't exist.  Also - through each stage of my progress I will need to be completely OK with trying new food and having them fail - or else I'll be relegated to a life of water and broth - and that is not perfect by any means!

Today I have decided to go forward with forgiveness and acceptance.  I choose to remove the self-imposed pressure that I have been under, and accept the fact that this journey is meant to be one of trial and sometimes failure.  I know that if I stick to some imaginary pursuit of the perfect journey I will only end up sadly disappointed. 

Maybe that makes me the perfect patient afterall...

The Unfit Physician

Thankfully the journey to my sleeve was followed very rigidly by a Bariatric Team.  After the referral there was Orientation, clinical visits, extensive medical testing, fluid trials, and specialist appointments.  I spent much of 2012 feeling like a lab rat and I honestly couldn't have been happier about it.  I am VERY thankful that here in my province the procedure is new enough to warrant rigorous examination.  I have follow up appointments with the Team and Surgeon for the next 5 years.  I also opted to join a formal study of the VSG (Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy) patients in hopes that the program might be extended to even more people. I was one of the lucky ones.  I was referred just one year ago, and surgery was completed 12 months later.  Right now the current wait time is 4-5 years. 

If you've been reading this blog, you'll know that Hubby and I also spent this year trying to conceive.  The plan had been that I would take whatever came first.  Well, the call for surgery came in October so that ended all plans for Operation Stork.  According to my surgeon and team, if things progress well for me in 2013 nutritionally, I will be given the green light to start trying again in one year.

Along the way we had a few bumps.  Most notably this past August.  Before I got the call with the surgery date, Hubby and I were referred to a local specialist with regards to pregnancy.  Thankfully I had "googled" this Doctor and knew from comments on "Rate my MD" what to expect.

(Note: I understand that the issue of a morbidly obese female wishing to procreate is complex.  And yet, it does not always have to be.  The overall picture of your health cannot solely be based by the numbers on the scale.  Yes, being morbidly obese makes me at risk for certain diseases.  So does smoking, drinking, sun tanning...  Remember, my blood pressure has always been normal.  My bloodwork has always been perfect.  My blood sugar has always been normal.  Even my cholesterol was great!  One specialist whom I saw early in 2012 -who was sadly not taking new patients -  told me that she would rather have me as a patient at my weight than a person of a normal BMI who smoked.  The doomsday scenario of a large lady bearing children as a disaster is simply old school and not accurate...  and tales of pre-eclampsia, gestational diabetes, and septicemia are certainly valid yet are often exaggerated.  Again - overall health has to include the numbers on the scale but cannot be limited or defined by them.)

Soooo....  Hubby and I went to said appointment.  At this stage, it would not be unusual to perhaps try medical assistance such as clomid to boost ovulation.

Of course before we could see the Dr, a kind nurse took my height and weight.  I briefly thought about skipping that step so that the Dr. would actually see ME and not the number.  But, being ever the good girl I did as I was asked.  Stepped on the scale, and while I prayed yet again that I hadn't gained, I also found myself praying that I had grown 5 inches or more to lessen the BMI.  Don't worry, I know that is not possible!

We were brought to an exam room, although looking back there was certainly no need.  The Dr. could have done the rest of this in the lobby (which, by the way, was plastered in wall to wall images of babies..... not exactly a good thing if you are there to find out that you are infertile...).

The Dr. breezed into the room, chart in hand.  She was beautiful, with blonde hair and limbs that seemed to go on without end.  She was thin and was as graceful as a ballerina.  I'm not sure if she has ever been at war with her body or the scales, but she did not appear to be battling either that morning.

Without looking at me - she artfully dodged this by looking at the wall, the lamp, Hubby, the floor - she addressed me by name (although sadly it was not my name!) and although I gently corrected her, in the next 3 minutes she used 4 variations of names that were not mine.  Not once did she look me in the eye.

Her message - which was succinctly delivered in 2 minutes flat - was that at my "current STATE" it would not be ethical for her to assist us on our journey to conceive.
-----
(Pause while I fill you in...)
First of all, a Dr. should be able to look at a patient, no matter how horrific they may appear.  I assure you that other than being large, I am quite pleasant looking.  I do not have horns, warts, or other physical deformities.  I did not have anything in my teeth, nor boogers hanging from my nose...
Second, with all of the education these people get, a Dr. should be able to call you by the correct name.  It is not a reach to assume she could read.   And I know from seeing the chart that my name was clearly printed - right next to my height and weight.  I don't know if she was stuck on the numbers in the weight box or what, but there is simply no excuse for calling me 5 different names especially when I had corrected her the first time...
Last but not least.... morbid obesity is a medical term.  Some consider it a disease, and some a disability.  To refer to my weight as a "STATE" was the worse than looking at the floor and calling me the wrong name... it was just plain uneducated.
-----
So... without any interaction from us, she stood up and as she exited through the door she turned and offered the only suggestion she had - "if you have 15 thousand dollars perhaps I could refer you to a clinic in Halifax where you could go to store your eggs IF you have any left."  Exit Doctor, stage right.

Ironically, I left that appointment with my head held even higher.  I didn't get assistance, information, or even guidance.  But I got clarity:  this lady was not meant to be our Specialist.  End of story.  A year from now, hopefully we will be given the green light to try again.  Should we need another appointment it will simply be with someone else.

I called this post The Unfit Physician.  Even though she was quite fit physically, she was not "fit" to communicate with patients - or at least those of us of size.  People in the medical profession need to be able to communicate with patients, or at least address them with some modicum of professionalism.  I didn't expect her to understand anything about me or my struggles with weight... come to think of it I didn't even speak other than to correct her on my name.  She seemingly thought that she knew everything she needed to know about me based on the numbers on the scales - which is a very sad conclusion for a Dr. to make. 

After all, "do no harm" means more than making a mistake during a procedure...

Major News... m-a-j-o-r!

Ok, so first off I most wholeheartedly apologize to the handful of you who have been waiting for an update.  Life got in the way of writing about life. And I most certainly have missed writing.  So, with my spirit renewed and with steadfast conviction - I pledge to write far more regularly now that I have hauled my head out of my ass! 

The news:  I have had surgery.  Santa came early and brought me the best present.  I am the proud owner of a sleeve where once my stomache was.  For any of you who are still following from my WW days, I commend you for fighting the battle and being able to do so without having to have surgery.  Battling weight is not easy.  I wish I could have joined the battle way before I got to 414lbs because I possibly would have been able to avoid this drastic measure.

That being said, my surgery went very well.  I had no complications.  I'm 2 weeks post op now.  After a 3 day stay in the hospital I was released and sent on my way.  I no longer have any sort of hunger.  This is likely due to two things:  first of all, my body has better sense than to want food because I simply can't tolerate it right now.  Second of all, the part of the stomache that produces ghrelin (which is the chemical signal for hunger), has been removed.  Either way, it is refreshing to live without hunger and it is completely new territory to live without the desire to eat.

My biggest challenges right now are staying hyrdrated to avoid re-hospitalisation.  I can currently consume 4-8 ounces per hour depending on how my sleeve is feeling.  Every small (and incredibly s...l....o......w.....) sip that I take is a journey.  I have to evaluate how it feels going down, and if it is met with any disagreement from my sleeve then I have to stop.  I am finding this difficult.  I hit a low on Christmas Eve, when I found that I could simply not tolerate any liquids at all.  I was so dry that I didn't have enough saliva to dissolve a TUMS (and trust me, after this surgery, antacid tablets have been my happy pills).  My eyes felt like there was sand in them.  Thankfully my loving Hubby encouraged me to try to keep at the liquids, and Christmas Day I was feeling much better.

So.  What is life like now?  Life is simple yet complex.  My hunger is gone, and eating is out of the question, which makes this simple. The complexity comes in figuring out what I can tolerate. For the first 4 weeks post-op, I'm on a full-fluids which means that anything I ingest has to pour like milk (or dissolve in my mouth).  The next 4 weeks after that I'll be on the "mushy" stage, where I can enjoy servings of epicurean delight such as 1 scrambled egg or 2 tablespoons of mashed turnip.  In the long run, living with a sleeve means a drastic reduction in the amount I can ingest, but eventually I will be able to eat a variety of food just in smaller amounts.  My sleeve will not stretch very much - so if the most I can handle is 8 ounces for example, my plate will look very different from before.  1 ounce of steak for example is the size of a matchbox.  I've been on liquids now for 3 weeks including the 1 week pre-op.

Is it hard?  YES (and no).  It is hard to keep hydrated.  Sometimes my sleeve simply does not want anything going towards it.  It's kind of like trying to feed an infant.  I never know how something will do when I send it down.  My food (ie broth) constantly gets cold on me because it takes so long to consume it in tiny, thoughtful sips.  I really miss being able to take a big gulp of drink.  But trust me, when you've felt the wrath of swallowing too much (which feels like you have swallowed a soccer ball that is on fire), you learn really quick to take it slow.  The part that makes this less hard is knowing that I simply can't do anything else.  There is no cheating at this - it is physically impossible at least at this stage.

Christmas dinner for me was 2 tablespoons of turkey broth.  I tried a little cranberry sauce but couldn't tolerate it.  I did have a little trifle which my Mom made special with no-sugar added jello (which is strangely ok at this stage as it dissolves in the mouth) and low-fat cream.  In the amount of time it took me to sip my broth and trifle, my in-laws had consumed not one but 2 gargantuan servings of turkey dinner.  My Hubby's plate was piled so high it looked like a mountain range in Nepal.  My family felt bad - they felt sorry for me .  In turn, I felt like screaming at them.  I mean, how can you feel sorry for me???  I've just done something incredibly brave to drastically change my life - and yet you didn't feel sorry when I sat in front of you at 400+ lbs and ate til I hurt??????

Speaking of weight, I am sick of it.  Some people who get sleeved are fascinated with the weight loss which usually seems to be pretty drastic in the first little while.  I am not.  I know myself too well.  I failed at WW because of the negative relationship I had with the scales.  I put WAY too much pressure on myself, and the journey became all about the numbers. 

I want this journey to be about improvements.  About feeling better.  About the little things that I notice (or the bigger things).  I did take my measurements (with the help of my Mom) the night before surgery.  And yes, I took my "before" pictures wearing tighter clothes.  That way I'll have something to compare myself to other than the scales.

The numbers on the scale are just numbers.  They can't tell what kind of a person you are or measure your kindness.  They don't reflect that you have survived all sorts of horrors and come through the other side.  And they can't gauge the changes that are happening within.  And until I can see the results on the scales as just numbers and NOT use the results to wage war on myself, I won't take part in knowing them or promoting them.  I know it is sort of a backward way of approaching things, but for now at least that is what I feel I need to do.  I feel better than I did 3 weeks ago.  In fact, while in hospital the day after surgery, I was moving better than I had the week before surgery. 

I have my first clinical visit next month, and maybe I'll change the way I feel about the scales by then.  But for now I think I've completely realized the extent that I allowed my own perception of the scales bother me before, and I won't allow that to happen again.

Anyhow - that is all the news that is fit to post.  And I promise to keep you posted.  Blogging is a wonderful way for me to keep track of me and how I'm feeling on this journey, so I'm doing this selfishly for me but maybe if I can help someone else even just one more person, I can reap even more rewards!

Oh and for those of you who are celebrating the holidays, Merry Christmas to you and yours and all the best for 2013!

Limbo

I've been as busy as a beaver lately with work and life and just stuff in general.  What is new?  Well, no pregnancy yet.  And I survived the family wedding without ending up in the slammer (or evading capture). 

Yet, I feel like I'm in limbo.
Even though I'm busy, I feel stuck.

I haven't been taking care of myself as I should.  In fact, even worse - I've been knowingly neglecting myself and sitting back watching it all happen.  Witnessing it first hand, feeling miserable, and yet seemingly incapable of initiating change.

I think I kind of fooled myself into thinking that by going through the preliminary steps of the planning stages of bariatric surgery that I was actually doing something for myself.

Sure, I'm still planning on having the surgery.  But why have I settled back into the OLD routine of not watching what I'm eating, or worse; watching myself eat something I really know that I should not eat??  And to make matters even more desperate, I've become aware that I'm eating sometimes when I'm not even truly hungry (gasp!).

Oh my.  Rome wasn't built in a day, but it seems that it is terrifyingly possible to dismantle a city overnight.

I need to do something.  I might not have control over some of the things that are happening in my life right now, such as waiting for the stork to leave us a present or getting the call about surgery.   But I DO have control over how I live my life in the meanwhile. 

It's time to get to business here.  I need to feel better.  That won't come from eating crap.  It just won't.

I need to start feeling better.  To eat things that I like (which include veggies, fruit, and believe it or not healthier food!). 

I need to regain control of my health, my nutrition, and my self.

I'm sick of this limbo, besides... I fear I have set my pole too low and I need to raise the bar.  I'd rather be trying to achieve something than sitting around and waiting for something to happen.

Here's to a better tomorrow...

Q & A

Ok, in a humorous attempt to bolster my inner HAG (my Hidden-Assertive-Goddess); (I'm a marshmallow, a people-pleaser at heart, so I don't "do" assertive too well although I'm trying to improve I promise)...  I have come up with a list of Q & A for myself.  This way I can pull open this blog entry when in need of a response based on the situation.  Again, any suggestions or comments are more than welcome.

Q-  "When are you two going to have a baby?"
A-  "When people stop asking."

Q-  "You've been married now for long enough.  Time to get at it, don't you think?"
A-  "Yes, the three years we've been married feels like a lifetime. Especially when we have to deal with family members like yourself at occasions like these."

Q- "My Goodness - you two aren't getting any younger.  Have you thought about having kids?"
A-  "Oh yes.  We'd also like to have a 7 bedroom mansion, 2 corvettes, and a petting barn."

Q- "So do you two have any news????"
A-  "Well, according to Anderson Cooper things aren't going so hot in Syria right now."

Q-  "Is that a baby bump I see?"
A-  "No, but here's my fist..."

Q-  "You might want to start trying soon, given your age.  Are you planning to try?"
A-  "Isn't age a funny thing?  Yes, I'm approaching 40, but I look a good ten years younger.  Funny how some of us manage to avoid shriveling up like dried prunes, and some of us -like yourself- can't age with any sort of grace or dignity."

Q-  "You know how desperately your parents want to be grandparents.  You're not planning on disappointing them, are you?"
A - "Well, it would be more disappointing for them to have to bail me out of the prison after I bash in your skull with a shovel and leave your raggedy-ass carcass in the hot desert for the vultures to feast on..."
(ok, so that's a bit of a stretch...)

I, of course, used Google to search what advice was out there for people like us.  The best advice I have found is that Hubby and I need to decide together on what sort of responses we will give, and what questions we simply will not tolerate.  We will do this on the way out of town today.

I also read that it is perfectly acceptable to ditch a conversation if you feel that it is starting to bother you immensely, and excuse yourself for some fresh air or quality time in the loo.  I think I'll come up with a signal to give Hubby so that he'll know if I end up bailing on him that A) I'm ok, and B) I'll be back.  Hmmm... I could chose a random body motion such as an eye to wink, however he just might miss that given his lack of ability to locate the bright shiny new bottle of ketchup in the front of the top shelf of the fridge.

I've got it...  I'll use a codeword.  One that will make him understand that I just need an escape from the nosy parker who is invading our privacy.  One that assures him that I love him dearly and I'll be ok but I just need a self-imposed time-out.  One that I can delicately slip to him in his ear that will be our little secret....

"Shovel."  ... It's perfect! ....

Not only does it explain to him why I'm leaving.... it also lets him in on my plan and informs him of what I've gone to get...

Guess Who Came For Supper?

(george)

God I hate that effing man.

Oh well, at least I know. At least now I can go out and spend even more money on testing strips for the monitor for another month on the carousel.  I can now book an appointment for my Doctor for god only knows what tests, and get myself on a god-only-knows-how-long waitlist to see a specialist.  And, although no-one will have any clue how devestatingly heartbroken I am... I guess if I do knock anyone to the floor at the wedding who dares ask why we aren't pregnant, if we are planning on having kids, or when we are going to start trying-  at least I'll probably get off with insanity.

I have never known anything as frustrating as this process, and trust me - I've had my share of frustration and "ups and downs".  The worst thing is that there is virtually no support.  Sure, I'm on a couple of websites for people trying to conceive, but let me tell you that when you are forming bonds with others who share in your plight... after a while as the others start to come back with posts of their big fat positive results, it can get to you a little.

Ok, vent over.  I'll get there someday.  Or I'll knit myself a kid (ok, so first I'd have to learn how to knit).  If only I had kept that Cabbage Patch Doll...

One last thing.  I'm going to need to arm myself for battle.  If ANY of you out there have any suggestions on how to politely and effectively respond to the prying questions of family members at this weekend's wedding, please send me any suggestions...  I thought briefly of making a pin that reads: "1.NO we aren't pregnant yet, 2. YES we desperately want kids, and 3. Actually we are a bit heartbroken about it all so could you please please please shut the eff up???"

<insert sigh here>

Hurry Up and Wait

Guess who is pregnant???

Nope, not me, not at least that I know of yet... but one of my favourite singers: Adele.
In my next life I'm coming back as a backup singer for her...


Adele, if you're reading this, congrats my dear!  I won't lie, I'm totally jealous, but I'm looking forward to your Nursery Album release party.  Oh yes, I would be honored to attend your baby shower!  Any chance you need a mural painted in your nursery (or a backup singer)?  Have your people call my people and we will make plans...

So... today, July 2, is day 32 of my cycle.  Gulp.  My average cycle length is 29 days.

Symptoms?  Well, seeing as you asked...

• tender breasts
• fatigue... as in extreme fatigue... like I could nap all night and all day
• headaches every now and again
• funky abdominal twinges and very minor occasional discomfort
• nausea
• weird aversion to food texture - brand new
• irritability; although this seems to have settled just a smidgeon

And, of course, George has not knocked on the door.  I stuck my head out the window, but I don't even see him coming down the street...

I know that those symptoms could mean that I'm in a motherly way, OR that they could mostly be due to the pending arrival of George.  Told you he was a mother-effer.

So, the only news is that I now have a really weird and freakish aversion to food based on texture, which I have never had before.  For example, yesterday I actually had to spit out a forkful of lemon mirengue pie because the consistency of the mirengue was making me sick to look at.  I can assure you that I have never in my life found myself having any thoughts about the texture of food, let alone an aversion to it... and I likewise have certainly never spit out a bit of pie.  The look on Hubby's face was pretty much priceless...

I have a hard time swallowing anything that I'm eating.  If I think about the food too much, it's like my body is sending me the signals to upchuck it back up.  I can only eat a little before this kicks in, which means that for the most part I'm unable to finish a meal now.

I'm sitting here with the burning urge to pee again.  Oh yes - add that to the list.  Frequent peeing.  Just call me Seabiscuit.  While this could be due to pregnancy, it can also be due to the fact that I'm focusing on staying hydrated even more than usual.

I'm also sitting here with the burning urge to google more baby names or read more stories of people who have actually been pregnant with 2 negative tests done at home... BUT... I'm giving myself a break.  After all, I don't want to dwell in the land of stress!

The fact is, George will either show or not.  Either way, I have to book an appointment with my Doctor to either confirm these rumors OR seek medical assistance if I am not pregnant.  It has been 6 months now, and with my "advanced maternal age" of 39, it's time to get this show on the road if it isn't already.

So, with that, I'm going to have a nice shower and retreat to my freshly-laundered bed. I've also had the strong urge to do housework,  however that may be due to the fact that the housework is long overdue...

I will keep you posted.

Tick Tock Goes The Clock

A good friend of mine (who has a wicked sense of humor) prefers to refer to the monthly visitor - aka Aunt Flo - as "George".  She figures that something that brings so much pain and discomfort should be named after a male and not a female family member.  Now before any males out there start hatin' on me, please realize that I do not share her feelings of humorous contempt for the male sex.  In fact, if it were up to me, I would wipe the slate clean and refer to my period as The Monthly Exorcism or OhMyGodWhereDidIPutTheEffingMidol. 

Nonetheless, in honor of my friend, for the purposes of this blog I shall hitherto (or at least today) refer to it as George.

When you are trying to conceive, George is the last thing that you want to see, for obvious reasons.  The only mildly good thing for some is that if and when George shows up on your doorstep, there is a small window wherein one could imbibe if one was so inclined.  Even if you weren't inclined to drink to derision, the very fact that George shows up and shreds every ounce of hope is enough to make some people head to the nearest bottle of whatever-floats-their-boat and latch on like a newborn to a nipple. 

I'm on the fence.

I sit here, 2 days late - that's right, count em- 2 days late.  I have had minor weirdish cramping for 3 days that has felt like twinges in weird places. I've been crankier than a crack-ho without a pimp, john, or stash.  The "girls" feel like someone filled them with lead.  My ankles are swollen past recognition. Oh, and bloated?  I feel like I swallowed a beach ball.  And yes, there have been tears.  Over nothing.  One day the dog looked at me and wagged her tail, and I burst into tears because she was so cute.  I've alternated between ravenously hungry and nauseous.  And I've had a headache for the last day and a half.

I also sit here with 2 negative home pregnancy tests, one yesterday and one today.

All of this conception business is starting to swirl around my head like a fog that won't quit.  So I may be preggers and just not have enough hormones in my pee to register yet on a home pregnancy test.  OR, these symptoms can all be related to the pending arrival of George.  Come to think of it, I never did like George... nasty Effing Mother Effer.

BUT... honestly... at least at this point if George was to ring the doorbell, at least I'd know.

Knowledge, my friends, equals power.

I guess I'll have to do the traditional wait a few more days to see, then either head to my rockstar Doctor for a blood test or curl up in a ball while I rock myself out of a breakdown.  (Ok, so I'm kidding about the breakdown, but this is all a lot for a person to take).

Here's how my coming week is shaping up:
In the next few days, figuring out if I am with child or not.
If I am, celebrating not only the fact that I am with child, but also that there is a reason for the general assholery that I have subjected everyone to lately.
If not, the assholery is prolly going to continue... don't say I didn't warn you.

To top it all off, the coming weekend features a ginormous family wedding... the last one was ours 3 years ago... and I'll have to be prepared to come up with answers to questions such as

1:  "When are you guys ever going to have a baby?"  (Um..... wish the eff I effing knew... hold on while I get my crystal ball out of my purse you nosey wench...)

2.  "Aren't you trying yet?"  (Ok. To be fair, I understand why you might ask that because you're family, and there is always one or two nutty members of any family who know no bounds...  but come off it.... eff off... and while you're at it, has YOUR husband been making you scream lately as he plunders your booty???  I mean, if our sex life is a topic, let's ask about yours!)

...and my favourite:

3. "When are we going to hear the pitter patter of tiny footsteps?"  (as if there was an impending invasion of smurfs on the horizon and we had better prepare ourselves for their arrival)...  This comment is usually offered up by older folk, and let's face it, sometimes they just don't know any better.  Depending on the offender, my response will likely be either "when you get a hearing aid you deaf twat!" or "Oh, we're not sure.  How's that mole coming along on your back?"  After all, skin cancer trumps infertility any day!  (oh gawwwwd please know that I'm kidding here... and I'm not trying to make light of cancer once again... if Anonymous crawls out from under his or her rock, I'm sure to get another hateful comment but at this point I don't care)

Any luck at all, George will hold off, I'll find out I'm in fact knocked up, and I'll be able to tell them all to kiss my pregnant ass.  We wouldn't tell the family yet, especially as we wouldn't want to steal the show at a wedding, but if we are so lucky as to be preggers it would make facing the endless questions a little easier even if we dodged them with a twinkle in our eye...

I guess at least if George shows up I can choose to hit the bar at the reception and drown my sorrows.  Might not help with the general assholery though...

The Chicken Vs the Egg (Part 2)

If you haven't read part 1, please do so now, or else you'll miss the exciting lead up to this post...


As I finally could see that shelf, once again the heavenly choir burst into a "ta-daaa" (this one was even louder), and I swear again on my life that a ray of light burst from the roof of the store onto that small box which promised to assist me in my quest or at least answer a few of my questions and besiege my worries.

One thing I will tell you:  if you know anyone who is trying to conceive, it is initially fun, however as time wanes on... it can become a minefield of stress and anxiety.  For me, it is like juggling the ever-present loudly-ticking Baby Clock inside my head with the increasingly garish and incessant banging of the Bass Drum of Woe.  The two rhythms are not in sync, and would not make a top-10 hit for sure.

Deep breath.

The box was on the shelf.  I snagged that mother up, paid for it, and left the store in search of test sticks.  Oh yes - that is another important part of this process.  The monitor requires test sticks (which are another small fortune unless you buy them in bulk or find them at a decent price on line).  I found those at a local drug store and came home victorious.  I announced to Hubby that our quest for conception had now taken a turn and we were armed with the latest technology to help us out.  From his recliner he looked somewhat dubious, but humoured me as I showed him our latest purchase.  I love him to bits.. he is as supportive as can be... but I think I lost him somewhere between describing the urine sample process and telling him all about the Luteinizing Hormone and it's impact on this journey.

So, in a nutshell (it's about time for a nutshell don't you think?), the next morning I added a new item to my morning itinerary and began to pee on sticks.  That in itself was pretty simple.  The sticks, thankfully, are easy to hold and are nice and long.  Then the stick gets inserted into the monitor, which takes 5 minutes to analyze the stick to assess the amount of LH. There are three possible results displayed in the results window:  low fertility, high fertility, and peak fertility (which even shows a little egg!).

I came prepared with a tonne of knowledge.  This monitor is pretty incredible.  It spends the first month getting to know the user, so it is not uncommon to not have a "peak" reading.  Through the days of requisite testing, I initially started with low results.  I wondered if I would remain low (which might mean hormonal problems).  My worries were quickly set aside when I suddenly found myself getting high results.  Then I wondered if I probably would not peak (which might mean that I don't ovulate).

Well, folks, I'm here to tell you that this Hotty in Training is definitely a Fertile Myrtle.

I have actually hit the peak, and seen the egg.  After endless disappointment with test strips and my calendar app, it doesn't get much better than that.  Even better: it appears that I ovulate a bit later than my app would predict.  (Day 18 as opposed to Day 14).  This means that what we had been doing up to now didn't even have a chance to work mathematically.

Of course the heavenly choir appeared with its "ta-daaaa".  The appearance of the egg hit me like a tonne of bricks.  I ran sprightly into our bedroom, woke Hubby from his deep slumber, and announced the arrival of our egg in the result window.  Later that night, I asked him if he was excited, and it turns out he didn't remember anything about my Peak Proclamation, the egg, or even kissing me goodbye that morning...  geesh.

My dear darling Hubby proceeded to tell me to try not to be so stressed, and that maybe I was putting too much pressure on myself.  That he would love me to the ends of the earth no matter what, and wanted to grow old with me with or without kidlets.  (God I love that man).

Here's the thing:  for me, personally, this process has now become much less stressful. This monitor has filled in some of the gaps.  I am fertile.  I ovulate.  I even ovulate later than we suspected, so there's no wonder why we haven't been blessed with a bundle because we were not adhering to the proper schedule.  I know this sounds like I am taking a lot of the romance away from the process, but I have an overactive and analytical brain... and in order to give conception the best shot, I thought I had been doing everything that I could. 

This monitor allows me to do one more thing.  Obviously if we don't have success, we can approach our Doctor armed with relevant data right down to the LH surge that was picked up by the monitor.  This leads me to think that if we do require further testing or intervention, that having the results from this monitor will help us to get there quicker.

Will I ever see a plus sign or happy face on a pregnancy stick?  I'm not sure.  I'm sure that I hope so.

But for now, seeing that little egg appear has put a skip in my step and a smile on my face.  I even took a picture of that egg.  I may frame it.  Hell, some people display pictures of their baby in utero.  Why not frame a picture of the LH results??? 

I can always slide the ultrasound photo in the frame later...  fingers crossed....

The Chicken vs The Egg Pt.1

Which came first: The chicken or the egg?
The answer should be:  the Clearblue Fertility Monitor.



So, a few weeks back, I was shopping at a local department store that was closing out.  Lured by the gleaming banners which promised 70% off most items, I was drawn into the sliding glass doors like a bee to a honeycomb.

As I circled the store with my shopping cart, I found a few things here or there that I convinced myself I should buy.  I'm usually a great shopper in that I can say "no" to a lot of items that try to fling themselves into my cart.  *unless of course I'm at a clothing store, and then all bets are off - I tend to come home and unpack items that not only would I never wear, but ones that I'd never even re-gift

At the checkout, something caught my eye.  Behind the cashier, haphazardly laid on a shelf sideways between a pair of pantyhose and a display of electric toothbrush heads, was a small box.  As the cash register calculated my total and she asked the infamous "cash, credit or debit?", lo and behold I was looking at a "Fertility Monitor".  Now I'm not one to exaggerate (ok, maybe every now and again I might tend to do this a little), but I swear to you on my life that I heard a heavenly choir sing "ta-daaaaa" in 4 part harmony.

Honestly, I knew nothing about a Fertility Monitor.  However, being a woman who is attempting to conceive, it sounded promising. I asked the cashier how much it was.  It had been discounted 70% and was now less than one hundred dollars (so it was pretty expensive to begin with!).  In case you didn't realise this already, I'm a little on the OCD side of analytical.  I simply couldn't spend that amount of money on something without "googling" the heck out of it.

I returned home with my few items and went straight to the source of much of my knowledge: Google.  Turns out that this Fertility Monitor (which was still sitting on the shelf behind that cashier) seems to be The Answer for multitudes of women who are attempting to get preggers.

The trouble with trying to conceive is that it is a mathematical roll of the dice every month.  Am I even fertile?  Do I ovulate regularly if at all? Is there an underlying issue that would prevent conception?  Might I have PCOs without symptoms?  All of these thoughts (and many many more) started to swirl around inside my noggin lately.  After months of trying to conceive using everything from Ovulation Test Strips (no luck) to my Period Tracker App which tells me when I should be ovulating based on my cycle (my irregular cycle to boot)... no luck.  So, I began to wonder in great detail if I was ovulating or fertile as the weeks went on.  Hubby and I did our best to adhere to the projected schedule based on my calendar, but no dice.  Pretty soon I would have to go to the doctor in search of testing or perhaps a prescription like Clomid to assist in the process.

As I read on about the Fertility Monitor, I saw an tremendous amount of glowing feedback from women (and men) who believed that this monitor was the key to success.  The monitor itself works by peeing on a stick, and putting that stick into a computer which calculates the amount of the Luteinizing Hormone (LH) in your system.  This is important as a rise in LH signals the body preparing to release an egg.

Boy, this is long.  But important.  I will tell you that if you have made it this far and this is striking you as TMI or not of interest, then you might as well bail now.  Last chance....

Soooo... after a fortnight of googling and youtubing... I woke up and headed back to the store, praying that the box might still be on the shelf.  One thing about a closing out sale is that the stock is seldomly organized.  Basically everything is hit or miss, and the goods can end up scattered all over the store.  This time I lined up empty handed... I was 18th in the line just waiting to catch a glimpse of the shelf behind the cashier.

I got closer and closer to the cash, and finally could see the shelf where the box had been... and held my breath....

The White Flag

While I've managed to live my life largely unaware of the judgement of others, there have been a few times when I have been subjected to what I can only descibe as fat-phobia.

Fat-phobia is the term I use to describe the assumption that sitting next to me, spending time with me, or getting to know me may lead to one becoming obese like me.  I know it sounds foolish, but trust me - I've seen this in action.

I guess because of this I've been reluctant to share with other people that Hubby and I are trying to conceive.  Obviously, I've shared this with you all - but it is greatly due to the fact that only a handful of those on the web actually know me. 

I found myself today at an appointment for an xray - actually, it was a GI series - one which my family doctor had ordered no less than 10 months ago.  I didn't think much of it, and went about the routine of preparing for the test as prescribed.  I fasted, then got up at the crack of dawn and drove to the hospital.

While I awaited my turn, I noticed the signs plastered on the wall:  "Please advise the technician if you may be pregnant."

Sooo... first of all, IF I'm pregnant, it is extremely early... as in 48 hours post-ovulation kind of early.

As I walked into the exam room, my heart sped up and I flushed.  My options were to discuss this with the technician or avoid the topic.  After all, the last thing I wanted today was a lecture on how I should not reproduce at my humongous size...

I briefly considered not telling the technician and actually risking it - just to avoid judgement.

Then, thankfully, I took a big gulp and I spoke up for my potential embryo and also myself.

I informed the technician of my dilemma.  Usually they would send a patient to the lab for bloodwork to determine pregnancy, however at 48 hours post-ovulation, it is too early to get positive results in the bloodwork.  She was a nice lady who treated me with dignity and respect.  No lecture in sight.  Phew!

The Radiologist then came out of the back room to speak to me.  Again,  my heart lept into action like a loud drum in my ears and I suddenly developed a problem swallowing, I realised with impending doom that THIS was the very moment that I would get The Dreaded Lecture.  I pictured him coming at me, waving a finger, questioning me as to what right in heck did I figure I had to even TRY to bring a child into this world...

And yet, when I took a breath, I noticed that this was all imaginary.  The Doctor was not waving a finger in my face.  He had the most beautiful deep brown eyes, and appeared to be from the environs of India as he spoke with a rich and luxurious accent.  He advised me against the procedure given that it would be a series of mutiple x-rays and could be harmful if indeed I am pregnant.  (Also, there was no pressing medical urgency to me having the test done - the issue which resulted in me getting the referral all those months ago had seemed to have vanished).

He apologized for my wait, and for my time.  I thanked him for his time.

As I left the room, he called out these words (which I just may have to embroider on a pillow or paint on a wall).... "Oh, and Madam, one more thing:  good luck with the baby".

There you have it.  No lecture.  No judgement.  Only kind words, and well-wishes.

Perhaps I am as fat-phobic as anyone else.  I know I've been my own worst enemy for much of my life.  And while I talk about self-awareness and self-confidence, there is obviously still the tendancy to put myself down in between my two ears.

I'm not ready to go out there on a limb and proclaim to the Universe that I am hoping to bear a child...

But I'm no longer willing to let the negative track that runs through my mind remain on "repeat". 

To battle obesity is a challenge.  I must not only question what I put into my mouth and decipher its nutritional value.  I must also question every self-thought and ask myself if my judgement is of any value to progress in this battle.

Life is hard enough without battling MYSELF.  I'm waving the white flag, and surrendering to just try my best.

Mother's Day

It was a rough day for me yesterday.

Last month I was pretty sure that I had become pregnant.  I was patiently (ok, not really patiently) doing for the 2WW... which is lingo for the "two week wait" which is the hallmark of many couples who are trying to conceive.  Basically it is the two weeks post ovulation leading up to the arrival of one's menstrual cycle.  I know, I know.  TMI... but there you have it.

I had some of the symptoms that I have read about online.  My ability to smell anything from cough drops to fruit being peeled increased dramatically.  I was irritable at times, and also had a bit of cramping.  My boobs (again TMI, sorry) were tender.  And my appetite was wonky.

I found myself starting to do all sorts of things one would do if she found herself pregnant.  I day dreamed about nurseries, names, and offspring.  I fantasized about my dear Hubby holding his child for the first time.  In the meanwhile, I painted a mural in the nursery of our dear friend who is expecting her first child soon, and I secretly spent the whole time thinking of what I would paint on the walls of our own nusery...

Then low and behold, 3 days prior to the arrival of dear Auntie Flo (which would have meant testing time!) I no longer needed to test.  I suddenly found myself heartbroken. I felt like curling into a ball on the bathroom floor, but I didn't.

I'm not sure if I had what is known as a chemical pregnancy (which is a pregnancy that ends in the very early stages), or if I was never pregnant in the first place and just had my period early.  Either way, it was rough.

I kept most of this inside.  After all, how can I honestly grieve when I don't even know if I was pregnant?  Hubby has a million things on the go, and I felt like I couldn't burden him with the depths of my heartbreak.  It didn't even really make a whole lot of sense to me, so I dealt with it the best way I could.  I talked to a close friend and also a coworker.  Then I did my best to move on.

Along came Mother's day, and it hit me.  Next Mother's Day I'll be 40.  I know that people are now having kids into their 40s, but let's be honest here:  time is a ticking. 
I feel like the sand is falling through the hourglass at a fast rate and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

Some of you have asked me about adoption.  There is a 10 year waitlist where I live, and it is sadly against the law to advertise for a baby.  Foster parenting is a great idea, except I'm pretty sure that I would not be able to give a child back.  Overseas adoptions require a lot of money, and some of them even choose not to adopt to overweight or obese parents. 

I spent half of my adult life actively trying NOT to have kids and literally thanking God when Aunt Flo arrived to confirm that I had not become pregnant... Now, I would give anything to have the opportunity to give it a shot.  Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

I guess it goes to show you that life can change.  I've handled major changes before, and seen them as opportunities to move on in a new direction.

The problem I'm now facing is that I just can't see past my burning desire to have a child...  I can't imagine not having a baby... and I don't want to move in a direction that means not having one.  I used to find myself saying things like "when God closes a door He opens a window" and yet I honestly can't imagine what kind of window could open if I am not a mother.

I'm just realizing that part of me actually did curl into the fetal position last month, and that as much as I've tried to avoid grieving because it didn't seem logical, it doesn't change the fact that I still need to grieve - even if it is just for the opportunity that passed and for what wasn't.

Yet again this month I'll continue this dreaded dance of trying, wishing, hoping, praying, and waiting.

This much I know:  trying to conceive is an intensely personal thing, which has emotions as deep as the ocean.  Many couples struggle with this, and yet they often suffer in silence. 

It is very easy for me to suffer in silence as well, however I must choose to move on as best I can, which is the very reason that I am writing this post today.

To all of you mothers out there, hope you had a happy Mother's day.  I hope to one day be celebrating with you all.  This time around it just wasn't meant to be.

Hum Drum No More

It is an awesome thing to realise that even at my age, it is possible to discover talents within that have not really been recognised. 

I recently did a week-end workshop with an artist, and I was able to cultivate my artistic talents a great deal.  This is the second workshop I have done, and I must say it was great to come away feeling like I had talent!

Have you ever felt like one day of your life just blends into the next?  That you wake up, hit the alarm clock, go about your day, go to bed, and repeat the routine over and over again without a sense of purpose or definition?

I've never had depression, but I have definitely felt the "hum drum" feeling of a repetitious life without highlights.  When one day blends into the next, it does little to make one feel like there is a purpose to your existence.

Picasso I'm not.  I'm not even a close to Warhol and his Campbell's Soup painting. 
Its the same way that when I sing I'm not Adele or Bette Midler...

but...

Having the guts to get out there and try - that's what really counts.

I may never have a piece hanging in a gallery, or a song on the top-10 charts, but as long as I pursue my talents and interests then I am guaranteed a life that will end up to be a little less hum-drum and a lot more pleasing than not.

I've always had a healthy amount of self-confidence in some ways.  I wonder sometimes if I had to develop that approach to combat my own self-defeating approach based on my size.

It makes me wonder also if I successfully become "gutless", will I still have "guts"?  

I hope that whatever the future has in store for me-  I will be able to navigate it with the same (if not better) confidence and talents.

Get out there and find something that you are interested in but don't think that you could do.  You really won't know that you can't do it unless you try it.  I have a feeling that there might be skeletons in most of our closets that are based on things we think we can't do, but they are really things that we just haven't had the guts to try...

Maybe you will realise that you CAN hum, you CAN drum, you CAN cook, you CAN draw, or that you can do something that you've always wanted to do. 

I've got plenty of "guts" to go around if you need some...

WANTED: 1 stork

Yup, it's stork season.


Not for me dear reader, but honestly (and I'm not trying to sound like the Princess of Pity here even though I admit I have my lower lip fully engaged in pout-mode) every female around me seems to be preggers.

Ok, so not every female around me is with child, but let me put it to you this way... anyone over 15 and under 50 seems to be pregnant.

Obviously that can't be true.  But you know what it's like when you buy a new car?  For example, if you bought a new red honda civic, all you would likely notice on the road are red honda civics.

Well honestly I have not bought a baby, but all I see are pregnant ladies.  And babies.  And strollers.  And pacifiers.  And yes, even diapers.

I'm not sure if this is a mind-over-matter thing, or if my body is screaming at me to get to work.  Either way, it is leaving me with nothing but a deep longing in my heart and a pout on my face.

The business of baby-making is at least fun to try.  Although it can be frustrating to no end.

For now I'm left to soothe myself by doing things that I love to do in my spare time.  I have the honor of painting a mural in my friend's nursery, and I can't wait to start that project.  I also have a baby shower coming up - and I love showers.  I've already asked the hostess if she would consider handing out babies as the prizes, but no-go.

Thank God for the dog.  While I've learned that she absolutely detests being dressed up (yes, she has a selection of sweaters and sadly I tried to put a frock on her once...), she is quite a sook and a wonderful companion, and she tolerates my baby language.  I also tend to try to avoid stressing out my husband by talking about my baby clock, so she makes for a good audience.  As long as I give her a nice bone to chew on, she'll listen to anything I have to say.  That beats wearing a frock any day.

Sooo... I'm off to the mall today, where I'm sure to see legions of infants and kids.  One thing I hate to see are the parents dragging along a child who look exasperated... if only they knew how much I'd give to trade places and have to deal with a whining, screaming child.  Don't get me wrong:  I do know that having a child is not all Anne Geddes or Mary Poppins moments, and that parenting requires people to walk the line between "oh my god I just turned into my mother", and being scared shitless.

I just long to be there.  Bring me your dirty diapers, colic, and screaming temper tantrums, and I'll give you anything I have.

Do me a favor.  If you are lucky enough to have a child, make sure you hug them today for me.  

And for the love of God, if you see the stork.... send him my way.

Then along came a psychic...

Isn't it ironic just when you think you have a clear vision of where you are heading, life throws a few curves your way and totally muddles up whatever thoughts you had of where you were supposedly heading?

I want a baby.  I also want to shed the mantle of morbid obesity.

I'm 39.4 freakin' years old, and have NO idea which of these will come first.

Who can blame me for wanting a little guidance?  I'm an analytical person, and I admit that I tend to dive head-first into all sorts of academia and information about any given topic when researching a new concept or idea.  (Can you see yet where this is heading?  Hold on.... I'll  get you there I promise...)

Sooooo... re the baby thing:  I launched myself fully and completely at the world wide web.  Joined sites such as babycenter and groups such as "BBW and TTC".  If you aren't sure about those acronyms, first of all take a moment and thank your creator out loud.  (BBW = big beautiful women, a common acronym for us svelte female types, and TTC = trying to conceive).  Within a fortnight I had amassed all of the information anyone could possibly absorb about the virtues of the reproductive system and exactly how mathematical and precise the business of getting one's self knocked up IS.  (And, in case you didn't know, the statistical probability of getting pregnant is not exactly as simple as doing the horizontal mambo on every second or third night... please don't make me go further into detail here, let's face it we would BOTH regret it, and I tend to prefer not to venture into the whole TMI territory if it can at all be avoided).  My point?  I quickly mapped out a system whereby I suddenly was tracking temperature, ovulation, and other bodily functions that still make me blush.  I downloaded 2 apps and stopped when I found myself searching for a 3rd version of the same.

Add to all of this analysis the issue of my weight.

I investigated options, and then launched myself also fully and completely into the realm of information that exists about this gastric bypass surgery.  Yada yada yada... its complicated but at least I don't have to worry about charting my basal temp.  Insert half-hearted laugh.

Soooo back to my story.  Given that it is a known fact that I am an information hound and tend to dig up whatever I can... is it any wonder that I'd go from the internet to support groups to specialists to whomever I could think of for guidance short of a priest?

That, my friends, is how I ended up at a psychic.


To make a long story short (which come to think of it - one day, I'll probably tell the whole story anyhow but in the interest of time and my awaiting bubble bath, I'm going to keep this to the shorter one), here's the coles notes version of the information he presented to me * without me having even asked a single question*:

1. Your size is pre-determined before you are conceived.
2. The invitation for family and babies is all around me.
3. My dearly departed grandmother (also a big-boned lady) is frankly pissed because I'm even thinking about losing weight - she wants me to be with child ASAP.
4. As if number 3 wasn't weird enough, the cards say surgery won't happen.
5. I'll miscarry my first child, a boy, because I can't carry boys.
6. I'll have 2 girls close together but my parents will die before they are born.

Yeah so I'm stopping at 6 because it still freaks me out. Trust me, this list goes on (and on... and on....).  Part of me is sitting here wondering if the psychic/medium guy knew that I'd be blogging about this down the road... weird.

So I've been wondering about life in general you see.  It's true, my Nanny was a large lady (not nearly as large as I, but large nonetheless).  She had 8 kids and a whole bunch of miscarriages.  She loved me to bits, and I her.

Would she really be pissed at me?  Would she encourage me to ignore my health?  Could it be possible that she really did send some sort of message from beyond to try to convince me to keep on keeping on and to banish the thought of intervening with my body???

Nah. 

Nan, if you're reading this, I'm sorry that I may have offended you.  You were (are?) a beautiful person with a beautiful spirit (which seems to be lingering...).  I'm also sorry that it took me 39 years to get my head screwed on straight enough to be in a position to actually try to conceive.... but here I am.  I want kids, but I also want a life... and in order to live that life I'm going to need to focus on my health and my body.  No disrespect at all intended, but I gotta get this done.  I loved (love?) you every minute of every day, and I could only wish that you might be around to see my alleged offspring (although according to the psychic/medium dude, you seem to be hanging out around me anyhow, which honestly is freaking me out just a bit... any chance you can go sit on the shoulder of one of my cousins who actually has her shit together??)

[exit stage right - the bubble bath awaits]

Taking Flight

I'm back from a wonderful vacation down south!  I shopped 'til I almost dropped, and even though I had vowed out loud to NOT buy too much clothes given that I'm trying my best to shrink... the cheap clearance prices got the better of me and I ended up getting a "few" things.  But like I said to my dear Hubby, when you see awesome boots on sale that happen to be your size (10W) that were originally $79.95 but reduced to $9.99, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do...

I remained mindful of nutritional needs, and also kept control of my old nemesis; mindless snacking.  I made sure to have at least one protein smoothie a day, which helped me curb the desire to graze like a happy bovine in a green field.  I felt good, and for the first time ever... I enjoyed the heat to the point where I came home with a tan.

There was one small glitch.  I travelled down south with my parents, which allowed me to have wonderful seat-mates.  I had managed to push aside my fears of an irate seat-mate on the return flights until a few days prior to my departure...

First of all, let me set the record straight.  I completely understand the displeasure that it would cause to sit next to someone who is spilling over into the next seat.  I get it.  It's not pretty, and would make for a pretty darned uncomfortable flight.  However... I took any and all precautions possible to avoid inconveniencing someone else.  I called the airline 3 days prior to departure and asked if there were any empty seats.  Nope.  Then I asked if I might be able to sit next to a child.  Nope - and I'm lucky I explained my way off of the "this lady is a perv do-not-fly list".  Once I informed the kind lady that I spoke to (who was clearly working in an over-seas call center)  that I was a person of size, she reminded me that the policy with this particular airline is that if you "only" need one seatbelt extender and not two, you need not buy another seat.    Any chance of changing flights to ones less crowded?  Nope.

So... I did what any sensible person would do.  I upgraded to first class, and saved both a small fortune with my luggage fees and also my humility as I fit quite well into the 23 inch leather seat, and was a comfortable and polite distance away from the business man who shared my row.  No, I didn't find the money tree in Florida... I merely lucked into a very helpful gate agent who pointed out that anyone could upgrade if it was available.   First class was lovely and spacious... and I didn't even take advantage of the free (alcoholic) beverages because even I had better sense than to push my luck with an airplane washroom...

Now I am settled back into my home and the routine that comes with it, and yet I find myself thinking of the bends and turns that I've been on so far with this weight-loss journey.  In preparing for surgery I am merely once again preparing to take flight, and taking whatever precautions I can do to make sure it is a pleasant one.

I have been lucky enough to have travelled a fair bit and seen a few corners of parts of the world, even though I have always been overweight. 

I am truly looking forward to future travels when I hopefully won't have to worry about causing discomfort to a fellow traveller or to myself.

Spreading my wings has been easy... I'm just looking forward to carrying a lighter load with me as I fly!

Vacation

Here I am in sunny Florida. It is gorgeous down here. Florida is the land of sunny beaches, cheap shopping, and endless treats. I started out good. Stocked the fridge with no-sugar added snacks, salads, and yes- protein shakes. Today though I found myself at an outlet mall. I managed to skip the food court. But on the way to Starbucks for an oatmeal lunch, I was drawn into a chocolate specialty store, and next thing I knew I was walking out of the store with a "turtle apple", which was a huge green apple on a stick covered in caramel, pecans, and chocolate. My initial happiness and finding such a huge treat was soon diminished by the surging guilt I felt, knowing that I desperately want to change my life and am considering such an extreme as surgery to do so. These are the times of action. I cannot effectively change my life and retain my crappy eating habits, and nutritional neglect. And I can't afford to mindlessly swallow even an iota. An overwhelming, surging sense came through me to DO something, So, I immediately stopped eating the magical treat that found it's way into my hand at a cost of $8.95 and then I chucked it int the nearest bin. Now I know full well that there are children starving and that throwing out food is a colossal waste, but trust me, neither myself nor those kids need such food. I have to keep my mind in the game even on vacation. Sure, I could throw caution to the wind, eat like I used to because I'm on vacation, and then face re-losing whatever I gain once I get home... OR I could eat sensibly, still enjoy my vacation, but avoid the gain and the guilt. There is a lot to be said for eating well. My mind feels like there is less clutter rattling around between my two ears. When I eat something that I know I shouldn't, I dont enjoy it anymore because I feel guilty and ashamed. But when i watch whatever I eat, I feel empowered and in control. Today I learned an important lesson. It is easy to recover from a mistake. Just chuck whatever it is, and move on.... Or don't buy it to begin with.

My Body is A Vessell

My body is a physical structure magnificently knit together from things such as sinew, muscle, skin, bone, cells, and blood.  My body was designed as a vessell; one with the extraordinary solitary purpose of sheltering my soul.

If I close my eyes, I can still see.  I see with the sharpest of precision the person that I am inside;  with all of the elements both good and bad that make me who I am.  This person is who I am, and who I will be no matter what my vessell looks like.

If I picture my body as a real vessell such as a ship, I would want to have the best ship possible to carry me through both the smooth sailing and the rough currents that my journey through this life would take me.  I don't need to have a luxurious yacht or a superliner.  I would choose to have a sturdy vessell which could carry me as long as possible.

The neglect I have subjected myself to for over 30 years is astounding. Many skipped meals combined with many meals where I have over-indulged have wrecklessly damaged my vessell.  Also, the countless times where I sought to sooth myself with food have only truly been times of self-abuse, and have also damaged my ship. 

I have not cared for my myself - the self that I see inside.
I have not cared for my vessell - my shelter of my soul.

No matter what lengths I may now go to in order to repair my vessell, I have to remember that I also need to keep an eye on the soul that it carries.  A body is a shell.  If the inner core is damaged, it too needs tending. 

I will repair my vessell and also the soul that sails within it.
I am dedicated to getting the most out of this journey.

This is the song that my soul often sings.  The lyrics are below.

On the floating, shipless oceans
I did all my best to smile
til your singing eyes and fingers
drew me loving into your eyes.
And you sang "Sail to me, sail to me;
Let me enfold you."
Here I am, here I am waiting to hold you.
Did I dream you dreamed about me?
Were you here when I was full sail?
Now my foolish boat is leaning, broken lovelorn on your rocks.
For you sang, "Touch me not, touch me not, come back tomorrow."
Oh my heart, oh my heart shies from the sorrow.
I'm as puzzled as a newborn child.
I'm as riddled as the tide.
Should I stand amid the breakers?
Or shall I lie with death my bride?
Hear me sing: "Swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you."
"Here I am. Here I am, waiting to hold you."

Full Fluids: I came, I saw, I flushed...

This is the eve of my last day of fluids, and I have absolutely enjoyed the past 2 weeks.  I enjoyed the freedom of creativity with regards to mixing smoothies, and had a blast coming up with interesting flavours.  I had a clinical session at the hospital this past week, and I've done terrific (at least 18lbs gone by 11 days in)!  It was the first time in my life that a dietician has actually been impressed.  Who would'a thunk it??

I'm in the home stretch now - counting down the days before I pack my bags and head down south next week.  I'm looking forward to getting to the sunshine, and I'm especially looking forward to visiting some of my favourite restaurants - with a plan for continued success of course.  I'm actually going to be packing my magic bullet blender and protein powder in my bags so that I can have at least one shake or smoothie a day.  Even though the fluid restriction will have ended, I'm going to keep tracking my calories, intake, and protein so that I can keep myself in a state of preparation for changing my life.

The one negative thing about the fluids is that when your diet is based on fluid, you end up using the washroom a lot more frequently.  The first couple of nights it was not unusual for me to have to get up during the night four or five times to use the washroom.  Oh well - at least I wasn't up with indigestion from cramming too much junk into my gut! 

Speaking of indigestion, I haven't had so much as a single solitary Tum or Rolaid since this started.  I'm going to stick with water and not return to diet pop.

I learned this week that big changes start with little steps, so I'm hoping to at least be able to remember to take those little steps everyday.  This liquid phase is only part of the preparation for surgery, and not a diet that can be maintained long-term.  But it feels real good to have gotten this far and done so well. 

Maybe, just maybe, I'll make it this time.  Just imagine the possiblities!  For now I'll keep loving myself enough to watch what I'm eating, and make sure that I'm getting the basic nutritional needs in every day.   I'll track, count calories and protein, and eat 3 meals a day.  And I'll keep thinking positive and focus on the fact that my life can truly change - if I have the courage to let it!