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...