Exactly one
year ago today, on August 21, 2013, I had Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery. Today,
therefore, is my 1st “surg-iversary.” Perhaps this is old news to you… but
it’s not one year old news, because this secret was mostly under wraps until recently. Why,
you ask? I’m still asking that
question myself, but this indeed is my first public “outing.” Read on if you’d like to satisfy your own
curiosity or indulge my need to finally share the story.
I was
starting to write, “It all began last May,” when I realized that that’s not at
all when it began. Truly, the story
starts at my first Diet Workshop meeting, 36 years ago, when I was 9 years old
and in the fourth grade. I feel a deep
sense of sadness when I remember that chubby little girl stepping onto the
check-in scale for the very first time, surrounded mostly by middle-aged and senior
women seeking wisdom and fellowship on their weight loss journeys. Not a single peer in sight, I realized in
that moment that I had a problem reserved for grown-ups. What a fat, ugly,
worthless little girl I must be if I, alone, was given this burden in
childhood. And so truly begins my story….
I have
ALWAYS had a weight problem. Even the
photos of my toddler self in a ballerina tutu predict what was bound to be a
life-long battle of the bulge. Over the
years, I’ve tried it all: Weight Watchers (at least 25 times… I’m a Lifetime
Member!), gym memberships, my ill-conceived Facebook diet, HMR, Woman’s World,
Zagorra hot pants, cleanses… you name it. I had occasional success, in fact losing 60 lbs. in my 20s on the Weight
Watchers at Work program (thank you, Lotus Development), but my lost pounds
always found their way home. At 44 years
old, I was ever-so-close to accepting my fate as a forever fatty when I decided
to pick up the phone and call a friend.
At the time,
of course, I didn’t know that the conversation would be step one in changing my
life forever. My call was to a pal who
had chosen gastric bypass surgery four years earlier and who appeared to have
had quite amazing success. And, even
though I clearly remember telling my husband how absolutely crazy she was to
risk her life for weight loss surgery and how I would never, ever, in a million
years consider such a drastic step, I now found myself out of options and
wondering if this might be the answer for me too. I asked what I thought to be rather
intelligent questions about her experience with both the surgery and the
recovery, but it was this statement that unlocked the gate for me… “Beth,
I do a lot of things really well, but weight loss isn’t one of them.”
Freedom.
That’s the only word to describe the gift that was found in her words. I had made hundreds of valiant attempts at
weight loss with genuine confidence that I would finally be able to defeat the
dragon on my own. It hadn’t worked. Each and every time I failed, the only thing
I lost was another chunk of self-worth.
Perhaps I too could surrender, take someone’s hand and ask for help?
With a sparkle of hope in my
heart, my husband and I attended an information session to learn more about
weight loss surgery. Together, we decided
that I’d complete the evaluation process and trust that the results would lead
us down the right path. The summer of
2013 was spent meeting with bariatric surgeons, neurologists, cardiologists, nutritionists,
and psychologists. And, after thorough
inspections of, literally, my heart and soul, they deemed me a qualified
candidate. Now the decision was fully mine.
I’ll admit that, during the
months of May, June and July, there was no question in my mind that I would
move forward with the surgery. As I
learned more at my doctor’s visits, talked with other friends who had chosen
bariatric surgery (thanks, ladies… you know who you are!), and researched the subject online, I was convinced that this was the solution for me. And then the call came to inform me that my
surgery had been approved and we were ready to set the date. In that very moment, uncertainty washed over
me. Was I risking too much? What if I was one of the 0.5% who die as a result
of the surgery? How could I possibly
leave behind a wonderful husband and four awesome kids… a family that was
incredibly hard to build… simply to lose weight. Would my friends and family judge my choice?
Would they think me the ultimate failure? What if I went through with the
surgery and it didn’t work? What
if? What if? What if?
And then I asked myself… What if your blood pressure continues to
rise? What if your sleep apnea can never
be controlled? What if you have a
stroke? What if you have a heart
attack? What if you develop colon cancer? What if you live your remaining days feeling
entirely overwhelmed by your size? What
if? What if? What if?
Saying “yes” to bariatric surgery
was simply the most selfish yet most generous gift I ever gave to myself. In the end, I was convinced (and I still am)
that surgery would afford me a longer life with my family. It would improve the quality of my declining health
and, as a bonus, it might even help me to buy back some of that self-worth that
I had lost along the way. I said “yes” and then an entirely new wave of questions
hit me square in the face.
To tell or not to tell?
Throughout the evaluation process, only a handful of our nearest and
dearest knew that I was considering surgery.
In fact, for fear that they would disapprove, I didn’t share my surgery
date with my parents until two days prior, and – as predicted – it was not met
with a positive response. They begged me to wait 10 years, until the kids were
out of school and mostly independent.
They called me selfish. They
told me I was stupid to choose elective surgery. They sent me articles quoting death rates. And then, six hours after my surgery, they
entered my hospital room with tears in their eyes and told me that they loved me and that they were
afraid they would lose me. Isn’t it
interesting how much fear plays a
role in the decisions that we make and the words that we choose? It was both fear and shame that would keep me
from sharing my surgery secret for many months to come.
Recovery was equally hard and
scary in the first thirty days. The
liquid diet slowly transitioned to soft food like scrambled eggs and greek yogurt,
and I was eating small protein-rich meals by the end of week six. I tried to avoid events that would require
food or beverage intake as I evaluated what my body could or could not
handle. And, on a few occasions, like in
the North Street School parking lot, after a parent/teacher conference, I raced
to find a private space where I could throw up.
The scary part wasn’t managing the food, though; it was managing my
expectations of the scale.
I assumed that the weight would
just fly off of me. Haven’t you seen
Star Jones or Al Roker? Didn’t they go
from fluffy to flat in a matter of weeks?
Well, that wasn’t my experience.
My surgeon, the nutritionist, the nurse practitioner and my own primary
care doctor all assured me that losing slowly is the healthy way to go… that I
may experience less hair loss, that my body will heal faster, that the
nutrients will absorb better, that yah-dee-yah-dee-yah. I didn’t want to hear it. I had said yes to major surgery and if this
damn procedure didn’t work, I was going to be pissed. The end.
They were right. The losses started and stopped almost
cyclically, and once I got below the magic number (we call it “One-derland” and
you can probably figure it out), my sense of panic subsided. At this point, some people noticed my weight
loss and offered their congratulations.
I accepted it but felt it was entirely undeserved. Some went so far as to ask how I was losing
the weight. With 100% truth but not 100%
full disclosure, I explained that I had significantly changed my eating habits,
that I was on a high protein diet and that I had broken up with my beloved Diet
Pepsi. (Bariatric surgery = no more carbonated beverages.) My husband joked that soda sales were
going to plummet thanks to my half-truth, but I still wasn’t ready to share my
story.
During the psychological
evaluation that was required prior to surgery, I was told that it was not
uncommon for people to feel depressed after surgery. What? Depressed?
After achieving something that seemed unachievable? After going off of meds? After buying new clothes? After walking up a flight of stairs without feeling
winded? That’s just crazy, I
thought. And then came the blues.
I’m not sure what played the
biggest role. Guilt about not coming clean about my surgery? Fear
that I would be judged? Shame that I couldn’t lose weight (and
keep it off) on my own? Or was it that,
now, at a shrinking size, people seemed to approve of me more. If they liked how I looked now, they must
have hated how I looked then. Even when my
husband hugged me and said, “you feel so good,” I wept, because all that
entered my mind was how I must have repulsed him for most of our married
life. I was in limbo… not embracing my
new shell and feeling betrayed by my old one.
Between months two and eight, I was in a very dark place.
One of my most telling moments
came in month seven when I participated in a group service trip to Guatemala
with my mother. It was February and new
t-shirts and capris were in order for the 70-80 degree temperatures that we
were anticipating. Dressed now in size
medium from head to toe, I was not feeling at all like myself, so I found it
quite interesting, in retrospect of course, that by day two of our journey, I
had revealed to my new traveling companions that I had undergone bariatric
surgery the previous summer. It was as
if I was saying… “I’m an imposter. This
is not the real Beth. You could have met
her last year when she was wearing size XL.”
Why would I find it nearly
impossible to tell my friends and family about my surgery and yet feel
absolutely compelled to share it with absolute strangers?
I guess it’s because I’ve ALWAYS
been an open book… until now. After
struggles with fertility and the ups and downs of adoption (both domestic and international),
I truly considered myself to be the “go-to” girl for information. “Ask me anything,” I would say. But my weight loss struggles seemed somehow
more personal than my family building ones.
So, unless you were one of the dozen people who asked me if I was dying,
I likely didn’t “come out” to you until recently.
So what’s it like to step out of
the bariatric closet? For one thing, it
doesn’t necessarily happen in an organized way.
What I had hoped would be a methodical unveiling with those closest to
me learning my secret first turned into something entirely different. You see, it’s not a subject that’s easy to
broach, so there were plenty of planned outings that never happened because I
simply chickened out. Or, there were
times when my friends had stuff happening in their lives that was clearly much
more important than my news, so it seemed insensitive to share. For lots of different reasons, I didn’t
necessarily honor the placement of people in my life with the timing of our
eventual conversation. And the good girl
that I am feels rather crappy about that.
I’m sorry if you feel betrayed. And
I’m also sorry that I have spent so much time worrying that you feel betrayed.
I tend to think that my weight
indeed “shaped” (no pun intended) the woman that I became. You see, I’ve always liked the person that I
am on the inside. I’ve been a people-pleaser for as long as I can remember, and I’ve essentially dedicated my life
to serving my family and my community, near and far. Would I
have (often desperately) sought the approval of others if my self-esteem was
fully intact? Has my life been full of
do-gooder actions because I wanted you to like me… to really, really like me? I think we all know the answers to those
questions. I’ve been looking for love
and validation every darn day of my life… ever since my nine year old self stepped on the scale at
that Diet Workshop meeting so many moons ago.
And now for the burning questions… Are you
indeed healthier now? Yes, I’ve been
off of my blood pressure medication and CPAP machine since last November. Did you achieve your weight loss goal? I truly never had a number in mind. My only two goals were to sit higher in the water than my husband in a double kayak and to be able to wear the wedding ring that I had to have cut off of my finger 17 years ago. Yes and sparkly yes. And how
much weight have you lost? Well, I won’t tell
you the number, but I will tell you
that I’ve lost the equivalent of an average fourth grader. (You can Google it.)
Yup… I was holding her inside of me for
36 years, but – with these words - I’m finally ready to set her free.
One final story… About a month ago, I was snuggling with my 10 year old son and he mentioned that he could wrap his arms all the way around me. So, I took the opportunity to ask him how he felt about my surgery. His response? “Happy.” “Why are you happy,” I asked? “Because you’re happy now, Mom.”
Sometimes, the greatest gift you give yourself turns out to be the greatest gift you give to those you love the most.
