When I decided to write this blog, I did a lot of research about what it means to produce “good” writing. The theme of the research was that “good” writing should be both authentic and vulnerable. I’m not sure what that looks like or what that means. When I write about my story, it physically hurts. Sometimes the tears from pain, sadness, and heartbreak spill down my cheeks, and I can barely see through them. I just keep writing because I want to be authentic and vulnerable. This blog post is the beginning of the “official” bariatric weight loss journey, so the tone is going to change a bit. The first three posts were the multi-path journey that led to the decision to have the surgery.
The first step in having an elective surgery was finding out if our insurance company would approve or cover the procedure. On his birthday, my husband received word from the insurance company: “Weight loss surgery including the gastric sleeve procedure is eligible for coverage under your plan.” The letter continues by providing a link to a list of “designated weight loss surgery providers.”
Although the “designated weight loss surgery providers” came directly from our insurance company and we were told that we were covered, still the letter, strangely and a bit unsettling, came with a caveat stating: “Please note that a provider appearing on the list above is not a guarantee that they are in-network for your specific health plan.” The insurance company says: Yes, the procedure is covered. AND here is a list of people who we want to do your surgery, BUT make sure that the provider is “in-network” for your plan. My question is, we went directly to the insurance company to make sure everything was covered under OUR plan, why would they give us providers who would be “out-of-network?” These logical questions, as well as future ones, I didn’t ask. Once I make a decision, I push forward with that decision against all logic, setbacks or roadblocks. Looking back, jumping in with both feet without looking for sharks, was negligent on our part. But after Chicago, there was no turning back. I was going to do this!
We chose one surgery provider out of the 12 listed. We chose our provider because this was the same hospital system where our Physician’s Assistant works. I wish I could say my husband and I did research on the providers or thought about how this would be a good place because they could share my information with my primary doctor through their software systems. But none of this crossed our minds.
I called the “Surgical Weight Loss Clinic” located in one of the stereotypically richest areas in the city. Maybe for some people this would mean quality or extravagance, and in some ways, it did. I have to say, several times we enjoyed the valet parking service the hospital provided.
On my first phone call with the clinic, I was scheduled for an “information session” on June 28, 2016, at 7:00pm. The only question she asked was, “What kind of surgery are you hoping to have?” “Gastric Sleeve” was my response. The person on the phone didn’t ask why I chose this procedure; she just said I was to bring my identification and health insurance card. I thought this was really strange for something called an “information session.” Blindly, I followed their instructions. We were to meet in the Au Fait room. I had never been to this hospital, and I should have asked for directions on how to get to the Au Fait room. I didn’t.
I was nervous on June 28th for this hour long presentation. I dressed in my cutest clothes: black skort, sheerish red tank, and a black, short sleeve, cotton, lightweight cover-up jacket. I wore a pendant with a fake red stone in it, and my only pair of sandals. I thought I looked adorable, but I hardly ever looked in the mirror before surgery. Sure, a glance here or there to make sure something was on straight and nothing in my teeth, but I never REALLY looked into a mirror.
My husband and I work about a mile away from each other and often carpool to work, so instead of going home, we went out to dinner at a sushi bar, Nakamori. My husband and I walked in just in time for happy hour. We both had 2 glasses of plum wine and several rolls of sushi. I’m not good with chopsticks, so I dropped a piece or two on my shirt causing some stains. After we finished, we had time for dessert. We shared a Tempura Ice Cream and a Cheese Cake Tempura … basically deep fried ice cream and cheese cake. It was all delicious, and we were in high spirits from the food and the drinks.
I remember every moment of this meal.
This was the last one I ate for pure pleasure.
I wasn’t worried about the consequences; instead, I was in the moment, enjoying each bite.
The sushi place is about 6 blocks from the hospital, and neither of us could find a map of the inside of the hospital. I allowed my husband to just park in the parking ramp he figured would be the closest. Once we were in the parking ramp, I took off my shirt and turned it inside out to hide the soy sauce stains, touched up my makeup and lipstick, and we were off.
We walked in the closest door to the parking lot and it was a door at the corner of two empty hallways, with the exception of a bench. I promptly sat down on the bench and my husband wandered off to find a map or something. He managed to find a volunteer information person. He asked her where the Au Fait room was, and she said she didn’t know. They both looked at the map she had, and the Au Fait room was not marked on the map. Instead, she simply pointed to where it should be: on the far end of the hospital from where I sat on that bench.
My husband offered to go get the car, pick me up and drop me off at the closest door to the room. I thought that was absurd. I knew if we took it slowly, I would make it there. The problem was that I was anxious now because we were going to be late. The bottom of my feet rubbed against the leather of the sandals and began to burn as we walked. My lower back cramped up, and I was forced to sit down every chance I got.
By the time we made it to the Au Fait room, I was hot and out of breath. My feet burned so badly, I was anxious to sit down and take off my shoes. Instead, I stood in a line where a nurse, who I would come to recognize as the only “nice” nurse in their organization, checked my insurance card and ID. I was handed a pale-yellow packet, “Gastric Sleeve Surgery and You,” and was told to sit down for the presentation.
The first thing I noticed as we were finding seats is that every person (but my husband) was a woman, and they were all dressed in black. The chairs were extra, extra large, looked a bit like this one:
and were incredibly uncomfortable.
As I sat down, I heard a woman whisper, “Wow. You’re not as big as her.”
This was both the end and the beginning for me.