The Scale

After waiting several minutes in the waiting room for my first doctor visit on July 8, 2016, my husband was escorted to an exam room, and I was escorted to a scale.

Side note: When I was 7, and I had “gotten fat.” I knew I gained weight because I had this awesome orange sweater with a penguin on it.  It fit perfectly at the beginning of 2nd grade, and by the end of the school year, my mother told me to put it in the “garage sale” box because I was too big for it.

I remember the exact moment the scale changed from a simple, subjective object to an emotionally charged monster that measured my self worth. We didn’t have a scale at home, and we were weighed twice a year. At the end of 2nd grade, I emotionally connected the scale in gym class with the loss of my favorite sweater.  My first diet came in 4th grade, or when I was 9. My parents gave me a product called “Get In Shape, Girl.” I had the ribbon edition, see below:

Get In Shape, Girl came with an audio cassette that would shout out the exercises I was to perform with my ribbon. In the upstairs hallway of my childhood home, I ran back and forth with my ribbon several times a week for months. This product didn’t teach me that exercise is important; it taught me that because I was fat, I didn’t get to have real toys or have real fun. Nope. Being fat meant that your “play” was exercise.

But, the diet didn’t work. My parents felt it was important to humiliate me for my weight but did not feel it was important to educate themselves on proper nutrition for their children or themselves. When I stepped on the scale at the end of school that year, I hadn’t lost any weight. Instead, I gained a pound. I worked so hard. My mother told me my weight was good because at least it was just one pound unlike the other years where I had gained so many. When I got home that day, I put the damn ribbon and the cassette tape in the “garage sale” box. End side note

The gym scale eventually turned into a bathroom scale in my childhood bathroom which turned into my own scale in college and graduate school which turned into a scale at my husband’s house when I moved in. That was the end of scales in my life until after the information session. We brought a digital scale into our apartment that was not wide enough for me to stand on without squishing myself onto it performing a feat of balance. I was too fat to fit on a scale purchased at Target.

The first time I stepped on the scale the number appeared was the largest number I had ever seen or will ever see again. The number was terrifying; I instantly screamed and cried. I didn’t have a penguin sweater to tell me about the weight I had gained. I had simply filled out my big and baggy clothes a bit more.

I knew I was going to be weighed at this first appointment, so I wore my favorite blue jeans, my Bob’s Burgers T-Shirt that read “Tina is my animal spirit,” and sandals. I made sure both my stomach and bowels were completely empty. As I look back on the decision of what to wear and being completely empty for that weigh in, I wish I had made a different one. I would have worn a coat, kept my shoes on and eaten a massive meal beforehand. This would have given me a bit more ammunition in the fight against the weight loss war that was to come.

I was scared. I was afraid the doctor would reject me for the gastric sleeve surgery. After I had accepted this was the path I was going to take, I feared the doctor would block my entrance. I made sure I was as light as I could be in order to get clearance to begin the journey.

The scale, much like the chairs at the weight loss clinic, is an exaggeratedly large size. It is double the size of the scale at my primary care doctor’s office, which doesn’t sound odd upon first glance, except that the scale at the primary doctor’s office is handicapped accessible to accommodate people in wheelchairs. The scale at the weight loss clinic can accommodate at least 2 people in wheelchairs.

I was told to remove my shoes and step on the scale. As I did this, a new ritual was born. Every single time I stepped on the scale in front of these people, I was greeted with a “mmm-huh” noise and a loud pen scribbling down the number. The number was clearly visible to me, as it was also much larger than necessary.

This scale became my enemy and my obsession. That number was the number they would use to calculate my pre-surgery weight loss requirement.

Every weigh in is a nightmare on this scale because no matter how large my obsession with that number was, it could never outweigh the clinic’s. You were “good” if the number was the right one, and “bad” if it wasn’t. To them, I’m a statistic. My success with the number on the scale means one more notch in their belt of one more person either becoming a success story or a failure.

Even when I hit their goals, they do not praise me in any way. They never tell me I’m doing a good job with my weight and obviously following their program. I wonder what they are striving for. What sort of “perfection” do I need to be?

I was escorted back to the exam room where my husband was sitting on a giant chair, his hand open so I could put mine in his.

The Gatekeeper

July 8, 2016: The day of my first doctor’s appointment at the weight loss clinic began by pulling on my favorite Bob’s Burgers black t-shirt and a pair of comfortable jeans, believing somehow these articles of clothing would protect me or give me comfort.

I was anxious. I was afraid they would find something wrong with me, and I would not be able to have surgery and be stuck in my body size the rest of my life. After the education session, I firmly believed the only answer to weight loss was surgery.

Side note: Every day I am vigilant to rail against the surgery brainwashing. At the education session, and during the months of preparation for the surgery, I was told over and over again about how surgery is the only answer to “real, long lasting weight loss.” Since I became more mobile after the second month post surgery, I have become the type of person I feared — A person who looks at others as potential weight loss surgery candidates. The brainwashing is so innate and severe, when I see an overweight person, my first thought is: “I wonder if they have thought about surgery.”

Fortunately, therapy has helped me become acutely self-aware. When the first thought becomes conscious, I admonish myself. I make myself recognize how beautiful, amazing and strong that person is. They are outside the house, moving around, in yoga classes, at the coffee shop living their lives. They are doing things I found impossible due to fear of people or due to the pain walking caused before surgery. I send them positive thoughts and strength for them to love themselves and find a place to exist in this world that does not make a place for overweight people to fit. End side note.

Returning to the same hospital where we attended the information session, my husband found the closest parking ramp to the weight loss clinic’s office. I was wearing the same sandals I wore the night of the information session, and the walk from the parking lot to the clinic burned my feet. My sharp back pain forced me to sit down halfway between the parking ramp and the office.

Breathless, I stepped to the front desk to speak with a thin, older woman. The woman stood up and said “Hello” with a look of recognition and  through an obviously fake smile. She expressed a familiarity with me that made me uncomfortable. She asked me, “Who might you be?”

Seriously? “Who might you be?” This phrase is uttered by adults to children or animals with their hands on their knees while they bend over to look at the child or the animal.

I told her my name, and she squinted her eyes, looking at me skeptically, as if I wasn’t who I said I was. Then after several awkward silent moments, she turned around and picked up a piece of paper off a table behind her. She placed the paper on the counter between us and looked over her glasses at me. The paper was a print out of all of my information, and she slowly, very slowly went down each box reading my name, my address, my insurance etc. She used a pen to point at each of the boxes to make sure the information was correct. Aside from the obvious violation of HIPAA as my information was laying completely printed and out in the open AND her reading my information loud enough to the entire waiting room, each answer I gave was met with the same skeptical look.

The look made me feel like she thought I was lying or confused. I felt like I was a child lost in a store and telling the security guard my mom’s information, but he doesn’t believe me when I say I’m lost. Finally she released me and told me to sit in the waiting room. This was my first day at the clinic. I was ashamed, anxious and embarrassed because I was there to ask for help. What I expected and wanted to see from the first person representing the clinic that day was empathy, compassion and kindness. Instead, I was treated like a child and a suspicious liar at the same time.  

As far as the actual appointment, it will be covered in future posts. But for now, I will be sticking to the gatekeeper.

GATEKEEPERS

After the appointment finished, I had to speak to her again with a green slip of paper the nutritionist handed to me to schedule the next appointment. This was another excruciating encounter, as she awkwardly fiddled with the schedule much longer than a person should. The appointment was over and all I wanted to do was get to the car before the tears started flowing. Instead, she became a roadblock; a way for the weight loss clinic to make sure I would return.

Once I finally had an appointment, using the same pen she used earlier, she slowly wrote in large, grandiose cursive writing the date and time of the next appointment  as if she was making a beautiful piece of calligraphy art.

Again, I thought this just must be the way she behaves at the first appointment. Nope. This is how she behaves at EVERY appointment. She asks for my information in the exact same way EVERY time.

She doesn’t behave this way with just me. No, this is her behavior with all of the bariatric surgery patients. Her behavior reinforces the stereotypes that fat people are lazy and stupid. Before the surgery, her behavior reinforced the treatment I received in the world. After the surgery, her behavior is a reminder that no matter how much weight I lose, I will still be overweight and stuck facing these stereotypes.

Now, I work every day to not allow people to make me feel like a lazy, stupid child. Some days are easy, other days suck. Weight loss clinic appointment days are one of the latter. I have hope that one day they will be the former.

Thou Shalt Never

Once I was sold a weight loss surgery, the information session continued on and on. Two women who didn’t understand the concept of presentations – the presenter talks and only the presenter talks – provided constant commentary on each slide, and they also fell into the category of heckling like Statler and Waldorf from the Muppet Show.

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The doctor explained the 3 surgeries the weight loss clinic will provide in high school health book detail. Then he moved on to the list of activities we could never do again if we chose surgery. According to the presentation,

WE CAN NEVER:

  • Drink Soda or any other “fizzy” drinks
  • Use a Straw
  • Chew Gum
  • Drink Caffeine
  • Drink Alcohol
  • Eat Hard Candies
  • Eat Coconut
  • Smoke
  • Snack between the 3 meals per day
  • Drink less than 64 ounces of fluid per day
  • Drink less than a ½ hour before a meal and after a meal
  • Skip Vitamins
  • Drink Very Cold Fluids

This list took a very long time for the doctor to explain due to the confusion from the crowd. One woman asked, “What do you mean I have to give up Diet Coke?” And the doctor’s response was, “Some of the fattest people I know drink Diet Coke.” Why didn’t he treat her like an adult and explain the carbonation in Diet Coke will cause her pain once the surgery is performed? Another woman asked about the no alcohol, and the doctor backed off on this rule. He said, “It’s something you can enjoy occasionally. Like champagne at a wedding.” This seemed to satisfy most people in the audience, including me. However, at my first nutritionist visit, she said she wished the doctors would stop using that example because champagne is “fizzy” so technically we couldn’t have that type of alcohol.

The presentation continued with more rules. A bariatric surgery patient has to meet guidelines before they can be considered for tho it out of the way to perform the operation. He stressed to the group if we don’t lose the weight, we will not be cleared for the procedure. We were also told we would be weighed on the day of operation to make sure we hadn’t gained any weight from being cleared for surgery to the actual surgery date. He said if we are even 1 pound over our required weight loss on surgery day, he would cancel it. “I’ve done it before, and I won’t hesitate to do it again.” This statement haunted me as I tried to lose my required weigh throughout the gastric sleeve preparation process. Every time I stood on a scale at home that didn’t say what I needed it to, I imagined myself standing in a blue surgical gown on a scale and refused the surgery. But his threat threaded its way into the lobes of my brain to become the first fear I would visit when my mind was quiet. It fueled my depression.

The entire process for this clinic usually takes AT LEAST 4 months to get the surgery. Like a fool, I took comfort in this time frame. I thought it was going to take 4 months or less to get approved and onto the operating room table. The four months were filled with many hoops, it will take another blog post to properly list them. For now though, it’s important to note all these hoops had financial repercussions as well.

We hit our out-of-pocket insurance requirements for the year in August, and my goal was to complete the surgery before the end of 2016 and the surgery would be free. My husband tried and tried to convince me it would be ok to have it in 2017, but I just couldn’t figure out how the bills would work out with our 2017 budget. I was determined to get it done before New Year’s.

No matter how many times I went to the clinic, or how far I came in the process with the checklists, when I asked the question “When do you think we can schedule the surgery?” The answer was, ALWAYS, “We’ll have to see.” Each hoop I jumped through, there were no encouraging words, no estimate of a possible surgery date, no indications as to when the hoops would come to an end, or even if I could get through all of them and have the doctor turn me away for some random hoop they never mentioned. Instead, I was always greeted with the “We’ll have to see” and the vision of me cowering, cold and vulnerable on a scale to be turned away at the very last second became clearer and clearer in my mind. The hoops, the uncertainty, the self-consciousness about my body, the pain to move, the desperate attempt to lose the required amount of weight, kept me up at night and sent me spiraling.

Side note: I was diagnosed with depression when I was a freshman in college. I should have been diagnosed much, much earlier, but that isn’t how my family worked.  All my family members had untreated mental illnesses of their own when I was younger.  It was too difficult to see outside their world to see mine. Interestingly enough, once I began my treatment for depression, many of my family members followed suit. It was like I was giving them permission to get help. I do not know a lot about how depression works in other people, but for me, it ebbs and flows. It seems to heighten in intensity for a period of time, usually a month or two at a time, but I think the intensity helps me recognize that I need to focus a bit more on self-care. In this heightened intensity stage, logically you know the sea of depression will subside. For me, incredibly difficult, stressful circumstances push me into the depression sea to drown. I’m dropped into the “Pit of Despair.” My depression moves me into darkness where I don’t have hope or believe the depression will ever subside. I look back at times I was in that pit, and I survived, but I do not remember how I functioned. I think about those times and all I see is life shaded black. It’s like depression redacted whole months of my life at a time. End side note.

Those months when I was hoop jumping for the weight loss clinic and for my insurance company is a portion of my life when I was drowning in the sea of depression or the pit. After the info session, I can’t remember day to day, ordinary activities through the black marker redaction.

Once the presentation concluded there was time for questions. I sat in a trancelike state, unable to focus on the doctor, the women or my husband. The women launched questions at the doctor that  sounded like a quiet buzzing in my ears. I wanted to leave, I wanted to never lay eyes on the doctor or these women ever again, and I wanted to run to the car and hide. After the doctor finished his presentation, the women rushed the doctor to ask him questions, my husband and I made our way out. Even though the car was in the farthest possible parking lot, I managed to make it there. Once inside the car, the emotions stuffed into my chest exploded. I cried, I yelled, I screamed. But I knew there was no choice for me but the surgery. This was the path I had to take because nothing else had worked.

When we got home, I shoved my shame into ice cream and planned to make an appointment at the clinic the next day.

Bariatric Surgery as a Product

A thin, grey haired doctor stood behind a podium in the front of the room holding a remote control for the projector. My husband pulled out his black notebook, THE notebook, which continues to go with us on every visit to the weight loss clinic. The doctor awkwardly introduced himself and began a powerpoint presentation he’s espoused hundreds of times. The goal of the presentation was a weeding out process. Only those who are “serious” and “qualify” to begin a weight loss journey with the clinic have to sit and listen to this doctor, whose lack of sensitivity towards people who are overweight was apparent in his mannerisms, presentation style and the way he answered questions.

He began by showing a graph to tell us how many factors go into being overweight: endocrine and metabolic systems are not working properly, environment and genetics. When he reached the genetics part, he felt he needed to provide an example of what genetics mean by observing families in Target. He explained both of his daughters are thin because his wife and himself are thin. “We have thin genetics.” He continued, “The other day, I saw a family who had fat genetics. Both parents were overweight, so as their heavy son put soda into their cart, I thought those are fat genes.”

WHAT?

I felt so badly for the family he was watching and judging in Target. There was no reason to include the soda detail because he was trying to explain how genetics play a role in obesity, not behavior or environment. The use of the soda detail felt cruel. Plus, of all the factors of being overweight, the one I understood without complete explanation was the genetics one.

He explained that severe clinical obesity is a BMI of equal to or greater than 40. The doctor listed several medical conditions that occur when someone’s BMI is that high:  
High Blood Sugar
High Cholesterol
High Blood Pressure
Heart Disease
Loss of 10-15 years of life

Sitting there, at my heaviest weight, my BMI was 56. I was on 2 medications for my high blood pressure and 1 medication for my high blood sugar. He showed us a chart where my BMI number moved beyond morbidly obese to “super morbidly obese.” I didn’t start crying right away due to the shame I felt; that didn’t start until the car ride home.

Instead, shame came in the form of paranoia. I looked down at my body, and I hated it. I felt naked and everyone was staring at me. My eyes glazed over as the doctor explained how I will earn more money and get better job opportunities if I have the surgery. “Due to widespread discrimination, obese people, especially morbidly obese people, are not hired for jobs they are clearly qualified for. Several studies cite statics. Imagine the jobs and doors that will open to you.”

As a reminder, this session took place on June 28th, 2016. I thought about how I began my current job on April 25th. It had only been two months since I had been looking for a job. I thought about the rejections I received before taking my current job. Then I began to spiral; I thought about ALL the rejections I have ever received every time I was job hunting in my entire life. I began to blame my past failures, broken dreams and my inability to find a job that fulfills me, challenges me and gives me a sense that I am a part of something important on being super morbidly obese. I realized I was the fattest person who works at my current company. At that time, there were only 2 women who could ever be classified as overweight, but only by medical standards, not in actual reality. In person, they are beautiful women who probably don’t have to shop in the plus sizes. I began to worry about why I got the job I have and that the people at work must be so disgusted by me. I thought about how I sit by myself at company meetings and get-togethers. The spiral led to the same thought: How could I have let this happen? How could I have gotten so big, and I didn’t even notice?

The presentation pulled me from my thoughts as the power point slide listed all the complications that come from obesity:

Diabetes
High Blood Pressure
Sleep Apnea
Arthritis
Depression
High Cholesterol
Menstrual Irregularity
Cancer, especially uterine

The menstrual irregularity was the one that scared me the most. I was 36, and my husband and I had no plans to have children. We still have no plans to have biological children. I wasn’t worried about having children; I was worried because of the excessive bleeding I was already experiencing. I knew this was a sign for possible uterine cancer in the future. In moments of doubt about the surgery, my monthly reminder of the ticking time bomb inside of me squelched all doubts.

As if fear, money and pure shame had not convinced me why I should have the surgery, the doctor moved onto statistics. Honestly, at this point in the presentation, I was unable to concentrate on anything outside of my thoughts. But my husband had THE notebook, so he was able to share with me weight loss statistics at a time when I was ready to hear them.

According to the doctor, when people diet they lose about 8-12% of their excess body weight. After 5 years, 0 will maintain it. When people are on a weight loss drug they will lose 10% of their excess body weight. After 5 years, 10% maintain it. When people have bariatric surgery they will lose at least 50% of their excess body weight. After 5 years, 100% will maintain it. Now seriously, I do not remember which study he was quoting here, but any time percentages are used, 0% and 100% make me uncomfortable. In retrospect, I think there are many areas of grey it seems improbable to have such numbers. At the time, the 100% made me comfortable. Unlike all the failed diets, jobs and dreams, if I had the surgery, I would not fail.

This “information session” was a marketing event for bariatric surgery and the doctor’s weight loss clinic. One of the first steps to selling someone something is to earn their trust. The doctor tried to earn trust by shifting the blame. He used the first graph, which showed why and how we become obese, to say: “You shouldn’t beat yourself up; it’s not your fault.” Somehow I believed he was on my side and understood what it was like when I stepped on the scale to see the highest weight I would ever be.

After I trusted him, he used scare tactics with medical conditions and complications and told me how much his “product” would save me money. He ended with the “weight lost” statistics to prove that I will never lose weight on my own, I will never be able to keep the weight off if I happen to lose weight, so surgery was my only option.  While some of the information the doctor used was factual, it certainly manipulated my “decision making” in one direction.

The Chairs

According to the weight loss clinic’s flyer, the information session is:

To make sure you have the information you need, we require patients to attend an information session before their first clinic appointment. Sessions are hosted by our surgeons and give you a chance to meet them and ask questions. We’ll guide you through surgery requirements and discuss the risks and benefits of each procedure. You are welcome to bring family or a friend with you.

Looking back, I should have noticed the word: “require.” The weight loss clinic that performed my surgery used the word “require” or “requirement” more than they used the words “gastric sleeve procedure.” I didn’t know, at the time, the information session would begin the relinquishing of my autonomy to repetitive requirements. I want to believe that someday I will become comfortable enough with my weight loss journey to regain my autonomy.

I accepted this hour and a half long “session” at face value: a simple meet and greet with surgeons and a Q&A afterward. As I said before, this session began with a heartbreaking bang as I overheard a woman say to her friend, “Wow. You’re not as big as her.”

This comment didn’t shake me right away. Instead, I was more concerned about finding 2 empty chairs next to each other for my husband and myself that were NOT in the front row. I found two extra-large chairs in the second row.

Looking around, I realized the entire room was full of these extra-large chairs. I don’t understand extra-large chairs. I will admit that a couple reasons on the “pro-surgery” list included eliminating the fear of breaking a chair and getting on a plane with confidence because I would not need more than one seat or a seat belt extender.

The only places I have seen extra-large chairs, such as these, have been in therapist and doctor’s offices, which already have sturdy regular chairs that I’m not afraid I will break. Plus, when you go back to actually see the doctor or therapist, you are given a couch to sit on by the therapist and an unstable, wobbly plastic chair by the doctor. So, why have these chairs at all?

I think the goal of the chair is show how politically correct and “accepting” of people who are morbidly obese the offices are. But, I think it does the opposite. When I am forced to sit in one of these chairs, because it is the last available one in the room, I feel like I have a giant, flashing arrow over my head calling attention to the fat girl, who is so big she needs a giant chair. In a passive aggressive way, the chair is fat shaming the person sitting in it. It makes me feel as though I am not “normal” or “good enough” to have a regular chair.

The other issue with the chairs is they are not engineered to be comfortable in any way. Sitting in the extra-large chair at my heaviest weight, there was still a good 6-8 inches of spare room on the seat, and my husband’s had more. After the verbal fat shaming I received, I wanted to sit close to my husband. The chair had a different idea. The sharp angular wooden arms were at just the right height to bite into my ribs when I leaned over. Even though there was physically more room on the chair, there was less useable room. The structure of the chair confined me, as if my obesity was contagious.

Later on, I would learn that the weight loss clinic had only these types of chairs in their waiting room and their examination rooms. I will never avoid these fat shaming prison chairs.

The chairs and the “requirements” were the covert dehumanizing treatment that would  turn me from being a human being into only “a super morbidly obese.” The covert dehumanization made traveling from the information session to the surgery to today an act of sheer will, and I uncovered an unknown fount of resiliency I had no idea I had.

The First Step

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:

:chairs

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.

Olive Green Backpack

The final shove to actively pursuing bariatric weight loss surgery came during a Chicago vacation in June 2016. My husband had a work conference for a couple days in Chicago, and we decided that we would stay in Chicago a few extra nights and make a mini-vacation out of it. We had not had a vacation that required a flight since our honeymoon in 2011.

Having never been to Chicago, I checked out many travel guides from the library. I researched what I wanted to explore in Chicago while he was at the conference and what we would explore as a couple. I made a full itinerary for the 2 days I was by myself including the museums I would visit and walking tours I would take. I bought an olive green backpack and filled it with items I needed on my adventures. My husband even put a tracking app on my phone so that if I got lost, he could easily find me.

Side note: I grew up in a town of 2,000 people in Minnesota. I went to a college, within an hour driving distance of my parents, which had 2,000-2,500 people tops in attendance. In a college of this size, I knew the majority of people either by name or by face. My college years were comfortable, no real personal growth or exposure to ideas that were different than my own. I didn’t party because I was working all the time, either studying or at a job to pay for school. In the last month of college, I was accepted for a Master’s Degree program in Boston. By that August, I was alone on a train to my new life in Boston.

My program was 2 years long, and I had every intention of sucking up as much of the city’s culture as possible in that time. My class schedule was Monday through Thursday with Fridays off. I used Friday as my “explore Boston day.” I went everywhere with my trusty backpack learning from public transit systems, museums, the North End, Southie, the Freedom Trail, Faneuil Hall, the Common, the arboretum, the flower shows, the ballet and Fenway Park. I was always alone, and I walked anywhere and everywhere. My daily commute was an 8 block walk, in all weather, to the subway station.

I would not trade a moment of my time in Boston. When I look at the diploma, I don’t just see all the classes and papers and exams. I also see my daily introduction to a wide world with diverse people and points of view. I see grip worn shoes and a threadbare backpack. My experience in Boston created and established the person I am now. End side note.

Since I have been married, I haven’t had the chance to go to a new place and explore on my own. We explore new places together, which is wonderful and I am grateful to have a fellow adventurer, but, this trip I was going to pull on my new trusty olive green backpack and explore Chicago. I wanted to feel the wind of discovery blowing in my hair and on my face. I wanted my eyes to open wide and witness experiences that only travel can provide.

We left early morning for the Minneapolis Airport with our luggage, carry-ons and my backpack. In my experience at the Minneapolis Airport, everything is far away from wherever you are. No matter which parking ramp, departure or arrival gate you are going to, from WHERE EVER you started, it will never be a short walk. Our departure gate was no exception. I only made it about 60 feet from the car into the terminal before I needed to sit down due to the pain I experienced from walking.

On the Chicago trip, I was the heaviest I would be.

To me, walking meant deep, sharp, pinching shooting pain down my back so extreme I would have to sit down. If I did not sit down, it would grow to the point where my thigh muscles and mid-back muscles would cramp and force me to sit down. Along with my back, my calf muscles could not hold my weight and would begin to pulsate and cramp, and my feet gripped my shoes to the point that I was squeezing my feet to the ground.

Even though my husband took my luggage, these 60 feet at a time through the airport threatened our ability to be on time to board. We made it onto the plane on time, but my seat belt didn’t buckle. This was a first; I was mortified and didn’t know what to do. We hid the unbuckled section under my husband’s shirt, and I was not caught by a flight attendant.

Once we were in Chicago and all checked into the hotel, I laid in the comfortable bed watching tv, with my backpack shoved into a hotel closet. The next day, was to be my first day of exploration. I got up, got dressed, threw my backpack on, walked to the elevator, walked down the hall to the hotel’s Starbuck’s 20 feet from the front door and sat down. I ordered a drink and sat for a while at a table and realized there was no way with the pain I felt that I could leave.  Instead, I went back to the room, ordered room service and spent the day lying in bed watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit re-runs.

On my last day of solo exploration, I didn’t even try. I was so humiliated and ashamed. So, the backpack remained on the floor where I left it the night before and spent my 2nd day lying in bed, again watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and ordering room service.

The remainder of the trip, as a couple, was a mess of cabs driving us 3 blocks to see landmarks where I would vary between 40 feet to 20 feet before I needed to sit down. In one occasion where there was not a bench, I simply collapsed on the ground. As the vacation continued, I couldn’t stand in a line at a drug store to buy lotion to help the sunburns we received, I couldn’t climb the 5 plus flights to reach our seats in the Cubs Stadium, and I was only able to enjoy A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat at the Art Institute of Chicago from a sitting position.

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On the flight home, the seat belt buckled this time. I looked at my backpack, and it looked exactly as it did when I bought it off the rack. The majority of the pictures my husband took didn’t have me in them. In the ones I was in, I was standing with half of me behind him. All the pictures I took were taken from the backseat of a cab, attempting to capture a moment of exploration while I had no control of the speed of the world around me.

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After our return, my husband called our insurance to find out about bariatric sleeve coverage, beginning what I did not understand then, the extent of the NOTHING WILL BE THE SAME journey.

But as I look at my worn olive green backpack on the floor next to me, I think of all the places I have gone with that bag, especially the day it came with me to surgery.