Up at 5:48 a.m. On A Day Off? Heresy I Say!

Granted I took yesterday and today off from work to tend to some doctor's visits. Hell, I was *this close* to going for the second phase sleep study (the one before I get my CPAP), but didn't. I think God thought to him/her/itself, "Hey, she had her mammogram on the first day, the worst day, of her period... let's cut her some slack."

Turns out the admitting department was closed for the day by 4:45 when the sleep study gal called. It wasn't meant to be. So the earliest they could get me in was March 21st, which according to my calculations is Good Friday.

Now back to the titty squish...

And by "titty squish," I mean, the procedure where they squashed my girls to what felt like 1/8 of an inch in density, to the point where I saw stars and thought lightning bolts were about to shoot out of my nipples. Normally I say the squishing isn't as bad as the tugging, and by "tugging," I mean, "a sensation which could only be duplicated if I were suspended, full body weight, by meat hooks piercing my nipples."


I am certain that if men had to endure this torture on their testes, you better-betcher-bippy there would be some other less sadistic way (perchance a lovely ultrasound, MRI, or pectoral CAT scan), which would no doubt be more effective.

So here I am... in agony of a different sort. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. with a full-on menstrual breach, necessitating a garment change (and will require bed linen change). Turned on my most-recent Pema Chodron CD ("Don't Bite The Hook"), and I tried using my back massager on my belly, which helped temporarily, until I stopped. Then I heated my heating pad and popped some Bayer. And now I'm contemplating taking a hot shower, just to exhaust all possible ways I could get the pain to abate.

But much in the way that after I let the four letter expletives fly yesterday and blurted out, post-mammo with tears in my eyes from the pain, "At least I have breasts with which to SENSE this pain," I am now going the existential route again by saying, "At least I have a uterus by which to sense this pain."

PS: Did you know

Four Dunkin Donuts glazed munchkins contain 300 calories, YET...

YET, a large (12 ounce) container of Wendy's chili contains 330 calories (not including saltines).

Oy

I didn't do as bad with dinner last night as one might assume, since I did not blog about it. I was just too lazy, not guilt ridden.

Aunt Flow rolled into town today, just in time for my mamogram. This should be fun.

Sleep Study: Results Are In

Just got off the blower w/the ReproEndoGuy, who got the results from my sleep study. I was surprised and impressed that he got the results so soon--I thought it would be another two weeks.

I had 100+ episodes of hypoxia during my sleep; yet despite this, it's not considered severe. "Moderate."

Tomorrow I call to find out how to go about getting my CPAP (sis can get it for me for whatever my insurance costs--thanktheeightpoundbabyjesus for employee discounts).

Will be off tomorrow to tend to the annual "titty squish." Taking the rest of the day off to regroup afterwards.

1500 Calories a Day: Day Two, The "Mulligan"

[Didn't post yesterday's evening--it went to hell quickly. So for today, I'm utilizing some "golf-speak": MULLIGAN, which is literally a "do-over." I didn't think I'd have problems right from day one, however, I'm not looking at it as a set back--what was I set back from? I just started keeping this food diary. Eventually I'll get used to the fact I have to calculate everything.]

Rise time:
7:05 a.m. (without alarm clock)

Weight:
272

Morning exercise:
None

8:00 a.m. Mood:
Fatigued, yet focused


Breakfast, 510 (estimated):

9:30 Bacon, egg and cheese on whole wheat toast w/a splort of ketchup
(finished consuming roughly 10:15 a.m.)

Apple Juice, 80
Coffee w/H&H, 40

Medications:

Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg

Supplements:

Metamucil drink, 20

Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)

12:24 p.m. Mood:
lert with a sense of improving wellbeing..


Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :

Campbell's Chicken Sausage Gumbo, 280
Jello, 10
Banana, 100 (average)
Anjou pear, 80 (average)
DelMonte Fruit Cup, 25

Coffee w/H&H, 40 (oy!)

6 p.m. Before leaving work...

Supplements:

Metamucil drink, 20

Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA

DINNER:

Planning on eating some steak which has been marinating in wasabaki, stir fried with some veggies, red bell pepper and sesame seeds. Will measure and calculate calories before cooking.

DESSERT:
Sugar free pudding.


Strategy for tomorrow:
Plan to graze; pack portable proteins; pack a big salad w/salad "spritzer" and some chunked chicken.

1500 Calories: Day One

Rise time:
7:45 a.m.

Weight:
Forgot to weigh in before breakfast

Morning exercise:
None

8:00 a.m. Mood: Fatigued, yet focused


Breakfast, 280:

Cheerios, 100
Milk, 110
Hard boiled egg, 70

Coffee w/H&H, 40

Medications:

Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg

Supplements:

Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)

11:25 a.m. Mood: Alert.

11:30 a.m. Pear nectar, 6 oz, 70 calories

Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :

Campbells Chicken Sausage Gumbo, 280
Good grief, my first stumble--shrimp lo mein, caloric intake: I wouldn't even venture a guess
Jello, 10
Anjou pear, 80 (average)


DelMonte Fruit Cup, 25 did not eat
Yerba Mate w/H&H, 40 (oy!)

1 packet of oatmeal, 140

Metamucil drink, 20

Regarding That "Pesky" Fifth Stage of Grief

I am not "accepting" it. It being the lapband as my last resort. Getting upset over the post-op diet and regimen was a wake up call for me. Something has to be done. I don't see the doc again until May.

I bought a bunch of those reduced calorie entrees, and plan on bringing them or soup for lunch. Fresh fruit. Cottage cheese. Hell, all of this beats the ever-living-fuck out of no food, or worse, being relegated to types of foodstuffs I find repugnant.

Granted I have a shitload to lose. But I figure 70 should be my end goal at this point. But I'll settle for those first ten pounds.

I'm going to eventually "re-no" my den and turn it into something "else" as I do have an orbital trainer and a recumbent bike here at home.

Perhaps I'm delusional to think I can slay this dragon myself.

Tomorrow a.m., I will start journaling everything. Yep. This means I'll be weighing in every day. I don't give a shit if they (whomever "they" are) say you shouldn't; however, I know myself better than anyone else, and know that facing my gravitational reality head on, and grabbing that bull by the balls is the only way for me to even presume to get a handle on my situation. Hopefully by being obsessive about it, I hope I don't fall into the same patterns I did 25 years ago--but one would presume I'd be older and wiser besides being considerably more corpulent.

I'll be blogging my weight, mood, exercise, and food intake. I don't expect it to be pretty. And perhaps in May, if I've made considerable loss before the doctor's visit, I'll share with him my blog url so he can see what I've been up to.

I'm more upset about the post-op than I am of the surgery itself, and that speaks VOLUMES.

This Shit Makes Me Angry

So like an idiot, I Googled, "life after lap band," and found a site which had this information:

If you are a regular coffee, tea, or soda drinker you should be aware that no caffeine is permitted for the first three months after surgery. Carbonated beverages; both diet and regular may cause gas, bloating, and an increase in stomach size due to the carbonation and are not recommended at any time for Lap-Band patients.

The second phase of the Lap-Band diet consists of 5 to 6 weeks of a modified full liquid diet; the key component of this phase is consuming two ounces of a protein shake every hour for ten to twelve hours a day with two ounces of other liquids such as soup*, baby food, or sugar-free gelatin three times a day.

During the second six weeks following Lap-Band surgery patients may eat food that is shredded in a food processor prior to eating. The basic foods on the Lap-Band diet include meats or other forms of protein, vegetables, and salads. The Lap-Band diet does not include most bread, potatoes and other starchy vegetables. The length of these phases may be altered according a patient’s personal weight and weight loss goals – my first phase is five weeks, followed by a two week second phase.

*I'm sure by "soup" they don't mean wonton or tom yum goong, but some watery disgusting deviation of the "soup" definition. I might as well be consuming a slurry of raw sewage. Yes. I'm serious.

All of this is enough for me to cry out, "What's the point? What am I doing this for?" [See the fourth stage of grief below.]

Seriously. The surgery doesn't scare me half as much as the "after," the "food prison" I'll be in. Pretty much everything that's off limits after the surgery is pretty much my staple foods--then to compound it, no caffeine? No steak? Nuts? Spicy foods (this includes cinnamon). No seriously... please... open up one of my veins right now and let's get this pitifully slow death over with. The suspense and mind-fucking are too much for this fatty to take.

They say there are five stages of grief:

1. Denial: The initial stage: "It can't be happening." [ED: Been in this stage for several years at this point, foolishly trying any drug my doctor has suggested, and even half-hearted attempts at any "diet" after my two year dalliance with Atkins]
   
2. Anger: "Why me? It's not fair." [ED: Check! been there! I'm FURIOUS about the food situation, both RIGHT NOW, and the hypothetical post-lap band surgery! FUCKING FURIOUS I TELL YA!]
   
3. Bargaining: "Just let me live to see my children graduate." [ED: This is currently where I am right now. In the meantime (since I see the doc on May, two months away), I have been considering going on Jenny Craig or doing those dreadful Lean Cuisine entrees, just so I can say I've exhausted everything I could have humanly done.]
   
4. Depression: "I'm so sad, why bother with anything?" [ED: Oh yes. I am here, too. Life isn't worth living if I can't eat my beloved Thai food. Yes. I'm serious.]
   
5. Acceptance: "It's going to be OK."

I noticed there are a few books over at Amazon devoted to the topic of life after lap band... perhaps I should get one (one that's written by a doctor), and see what the book says. I'm just sick with this. JUST SICK.

In the meantime? In the meantime... Every meal I have right now? I approach it with the mindset of a criminal on death row, eleventh hour, no possibility of a pardon from the governor.

Into The Breach Once More...

Sleep study. Tonight.

Overnight bag packed (but not packed enough, e.g. shampoo and shower items, since I would be home after breakfast). Should have brought along shower stuff. The "goo" they use to affix the electrodes to my skull looks like paste style toothpaste, but the texture is like those boogery adhesive dots you see on pill bottles or other items to affix directions to products.

Snowy rainy miserable night. Off to Burger King I go, to get a burger and a bucket of diet coke before the sleep study. Big mistake... I weighed in five pounds more than I did at the ReproEndoGuy's office.

After going to admitting, I sat and crocheted with my monster sized U hook, and a hat appeared out of nowhwere, eliciting comments from some 20-somethings seated not far from me (they were there in support of their mother who was also in for the study... and who was also crocheting). Little did we know, we'd be sharing an adjoining bathroom. And there she sat, crocheting with what I suspect was a D sized hook or smaller. Crocheting a fun fur sweater for her Chihuaua who got loose from a travel tote. My fellow crocheter and her family sat and had an impromptu pizza party there in the lobby as we sat and waited.

The rooms in the sleep study were clean and made me think of beds in a maternity ward. They had stylish headboards to give the room a "hotel" type feel; however, by hotel-type, I mean very very cheap, basic hotels. But hey, the bedding and the bathroom was clean, and there was a serviceable t.v., what more could I need for an overnight stay?

My sleep technician (I'll call him this, though I'm not sure what his official title was) was a great guy. Agreeable personality, and we talked about all manner of things for the roughly 30-60 minutes it took for him to affix the electrodes to my body. He came in roughly around 10:30 as I normally don't go to bed that early, and I was able to get some crochet and some t.v. viewing in.

Here's a pic of the hat I made in about an hour or so waiting before my sleep study commenced.

Worked with the U hook in Lion Brand "Thick and Quick" in colors lemongrass and plum. Basic hat structure, worked in double crochets, w/the band being half doubles.

It's effing huge. I hope it'll shrink a bit in some hot water and a trip in the dryer.

Back to the sleep study...

The study was all diagnostic, which means they did not hook me up to a CPAP breathing machine. I suppose that would be something for a future study. Perhaps.

The bed was firm, much firmer than I am accustomed. I laid there in the dark with the warm glow of the t.v. on for atmosphere, but once the sleep tech started talking to me and asking me to respond in certain ways, I figured I'd turn the tube off. This was a huge mistake.

As if sleeping tethered to a bunch of wires/having a canula under my nose to monitor respiration/a clamp thing on my finger to monitor blood pressure/and straps across my chest and belly securing a God-knows-what-device were not enough to keep me awake... I should have kept it on, as I would wake up several times due to the steam heat/radiators clanking in the middle of the night.

At 5:30 a.m., I woke up hearing someone on an intercom call my name, and run me through the same paces as he did before I went to sleep: "Keep your eyes open. Bite down. Close your eyes. Look up. Look Down. Look left. Look Right. Cough. Make a snoring noise. Move your legs slowly. Twenty minutes or so later, he flipped the lights on, instructed me to sit up so he could take off the electrodes. The first electrode to go was the one on my right leg, which he ripped off in one sadistic yank--and yes, I yelped out--LOUDLY.
"So tell me what you dreamed about," he said. I told him I couldn't remember anything, and why did he ask. And he replied that for the last hour I was in a deep dream state and had a lot of REM.

He played things close to the vest and wouldn't tell me what he thought or saw or whatever, and told me my ReproEndoGuy will get his report in about two weeks; however, when I stopped
breathing it wasn't due to obstruction. So at the very least I don't have obstructed sleep apnea.

Whatever that means.

Sleep Study

Things are moving at their own pace. At times fast, as in the case of scheduling my sleep study to address my apnea (which also is part of the whole process included in the lapband process). I go in for my sleep study tomorrow night. The next appointment available would be at the end of March--and to be honest, I've gone long enough without feeling refreshed; and long enough without sleeping with my husband as a result of the snoring.

The rest of the lapband thing? Other than doing "my research" on the topic, I'm in a holding pattern until May when I return to see the ReproEndoGuy.

The Results: Monday

Well, it's now technically 12:02 a.m. TUESDAY. Couldn't wait for my Monday to be over!

Went to NYC to see the ReproEndoGuy. Besides being told that I'd be taking my life in my hands if I were to get pregnant (assuming I could even GET pregnant at this weight and assortment of malaises), I was informed that my fatty liver syndrome is not improving, and I am in the danger zone (yet not officially diagnosed with) for N.A.S.H. Switched me off my Quinaretic, to be put on Quinapril with a Spironolactone chaser. I go back in May and we're going to be discussing bariatric surgery, possibly the lap band to hopefully prevent the FLS and NASH as well as go into full-on diabetes ...

And again...

There I sat, in the exam room... in NYC... ALONE. No husband there for moral support. I just love the anonyminity that NYC affords. I walked about 20 yards from the doctor's office and broke down in convulsive sobs, hiding myself behind a pillar at the Presbyterian church whilst on the cell phone w/the husband... who was totally marginalizing my pain... the pain of being told from a professional I won't have children of my own flesh & blood... as well as all the health risk/life endangered themed talk.

Almost too much to choke back, isn't it?

Isn't That Con-veeeeeeeeeeeeen-ient?

Monday is a holiday.

As such, I try to schedule my appointments w/the specialist on state holidays that his office happens to be open--to lessen my pissed-offed-ness about wasting a perfectly good sick day to take care of attending the appointments.

The husband found out today that Monday is a holiday. I suggested he come into the city with me, considering how many times he's asked me, after the fact, questions about my office visit, and about my health et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Of course he balked at the idea of him going into the city on a perfectly good day off. Of course! Which then just proves he pesters me about my weight and health etc just as LIP SERVICE, not out of actual concern. How is this not harrassment?

So on Monday, off I'll go, ALONE, to the doctor's appointment. Me and my defective pancreas and secondarily defective ovaries are left on our own. Alone. Like so many family functions I've attended... ALONE. Like I feel every night when I go to bed in my room and he goes in his--because MY snoring disrupts his sleep. Hell, my snoring disrupts my own sleep--leaving me in the morning feeling washed out, physically and emotionally depressed, and fancying simply not being "here" anymore. Not necessarily suicidal thoughts; however, if I were to die in my sleep, it wouldn't be a horrible thing.

Like last night, on the train ride home from the city. I got us tix to see MamaMia. Something I thought he'd appreciate (due to the catchy tunes). He sucked my joy right out of me, and when the joy was gone, I do believe some other things got sucked out too.

I sat on the train next to him, trying to keep it together. Trying not to cry. The tears started to trickle when I thought about how very alone I feel. And granted folks have other folks around them to deceive themselves into thinking they truly are not alone, and for some this works. For me, I just feel even more alone, even more vacant, even more... nonexistent.

And the reality for me is, if I am unable to have a child of my own (which I don't have a huge-ass burning compulsion for), there is a very real possibility that in my golden years, should I attain them, will no doubt be spent ALONE.

There are words on the tip of my tongue, begging to leap off, and yet, I bite my tongue. Pragmatism wins over emotionalism & egoism. And yet, he is oblivious or indifferent to my vulnerability to have my "head turned."

Planning to Cleanse the Emotional Palate

Every time I visit the specialist, I try to plan an entire day around it, as if the visit itself were secondary. I do this to assuage any unpleasantness that might arise from the visit, despite the doctor (and his staff) being so pleasant to see.

But let's face eit, I pay $200-$250 for each of these visits, which end up being nothing more than a counselling session, perusal of my lab results, tweakage of my medication, with me usually feeling like a collossal failure that I haven't lost weight... or that I haven't "gotten over' being depressed.

Be that as it may, it's beginning to be a bit of a challenge for me to think of museums to visit. I usually try to go someplace nice for lunch, hit a museum, and do some shopping.

So far, in the course of me visiting this specialist, I have visited the following museums:

The Met
The Guggenheim
The Jewish Museum
The Asia Museum
Museum of Art & Design
MoMA
The Whitney

Which leaves (within a reasonable walking distance--and then some):

The Fricke (Not open on Mondays, when the majority of my appointments are)
Goethe House (Not open on Mondays)
The Morgan
Carnegie Hall/Rose Museum

Though it looks like for the 18th, my choice would be either The Morgan, or The Museum of the City of New York.

I'll then head to MarieBelle for some tea, and then Vermicelli for lunch... though not necessarily in that order.


The Dahesh

Let's See If I Can Shit Out Ten Pounds

One week, exactly, to go before the visit with the specialist.

Mood: Dread

February 18th is the next time I see the specialist.

This past Thursday, I called out sick from work, nursing a "migraine hang over," and decided that I put it off long enough, with "IT" being the 24 hour urine collection, trapping all urine for a 24 hour period, it's difficult to do this without being at home the entire time, anchored to the bright orange jug.

So I dropped it off on Friday, and I also got my blood drawn for my "three month" check up.

I weighed myself this week too, something I normally avoid like a raging case of bleeding hemmorhoids infested with ravenous fire ants. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased with that reading.

Despite doing things in moderation, my body and I are having a gravitational tug of war, and I'm a bit weary from my standpoint.

I'm keeping up with my supplements and medications as best as I can, hydration, chiropractic visits for my back and neck, walking a bit, and contemplating starting a yoga class that commences in a week or so. All good distractions, but I am resigned to the fact that my body, specifically, my pancreas, will do what it is WONT to do.

Feeling a bit dreadful and fatalistic being resigned to this little organ that is probably no bigger than my fist having such a strangle hold over my life.

And no, I haven't gone back on Atkins. I'm eating my raw carrots every other day and eating some breadstuffs, as I'm still resistant to the whole "meat and salad" regimen of low carbing it.

Between the sudden onset greasy explosivity I experienced with the Xenical, and then the subsequent sensation of my mind turning to a 50/50 mix of helium and dog shit from the Topamax... I am giving up.

Little Less Than a Month To Go

...'til I have to see the ReproEndoGuy.

I have to get on the stick!

Haven't had my blood work done.

Haven't felt like being anchored to my orange piss jug (for the 24 hour urine collect), either.

Haven't felt like exercising.

Haven't felt like eating right.

... waiting for this "phase" to pass.

Oh, and Aunt Flo is kicking my ass from the inside out again... with jackboots on.

Two words for ya:

Containment.

Breach.

Movies are great for self-diagnosis

Subtext: Kathy Bates' character "Evelyn" in Fried Green Tomatoes being told she's not going crazy, she's going thru the change.

Much like her character...

I just can't seem to stop crying.

Desperate Measures viz-a-viz Desperate Times

I need to channel my inner Diana Prince.

Changing computer wallpaper to Wonder Woman.

New Year--Same Old Shit

I stood up this a.m., looked at this little altar I have in my bedroom. The altar has an antique crucifix of my great-grandmother's, a tiny ganesha statuette from my in-laws, a picture of my in-laws, a small stone that says "happiness," a string of mala prayer beads my cousin gave me as a wedding present (six years ago), and a little "god mother" amulet from my sister & niece.

I took a deep breath and said, "I am worthless."

On Migraines

WASHINGTON (Reuters) Nov. 20 - People who get migraines have structural differences in their brains notably in the cortex area that processes pain and other sensory information from the body, scientists said on Monday.

The researchers, whose findings were published in the journal Neurology, said it is unclear whether these brain differences actually cause migraines or are themselves caused by these severe, recurrent headaches.

The researchers performed brain scans on 24 people who had a long history of frequent migraines - about four per month for 20 years - and 12 people who did not get migraines.
The somatosensory cortex - the area of the brain that detects sensations like pain, touch and temperature in various parts of the body - was 21 percent thicker in the people who got migraines compared to those who did not.

The biggest difference was in the part of the cortex responsible for processing sensory information from the head and face, Dr. Nouchine Hadjikhani of Massachusetts General Hospital, who led the study, said in a telephone interview.

Hadjikhani said the study illustrated the seriousness of the migraine. “It has to be taken seriously because it can induce changes in your brain,” she said.

Might be gettin' offa da dope

Been on "dope-a-max" since July.
August: Lost 6 lbs
November: Gained 4 lbs
No considerable weight loss IMHO to justify being on this for weight loss purposes.
The 24/7 lethargy is not a good trade off for the 1-2 debilitating migraines I was having per month.

When I see the neuro at the end of December, I'm going to consider getting off the junk.

I'm so ambivalent, I can hardly function.

Not so much ennui anymore, it's evolved into "Shititis." As in... I could give a shit-itis.

ReproEndo guy counselled me on Fatty Liver Syndrome and N.A.S.H. Trying to scare me straight to dump off the weight. Nutritionist... trainer... ya ya ya. I'm made of bucks, don'tchaknow.

I started taking spirulina tablets (on my own), and drinking a few glugs of a B-vitamin packed berry smoothie (non dairy) before leaving the house in the a.m., feebly attempting to get something natural in me.

The days I am "noncompliant" with the dopamax... I feel somewhat more human.

It's dragging me down, and I don't know how much more of this I can stand.

Aftermath of Today's Visit w/The Specialist

I've been diagnosed as having Fatty Liver Syndrome. This is nothing new.

Today, my "ReproEndoGuy" discussed N.A.S.H. with me.

Blessed be the Google Gods...

Nonalcoholic steatohepatitis or NASH is a common, often “silent” liver disease. It resembles alcoholic liver disease, but occurs in people who drink little or no alcohol. The major feature in NASH is fat in the liver, along with inflammation and damage. Most people with NASH feel well and are not aware that they have a liver problem. Nevertheless, NASH can be severe and can lead to cirrhosis, in which the liver is permanently damaged and scarred and no longer able to work properly.

NASH affects 2 to 5 percent of Americans. An additional 10 to 20 percent of Americans have fat in their liver, but no inflammation or liver damage, a condition called “fatty liver.” Although having fat in the liver is not normal, by itself it probably causes little harm or permanent damage. If fat is suspected based on blood test results or scans of the liver, this problem is called *nonalcoholic fatty liver disease *(NAFLD). If a liver biopsy is performed in this case, it will show that some people have NASH while others have simple fatty liver.

Both NASH and NAFLD are becoming more common, possibly because of the greater number of Americans with obesity. In the past 10 years, the rate of obesity has doubled in adults and tripled in children. Obesity also contributes to diabetes and high blood cholesterol, which can further complicate the health of someone with NASH. Diabetes and high blood cholesterol are also becoming more common among Americans.

Click here for more information.

On a personal note, we're watching some of my enzymes for a bit, and he's not sending me in for a liver biopsy--yet.

Downnote: I gained four pounds.

Upnote: blood pressure is down to 125/70. Fabulous for this fat-ass.

He did recommend getting a personal trainer (I'm a "governmental" worker--where will I have the funds for that?), and a nutritionist. One of the last visits I had, he suggested getting those Zone meals delivered to my home ($$$); and then another suggestion was a recommendation that I attempt to make an appointment with Dr. Stephen Gullo, author of The Thin Commandments.

If I thought the Zone meals being delivered would be cost prohibitive, the fee to see Dr. Gullo indeed was beyond what my wallet would allow (sorry, I can't see taking out a personal loan to justify going to a doctor for this--if I were to spend that much money, I might as well go in for the gastric bypass surgery, at least I would know with some level of certainty what the results of that would be). And even if I *had* the funds for such an endeavor, the waiting list to get in to see Dr. Gullo was something like 6-12 months. Sorry, this is my health--not some vanity trip I'm on.

I go back in February.

Mood: Ambivalent with not-so-fleeting sensation of failure & defeat.

A gf met me in the city after the visit with the specialist, and we went to Intimacy to get our bazongas properly sized (for years I have been wearing a 44C, when I should be wearing a 42E--when the gal who was sizing me helped me into the proper sized bra, I tell you the ANGELS SANG! I had to buy at least two bras to get myself started (not cheap), and when I go back to the specialist in February, I'll buy several more.

We then walked about 20 blocks to grab a bite to eat at Burger Heaven (I needed to drown my sorrows, post-specialist visit, with a burger-induced FoodGasm. Once we hit the 70s, I started chanting "Burger Heaven" over and over again--I lost track of where it was, thinking it was in the 80s-70s, NOT the 60s. My heel spurs are in agonizing pain at the moment as a result. But the burger was worth it. After our meal, we took a cab back to GCT, so we could take our respective trains home.

Not the best day in NYC, not the worst, but made considerably better because my gf was there to distract me from dwelling on the doctor's visit.

T-Minus 12 Hours

Until I see the specialist.

Mood: Less-than-enthused.

Wishing I Were Numb

Still processing... he called me a... "Fuck."

Is it *ever* appropriate for a husband to call his wife a "fuck?"

For the first time in my marriage I called him what I thought of him at that moment, "You fucking asshole."

Q: If the tears are still able to come after my "alleged loved one" calls me a "fuck," does that indicate that I am not completely dead inside?

And yet he gets indignant about how I don't want to exist anymore.

A Week Before Specialist Visit--Doesn't Bode Well

That whole line of bullshit I was fed about topamax helping me to dump off a shitload of weight was just that... bullshit.

I hopped on my scale yesterday and didn't see a marked decrease in my gravitational pull.

All the sluggishness and fatigue I've felt, both mentally and physically have been for nothing...

However, I must admit I haven't had a debilitating migraine in months.

PS: Aunt Flow is coming due for a visit. Splendid! Better get compliant with my lexapro before the emotions get out of whack!

Tired of Being Tired

Tired of being tired.

Which is to say, I'm also tired of being "compliant."

I feel so un-refreshed, it's amazing I can function. Amazing how the brainstem continues plodding along, functioning when the rest of me feels like giving up physically.

It's not so much depression talking. I walk around feeling so fatigued, like something inside me is knotted up and blocked, preventing a flow of energy, I suppose oxygen. I feel like I am slowly choking, and alternately having the marrow in my bones slowly slurped out with a Crazy Straw.

No amount of sleep nor caffeine is changing this.

Last night and the night before, I cut back my topamax from 50 to 25, just to see if there will be a change. I'm not taking this for seizures, but for migraines, so I don't see the harm. The neuro wanted to try and cut me back last month, and I held out, thinking I haven't even started really benefitting from the "appetite suppression" aspect of it, so I figured I'd hold out a little while longer to see if I can dump off any more weight--since the ReproEndo guy wanted me on this for that exact reason, not for my migraines, even though that is why I went to the neuro in the first place.

My migraines were debilitating. I was losing not just a day or two of work a month due to them; I was losing a day or two of my life each month as a result. Being overweight might be debilitating in the long run, but not on this very tangible level.

So last night I rolled up a heating pad and stuck it in the nape of my neck, right where my "bulge" of my herniation is. I've spent far too much time doing transcription work and too much time farting around online. The heat took effect immediately. That "knot" I mentioned above shifted a littled.

So this morning I woke up in not-so-much-of-a-haze as I normally do, and spent the time it takes the husband to shower, tractioning my neck on my foam wedge for that purpose.

The result of all this?

My right eye isn't drooping like it was, and I feel like I am on the path back to the "Land of the Living," or some facsimile thereof.

I think.

But it wouldn't be the first time my judgement has sucked hairy hobo taint.

Is This The Year My Cooter Needs An Overhaul?

Not only did the Vagina Whisperer shake my confidence I had in my ReproEndoGuy;
Not only did he leave me defeated by suggesting I was, in fact diabetic just by looking at my cooch;
Not only did he send me home last week with a scrip for some Diflucan and some antifungal vuvular cream;

This week?

Turns out on top of the yeasty-beasty, I've also got a case of bacterial vaginosis.

I think I need one of these... preach on, Sistah Wanda!

My Gynecologist: "The Vagina Whisperer"

There I sat, clammy and clothed in my uber-chic paper gown and drape, waiting entirely too long in the exam room; much as I waited entirely too long in the waiting room staring at pictures of babies, obviously happy additions to now happy families.

Each moment ticked by with me talking out loud to myself, about how the doctor is probably with a patient, a pregnant patient, obviously more important than fat, infertile me. It's not as if MY time has value. Too much free time, no reading material, no crochet to occupy me, and the emotional downward spiral was set.

As cheerful as my gyno is, he totally unravelled all confidence I have in my endo, who is a leading endo in the field of reproductive endo-stuff-ology.

The Vagina Whisperer thinks ReproEndoGuy is a "cowboy" who is overlooking simple stuff, even though in August he claimed I was out of the bracket for "pre-diabetes."

The Vagina Whisperer thinks I, in fact, AM pre-diabetic, if not actually DIABETIC, due to my near constant bouts with yeast.

And with that, I just couldn't hold it together a moment longer and sobbed.

And at this point, it's not even about the idea of not having a choice in the matter of my own fertility, or whether I will have a flesh and blood child of my own. It's about how very alone I am. How truly alone I am. Alone to struggle and flounder and fail, and rather than be "picked up" and comforted by my mate and made to feel as if "it's okay, we're together, we can get through anything," I'm made to feel as if I have failed once more.

This Won't Ever Exist For Me

Heaven/Where True Love Goes
(Yusuf)

The moment you walked inside my door
I knew that I need not look no more
I've seen many other souls before -- but,
Heaven must've programmed you
The moment you fell inside my dreams
I realised all I had not seen
I've seen many other souls before -- oh but,
Heaven must've programmed you
Oh, will you? Will you? Will you?

I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes

And if you walk alone and if you lose your way
Don't forget the One Who gave you this today
Follow True Love, follow True Love
Follow True Love, follow True Love
Oh, will you? Will you? Will you?

I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes

And if a storm should come
And if you face a wave
That may be the chance for you to be saved
And if you make it through the
trouble and the pain
That may be the time for you to know His name

The moment you walked inside my door
I knew that I need not look no more
I've seen many other souls before -- oh but,
Heaven must've programmed you
Themoment you fell inside my dreams

I realized all I had not seen
I've seen many other souls before -- oh but,
Heaven must've programmed you

The moment you said, "I will,"
I knew that this love was real.
And that my fate was sealed -- oh!
Heaven must've programmed you
The moment I looked into your eyes
I knew that they told no lies
There would be no goodbyes --
Ah, 'cause
Heaven must've programmed you
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes...

On Noncompliance.

What I refer to as "remiss" in taking my Lexapro every day, has a technical term: "noncompliant."

Up until last night I was about 2-3 days non-compliant.

Last night he "treated me" to dinner. So we drove out of our way. I'm famished. Muttering to myself, "holy fuck am I hungry" over and over (because he INSISTED on packing my lunch--of course too light in the calories for me, leaving me totally empty and my sugar bottoming out)... until he venomously flipped out as if I am nothing but a complaining gadfly, and it was like this surge of heat forming a fist from his tongue to my solar plexus. I could hardly park the car fast enough before I started sobbing uncontrollably.

Lately, all I am able to say to myself over and over again like those silly chanty things folks say to themselves when they get so overwrought they talk to themselves all snotted up and upset... I don't want to be married anymore.

He flips out about when I make a statement about how hungry I am, or if I'm exhausted... which I am constantly thanks to the topamax... imagine if I let loose.... I mean really let loose about all the injustices I've experienced in this life. The biggest one, I'm afraid, is being married to a man who doesn't love me unconditionally.

I don't know if he's capable of it actually.

If he's not I don't know what to think of that, either.

But I do know enough to realize it won't be solved with another husband.

The idea of cutting and running, cutting my losses and enjoying what is left of my life while I'm still young... I'm past the point of running.

I await death.

Still Here. Somewhat.

Haven't had my menses since June, as I started taking the Topamax for my migraines and my fat-itude in July.

From July until August, total poundage lost was 6. Uncertain of any subsequent loss since.

Sunday, menses returned with a vengeance. Of course, because I had a gynecologic appointment on Monday. Rescheduled for the following Monday. Let's see if it abates by then.

Not sure what the lapse in menstruation is a sign of. Any kind of medicinal tinkering and it throws my feminine parts into a tailspin.

Haven't been compliant with my Lexapro, been trying to see if I can get by just on the Topamax as the neuro claims it's good for mood (but it's not, it just fatigues me even more and weirds my mood out). Got into a fight with the husband today as he mindlessly took our dining room closet door off the track... again. That thing (the closet door) is an INSTANT fight starter. The EFFing thing is installed poorly, he refuses to indulge me in a pair of "pocket doors" which would eliminate this problem, as well as be another INVESTMENT in our home, I've got perspiration trickling down to my asscrack, him getting snotty with me, me getting huffy and slapping him, him insulting me, and all this is before I can even take my first cup of tea and my blood pressure pill for the day.

Me without Lexapro? Not a good thing. I went into my den, and sobbed and silently welped out the words, "I don't want to be married..." to myself, rocking myself, sobbing, saying it over and over until it was more like echolalia than actual thoughts, and then the condo manager appeared (to help install some duct work for our bathroom ventilation fan), and I didn't even disguise the fact I had been crying.

I'm almost to the point where wanting to shout how alone and abandoned I feel (emotionally) off the rooftops isn't *RIGHT THERE* in the forefront of every moment. But it's there in the background.

I smile.
I laugh.
I distract myself with friends and my hobbies.
But those who know me... and there aren't that many who truly DO know me, who have taken the time and have the fortitude and have the unconditional love to know me... they know otherwise.
And we smile.
And we laugh.
And we distract each other with our hobbies.
Because we know all too well what each other is going through, and know all too well we cannot take away each other's bag of sorrow and regret and pain.
We can only hold each other's hand...
Whether in thought or in deed
And hope for the very best.
And smile...

Was supposed to go get some blood work today and then the gyno.

That can wait til next week. I need a mental health WEEK this week; but I'll settle for one day... next Monday.

For Jocularity, Go Elsewhere.

I don't know why it bothers me so much. Why it matters. *IT* of course being the notion of perimenopause, the notion of the polycystic ovarian syndrome, the notion of never having a choice in the matter of whether I would have had a flesh and blood family of my own. Adoption has been pooh-poohed by him. And the older I get, the less patience I have for things, the more I need to heal myself, and the more I am aware of how very little I have left to give a child... or anyone else. *IT* is all just so incredibly sad. So when one spiral happens, it unlocks that lock... and it all tumbles out, in an uncontrolled, never-ending, and never-comforted, deep seeded, primal wail, which eventually trails off to a noise that only dogs and aliens can decipher.

The rage over never having had a choice, and being oblivious of the point in my life when the option ceased being mine to make... *IF* it were ever mine to make in the first place.

Then the existentialist bullcrap kicks in over, who am I? Who am I supposed to be? If not a mother then who? What is the point of my existence? My purpose? Because at the moment, I vascillate between feeling like a life-support system for my cunt, and the rest of the time, I feel like a 260 pound shit, methane, and carbon dioxide making machine. Surely there is more to my existence than my carbon footprint, isn't there?

And here I sit, in a termite riddled wooden row boat, sans oars, adrift in a pea soup fog of sadness, tears, confusion, and very little else.

YouTube Rant

Pharmacy Snafu Rectified

Current Dosing: 4 Met XR tabs in p.m. with dinner.

Menses Still MIA.

That is all.

Funny, I Never Equated My Self Image With That of Shrek...

What Not To Wear (If You're Fat)

The Post-Specialist Post

Good News:

• 6 lbs lost since starting Topamax over a month ago.
• BP: 117/70 [Last: 138/80].
• Hemoglobin A1C: 5.5 [Non Diabetics <6.0%]>
• Cortisol, total serum: "In range," 11.3
• LDL Cholesterol: "In range," 122 [<130>
• HDL Cholesterol: 34, "Low," [>/=40 mg/dL]
• T4, total (Thyroid Function): "In Range," 8.5 [4.5-12.0 ug/dL]
  

Bad News:

• Menses still MIA. [Though starting to spot 8/24]
• Glusose, fasting: 108, "High," [65-99 mg/dL]
• Insulin, serum: 22 [ <17>
• Uric Acid still elevated. [9.7; Range: 2.5-7.0 mg/dL]; Still concerned about possibility of Gout.
• Fatty Liver Syndrome still a concern:
  Triglycerides: 238 [<150 mg/dL]
  AST: 55 [10-30 U/L]
  ALT: 114 [6-40 U/L]
• Discussed "gravel" stones in Gall Bladder.
  

Plan of Action:

• Double up on Tricor.
• Continue taking Topamax for migraines and hoping for best with appetite suppression.
• Follow up w/Neuro re: Topamax [might increase due to mild breakthrough headaches].
• Gradually switch to Metformin XR, since my evening ones are appearing in morning stoolage.
  

Specialist is concerned about my depression and how I'm "not myself."

No shit.

Now, A Rant.

Hey asshole:

So yeah, we were rolling around, playfully on the bed tonight. And holy shit you had a huge boner. And yeah, I thought about letting you roger me with it.

But you kept yammering.

I was still willing to "take one for the team," and let you slap a jimmy on and hit it with some lube and just whale away on my hole, doggy style, as you always want it. Doggy style. It could be any anonymous twat being offered up for you to pump away for all of what... five minutes, and at the end you act as if you did me some great favor.

But you kept yammering.[about how you need foreplay too, when I said I needed it, that I needed to get warmed up; yet there you were, fully engorged, and ready to go]

If it's at all possible, I could feel the membranes of my vagina dehydrate as you reminded me of how when we got married I foolishly said how I'd never "deny you love." All I wanted tonight was a definition of what you thought "love" was. Apparently it's: penis inserted in vagina until it emits a viscous load. Funny thing is, way back in the day when I foolishly said I'd never "deny you love," you were still somewhat interested in whether or not I achieved an orgasm, or at the very least, if sex was somewhat satisfying for me. Luckily for me we live in the electronic age, and I've got Billie Bob... my back massager, who I might add, does not yammer.

NOT.

ONE.

WHIT.

So, with that being said, as you came in here, and interrupted me pecking out this rant to "request" access to my squish mitten, only didn't even sweet talk me, I believe the term was, "I want to stick it in," was met with me admonishing you with, "Hey, you had your chance. I was going to take one for the team, but you wouldn't shut the fuck up," and you said that you were going to stick it no matter what...

Newsflash...

I'm going to sleep tonight with an old fashioned, spring-loaded mouse trap.

We'll see who's laughing in the morning... or on the ride to the emergency room.

WHICHEVER COMES FIRST.

Signed,

Underfucked & Overfrustrated

PS: I took Friday off for a long birthday weekend--and I think the first gift I'll give myself will be the best multiple orgasm that alternating current can provide. He who laughs last, laughs best... and has the best orgasm. Try to top that!

------------------------------------------------------------

This is devastating to me actually. Always been a very affectionate and very sexual person... for my sex life to suck so royally... it's like a little piece of me dies every day. And the way he talks to me... and despite me being as blunt as blunt can be... I cannot for the life of me convey to him what his words and actions do to me.

Honestly, I sit at my desk and simply make a prayer "I don't want to be here anymore." I say this everyday. And by here, I mean existing... AT ALL. The deep dark nothingness that awaits after my last breath has got to be a lot more peaceful than this.

In my first marriage, which had its own set of faults and flaws, I never sat down and analyzed every little transgression, every little hurt word; and yet, in this marriage, I analyze everything, and see a pattern of verbal and emotional abuse, which in hindsight parallels the abuse and feelings of being unwanted that I suppressed or disregarded in my first marriage.

And I am so impotent, flailing about, crying on the inside, feeling trapped, and unloved...

Only this time, I'm five days shy of 39 years of age, by all accounts an old woman

A fat, polycystic, possibly infertile/perimenopausal, old woman, whose husband only views her as nothing more than a burden half the time, and the other half the time, a life support system for a glory hole.

Menses Missing in Action

July's never came.

Next specialist appointment: Aug. 20th.

Hate to say it...

But despite his best intentions to the contrary, my husband is the "trigger" for most of my depression related outbursts and sobbing episodes. And rather than listen to me when I speak, he zones me out.

Lucky for me I have very sharp knives, because tonight when he refused to stop pestering me while I was cutting some chicken, I cut about 1/8 of my fingernail off, right out of the nail bed, a whisper more keratin more, and it would have exposed all the nerves under the finger nail.

I sobbed that I'm empty and that I want to die. And he just doesn't get me at all. He comes in all kissy kissy thinking that he can cute his way out of anything, and when I am still a quivering mass of tears and sobbing and wailing in a primal way, unresponsive, he then gets indignant, when all is required is a sincere, "I'm sorry," and just holding me, rocking me, in silence.

Souvenirs From The Blogathon...

Here are some posts I posted at my other blog to raise awareness of PCOS. I'm dismantling the blogathon portion of my other blog, as this is something very personal, and not everyone knows of my PCOS blog, so I figure I'll just slap all the posts herein... hopefully everything will travel well from one blog to the other. If not, I'm ambivalent at this point, as I doubt if anyone truly reads this blog anyway.

#44: Think You Have PCOS? Get These Two Books!

Great wealth of information to be had in these two books!

The first book is written by one of the leading experts in the PCOS field; and the second is a great book written about an approach towards healthier eating, as it relates to the Glyemic Index.

I highly recommend both.

#43: Where We Left Off In Post # 32 -- Another Pictorial

From this...

1987-1988?

Weight: Roughly 175

2007:
Tipping in at "two and a half bucks... and then some."

#41: Feelings That Seem To Come Out of No Where

A few days ago, out of the blue, I came to discover that a close friend is pregnant for the second time in as many years. And though I am happy for her, abundantly happy for her, and though it has absolutely nothing to do with me, I cannot help but feel defective.

Reproduction was always something I took for granted; as a teen I always worried I'd get pregnant. Little did I know how very moot that would be, thanks to PCOS.

Next month, I'll be 39, and from my point of view, I'm burnin' daylight on my ovaries from a reproductive standpoint.

Will I end up being my generation's "Odd Aunt Out" who never had a child of her own?

At times I kid myself into a false sense of ambivalence (or is it?), thinking "If it happens, it happens," and all those other things folks tell themselves to prevent themselves from going into a full on melt down.

The one thing in this life that I am fairly certain I would be talented at, is being a mom.

Given my situation, and another health situation unrelated to PCOS, which would no doubt prevent me from using fertility drugs etc, the notion of IVF is nothing more than a pipe dream, and even if it were an option, I would not open myself up to the possibility of that heartbreak.

So it is with a head full of this type of stuff this week... and then I received an email from the Maharajah informing me he booked our big vacation for next year, another cruise. This time: the Mediterranean.

And not-so-suddenly the thoughts of those tears I was going to shed for those babies that I haven't had yet, dried up. And in its place are thoughts of Barcelona and Rome and Nice, and miniature sandwiches, and Vatican City, and excursions...


#35: Increasing Your Word Power: "Omentum"

[Greater] Omentum: is a large fold of peritoneum that hangs down from the stomach, and extends from the stomach to the transverse colon.

[ED: Mind you, this is not to be confused with a Pannus.]

Check out this link to "The Biology of Blubber" over at Oprah's site. Fabulously informative!



#30: Where We Left Off In Post #23 -- Maintaining My Weight & Potentially Destroying My Epiglotis... Two Fingers At A Time...

Junior Prom Portrait

Weight: 109

Oh I discovered the purge aspect of bulemia very appealing. My family seemed either incapable or unwilling to get me the help I needed, but hell, I was out of control at that point. At one point my mother claimed she was going to send me to a shrink, and I blasted her back (me, age 16) telling her I'd go only if she herself went, too. At this stage in the game, I'm sure she'd deny that conversation ever took place.

And for one reason or another, I found myself as a senior in high school, with zero prospects, zero possibility of college (I've blogged extensively about this--I'm too lazy to search and hyperlink at the moment), and the military was the only other option for a middle class girl like me.

My moment of reckoning regarding my bulemia? I was in the barracks for one reason or another after being at the mess hall, and I thought I was alone, and took advantage of having the latrine all to myself instead of having 30 or so women buzzing about, and I unleashed for the first time in four weeks, only for my squad leader to find me, emerging from the stall, wiping the vomit from my face; and asking me if I was okay.

My eyes were sunken, my skin was sallow, and when I returned home after my Basic and Advanced Training, that would be the last I'd see of a size 10.



At the time, I was struggling to keep my weight under 125

The weight started its ascent, and nothing from my bag of tricks worked anymore, and perhaps it was at this point my PCOS started to assert itself with a vengeance.

[To be continued...]

#23: Where We Left Off In Post #17 -- "The Metamorphosis"

Eighth grade portrait, taken beginning of year

Weight: 160

Most anorexics don't set out with that as a goal. Usually it manifests itself out of desperation; as an outward sign that they're in denial. Denial that they are in control.

I was one desperate thirteen year old, and I had been screaming for help it seemed forever. Funny, when you're a kid... two years can seem like forever.

As I alluded in post #17, junior high was torturous unto itself: cruel girls, eand even crueler boys. I did not "fit in" anywhere. Harrassed at every turn. Homelife could best be described as "chaotic" and disconnected. As a result for two of the three years in junior high, I ended up in remedial reading and math. I just lacked motivation and focus. Pretty hard to be motivated and focused when all you want to do is simply not exist.

If there were a diet out there, I tried it, and did so in private. No one in my family knew what I was doing until or unless someone saw me exercising, but all the internal number crunching, and eventual destructive behaviors... not until later.

I pilfered my mother's AYDS Appetite suppressing caramel chews and her Cambridge shake powders. Eventually I hit a plateau.

This was 1981, and Richard Simmons had a great t.v. show. Part talk show, part cooking healthy, and exercise. I watched it, regardless of what time it came on, even if that meant waking up at 4 a.m., to do so.

I became obsessed with exercise, and kept a little notebook with me, keeping track of every calorie consumed, and by extension, every calorie burned.

I ran. I biked. I jumping jacked. I sat up. Aerobics. You name it.

I eventually got to the point where I was weighing myself at the nurse's office at the junior high school every day, because I thought that scale was more accurate than the piece of shit scale we had at home.

The nurse never thought to tell my mother of this obsessive behavior.

Another plateau...

Then Dexatrim! Way back in the days when it had the "good stuff" in it. I'd go to school like a zombie, still don't know how I functioned, but I did.

Then laxatives!

And lastly, when I hit that one final plateau before the end of the school year, I had this brilliant idea: "I wonder if I could lose weight if I vomit after eating..."

I can remember coming home from church one day, during my freshman year, and catching hell from my mother, because some ol' blue haired biddy confronted her about my response to the query, "How are you losing so much weight?" Apparently, no one took the reply, "I'm killing myself," seriously.

From the middle of my eighth grade year until September when I started my freshman year I went from 160 pounds to 109.

Lord only knows what kind of damage I was doing to all of my systems back then, and what consequences of those actions I am dealing with today...

Three years later...

Junior prom portrait

Weight: 109
Noteworthiness: I could count my ribs

[To be continued...]

#17: Where We Left Off In Post #7

To be honest, I didn't think I was all that fat to begin with, yet junior high was hell for me. On the surface I've always been a very vivacious, gregarious person, but at my heart beats a sensitive soul. And every day for three years of junior high was just torture.

And regarding "that which soon flowed" soon thereafter that summer," click here.

In stark contrast it made the traditional garbage of a freshman year in high school to be a cakewalk in comparison... but only after the metamorphosis took place, and it started in the middle of my eighth grade year.

[To be continued...]

Eighth grade portrait, taken beginning of year
Weight: 160

#16: Mind If I Check Under the Hood?

For those folks reading this for themselves, or perhaps a loved one in mind, be forewarned, modesty goes out the window after a while.

So when I say they'll need to check under the hood, I don't mean the family mini van. Unfortunately. Oh no!

It is precisely what you think it means, checking under the clitoral hood, to rule out pheochromocytoma (see previous post for definition).

For women who have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome who also have high blood pressure and also have elevated levels of DHEA, a good way to detect if something is wrong with your adrenals is an examination of your clitoris. DO NOT ASK ME WHY. I DID NOT CREATE THE HUMAN BODY. But through some mystery the clitoris and the adrenals are somehow related, and can tell the endocrinologist a bit of information about your adrenals when a full blood test/panel is unavailable.

Just make sure that whomever is performing this exam is board certified and has a nurse or physicians assistant in the room with you, and has warm hands, and I think you'll be alright!


#11: PCOS NOT So Fun Fact -- Hypertension


On top of all of the prodding and poking and scoping and lab work involved in the proper dianosis and management for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, one also needs to have a good head for facts, a good notebook or at the very least be a savvy Google-r.

As someone being treated with this disorder, I know that every day that elapses and it is left UNTREATED, it causes cellular damage. Being fat is simply and cosmetically the most superficial and obvious of the problems.

Some (I don't know if most) women who have this have hypertension, and as a result you have to discuss with your physician what is the right course of action. I only know what worked best for me.

I went to my reproductive-endocrinologist, who suggested I go on an ACE inhibitor type of blood pressure pill. I've heard the terms before: Ace inhibitor; calcium blocker; beta blocker; however, I never knew what they meant, other than having a suspicion as to they react differently with each person?

I went back to my standard endocrinologist to write the scrip for my blood pressure pills and refused.

I then went to my internist with the idea of switching me to an Ace inhibitor. My internist is a great doc, who doesn't view me as "Just an HMO number," and truly listened to me, as he knows I do my homework, and wanted to know what I researched.

I came up with two different scenarios:

Quinapril with a separate diuretic such as spironolactone (aka "Aldactone")

OR

Quinaretic (which is a combination Ace inhibitor antihypertensive & diuretic tablet)

He went with the later of the two. Aldactone is something they tend not to give women if they suspect they might end up getting pregnant, out of a concern for the fetus. However, much is written about its therapeutic benefits, how it is a potassium sparing diuretic, and how it is great for suppressing certain androgens in women with PCOS.

All I know is after several months of amenorrhea, I was back on schedule again. I never went back to my regular endocrinologist again, and my reproductive-endocrinologist is now working hand-in-hand with my internist as my primary healthcare provider.



#7: Diana Prince's Alter Ego Compells Me To Share This

Found this artwork over at: BBWW: The Fat Wonder Woman Blog.
The blog does a fantastic job of being a collection/clearinghouse of creativity
as it pertains to artistic renderings of an icon for many of us, Wonder Woman.

In many instances, the versions represented on Jamar's blog
are colorful and voluptuous. You can tell that
the artists had fun with the subject matter,
whether it be Wonder Woman specifically
or conceptualizing her as round-bodied.
And yet, no less powerful.

However, as a child in the late 1970s, Wonder Woman, to me, will always be
the version portrayed by Linda Carter.

Underoos?
Remember them?
"Underwear that's fun to wear?"

They even had a line of swimwear.
And yes, I had a Wonder Woman bathing suit,
as I just about lived in the swimming pool that summer.

But how does any of this relate?

Wonder Woman?
The bathing suit?
That summer?

How does any of it relate to PCOS?
It's important because everything else that *ahem!* flowed sometime soon after that summer, changed everything, and set forth my hormones on the slow acting avalanche I am dealing with today, 27 years later.

Last picture of me before "hormone hell"
took over, and before a lifetime of
dieting & eating disorders took over my
adolescence & early adulthood.

On the demise of my Wonder Woman bathing suit...
CLICK HERE.

It's 11:15 -- Do You Know Where Your Synapses Are?

Week Three of Deep Fried Insanity (or as I've been wont to describe the sensation of having my brain replaced with a 50/50 mix of helium and dog shit).

Today I titrate up, again. This time, the "one more pill" is done during daylight hours. Actually popped it right before starting this blog post. I go to the neuro this week for my three week follow up to see how well I'm tolerating the medication.

In the last week or so I have:

• Sung a line from Ashford & Simpson's "Solid As A Rock";
• Hummed "The Chicken Dance Song" whilst heating up some chicken noodle soup;
• Did the "Cabbage Patch" (albeit poorly);
• Channeled the ghost of Edith Bunker and shriek-sang the word, "Shish-keee-bah-beeee" repeatedly;
• Sang what I refer to as the "Papaya" song;
  
• Sang "Mr. Bifurcated Penis... More than meets the eye," as if it were a new super hero;
• Before getting into the car this morning, I LITERALLY screamed out the words "DEEP FRIED INSANITY!!!!!," and the Maharajah in true blue fashion, did not raise an eyebrow, nor did he admonish me, let alone react in any way whatsoever, as if it were the most normal thing;
  
• And lastly, today I sang the words "Blue Blocker," only to realize I did it to the same jingle/lilt as the "Hot Pockets" jingle.

Is this a glimpse into insanity or old age? Will I be one of those crazy old people uttering totally incongruent, yet wholly EFFed up and entertainingly inappropriate things?

Week 2: Two 25 mg pills last night

Outlook: Fatigued, slightly hung-over, yet not incredibly so.

$4575.00

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Week One Status: Optomistic

Hit a plateau yesterday, where the fog lifted and I felt normalish.

Today, I encountered an issue with short term memory problems (I couldn't recall the names of the two movies I saw this weekend).

On schedule, I'll be doubling dose tonight.

WITH trepidation.

This Ring Reminded Me of A PolyCystic Ovary (Click it to go to the Etsy shop where I found it):

BMI: What Is It Good For... Absolutely Nothing

Lowest BMI, 1982: 17
Highestet BMI, 2007: 41

Classified as "extremely obese."

The twisted thing here is, my mother, who is easily tipping in at an extra buck (100 lbs) than me, falls into that same classification.

And THAT, THAT! That pisses me off.

Day Three

All I want to do is sleep.

No erratic behavior.

No out of ordinary change in appetite (to my knowledge).

Mild case of dry mouth.

Day 1: Roughly 10 Hours In

Took my first 25 mg dose this a.m. at 2, before I went to bed. About a half hour after taking, I noticed, in the mirror, my pupils doing a weird dilation thing.

Sleep Observations:

Slept soundly. Woke up fitfully. As usual. No out of the ordinary complaints from the husband about my snoring.

Dietary observations:

I cannot tolerate drinking my beloved low sugar cran-grape juice drink. It was totally foul. Putrid even.

However, my life's blood, COFFEE, remains pleasantly neutral on my tongue. No adverse taste problems.

Same thing goes for peanut butter.

Mental State:

Neutral. Pensive, yet not necessarily in an anxious way. Slight problem with typographical errors, but I'm at least aware of it. No difficulties recalling personal or workplace passwords.

Midday Analysis:

Optomistic. So-far-so-good.

Prelude: "Dope"amax

Tonight will be the first dose.

I'm approaching this experiment with great trepidation.

It's All In The Subtext

Redux
Side effects: "Spontaneous lung collapse or death."
Subtext: It's better to be dead than alive and fat.

Xenical/Meridia
Side effects: "Greasy stools, anal leakage."
Subtext: It's better to wear a diaper or shit yourself at work than be fat.

Gastric Bypass*
Side effects: "Dumping, and 10% risk of dying during surgery."
Subtext: It's better to shit yourself or risk dying an early death on a surgical table, than be fat, alive, and die a natural death.
*Believe it or not, I'm not fat enough. One has to be over 300 lbs to be considered a candidate.

Topamax
Side effects: "Dulls the personality, hair loss, et al."
Subtext: It's better to be a medically induced balding moron than be fat.


I went.
I saw.
I've got a starter pack of topamax (against my gut instinct).

I've got migraines.
I need a mood enhancer.
I'm fat.
Hell, by actuarial schedules, I'm obese.
Perhaps "morbidly."
Just for edification and extrapolation, TWENTY POUNDS overweight is the threshold for obesity.
At this point, I don't know what my BMI is.
At this point, I don't care, as it's some abstract thing in my head related to futile, unattainable goal.

Monday is going to be my mental Funday, as I'll be starting my titration schedule.

This may very well be the last cohesive thought I will have for a while.

Today's Email To The Specialist

I have an appointment with a neuro tomorrow to follow up regarding my migraines. Although I doubt if the neuro will do anything other than take an assessment tomorrow, I still require something for my mood. I am managing well with my Lexapro.

Although I do not take it every day, I'm averaging every other day at this point. I believe I don't require a full dose at the low dose. I experienced this a few years ago when I was on Celexa, as well.

My question to you is, how seriously do you think topamax will help me? I have been using the last month or so to give a lot of consideration to this. The bottom line is, I don't want my brain to suffer on topamax the way my colon and my pride did when I was on Xenical.

As it stands, I feel I'm on entirely too much medication, and it's getting tricky for me to space things out to avoid interactions etc. Just as a reminder, I believe I am passing some of my metformin pills out, undigested.

I do not know what to say other than I'm not looking for a miracle pill to make me dump off scads of weight--because I know there is nothing out there to help me. Arrogant? Perhaps. Is it my depression speaking? Perhaps. I can't help but view the whole weight loss thing as an exercise in futility and failure.

Metformin was supposed to help with my weight and it hasn't.
Xenical was supposed to help with my weight and it hasn't.

I just don't know what to say or think at this point. My depression (and joint and back pain) is keeping me from being more active, and my fat is keeping me depressed (among other things).

Received in the In-Box, Re: Xenical/Meridia/Alli

"Miracle": Weight loss drug Alli delivers more than you bargained for (diapers optional)

by: Mike Adams

When people ask, "What can I do to lose weight?" what they're really asking is, "What can I do to lose weight that doesn't require exercise or giving up all the junk foods I eat?" When it comes to weight loss, consumers are looking for a magic bullet -- a miracle pill that eliminates the responsibility of having to actually make adult decisions about their own health. GlaxoSmithKline has delivered the pot-of-weight-loss-gold at the end of the rainbow in the form of an over-the-counter drug called, "Alli."

Alli is bound to be a huge market success. Consumers are rushing to buy the latest fad drug in a desperate attempt to lose weight without having to give up their Krispy Kreme donuts or -- God forbid -- engage in physical exercise that might actually cause them to sweat (there is a great fear of exertion in America today). But while Alli will no doubt be a huge commercial success, it will prove to be an utter weight loss failure. Even in clinical trials, the drug only produced a few pounds of weight loss per year. You could lose more by walking five minutes a day, or drinking half a can of soda less than what you do now. As a serious weight loss aid, Alli falls short. Very short.

Speaking of shorts, Alli has some very entertaining side effects. The drug can cause explosive oily stools to involuntarily eject from your bowels. While that may sound like fun if you're at a frat party, it's certainly not an enjoyable experience when commuting, driving, or hanging out at the office. Dirtying your britches is bound to make the gossip rounds in mere minutes, earning you new nicknames and a repulsive, date-spoiling reputation that will be difficult to overcome. The manufacturer of Alli actually recommends that consumers "carry an extra pair of pants" with them at all times, just in case the side effects kick in. Why not just wear diapers?

Alli takers who brown their britches are the lucky ones, by the way. Imagine what happens when these side effects kick in while you're in the hot tub! Better yet, see the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7JMzDjIkVc (it's called "Hot Tub Mishap").

One mishap like that and you'll literally have to move to a new city and try to make new friends who hopefully haven't seen your video on YouTube. Yep: All it takes is one Alli accident + some creep at the office with a web cam mobile phone, and your ass is all over the internet in a very humiliating way.

If you don't believe me, check out "Karate Guy Craps In His Pants" at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZLq90YeNNg

Just think, this could be YOU!

I find it interesting that this weight loss drug makes adults need to wear diapers. It's quite appropriate, actually, since people who take these weight loss drugs are acting like babies about their own health. Americans just need to grow up and start acting like adults for a change. Put down the ice cream, turn off the TV and go bicycling for goodness sake. No, your mommie isn't around to MAKE you do it, you have to do it all by yourself. (And take those training wheels off the bike while you're at it.) Tie your shoes! Clean up your room! Don't eat the entire box of ice cream! Jeez...

Nutritional deficiencies

The dirty-your-britches side effect isn't the only thing about Alli that makes me wonder what kind of desperate weight loss newbies are going to pop these pills: I'm also concerned about the fact that the drug interferes with the absorption of essential fatty acids. Given that most overweight people are already extremely deficient in omega-3 fatty acids, DHA and other healthy oils, this Alli drug is likely to put them in an even worse state of deficiency.

The drug works by interfering with the digestion of dietary fats, you see. That may sound great if you're eating a diet of fried foods, hydrogenated oils and processed meat products, but even if you block the absorption of those obesity-promoting fats, you're still left in a state of deficiency concerning the healthy oils like omega-3 fatty acids. And if you eat more flaxseed or take fish oil capsules, guess what? Alli will interfere with those, too, causing you to miss out on at least some of their benefits.

What an incredibly genius idea for a drug! Transform adults into diaper-wearing little children, then leave them in a state of nutritional deficiency. Only a drug company could have thought of this one! (And only a desperate, gullible public could actually believe the hype on a drug like this...)

If you're considering taking Alli, you can save yourself the money by following these three simple steps: 1) Sit on the toilet. 2) Do NOT pull your pants down. Leave them on. 3) Go to the bathroom anyway.

Like magic, you will experience the same side effects of Alli, which will gross you out so much that you won't even feel like eating for several hours, which means fewer calories! Repeat this each day and in a year, you'll lose weight! Be sure to stock up on extra undies before attempting this miracle weight loss recipe, because you'll need lots of spare laundry.

Alli is the only weight loss drug I know of that causes you to lose more self respect than body fat. Maybe it should be marketed as a "self image loss" drug instead of a weight loss drug.

Apropos of Something

Haven't and won't weigh myself for a few weeks.
Why ruin the afterglow of a fairly enjoyable vacation?
I mean, even Aunt Flo made it a point to not
darken my doorstep until two days after I returned from sea.

Day 7 of a 9 Day Cruise

I ran low on metformin, thanks to the EFFing insurance company who wouldn't allow me to refill it a few days earlier. So I'm left to titrate down, just so I don't go completely cold turkey without it. Titrate down = from 2500 mg daily (the norm) to 1K mg daily (if that!). The moment we dock in Brooklyn, two days from now, I'll have to call the pharmacy from the boat and see if they'll refill it for me THAT DAY.

Today was the first day I felt like I was slightly spiralling down, mood wise, despite the sunshine and L*xapro. Don't know if it's exhaustion or something emotional/hormonal, but since I have run low of metformin, it's not too much of a stretch to think the mood shift is hormonal.

And thanks to having to titrate down, it'll take a week or two for me to recover from this mishap.

OY!~