Might Be IT

This weekend might be the weekend I finally break down and view the online seminar, which the surgeon I hope will do my bypass requires before scheduling a consultation.

I'm sick to my stomach.

I can't imagine living a life not controlled by this monstrous sense of hunger and emptiness. The uncertainty of the success of failure of the surgery scares the shit out of me.

Friday was the 52nd Friday since dad passed.
It was also my onset day for my period.
Vicodin works wonders for horrendous back spasms and menstrual cramps.

I had a full-on anxiety attack (honestly, I thought I'd need to go to the ER; I thought I was having a heart attack), due to my obtuse brother and his wife over-staying their welcome at mom's.

My mother cooked breakfast the morning after dad's memorial mass.

Bacon and vicodin, two of my favorite things.

Still haven't gotten up the moxie to go to the URL to watch the online seminar for the surgeon. Can't schedule a consult until I do.

My mind is reeling at what a monkey wrench this is going to cause to my vacation plans in 2010.

We're so incredibly short staffed at work, I get anxiety attacks thinking about scheduling time off for the plethora of appointments before, during, and after surgery.

I've been depressed for a good two weeks. Deep depression.

My monster of an appetite (seriously, it normally is fire breathing and has fangs, that kinda monster), has been MIA.

I just called the surgeon's office. Will take online seminar this week sometime. 24-48 hrs later will make arrangements for consult.

Public Service for the Gentlemen following my updates:

If your wife is considering bariatric surgery, and if you have a convo re: football players being “massive and aggressive,” DO NOT tell your wife you think she is massive. You will not get your “ticket punched for a trip thru Tuna Town” for a long, long time. Ask me how I know this. I dare you. Ask me.

Dread. I still haz it.

Appt w/the endo last week rendered me into a fit of sobs. Sobbed in the exam room in front of the doctor, "I'm tired of coming here and feeling like a failure." Don't know how I did it, but I gained 15 lbs in three months. I'm devastated. On an upnote, my triglycerides have lowered. Yay.

Appt w/the psychotherapist went well. I mean, how much should I anticipate from a meet-and-greet should be? 45 Minutes and three sheets of legal pad paper w/hand written notes later, the appointment was over. I am scheduled to see him again this Thursday (two days from now). Not thrilled with the idea of going into NYC for my appointments, but he did come highly recommended by a friend, and I figure I'd have a better shot at tackling my issues with someone highly recommended rather than just let my fingers do the walking and find someone local who happens to be in network or takes my insurance.

Last week was just a blur of dread, depression, failure, tears, aggravation... and what is the point of all this? Seriously?

Endo gave me the # of the bariatric guy to call; here I am eight days later and I have yet to call.

I do not WANT the surgery, but I can intellectualize it enough to know I NEED it. I am ceding surrender. I cannot slay this monster alone. However, the post-op liquid to mush intake plan for the first three months is enough to plummet me further into despair. How is life worth living like that?

Like I said to my therapist, "Most normal people do not cry when they think of food."
Drowned sorrows in one too many Bellinis and a meal that was so delicious it might as well have been the meal of a condemned person on death row.

Came home and fought with the husband, as I was trying to just SHOW him a cookie I bought for him at Eleni's, it was a teddy bear with a heart done in royal icing. As I was taking it out of the bag, I guess he thought I was going to eat it or force him to eat it, RUINING a perfectly sweet moment just to show him I was thinking of him, reducing me to shrieking at him, "Just fucking look at it will you? I was thinking of you when I bought this." I threw it back in the bag and went to bed.

I just want to die in my sleep. Why can't I just die in my sleep?

Dread.

Tomorrow:
10 a.m. w/ReproEndo Guy.

I already know I've gained weight; so I know that the visit will leave me feeling like an utter failure.

2 p.m. Shrink.
Going to him because if I go thru the gastric bypass I sense that life won't be worth living (just one of the assortment of reasons I am driven to see him). I not-so-secretly hope that I'll just die on the table. Better to be mutilated and die than to continue on as if nothing is wrong.

High point of the day (I hope):

Catch some of the Columbus Day parade, and a burger and beer at Burger Joint @ Parker Le Meridien. Perhaps.

.

Onset 9/19
Done 9/24

Condomless sex on 9/24.

A Step Closer

Been thinking more and more about taking up a friend on her recommendation for her therapist in the city.

I'm poised, but not sure if I'm ready to pounce.

My fear of failure is preventing me from doing much of anything these days to get myself out of this destructive phase. All my best intentions amount to nothing. Why bother?

Two Months, Eleven Days: Riomet

Nothing out of the ordinary to report, regarding the Riomet.

Date of last draw of blood: 8/19 (I think!).
Date of next appt w/specialist: 10/12.

Still seriously considering WLS, not for vanity reasons, but out of concerns that if I don't do something drastic to change my current "trajectory," I will turn into my mother (medically).

I Don't Recommend...

Viewing "Then She Found Me," if you're in your early 40s struggling with either infertility or the existentialistic angst over if/when/whether or not you're able to have a child of your own.

Constipation, Thy Name is Riomet

Two words to summarize how I feel right about now, now that I am suffering the direct opposite effect I had w/the Metformin XR:



The non-Cliffnotes version:

Every day when I finally do "make," I feel as if I were forcibly birthing a big man's fist (replete w/extra pointy pinky ring) through my bungus. My poor O-ring is being TORN ASSunder!

Ravenous.

I don't get it. And by "it," I mean my appetite. Today I'm just ravenous.

Breakfast:

2 16 oz cups of coffee
1/2 pint milk
2 hard boiled eggs
Bagel w/buttah

Took Riomet after breakfast

Snack:

Cheese stick
10 black cherries

Lunch:

Trader Joes Caesar Chicken salad (w/avocado added by me)
Cheese stick
Ice tea

Took Actos after lunch

Snack:

3 Italian style cookies (the nice ones, w/the jelly in the middle)

Snack:

Banana

Snack:

Cheese stick

THEN WHY THE EFF AM I HUNGRY?

I have one more snackie packed, a nectarine. I'm afraid to eat it. It's only 4:39. I get out at 6. If I eat it now, and I continue to build this ravenousness, I don't know how I can be held responsible for my actions should I run out of snackables!

FUCK YOU, PANCREAS! FUCK YOU MALFUNCTIONING OVARIES! FUCK YOU, FUCKED UP GENES!! Shut the fuck up and get in mah belleh.

(This is what happens when I forego a hot lunch, I suppose. I SUPPOSE.)

Day 37

So far so good. I'm continuing to tolerate the Riomet well, with a minimum of gastric distress, in comparison to the sudden onset "explosivity" I suffered while on Metformin XR (2500 mg daily).

I'm up to 1500 mg for a daily dose of the Riomet (and 15 mg of Actos at lunch), and so far so good.

Last night I even noticed something different about my skin/flesh: it's warm to hot. Not regular body temp, but warm to the touch. Not feverish either. Like I've had some minor physical exertion.

I am planning on getting my blood drawn on the 19th; hopefully it'll register some microscopic change w/my androgens.

Four Days Later

Just an FYI, I did not take two sleeping pills and run a length of garden hose from my tailpipe to the cabin of my SUV, sealing up everything with duct tape.

I'm still here.

Four days later, and the fog has barely begun to lift. It's better than it was, but Thursday's unraveling took quite a physical toll on me.

Mood: Bleak

I am a big, fat, out-of-control, fucking failure.

I pray daily that someone will put a bullet in my head or that a chunk of SkyLab will land on me.

The day started with the reinforcement of the perception that I am a big, fat, out-of-control, pig-faced, fucking failure.

I sat in my car and sobbed. Wailed actually. Wailed to my father, "Why did you leave me? Why can't I go, too?"

A co-worker parked their car next to me. I buried my face in a paper towel and acted like I don't exist.

Honestly, I wish I didn't (exist).

And to be blunt, I'm tired of sticking around to make others happy, or to make others not have to deal with all the requisite unpleasantness my untimely exit would cause.

Fuck all of you.

New standard industry size: FAT

New standard industry size: FAT

Disclaimer: I, myself, have had dealings with the person spotlighted in that post. Though the unpleasantness I've encountered from her were not "size-ist," the unpleasantness would be defined as demanding, snarky, and patronizing. Couple that up with the woman-on-woman size-ism, I won't be patronizing that shop.

How (A Good Lot of) The World Views Me

Nothing new to report. I hopped on the scale and saw no difference (on my scale; which is to say the scale at the doctor's office is skewed in my favor).

Still would rather sleep all day. But it's not all fatigue. Not as much anymore. Feel like something is happening on a molecular level for me. Who knows.

Day 17.

Two Weeks

So far so good. No complaints other than the taste of the Riomet.

Day 12

Aunt Flo is MIA no more.

Day 11

So far so good. I'm tolerating the Riomet very well.

Mom says I talk too much about my *ahem* "movements," however, it is a clear indication of what's going on with your body. And let's just say there has been a difference in that department for me. The urgency and consistency have changed radically for me, and I suspect for the last 11 days I've been experiencing something I haven't in a long while: regular "movements."

Overall, I am tolerating the medication very well. And my only complaint is the taste. It is very icky salty sweet with a metallic type topnote, with a perfumey aftertaste. I have to hold my nose while swigging my doses down, and immediately following with some type of liquid (usually coffee in the a.m.) just to rinse the taste out of my mouth (and to keep from vomitting).

So far, so good.

Been a bit moody. Can't tell what that's from. Could be any number of root causes:

Hormonal imbalance from PCOS;
My depression or what I suspect (as yet "officially" undiagnosed: bipolar disorder);
PMS.

Started some pre-spotting today. Not sure if this is "it" or if it's a warning that the flood gates of hell will open up and I'll be surfing the "Red Tide." It totally bypassed me for June. So if/when it finally does happen, it's not going to be a walk in the park.

Thursday, I picked up a share (as a "back up") with the local Purple Dragon food co-op. Great massive amount of veggies. Came home that night and got to washing and prepping everything that needed to be dealt with immediately (otherwise it'd just languish and rot before I get motivated enough to deal with it all--it really is an intimidating amount of veggies for me to handle all at once).

I hope this will be a good way for me to incorporate more variety and more vegetables in my diet, and also with the husband helping prep things for dinner with me doing the actual cooking, it creates one new activity for both of us to participate in, as neither of us want to be saddled with cooking when we get home, if we divide the task, it seems almost manageable.

Last night we came home, and he prepped veggies for a south Indian Korma. Tonight I don't know what I'll make. Perhaps will defrost some sausages and cook w/peppers and onions and toss in some kale and serve with gnocchi. Perhaps.

It's 6:39 p.m., I woke at 1 p.m. I've been stifling the urge to go back to bed for a nap. But I think I must plod on, get dinner started for him, and hope it all convinces him to agree with me that the co-op is a great idea.