WLS Chronicles: This Shit Is a Full Time Job

2/3/11 First appt w/Nutritionist
TBA Two week follow up appt w/Surgeon
1/19/11 Date of Surgery
1/15/11 10 a.m. Dentist appt
1/15/11 10:45/11 a.m. Chiropractor Appt
1/8/11 9:15 Podiatrist appt
1/6/11 Start pre-op diet
1/4/11 10:30 Pre-op testing (blood, ekg, meet w/anesthesiologist)
1/4/11 4:30 Therapist appt
12/31/10 Abdominal U/S (gallstones)
12/21/10 Chiropractor appt
12/20/10 Fill Rx for Lovonox (for post-op)
12/18/10 12 noon, ENT appt
12/18/10 10:30 a.m., appt w/Internist
12/16/10 6:45 p.m., Chiropractic appt

Calls I've made thus far today:

Surgical supply co., for supplies for CPAP;
Sleep Ctr., to fwd sleep study to surgeon;
Podiatrist to shift appt to Saturday;
Anesthesiology group to ensure anesthesiologist for surgery is "in network";
RN for insurance who is my case manager re: surgical date

Emails I've made thus far:
Endocrinologist to advise re: surgical date.

Forms filled out today:
New patient forms for ENT specialist.

Possible appt to be made:
Sleep Ctr for possible follow-up sleep study to titrate/adjust settings on CPAP;
Imaging Ctr for abdominal ultrasound re: Gall stones.

Things purchased today:
More protein powder (mocha flavor)
Liquid vitamins: calcium, D3, Geritol w/iron, propolis
Kalhua flavored syrup

OY!

Trip to the Pharmacy

Went to Duane Reade and dropped off six (6) prescriptions. Good times. I'm a wreck.

They filled my Mobic & Effexor immediately. Popped a Mobic during lunch. Start the Effexor tomorrow a.m.

Here's hoping I start feeling even REMOTELY better-ish. Soon.

Funny thing is, the package insert for the Effexor warns me to be on the look out for:

thoughts about suicide or dying;
new or worse depression;
new or worse anxiety;
feeling very agitated or restless;
panic attacks;
trouble sleeping;
new or worse irritability;
acting aggressive, being angry or violent.

Shit.

That pretty much sums me up where I am at RIGHT NOW.

Makes me laugh.

Not in a "ha ha" kinda makes me laugh; but in a WTF is wrong with me, nervous, twitchy, half-giggle.

Better living through chemistry, bitches.

It's Not a Tooomah

Dx: Post traumatic osteoarthritis (same site on the foot where I suffered a fracture of my instep 36 years earlier).

Rx: Mobic.

Bye bye Gyno

The nuts and the bolts. Two appointments in quick succession. One on a Friday (the final appointment with my gyno, who hereforward will be referred to as ByeByeBye-no), and one on a Monday with my ReproEndoGuy.

I had cultivated a 10 year patient-doctor relationship with my ByeByeBye-no. For the first few years, despite my age and my PCOS diagnosis, he reassured me that when I was ready to try to get pregnant, they could do "ovarian drilling" to perforate my leathery ovaries. Ten years @ 2 appts per year = 20 appointments total. During the last four appointments (2 years), each appointment pretty much rendered me to the brink (if not outright) tears. 

Despite the fact that I have sought out an EXPERT reproductive endocrinologist, my ByeByeBye-no started to manifest signs that he knew what was better for me. Not sure how. He didn't do much beyond growing increasingly less polite or less professional, and in the final two years, almost bordering on hostile with me and my unique constellation of health issues ranging from PCOS to Factor Five Leiden Mutation, to Syndrome X, to depression and anxiety, to ... well, you name it. Always appending each appointment with a reminder that I should do something about my weight, even going so far as to suggest outright that I should consider weight loss surgery.

At the end of what would become my second-to-last appointment with him, I asked him flat out, yet rhetorically, "Why is it, by the time my exams are done, I am either in tears or on the brink of it?" No real response given by him. You'd think after what was nearing 10 years of being a patient, would have elicited SOME response.

So, during what would be the final appointment, there I sat in the paper gown, as he started in with the fat shaming questions:

Him: Have you tested your glucose daily?
Me: Why would I do that?
Him: For your obvious diabetes.
Me: I don't have diabetes. I have PCOS.
Him: So why are you not checking your glucose?
Me: Because my ENDOCRINOLOGIST hasn't indicated I should.

Things just went downhill from there. The exam was done, and we were wrapping things up:

Me: Well, all that will be a moot point next month.
Him: What's next month?
Me: I'm going in for gastric bypass.
Him: Well that won't fix your underlying issue.
Me: (taking the bait) WHAT ISSUE?
Him: Your OBVIOUS OVER EATING.

It was at that very moment that solidified my resolve that the doctor I once knew no longer KNEW ME or even remotely cared to know me as a person or as a patient. And there I was, obviously acting on and taking his advice, advice he had given me for YEARS, and rather than say,"Great! Good luck!" he had to slam me for something which clearly is not my issue.

So, on Monday, I go to my ReproEndoGuy. 
I adore my ReproEndoGuy, and I think you will, too, after reading this.

So I regale him of the ByeByeBye-no's dialogue from Friday's appointment. And when I got to the point in the story where I said, "and I took the bait and asked... WHAT ISSUE?" ReproEndoGuy said, "What did he say? What did he say?" And when I got to the point where he said the blurb about my obvious overeating, ReproEndoGuy turned to me and said, "What a fucking asshole! Anyone who knows you, knows you OVER SLEEP, not over eat!" I hugged my ReproEndoGuy for TOTALLY GETTING AND SUPPORTING ME. 

It would be another six months before I had to make the move (to a new Gyno) official, and the first Gyno I went to afterwards was not a good fit (and luckily I knew this RIGHT UP FRONT and did not have to waste a decade of my life cultivating a rapport with a doctor who turned out to be an asshole--no no no. She proved herself to be an asshole right up front. But in the three years since discontinuing seeing ByeByeBye-no? Yeah. Not one fucking regret. 

Not every fat woman is fat for obvious reasons.
Not every woman going to a gyno is looking for a baby farmer. This guy clearly was a baby farmer, and not necessarily focused on WOMEN's health.

Tomorrow: Podiatrist
Next Tuesday: Pre-op consultation w/bariatric guy; then visit w/psychotherapist.

Eventually will reschedule appt w/pulmonologist, and will need to schedule appt w/ENT specialist... also interested in getting a sleep study re-done, to make adjustments on CPAP.

This is my life. A never ending stream of doctor appointments.

Note

Pre-op consulation: December 14th.

Date fast approaching.

WLS Chronicles: Blaring Lack of a Support System

Here's an actual email exchange between me and the husband today in regards to my pre-op consultation in December, which I had hoped he'd accompany me to (obviously, read from the bottom up--yes, I am TOO lazy to restructure this in ascending order):
___________

3.
From Me to Him:
Dunno how long the appt IS; however, who knows how long I'll have to wait before seeing him. We could go for the appt, then lunch, then the shrink and go home, if you want...

And uh... what do you want me to do about the appts? THERE ARE A LOT. And I have a finite amount of time that I can take off to handle everything. If I take multiple days, it then cuts into either my sick time I have banked for the surgery/recovery, or it'll cut into my vacation time.

You don't have to go if you don't want to. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. Just keep in mind, I'm only in NY because of YOU, and YOU are all I've got as far as a support system. Either you're a part of this, or you're not. But this is my life. And I'm not going to beg you to love me enough to support me. Either you do, or you don't.

Lunchtime.

Peace out.
_______________
2.
From Him to Me:
ayayayayay!

cant get a reprieve that day either!hate these all day appts thingy.

how long is Dr. appt?
_______________
1.
From Me to Him:
Subject: Reminder: Dec 14th

10:30 Dr. [redacted] appt
4 p.m. Therapist

Wanna schedule a reservation someplace we haven't been together? Or shall I pick
a place?

It's Approved.

Insurance approved me for the surgery.

12/14 is the date I meet w/the surgeon for the pre-op consult.

I'm hoping to schedule surgery on 1/14 or 1/15, so as not to fuck up my holidays with this.

Where I"m at.

For starters, I don't give a shit that I ended the title of this post with a preposition. Fuck grammar in its ear.

Second:

Friday, I:

Went to get my blood work done (because so many things are wrong with me);
Went to the gyno where I was reminded of how many things are wrong with me, as well as giving me his 2 cents (unasked) regarding my pursuit of WLS, thus undermining this very difficult decision which took a long time for me to accept and an opinion which is bolstered by two of the very best, top doctors in NYC who are treating me (mercinary, IMHO, given that I'm there, vulnerable and in a flimsy paper gown that barely covers what it needs to cover.) Note to self: Find a new gyno;
Went to my internist to get my antidepressant Rx adjusted (only to realize after I got home that the Rx is the wrong Rx and the same dosage I'm at currently;
And finally, the last thing I did was a phone-in session with my therapist (too emotionally spent after the first three appointments to make the trek into NYC just for this appointment).

Took a nice longish nap afterwards. Just spent.

At this point, I don't even know if all my paperwork has been submitted to the insurance for approval yet, as I have to continually check, double check, and even triple, quadruple, and quintuple check if the surgeon's office has received all my documentation.

At this point, I just want to die. I don't even want to go in for the surgery. I just want to curl up in a fucking ball and die.

Work sucks syphilitic, leper testes. I'm a half step away from crocheting a voo doo doll and asking a friend to cast a spell, or teach me how to do such a thing. And my personal life is so chock full of ennui and meh, I cannot even stand it. I'm so full of rage and pissedoffedness that there are so many things going on in my life, none of which I have any control.

Roughly Two More Months To Go (For Insurance Approval)

Nothing new to report, other than a whole lotta "hurry up and wait." Oh, and a gout flare up. Good times.

Haven't lost much weight from month to month for my pre-approval monthly weigh-ins with my internist. Next weigh-in: July 31.

I go for my three month visit w/the ReproEndoGuy tomorrow. Not sure what any of the tests will show. Forgot and took a Claritin right before they drew blood. Not sure if that will skew things. Don't much care anymore.

Already started "nesting" a bit for post-op. I got two jugs of protein powder, a shaker jar, some vitamins, a pill crusher and some liquid Tylenol (tho I know this shit doesn't work on me, my aches, nor my migraines).

I just wish it were over with by now.

Still tired.
Still depressed.
Still achey.
Still bored out of my mind with job, with life, with everything.

To date it's been 9 months since I last saw my immediate family. I keep making plans and then flake. I think I might just surprise them rather than give them a head's up. At this point, I'd just assume have them think I'm an unreliable flake or uninterested in seeing them, rather than whine about what's going on with me.

I still don't know what the point of all this (life, existence, etc) IS.

Checkin' In

Currently at (almost beyond) the halfway point in documenting whatever "progress" on my "diet" in order to submit to get insurance to approve my weight loss surgery. Go for my fourth weigh in on Saturday. Two more to go after that. Brings me to August. Then submit for approval. Then after that, I suppose, there'll be a flurry of appointments with a cardiologist, a blood doctor, a pulmonologist, and who knows who else.

Received two jugs of Nectar brand protein powders and a bottle of liquid extra strength Tylenol in the mail yesterday. Starting to "nest" and prepare for what I hope to be the logical conclusion of all this planning. Buying things piecemeal so I won't get hit with sticker shock if I were to buy all my supplies all in one shot. Flavors purchased: (1) Fuzzy Navel; (1) Ice Tea (which I plan on mixing WITH brewed, ice tea (don't lecture me about caffeine; I'm not willing to endure the unpleasantness of the surgery and post-op in an un-caffeinated state.)

Still waiting for my Torrone "Marshmallow" flavored syrup, and B12 spray to arrive. Can't wait to try them.

Next on my list: propolis, calcium, and liquid vitamin supplements and an ice cream maker. I'm envisioning a lot of green tea flavored or mint chocolate flavored high protein "ice cream" post op.

I'm not optimistic. I'm a hybrid: stoic, fatalist, pragmatist. I don't like that this at all. But know I have no other choice. It's this and hope to reverse my health, adding a couple more GOOD QUALITY years to my life; or do nothing, and continue on the slippery slope to spending my "golden years" house bound, miserable, and with considerable health issues, not unlike my mother.

Went to lab yesterday for bloodwork. Not too many tubes this time. ONLY ten. Go on Monday to drop off my 24 hour "collection" jug. Gah.

Next appt w/the ReproEndoGuy: 7/15.

It's a wash

I was sleeping too much before Celexa, due to my depression and crying jags. Now I'm sleeping too much because of the Celexa. But at least the crying jags have cut down in frequency.

Five more months of documenting my "diet and exercise..." before submitting to insurance to see if they'll approve me for weight loss surgery.

Hurry up and wait.

In the meantime, I'm still dealing with my grief. Seventeen months since dad passed. I'm in shock still. Refuse to believe it. Miss him tremendously. Even though I've got siblings, and my mother is still alive, I feel like my entire sense of family is gone. Orphaned. And I've got the over-riding sensation that everything about existence is random and without meaning.

3/10/10

Went for my first official weigh-in to start the documentation my insurance co., requires prior to approving me for surgery.

Also marks two weeks since I started Celexa. I'm a zombie, but at least I'm not crying every day like I have for the last 17 months. EVERY DAY.

Altered States

I finally broke down and decided to get back on an anti-depressant. Between my physical garbage going on and my depression, persistent state of being blue on top of still grieving for my dad, there's not much else I can handle to be honest.

A week ago I had an appt w/my internist to discuss five different things. I know I've got problems when there's so many I have to write them down on a 3x5 card to ensure I mention all of them.

I knew instinctively the office visit was going to be an *ahem* "issue," when I showed up and they had me fill out all my forms (as if I were a new patient; including every last Rx I'm currently on), and doing so on an electronic pad with an electronic stylus. ONE MOTHERFUCKING LETTER AT A TIME.

Nearly 10 minutes later, I finished, the doctor isn't in yet, and I'm there on my lunch hour. FML.

So I wait another 10-15 minutes only to be told the doctor I scheduled the appointment with won't be in until 2 p.m. (the appointment was scheduled for 1:15). I WAS EFFING LIVID. "What kind of operation are you running here? Why would someone schedule an appointment KNOWING FULL WELL the doctor won't be in for another 45 minutes? I'm here on my lunch hour. How unprofessional! Someone should have given a call so I could reschedule and not waste my lunch hour waiting!"

This of course was made worse by the fact that it took me getting emotional and yelling for them to suggest I see Dr. G., of whom I have also seen (as he did my endoscopy in 2008). Now why the fuck did they make me wait a half hour before even suggesting this?

So they usher me into an exam room, and the whomever-she-is came in to take my pressure and temp. Of course I'm furious. She then asks me, "Are you on any medications?" I immediately crossed my arms over my chest and said, "Yessssss!" "What are they?" I then lost my shit and started yelling, "Didn't I JUST fill out all that information on that useless form? Isn't all this shit in my chart? This whole thing was a mistake coming here. I have problems every time I schedule an appointment." She got huffy, I don't care. I hope I made her cry. Lord knows I was on the verge of it myself, and no one was giving a shit.

So the doctor comes in and immediately is on the defense because the walls are paper thin and everyone in the office could hear me yelling. And no, I don't regret it, and neither am I embarrassed by it.

I told him why I was there:

1. To get back on anti-depressants (no shit!);
2. To get seasickness patch Rx;
3. To get something to treat this sinus infection I now have;
4. To discuss getting on track with appointments to document everything to get insurance to qualify me for bariatric surgery.

I could swear there was a fifth item on that list, but it escapes me now.

So he started to disarm me by asking me about the cruise we're taking (hence the seasickness patches), and as I was telling him point by point, I was on the verge of laughing and crying at the same time. A sense of relief and just reflecting on how unnecessary all that stress was. How it all could have been avoided had anyone given a shit and not just been in paper-pushing drone mode at the front desk.

Turns out, he went to medical school with my surgeon. And realizing this, I then realized how fortuitous it was that I was seeing Dr. G., that he knew "my guy," and that he's the best, giving me one more reason to think I picked the "right guy" to do the surgery.

My eyes are dilated from the Celexa now, and I need a nap, and I still have 8 hours of work ahead of me.

Hoping no one harshes my mellow.

My Day Off

Off for President's Day. Thank goodness. Woke up with a head full of goo, which now makes me wonder and worry if I can take Mucinex D (or any other 12 hour time release cold remedy) post-op?

I Hate Know-it-Alls

To the dumb shit on the "Have your innards been rearranged" group on Ravelry: No, dumbshit, acesulfame K is NOT the same thing as aspartame. I hate your disingenuous replies to everyone. Not every post demands your reply.

The Initial Consult

I’m now plunged a bit further into a slump given that all this time with my researching the gastric bypass I had been whining about “only 4 ounces” being the capacity of my stomach pouch post-op, only to find out today from the nutritionist that my post-op pouch will ONLY BE ONE EFFING OUNCE CAPACITY.

Let that marinate for a bit.

One ounce roughly equates to 5 teaspoons. How the hell can you even quench your thirst 5 teaspoons at a time? I’d sooner give up food than to give up drinking; and SHIT! If you’re ingesting it 5 teaspoons at a clip, that’s probably at a slower rate than you’re perspiring or urinating it away.

I’m devastated by this. Shocked actually.

The actual meeting with the surgeon went well enough and he’s not as folks had described (some said he wasn’t really warm and fuzzy). He seemed interested in my case, we talked over each other at points, and I think I let him know that I have been doing my homework on the topic and it’s not a decision I’ve made casually.

Additionally he discussed another procedure called a banded bypass, and he took out some of the polypropylene banding material, and my husband laughed when I said, “Wait a minute… is that knitted?” He would have given me the sample to take home, but it was the only piece he had on hand.

In all the YouTube Vlogs I've seen thus far on the topic of WLS, I have yet to see one where someone shows in REAL TIME how long it takes to drink their shake or how long it takes to drink water of any varying unit of measurement. Too many folks I guess armed with good intentions (or egoism, too) are putting themselves in front of a camera and you can tell how uncomfortable they are or how shy they are because they're not really talking loud enough for you to hear them, and some just have too much whining about whatever it is. I'm trying thru process of elimination to find someone's "journey" which is more of a balance of experience PLUS expectation.

Will go to my PCP to follow up with him, and well... start the HURRY UP AND WAIT process. It'll be agony.

Perhaps I'm a bit OCD

I don't do anything without doing as much research and meditation on the topic beforehand. Why bother attempting anything if I'm going to fail? Not researching or meditating upon something, to me, is a formula for failure.

This could explain the condition of my den, which is always in some level of disarray. The room just is lacking the necessary organizing tools for me to get everything the way I need, so why bother?

Both my den could be a metaphor for my life and my health; and my life and my health are a metaphor for my den, as both are in chaos.

And I suppose the same could be said about my health or life in general. Only as it pertains to my health, no matter how little I eat, it has the inverse reaction, that of agitating a hungry lion. When I eat very little, my hunger just grows beyond where I can manage it. So why bother attempting to do anything to change it, when it so clearly has a life force of its own?

Bottom line is and always has been, I am tired of attempting to slay this beast by myself, with my bare hands. I'm 41 and I am tired. Physically and emotionally. I don't have it in me to fight this fight anymore, and I am surrendering to it. I'm acknowledging my shortcomings and limitations. I just can't do this anymore.

From middle school until present day, I've tried all manner of things to fight this beast: Cambridge Diet, Ayds Diet Chews, Dexatrim (back in the day when it had "the good stuff" in it). Then along came anorexia and bulemia and obsessive exercise, and for a while, I thought the monster was dead. It was merely in hibernation, to awaken a few years later with a mighty vengeance, hand-in-hand with Satan's handmaiden, PCOS.

At some point in the late 1980s, I was involved with someone who had "feeder" tendencies, who fattened me up gladly with the most delicious tortellini Alfredo and Caesar salads ever crafted by a human. That entire relationship was a haze of Parmesan cheese flavored infatuation and drowsiness, allowing the sedentary lifestyle take root.

The late 1990s saw me thru three car accidents, one of which I suffered "soft tissue damage," no broken bones, but exacerbated a congenital defect in my spine (diminished disc space, "hip dysplasia," etc.,) and gave me a herniation in my neck. Everyday is spent in pain to one degree or another. Some days just getting up out of my chair at work to walk a few feet is too painful for words. Gone are the days of high impact aerobics and running mile upon mile.

Then along came Slim Fast and Weight Watchers, both with marginal result. Two years of Atkins helped me lose close to 30-40 lbs, but fears of gout and just an overall disgust of eating such a protein intensive diet got to me. I am an omnivore! Slowly, nearly every Atkins-lost pound found its way back home.

Then Xenical and the "sudden onset liquified indignity." Then topamax, with its promised to not only help my migraines but also dump off a shit-ton of weight. Migraines were kept in check, not one pound of weight came off, and in the end it made me more depressed and hostile and paranoid.

I can't take amphetamines to help me lose weight due to my blood pressure, though high it is being managed with medication.

I recognize that if I lose a lot of weight, it'll ease my joint pain and lead to the very real possibility of being more active than I am.

At the moment, I'm viewing surgery as "surgically induced anorexia" and "surgically mutilating" my stomach into submission. I can do this. I can "comply." I just don't want to think about or be ruled by food and my connections associated with it anymore.

Hypothetical Post-Op Ass Wiping

Oh yeah. Today I stumbled upon the little nugget of information (from viewing several WLS journeys on YouTube) that the possibility exists that post-op, I might not be able to twist my torso (as a result of pain from the surgery) to wipe my own ass.

My husband and I have been arguing for the last hour over the possibility/hypothetical post-op ass wiping.

Yeah. Laughable, but my reality is isn't. He's it for a support system. And I don't want to run the risk that the nursing staff could care less.

Talk about putting the cart before the horse.

A HIPA Type Question

15 months after dad passed, and now I'm wondering if I call his cardiologist, if the cardiologist will tell me if the assortment of things wrong with him, his heart, and his mitral valve were congenital or not?

I know one of my vena cavas (I believe my inferior) is in the "wrong direction," from what I've been lead to believe due to a renal doppler I had back in 2000, that little anomaly turned up. Is it related to the mitral valve defect dad had (of which his mom's sister also has)?

ETA:
So I called and left a message for his cardiologist to call me. He might return call tomorrow. Now let's wait and see if the office calls my mother first, and then SWEET HOLY HANNAH ALL HELL WILL BREAK LOOSE: "Why did you call?" "Why haven' t you called me back?" "I'm so lonely." WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH. I just want information, leave me the fuck alone!

PS:
2/1/10
Dad's former cardiologist called me back finally. Turns out the valve problems were the result of his heart being weakened by the several heart attacks he had (grand total, 3-4?), which were the result of 20+ years of smoking. After the first heart attack dad became Type II diabetic due to the cardiac meds, and that in turn further weakened his heart.
Summation: Dad's heart problems were not congenital, and not related to my inferior vena cava being in the wrong position.

Not Sure How Much Value I Should Put Into This

I was hoping it would give me some insights into the how or why I am (I feel, IMHO) an emotionally reactive person.


(Edited link)

[Insert name here]Cunt123

Yes. I am using the name (of the coordinator who is supposed to field harassment complaints in our office) + Cunt + 123 as my network password.

In front of others, she referred to someone elsewhere as "Fat Frank." How original! How mature! How CLEVER! And yet, because Frank is a fatty, and because Frank isn't there to defend himself and his fatness to this cunt, no one said ONE word about it. Of course "Fat" was being used negatively and with judgment, not merely as a descriptor. And we all know fatness is the last acceptable bias.

Yeah, I can only imagine what she thinks of me. (It's all about me, don'tchaknow.)

I found the whole thing fucking distasteful.

People suck.

It's the depression talking

I hope that the surgery leads to significant weight loss, whereby my hormones even themselves out.

And if not, I hope that if there are to be any life-threatening complications they happen while I am under general anesthesia and never wake up. There are worse things than death, namely a painful, pointless death. A black hole of inertia and nothingness doesn't scare me. I can't continue living my life as a total failure.

Heaven and hell are both within reach in this reality. I don't need a parallel universe with some Omnipotent being, of whom, I will never be who I am expected to be.

I'm such a poser. I want to die.

A Psychotherapy DON'T

Whatever you do, even in the lightest of context, DO NOT work into your therapy session how on one occasion, after a Sunday dinner at the parents' house no less, after quoting "Welcome to the first room in hell," from the Dark Brothers classic porno, "The Devil in Miss Jones," DO NOT... I REPEAT... DO NOT tell your therapist that you, your mother and brother all sat huddled around the glowing t.v. watching the aforementioned porn flick.

I find him and his journey w/WLS an Inspiration

Watch Me Get Skinny

Mind Eff

Just a note to myself:

Why am I writing my appointment times down incorrectly in my day planner?

1/18 Endo Follow-Up

Not sure why there were no bloods for this visit. I don't go to see the bariatric surgeon for my consult until 2/9.

Appointment was anti-climactic without something to compare previous visit to current, though blood pressure was a strong 120/70 thereabouts, given I rushed to get there, I thought it would be higher.

Upping dose of Riomet.

Nothing else to report.

The Brilliance of Stupid Remarks

Upon hearing I managed NOT to lose weight but "did not gain either" this holiday season, the husband's reply was "Well it's not like you could possibly gain MORE." WUT?

So...

I eventually screwed up the chutzpah to call the surgeon's office. They require that I view their online seminar prior to making an appt for consultation (of which, I wouldn't meet w/the surgeon, but some other medical professional on staff).

The seminar consisted of six or seven videos. At the end of each video, I was required to take a "quiz." After I finished viewing all videos and taking all the quizzes, I then had to print up a "certificate of completion," which I then faxed to his office along with my registration form, and insurance card information. I was told I would hear back in 24-48 hours in regards to scheduling the consultation.

I faxed everything in on November 27th, nearly two weeks ago. Haven't heard a peep from them. It took every ounce of grit in me to even get "this far." Their inaction is unnerving me. And yet, I don't want to follow up. I'm resistant. I can intellectualize I "need" the surgery; however, I know the moment that the consultation is made, my life for an entire year is not going to be "my life" for an entire year. I get depressed thinking about all the appointments and demands put on me, both pre-op and post-op. I get even more depressed thinking about the post-op.

I'm miserable now.
I'll be miserable if I have the surgery.
I'll be miserable if I DO NOT have the surgery.

I continue to see my psychotherapist every two weeks (of which makes me anxious, because of scheduling all THIS time off from work, given how short-staffed my office is, and I do not see that changing any time in the near future).

Courage Is Under-Rated

I finally finished viewing the online seminar, containing 6-7 videos with accompanying quizzes.

I finally printed out the "certificate of completion" to verify that I saw all the videos and took all the quizzes.

I printed out and filled out the "registration" form.

I photocopied my insurance card, front AND back.

I faxed all this shit to the surgeon's office, with the expectation that within 24-48 hours I would receive a call back to schedule a consultation, of which I would not meet with the surgeon but someone else, perhaps a "liaison" of sorts. Perhaps a physicians assistant or a nutritionist.

Amount of time which has now elapsed since I jumped through all these hoops and faxed out the necessary paperwork: One full week.

My mind was made up to go thru with this surgery last year. Then dad died, and I gave myself a year to cope with the loss. The topic is now front-and-center and needs to be addressed. Sure, I could have had all this done last year, so then when the year was up, I'd be "on deck" and ready for surgery. However, I was barely functioning last year. If I could not manage to get my act together and remember to re-up for the flexible spending account for my medical reimbursement for 2009, I doubt if I would have been salient enough to jump through all these hoops.

So yes. It's a mind fuck. The surgeon's time is too valuable to deal with me directly on this level, so I have to jump through hoops and wait for them to respond. And yet, my time has zero value at this point. If I think about this any longer, I will probably explode with rage due to the fact that their inaction, their devaluing MY time and my effort and the sheer CHUTZPAH it took to do all this, to attempt to get this process started, only furthers the agony of my obsessing on how horrible it all will be: all the ADDITIONAL pre-certification firey hoops I will have to jump through; all the pre-op firey hoops I will have to jump thru; and all the post-op firey hoops I will have to jump thru. A year's worth of shit for me to swim through personally before I even see a GLIMMER of a normal-ish life.

It's a Hobson's Choice really. What choice is there to have? To go in and have my stomach surgically mutilated on the off-chance it will change this legacy of shitty health I have been born into VS not doing a damned thing and being just as miserable.

Life is a never-ending stream of suffering. It's those few precious moments of joy that fool me into thinking that life could be anything other than suffering. Because even when I experience the rarity of joy, it is fleeting, and I revert back to suffering. All of this is in vain. Life is the ultimate vanity trip.

A Wasted Day

Fuck you to my husband’s snoring, leading to my sleep deprivation, and exacerbating my depression.

I had wonderful plans to go into NYC early today to check out the Spider Silk exhibit at a museum, then go to 1-2 yarn stores, then stock up on bath shit at Lush, then lunch at a Malaysian place before my appointment (which I thought was) at 3.

I woke up feeling like crap, dropped the husband off at the train, and thought I’d just go into NYC later just for my appointment.

So then I start constructing my “Plan B,” building a small itinerary after the therapist appointment. I scheduled a hair appointment at Aveda, and mapped out which bus to take to get to Lush in Herald Square.

I was in the process of IMing the husband about how shitty I felt, when my cell let me know I had a voicemail. Time: 11:45. It was my therapist wondering where I was, as our appt was at 11. FML.

So I had to go and reschedule my appointment for next week, and hope I’ll be able to get the time off as we’re running FOREVER short staffed it seems, then had to cancel the hair appointment I JUST ARRANGED, and will have to wait one more week until I get to go to Lush to stock up on my bath shit.

Husband’s response: Take a nap.

FUCK THAT! If I were getting good sleep, I’d be alert enough to salvage my day. Now I’m up and irritated at a perfectly HORRIBLY wasted day off (state holiday), and will have to dip into my sick time to take off to accommodate another appointment.

I’m incredibly fed up with the sleep situation here. And even in my sleep-deprived-addled state, when he wakes me up in the middle of the night due to his CONSTANT tossing and turning and OH MY GOD SNORING, I scream out, “WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK?”

On top of this, I've only seen about four of the videos of the online seminar the bariatric team demands I watch (and respond to the quizzes at the end) before even arranging a consultation with me.

I'm alone. I'm exhausted. I'm depressed. And the whole situation once that consultation is arranged will be nothing but six months to a year's worth of aggravation, depleting my sick and personal leave at work, and just inconvenience and irritability. No wonder why I'm procrastinating and meditating too long on this shit.

Three Out of Six

So I sat down and plodded through three (or maybe four) of the six videos of the online seminar which is required before scheduling a consult. In hindsight, I wish I weren't me. I wish I were more of a go-getter. Had that been the case, I no doubt would've been able to get in for a consult this Weds when I'd be in NYC anyway for another appointment.

I fear once I set this thing in motion, my life will be a flurry of doctor's appointments, requirements, and further reminder(s) that I am a failure.

On Diminishing Joy

I'm still menstruating at age 41. Increasingly intense pain from lower (left side) back straight through to front of body out the pelvis. Why should I still menstruate? It's a sick cosmic joke.

Too many years have been languished and complacency has settled in. First w/a (now ex) husband who wasted ten years of my life before PCOS took a foot hold. Second with a husband who isn't the same age as me, different thoughts on when to start a family despite my being six years older. And really now, it's too late. So why menstruate anymore?

I won't have a kid of my own flesh. Between all the risk factors (both for me and a fetus), plus this overriding fear that I'll fuck up an innocent life, coupled up with the overriding sense that I'll be in it alone, I'm paralyzed to even follow thru on this.

And now it seems I'll be on track for bariatric surgery, after which, vitamin and mineral deficiencies will be something I'll have to stay vigilant of, so post-op pregnancy I doubt it's even advised.

Just attempted to get aroused and tried to have sex, which just left me in a crying jag fueld by female impotence. I used to have a stellar and enjoyable sex life. I don't know if the increasing impotence I am suffering from is from the excess weight or my depression or what. It saddens me intensely that something I used to enjoy so much may be gone forever.

And sadly the last thing that brought me so much enjoyment, FOOD, will soon be taken from me too.

Though not suicidal, I am prone to intellectualize what is the point of living when two very essential things in my life are escaping my grasp.

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.

On Self Abuse

I'm sitting here at work, re-reading what I just posted... and delving into my previous posts. I got as far as March 2008 and had to stop.

I'm sitting here at my desk at work stifling the tears and debating going to the restroom to sob.

Day 6

So far no adverse effects (no more or less gastric distress than before); however, I have noticed that my *ahem* "movements" have been a bit "different" than before. No more sudden onset liquified "shame," but now it's slower and more deliberate if that makes sense. Seems like my food stays in me longer (and I can only assume so, too, does the medicine).

Been incredibly moody this past week. I can't tell if this is something new or part of the baseline of moodiness I have.

Period still is a no-show, save for a little spotting or discharge the last week of June, but by no means was it a "flow."

I wish I'd just go right into menopause at this point. I can't handle anymore hypothetical intellectualizing over whether I want to have a kid or not. I've tried, unsuccessfully, for eight years to get him "on topic," and somehow the conversation never fully resolves itself. And now, eight years later (mind you, this is on top of the near-10 years wasted with the exhusband), he wants to talk about it, yet is emotionally detached from it, and I'm beyond this discussion.

One moment, I'm too fat to get pregnant. Or I'm too high of a risk with everything else wrong with me. One moment he says, "I didn't marry you for kids, I married you to be with you." Next moment, he's talking about adoption or surrogacy in India. And yet, he has failed to respect or regard the fact that I am six years older than he, with any sense of urgency.

When I married, I was interested in having a kid. OUR kid. Someone with both sets of qualities. The romantic idea of making your "love real" and "building a family of our own." He's always had his own agenda. While I'm not trying to demonize him... we're on so totally opposite time tables for each of our lives, I feel like two meteorites passing each other in deep space. For all intents and perspectives, it LOOKS LIKE we'll collide and become one; yet in space, a degree "off" and it's a near miss.

I have such a fear of failure in every aspect of my life, I'd just assume not attempt anything out of fear of becoming an even bigger failure. And as alone as I feel now, sorting all this out on my own, I cannot even fathom the difficulty of doing this without a support system... and without my dad to guide me.

We got lost yesterday on our way home, trying to get out of Jersey City (visiting friends), and the husband talked about the whole baby topic. I was stressed about being lost, and now brings up an emotional topic for me, and it totally unraveled me to the point of needing to pull over so I could sob, as I was stifling a full-on sob-fest while driving, and did not feel safe crying while driving.

So I pulled over somewhere and just fell apart, while the husband was saying, "Gee, um, this isn't a safe place to do this." It was as safe as any, imho, and to be honest, I don't want to live anymore. Haven't for a while. This is what my life is reduced to? Why bother? I sat there sobbing without an arm around me comforting me, without words of comfort, or even attempts at any of this. We sat in the car, and I felt worlds apart.

For the record, I'm not compliant with my Lexapro anymore. Haven't sought help for what I suspect is bipolar disorder. Yet one more set of doctors to go to, ALONE, for me to deal with this, ALONE.

I have a recommendation for a therapist from an online friend. I haven't managed to make the call yet. And even if I did, I don't put much value in "talk therapy," when from a family history standpoint emotional shit/depression like this is rampant. And even if I did call... where the fuck do I start? It's all so hopeless.

Day Two

So far, so good.

The stuff tastes foul. It smells like it's got potential to be "tasty." Tutti-frutti or bubble gum almost; but then you get it in your mouth, it's got a salty metallic after taste which sticks to the tongue, and a near "fragrance" like effect in the nose (as if I spritzed perfume in my mouth).

Not totally offensive, but, yeah, the antithesis of "delish."

So I slurp my teaspoon down, and follow with my coffee and the rest of my breakfast.

So far, no gastric distress. I can't blame my flatulence on it, as I was quite spectacularly flatulent beforehand.

And yet, last night, after one dose in the a.m., last night I don't know if it's a mental thing, but I felt different, or a difference starting to happen on a molecular level. Skin flushed. Feeling different. Yesterday was moody, not sure if that's PMS or the medicine. It's hard to tell after only one day.

Day One: Riomet

Took first dose today.

PS: My Left Tit

It's been tender for a while.

This morning when I started to cough or clear my throat, while laying on my left side, my left breast had a piercing tingle senstation.

Date of Mamo: 7/24.

A Few Mental Notes

Last week, I spotted. I don't keep a calendar, per se, so before heading to the ReproEndo guy, I always take a peek at this blog, which appears neglected, but to be honest, there's not much to report in the "down time" between visits. Unless of course, readers (what few there are to this blog) want to read and revel in my grief and depression, and how both are affecting one another. Or how I hate my job, and at times, hate myself.

Anyway, I had a conversation via email w/ReproEndo Guy this week. He's a peach. I don't expect him to reply quick, but he does; and I'd much rather zap an email he can reply to in-between patients or better yet, at his leisure.

The conversation had to do with how I just cannot reconcile continuing to PAY FOR and TAKE the Metformin XR tablets, if all I am going to do is expel them, seemingly undigested, in my 10:30 a.m. bowel movement.

Literally, it looks like a PayDay candy bar. And though I'm not one for PayDays (I'm more of a Snickers or Baby Ruth gal myself, iff'n when I indulge), but now I just can't bring myself to even THINK about putting a PayDay in my mouth.

He zapped back, "I hope you'll reconsider Riomet."

"Riomet? What's that?" I replied.

I don't take notes from office visit to office visit, but I'd remember if a medication was recommended!

Turns out for folks who have difficulties swallowing the big ol' horse tablets, Riomet is a liquid form of Metformin.

Of course, as fate would have it, this email conversation took place AFTER I had just gotten my Metformin XR refilled, so now I have a month's worth of tablets that I cannot return to the pharmacy.

I just could not justify the expense (granted my co-pays are $20, but STILL), but more importantly taking medication such as this (at such a high dosage), God only knows what it'll ultimately do to my liver, and NOT get benefit from it because it hasn't been in my system long enough.

We're still on board for either gastric bypass or banding for 2010. My dad's death really has thrown me for a loop, and I cannot do anything drastic this year.

I do not know if my persistent depression (clinical? bipolar? who gives a shit) is feeding my grief over the loss of dad (the alienation, the inability to communicate verbally is killing me a little each day); or is the grief fueling the depression, like a locomotive, pushing it forward.

In addition to this, I hate my job with a white, hot passion. I hate what it has done to me. And I live every day hoping to get fired (so I can at least collect unemployment) or have some type of attack or meltdown (so I can go on disability).

On top of this, I am married to a man who is not outwardly demonstrative, and is only affectionate when he wants sex. And let's face it, after everything I have just pecked out... why would I want to have sex?

Furthermore, despite his declaration today (only after I sat in a fog and was sobbing), "You know I love you, right? 10 years, 20 years, 30 years from now, I'll still love you..." I worry sometimes that these types of declarations, which are not INITIATED by his own wont, but is a reaction to me, or what he thinks I want to hear... I worry it may be too late for it to render me human again.

From August 2008 until October when dad ultimately passed, he had only gone with me on that long drive twice (once was after I got in a car accident due to grief and worry and sleep deprivation; and the other was that dad was DYING). And due to the husband's interview at INS landing on the unfortunate date of dad's Memorial Service, nearly every aspect of dad's final hospitalization and passing... I went through ALONE. I'm blessed my sister, brother, and mother all were able to be there more daily; but for me, I had to go through what I had to go through without the physical support of my spouse. He went with me the morning dad passed, so I could lay eyes on him one final time in repose (no formal viewing; direct cremation after we left).

I feel like a husk of what a human should be.

And if you see me on the street or at work or at my weekly knit night, and I'm smiling and laughing to the point of tears, or just plain FUNCTIONING, it's all a coping mechanism.

I just want to die in my sleep.

.

I can't stop sleeping

My bio-rhythms are all messed up. I no sooner get up and do things, and want to curl back up in a ball and escape to sleep.

Stress and depression I am sure are motivating it. I'm a bit non-compliant with my lexapro... though even if I am taking it as prescribed, I have problems, intense problems getting out of bed.

Futility with my own weight, my health, and dealing with my grief over dad's passing. I'm still in shock and sad over it and missing him intensely. On top of this, I now have the reputation within my family of being a flake, as when I promise to visit (which involves a 2.5 hour drive, one-way, to get there) only for me to bail out at the last moment... it's all just so toxic. My visits are fraught with frustration. I live a quiet life in comparison to the loud chaos of my visits. Don't want to rehash everything all over again, but I'm just tired of it all.

I don't even have the energy to delve into it today. Today, Memorial Day, is gorgeous. And all I want to do is sleep.

At least I got showered.

That's my accomplishment today.

Kanten?

Kanten = Agar Agar, and apparently it has therapeutic effects for folks with poor metabolism or insulin resistance problems.

Going to plop this down here for my future reference at home.

I don't know if I am on to something or what; however, apparently it contains no carbohydrates.

Already I am envisioning using this as a tomato aspic w/some spicy jalapeno, green onion, crunchy cucumber and celery and some V8. Or an aspic of lapsang souchong, and some hardboiled "marbled" eggs (boiled, cracked, and simmered with some soy sauce in lapsang souchong tea, and left to soak, then cool). I don't know. Crazy talk, perhaps. But if this shit can help stave off my near constant hunger, I'll try just about anything.

Just got off phone w/local market that carries Kanten; $8.99 per 1 oz container of flakes.

Note to self:

2 gm->1Cup water
28 gm = 1 oz

Struggles w/Atkins

Last Monday was the first full day of genuinely being "ON" Atkins. I believe my daily carb count for the entire day was in the neighborhood of 15?

Monday night, I woke up with a ferocious charlie horse in each calf muscle.

Tuesday morning, I woke up feeling out of sorts, and every muscle in my body aching. I can only deduce it's from a build-up of lactic acid from the protein laden food intake on Monday.

So sick, stayed home Tuesday. Drank plenty of water, and went back to bed at 8:30 a.m., after calling in sick. Stayed in bed until 4:30. Just miserable.

Now? My heart isn't "in it," and I'm rethinking the whole idea. Even though I had lofty ideas of incorporating my "Fiber 35" shakes (each w/a net carb of 8, and not too horrible tasting, yet very very filling), as well as catabolic veggies, this time around on Atkins.

My life is too on-the-go for a regimen which requires me to sit with a knife and fork. Atkins isn't very portable. Yet, after the induction period, I know I'll feel better. But the induction period is enough to make me lose my mind.

Seriously.

Feeling a bit morally dejected, and flawed, and furious at something I cannot see (my pancreas, DNA, what have you).

My word (even to myself) has no meaning. My word and promise to myself that this time would be different, that I'd conquer this demon... it's all empty, hollow, meaningless.

I've failed yet again.

Atkins, Redux

Attempting to get back on Atkins.

This time I'm going to attempt to include more Atkins-friendly catabolic vegetables. Atkins isn't all that portable, nor convenient for that matter, so A LOT of planning is necessary.

GAH.

.

Onset of menses: 4/24

Aside: This is the six month mark since dad died. I'm no where's past my shock.

The Status Thus Far: Post Visit

My visit to the ReproEndo guy went "well." Not spectacular.

Here are my figures:

Weight lost/gained: +7 (up 7 lbs from the 14 I lost between Aug & Nov)
BP: 120/80 (Missed the night-before's dose and that morning's dose)
Onset of menses: 3/14
Last menses: 1/21

Glucose Fasting: 111 (Range 65-99 mg/dL)
Uric Acid: 7.3 (Range 2.5-7.0 mg/dL)
Triglycerides: 168 (Range <150 mg/dL)
AST: 31 (Range 10-30 U/L)
ALT: 52 (Range 6-40 U/L)
Microalbumin, random urine: 66 (Range <30 mcg/mg Creat)
Insulin, serum: 39 (Range<17 uIU/mL)
DHEA Sulfate: 619 (Range 25-220 mcg/dL)
Testosterone, % free: 2.0 (Range 0.5-1.8 Percent)

Course of action:

After reminding the doc that five years ago when I was on Actos instead of Metformin XR, I was able to maintain a better weight (roughly 20 lbs less) and that my triglycerides was better), he flipped through his notes from the last five years' worth of visits and noticed I was correct.

He decided to write an Rx for Actos to be taken in conjunction with my Metformin XR.

Additionally, he cut my blood pressure medication in half. So even though my weight shifted back up (as I said it would, as the loss was not a "trend" but a result of sleeping too much due to my grief and depression), I am looking at the halving of my blood pressure medication as a promising indicator that at least my pressure has improved.

No discussion of the by-pass. As I laid down the ground rule in November, that if he took the discussion off the table due to what he thought was a trend, and if/when I gained the weight back, I'm going to balk on the surgery. I can't get my hopes up and have them dashed in three month increments.

Next visit: 3 months
Left with scrip for bloods, and a jug for a 24 hr urine collection. Fun.

A Reminder

I go back to see ReproEndo guy on March 16th.

No Real Update

Fell on 12/28.
Got a stomach bug 1/1.
Got my period 1/5.

Go for bloodwork 1/19.

Next visit with specialist: 2/17 I think... or the 21st. Gotta check my blotter at work.

Nothing pertinent to share. Other than I went back on my lexapro due to uncontrolled crying jags. Luckily I have a little stash of it at home. Gotta go back to a doctor for a refill.

Almost Lost in the Fray

10/17 Upper Endoscopy.
10/21 Onset of menses.
10/24 Dad passed.
11/4 Office visit with ReproEndoGuy.

Pounds lost as of August appointment: 3
Pounds lost as of November appointment: 11

Result: ReproEndoGuy has rescinded discussion regarding gastric bypass, citing the weight loss over the last six months is, in his opinion, a trend, and not what I believe is a fluke as a result of the last three months of dad's hospitalization & his ultimate passing.

Next appointment: February 16th.

Results of endoscopy: Inconclusive. Everything photographed was pink, and biopsy came back clean, no cancer, no heliobacter pylorii. Just a little irritation. Will discuss with GastroGuy the idea of a colonoscopy, just to round things out, and rule out all other possible causes of distress and disorder.

Next appointment: December-ish.

Obesity: The Last Socially Acceptable Bias

Woman Kicked Out of New Zealand For Being Too Fat Posted on 02 September 2008

They were planning to start a new life in a new country but Rowan Trezise, age 33, has been told by the government of New Zealand that she and her husband may have to look elsewhere for a place to live, because she is too fat to be allowed into the country.

Although both husband and wife were too fat for admittance when they first applied Mr. Trezise, a submarine cable specialist who was once a member of the British Army, has managed to shed two inches from his waistline thereby meeting the standards set for a work visa.

Mrs. Trezise however has not met the goal set for her and is therefore barred.

The couple were informed that New Zealand bars overweight people because of the potential burden they pose to the national health care system. According to New Zealand Robyn Toomath, spokesman of “Fight the Obesity Epidemic” a New Zealand organization dealing with the problems posed by overweight people:

“The immigration department can’t afford to import people who are going to be a significant drain on our health resources.

“You can see the logic in assessing if there is a significant health cost associated with this individual and that would be a reason for them not coming in.”

New Zealand’s Immigration Service has not said how many people have been bared from entering the country due to their weight but according to the Emigrate New Zealand website that number is fairly high. Unless Rowan Trezise can shed the weight by Christmas the couple say they will abandon their plans to relocate to New Zealand.

Perpetual Headshaking

Head is perpetually shaking itself to indicate "no." To whom or what? I haven't a clue.

Flow started yesterday; last one started 7/27, so I'm averaging close to a month and a half as my menstrual cycle, roughly 45 days.

I hit 40 in August.

Each successive cycle is worse than before.

I just want to go in and get my fertility mourning over for good. Time and circumstance, marriage, divorce, remarriage. The medical problems and the men in my life have made the decision for me, and for the ultimate choice of whether I'll ever be a mother, as well as have a flesh and blood child of my own.

It is pointless for me to continue on the way I am, fooling myself--an old woman, that I stand a snowball's chance in Satan's asscrack, of becoming pregnant, or even the luxury of thinking I even had a choice in the matter. There's no fool like an old fool.

I'll be spending the day dabbing at my eyes, popping Midol, as well as Googling, "elective hysterectomy."

All this blood is pointless. Absolutely pointless.

T-Minus 22 Days And Counting

Had blood work done/drawn: 7/24 a.m.
Onset of current cycle: 7/26
Last one: 6/8
Mood: No great improvement; however, I have suspicions I am not "just a little blue" at times. I believe I'm either cyclothmic or bi-polar, and though the episodes come out of nowhere, they are most pronounced when I am PMSing, if I've overstimulated/stressed myself, and if I've gone too long between meals and start to get that "bottomed out" feeling.

Apropos of Something

T-Minus 34 days until I see the specialist again.
T-Minus 34 days until I tell the specialist what my decision will be, re: gastric bypass.
Still need to get my blood drawn for my 8/19 appointment.

Started riding my recumbent stationary bike, starting off with five minutes, and increasing it by five each night. Tonight should be 25 minutes. So far so good.

Mood: Bleak.

Laid down for bed around 11 p.m. last night. Strapped on the CPAP, took my first few breaths to get it started, and lay on my side for about a half hour, giving my bedroom curtains the "thousand yard stare," until I could feel sobs welling up inside me. I took off the CPAP and headed to the living room, to sit and sob in the dark.

I haven't been "necessarily compliant" with my Lexapro, I know this is part to blame. Lately I've felt very overwhelmed and distant. As I lay in my bed and I could feel the sobs creeping their way outward, forced outward by demons of the past mixing with the present.

Repressing and suppressing sad things is a coping mechanism. I haven't accepted a good lot of negative crap in my life, and in order to simply survive, I try to laugh at what I can, and ignore the rest. But "the rest" has its way of finding its way to the light of day. "The Rest" lays in wait, for those moments of vulnerability, when I am on the precipice of being on auto pilot, as one normally is as they lay waiting for precious sleep to take hold.

Last night as I lay next to the husband who was sound asleep by then, I felt so very alone. So distant. My mind wandered. My past and present intermingled in a copulation of sadness. I lay there wondering what truly connects one of us to the other? I feel so distant.

Even for sex, he doesn't seem pleased by my touch, and certain touching or touches that normally would lead any other man to the natural conclusion of coitus, just merely annoys my husband.

No amount of words can fix this. I've tried. No touching, caressing, kissing, sweet talking. No interest in me. No interest in pleasing me. No obvious indication I am pleasing him, whether by action or by my physical appearance. I walk around with this devastation daily. Yet I ignore what I can, as I can't fix any of it. Talking about it accomplishes nothing. His ego can only take so much. Me and my ego are just expected to accept it.

All I've ever craved was to be loved.

The past indignations of being told the evening of my first marriage that my exhusband should have listened to his brother; that marrying me was a mistake. And how two years later when I was going in for laser surgery for a recurrence of a cervical pre-cancer, my father took me, as my then-husband couldn't be bothered, and intoned, "If this means you cannot have children, then marrying you was the worst mistake of my life." And six short years later it all finally came crashing down like a sandcastle, "I never loved you. Marrying you was the worst mistake of my life."

It's been ten years since I walked away, and nine and a half years since the decree came through, and I relive this uncalled for sadness regularly.

It is difficult NOT to do so when you factor in the emotional distance I'm experiencing. Here I am going every three months to a specialist, and how it looks like I won't be able to have children of my own afterall... and it looks like eventually I'll be going in for gastric bypass... and yet all of these appointments I go to alone, much in the way of my sex life.

If I want to be loved, if I want comfort or to be taken care of, I have to be the one to do it. Even rigid oak trees planted side by side occasionally touch each other with a stiff breeze. I feel so alone; a sick kind of alone.

I need so much more than he is obviously able or willing to give me.
I'm tired of talking about it with him.
I'm sitting here at my desk at work pecking these words out, hoping to keep from crying from the stress of holding this in for one more moment; yet, the tears come anyway, and mock me.

Much in the way he attempts to take credit for any sexual pleasure I might get from using my back massager before allowing him to do what he wants to do with me (I do this to take care of my needs--as too often for the last almost seven years, I haven't felt loved or even acknowledged, sexually).

Sexually he is like a paratrooper; get in and out as quick and efficiently as possible. "Hit it and quit it."

So I take care of my needs first, then assume the position, always on all fours, no deviation. It could be anyone else he's entering. There's no touching. No eye contact. No kissing. No sweet or dirty talk. No nothing.

Sexually I feel as if I am nothing more than an anonymous glory hole, as coarse as that may be.

He sees nothing wrong with this. There's nothing hateful about it to him. He likes what he likes. However, my preferences don't factor into this.

I catch myself every once in a while. My thoughts are so intense, I fear they will turn into words if I am not careful. All week I've caught myself saying to myself how I just can't keep on going like this. I'm missing my other half of myself, my soul, my heart.

So each night before bed, as I'm taking those first deep inhales to get my CPAP going, and I am giving the curtains the thousand yard stare again, I pray in my head, "God please take me. Let me be your servant. I'm ready. Please take me. Just make it stop." And my eyes roll back in their sockets with each inhale, and if I don't make myself cry, if I'm lucky, some nights I disappear for a few precious hours of suspended animation as I sleep.

I took my Lexapro today. Might take another dose before bed too.

Yet, I do nothing. Make no moves regarding whether I should stay or go. I suppose my inaction is an action unto itself. However, I am trapped in a conundrum. I cannot tell if the entire reason why I am depressed is my sex life; or I can't tell if my sex life is as miserable as it is because I am depressed. I can't tell which is feeding the other. So I do the only judicious thing I can, and do nothing.

Once A Week: Pill Packin' Day

Much like a lot of other folks, this is a routine I do religiously every week: refilling my pill caddy, which I keep at my desk at work, where I take my morning meds and supplements, and in the afternoon I'll take a few more supplements (i.e. alpha lipoic acid, two more multi-vitamins, and depending on memory or availability, spirulina tablets.

In this picture, to the right are my actual medications:

2500 mg Metformin
145 mg Tricor
25 mg Spironolactone
20 mg Quinipril

In this picture, to the left are my supplements:

1000 mg Conjugated Linoleic Acid blend
1000 mg Omega 3-6-9
500 mg Evening Primrose Oil
Multibetic vitamins
800 mcg Folic Acid
600 mcg Biotin
565 mg Dong Quai
2 mg B6/1000 mcg B12

After lunch I'll then take:

1000 mg Cinnamon
200 mg Alpha Lipoic Acid
3000 mg Spirulina

Mind you in the evening I take:

25 mg Spironolactone
20 mg Quinipril
10 mg Lexapro

I am thoroughly amazed at this point I have not started shitting in "capsule form."

Snippets

Cobbling a post together, using words from messages to a friend (and you know who you are), which pretty much summarizes a lot of what I'm going through (emotionally) as I work through in my head whether or not I'll ultimately have the gastric bypass.

Each time I've convinced myself I'll go through it, I eventually talk myself out. So I'm reading, and trying not to think of the surgery itself, because that's something I have no control over. Hey, I could eventually work myself up to actually accepting it as my lot/fate, and the surgeon or the insurance or God knows who else would or could potentially nix everything for a bunch of reasons, some I could hypothetize right now, but I'm trying not to be overly negative at the moment. Easy to say, tough to employ.

I’m not doing it to make myself happy. In fact, I’m quite content “as is,” however, one of my fears is physically turning into my mother, and if fucking my relationship with food over is the only way to ensure it… then so be it.

I told my mother that mum’s the word when I do go for it. And for her not to be offended but not to expect any visits from me until I am on solid food (which could be about 3 months, depending on foodstuffs).

Now, I have to worry about making up a will and an advanced directive, as these things are usually fraught with all types of risks, and I have to plan for every possibility.

I want to plan this for the new year, and for me not to be in recovery during the holiday season, and make sure it’s in between vacations as well.

My crippled up mother asked me if I wanted to come down and stay with her for my recovery. And to be honest, she’s really crippled up, I can’t see her really being all that much help, but it would give her more time with me, which is one thing she’s always wistful about.

Apparently while I was on topamax a few months back (and was on it far longer than anyone else my doctor suggested for other than prescribed reasons), she and I “turned a corner” in our relationship. On one level I’m pleased, but I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst. I’m back on my lexapro, so I’m able to not dwell so much and be anxious etc. But life is short, and I’d like to have some type of relationship with my mother, and reverse the fuckeduppedness of my childhood and early adulthood.

We’re all flawed, yanno?

[...]He (the husband) knows. I just stood over the stove sobbing just now, as I was toasting up his naans for his dinner (I haven’t had dinner myself). I’ve been doing a lot of reading ahead, to see what the recovery is like, for me to be at peace with it before this process even commences. Just stood and sobbed at how alone I am.

I have zero support system up here, and knowing in the past when I’ve been under the weather or otherwise not 100%, he always responded as if it were all an inconvenience… how it all inconveniences HIM. I can only imagine what it will be like for a protracted amount of time, knowing the things we love so much, dining out and vacations, will be radically different for a long time. I want to plan it so it doesn’t interfere with holidays, as well as vacations… so I suppose he and I have to think ahead to taking a vacation right before the surgery, and plan one six months after, by that point in time, I’ll be on solid foods again, and hopefully having no difficulties with spicy foods or red meat.

As I stood there sobbing, he came in and reassured me he would be working from home, so he’d be able to take care of me. Which, of course, made me sob more, because I envision us being at each other’s throats. Not that we are at the moment, but it seems, when one of us is miserable, which I am sure I will be, we both will be miserable. Things here have improved a bit, but not sure if that’s any doing on his part, or if it’s just me being compliant on the lexapro.

For a while there, I was envisioning checking myself in at Mt. Sinai, alone. My husband is a good man, a foolish man when it comes to things he says (think of that movie, “As Good As It Gets” with Jack Nicholson–granted my husband doesn’t have a psychological thing wrong with him; however, he’s just thoughtless with his words, and I’m too thin skinned for that). I hope some of this makes sense.

I envision the surgery to be the metaphorical half step before one sews their mouth shut (not that I am an over eater, I am just too inactive for what I eat, which isn’t more or less than a regular person. I’ve just got so much wrong with me, Syndrome X and PCOS double-teaming me as it were, I simply cannot lose weight and keep it off anymore. Weight Watchers, Atkins, you name it… I just am not so diligent to stay on anything for too long. Like I said, it makes me obsess even more over the food-weight relationship, and eventually I just give up and want to eat like a normal person, yanno? Have a normal life.

I haven’t decided if I’m just getting one type or the other, the other being a billiary bypass (not sure the difference there), whether I’ll have my gall bladder removed at the same time, and if so, if they can repair a suspected hiatal hernia at the same time too, as “they’ll be in the neighborhood”… might as well maximize having me under anesthesia, killing three birds with one stone.

I’m even depressed over the notion of being constipated after the surgery.

I’m a wreck.

ReproEndoGuy: T-Minus Two Weeks (Thereabouts)

Two weeks until I see the ReproEndoGuy again.

If anything I continue to gain weight, though in all honesty, I don't know how. The more I fret about it, the more I am unable to shed the weight.

I've gone through four of the five stages of grief, and just when I think I've accepted it, I change my mind, for an assortment of reasons.

I'm getting mind-fucked without the benefit of lube or a kiss on the cheek.

But I have decided that IF I go for surgical intervention, it'll be for the bypass, not the lapband. The lapband seems too inconvenient with the adjustments post-op, plus I'm concerned about my migraines and how violently I vomit when I get them. There is a possibility I could puke my lapband out of place. I can't envision that to be an enjoyable experience. Additionally, I saw on 60 minutes about the bypass, and how something physiological happens to the body once the duodenum is cut, and how in all cases spotlighted, it reversed their diabetes.

Granted, I don't have diabetes. At the moment. At the rate I am going, it could turn any day now.

Been so wound up, haven't really had my period. That dot I mysteriously left as a post, that was just spotting, no period to follow it. I feel all bloaty and uncomfortable, and just know that when it'll come... it'll come with a vengeance. To spite me. And of course, will no doubt rear its ugly head while I am away on vacation.

I see the ReproEndoGuy the day before I head off for Spain and then my cruise. The next day, I see my gyno at 9 a.m. We depart for Spain at 7 p.m.

I go for my bloodwork hopefully this Friday morning.

.

H. 1844: The Height/Weight Anti-Discrimination Law

H. 1844: The Height/Weight Anti-Discrimination Law

Please support this much-needed civil rights law. People of all sizes face discrimination based on body size. It's real. It's not okay. Without a law, we have no protection. The only other places to offer such a law: San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Washington DC, Madison, Wisconsin, and Michigan.

You want to help make history?

If you live in Massachusetts:

1. Call your state Representative: 617 722 2000 (Ask to be directed based on your zip code.)
- Ask how the Rep. will vote for H. 1844, how they will support this historic legislation.

2. Come to the crucial hearing! Tell your story!

Tuesday, March 25, 2 p.m.
State House, room A-2, in Boston

If you don't live in Massachusetts, please forward this info to anyone you know who does.

For questions, contact Marilyn Wann: marilyn@fatso.com

The Fat-Ass List

"You're looking at Maven, who carries within her bowels, a turd the size of the national debt. This is a bitchy woman, an alone and lonely woman, struggling, playing tug-of-war with an unseen challenger. She is an angry and hungry woman, with a twitchy large intestine with a disposition to match. This is a woman who has lived thirty-nine-nearing-forty undistinguished, meaningless, pointless, fart-laden years, and who at this moment looks for an escape -- any escape, any way, any thing, to make the disconnect, to sever the hold... And this little band around her gullet promises to be the dietary Savior --which she has hitherto been waiting for..."

Begrudgingly, I'm on the precipice (not prepuce) of accepting the fact I need to be lap-banded. It was either that, staple my cake-hole (Mmmm, Reddddd Velvetttt Cakeeeeee... oh wait... Kevin's mom's Rummmmmmm Cakeeeeeeeeeeee....) shut, or end up with a death certificate on file somewhere with the cause of death being, "Fatassitis."

[Think about it. It'll come to you. Wait for it... Wait for it... Ah. There? Got it? Oh, I can continue? Whythankyouverylittle. Moving right along...]

I've got a lard-ass. Pastey-white, not-too-much-junk-in-the-trunk-yet-proportional to the rest of my body, that for a reason that escapes my comprehension, drives men crazy in one of those rare, great Bailey's Comet kinda ways that crosses racial and cultural boundaries... LARD ASS.

Let's not get confused: In the grand scheme of lard-asses, it's not nearly so lardy as to require a piano case for a coffin, should my heart decide to up and explode right about now...

(which given my current sun-shiney disposition wouldn't be all that horrible--I'm banking on my first "cardiac event" being a fatal one--and when my specialist recently told me that those statistics are changing nearly daily that most women do NOT die with their first heart attack, I admonished him, and howled out, "Don't take my HEART ATTACK away from me!!)

...Or perhaps a petulant little embolism decides to take up residence in my lung or brain. However, due to an overwhelming number of medical things wrong with me, and due to my overwhelming failure to lose weight to reverse a lot of my problems, this is being presented as my last option.

Friends and regular readers, as well as friends who are regular readers (like that distinction I made right there?) may remember my plight with Atkins and Xenical, and most-recently, "Dope"-amax, er, I mean Topamax, yet metabolism be damned, it's done nothing but anger my gravitational karma.

Oh fuck, I almost forgot the purpose of this particular post.

Okay, in sum and substance, at a time and place as yet undetermined, sometime in the foreseeable future I will undergo a lap-banding.

Until that time comes, in an un-binge-ing fashion, I will be savoring every meal with the hunger of a murderer on death row, eating his final repast, keeping the faith for an "eleventh hour" pardon from the governor.

That being said, I am composing a Fat-Ass List of all places or foods I hope to consume (not all at once, mind you) and enjoy before the mandatory, pre-operative-sanity-destroying (not to be confused with the post-operative-socially-alienating) liquid diet.

As of today, my list is thus:

1. Vermicelli, 1492 Second Ave, NYC (nr. 78th); to be consumed: Pho, bo la nho, chao tom.
2. Pop Burger; to be consumed: SLIDERZZZZZZZZ
3. The Melting Pot; to be consumed: What else? A bucket of fondue!
4. Original Pancake House; to be consumed: Apple pancake
   
5. Red Lotus; to be consumed: Ped Rad Prig and Po Tak
6. Cupcake Cafe; to be consumed: Walnut cupcake with maple buttercream
   
7. Braseiro Churrascaria (yeah, the place has a Pig in a chef's toque as their logo--what of it?); to be consumed: Meat, meat, and more meat. I don't give a shit what they give me, provided it's been cooked til the juices run clear!

This list will be an on-going project. Friends who know me and hang with me in person, are more than welcome to send me their suggestions as to what they think I should taste, savor, and enjoy before the sanity-buster which awaits me.

Hitting My Limit

Got an 11th hour call from the sleep clinic that they had a last minute cancellation and were able to fit me in tonight.

Of course this is at a different facility than where I know where to go.

Of course this means I haven't shampooed my hair (it's a bit oily).

Of course this means I now need to rush home to pack an overnight bag.

Of course this means I will be too tired to make the trip to Jersey as I promised my mother for her birthday.

Remind me again, why am I jumping through all these hoops?

Oy.

Another hot soak of a bath is in my future (to get the electrode boogery goo out of my hair and scalp).

Hope I remember to pack tampons and remember to leave the husband's housekey where he can find it.