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.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Obesity: The Last Socially Acceptable Bias
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, July 28, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
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."
Sunday, June 01, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
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
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
Thursday, March 06, 2008
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:
Vermicelli, 1492 Second Ave, NYC (nr. 78th); to be consumed: Pho, bo la nho, chao tom.- Pop Burger; to be consumed: SLIDERZZZZZZZZ
- The Melting Pot; to be consumed: What else? A bucket of fondue!
- Original Pancake House; to be consumed: Apple pancake
- Red Lotus; to be consumed: Ped Rad Prig and Po Tak
Cupcake Cafe; to be consumed: Walnut cupcake with maple buttercream- 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!
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Up at 5:48 a.m. On A Day Off? Heresy I Say!
Granted I took yesterday and today off from work to tend to some doctor's visits. Hell, I was *this close* to going for the second phase sleep study (the one before I get my CPAP), but didn't. I think God thought to him/her/itself, "Hey, she had her mammogram on the first day, the worst day, of her period... let's cut her some slack."
Turns out the admitting department was closed for the day by 4:45 when the sleep study gal called. It wasn't meant to be. So the earliest they could get me in was March 21st, which according to my calculations is Good Friday.
Now back to the titty squish...
And by "titty squish," I mean, the procedure where they squashed my girls to what felt like 1/8 of an inch in density, to the point where I saw stars and thought lightning bolts were about to shoot out of my nipples. Normally I say the squishing isn't as bad as the tugging, and by "tugging," I mean, "a sensation which could only be duplicated if I were suspended, full body weight, by meat hooks piercing my nipples."
I am certain that if men had to endure this torture on their testes, you better-betcher-bippy there would be some other less sadistic way (perchance a lovely ultrasound, MRI, or pectoral CAT scan), which would no doubt be more effective.
So here I am... in agony of a different sort. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. with a full-on menstrual breach, necessitating a garment change (and will require bed linen change). Turned on my most-recent Pema Chodron CD ("Don't Bite The Hook"), and I tried using my back massager on my belly, which helped temporarily, until I stopped. Then I heated my heating pad and popped some Bayer. And now I'm contemplating taking a hot shower, just to exhaust all possible ways I could get the pain to abate.
But much in the way that after I let the four letter expletives fly yesterday and blurted out, post-mammo with tears in my eyes from the pain, "At least I have breasts with which to SENSE this pain," I am now going the existential route again by saying, "At least I have a uterus by which to sense this pain."
Turns out the admitting department was closed for the day by 4:45 when the sleep study gal called. It wasn't meant to be. So the earliest they could get me in was March 21st, which according to my calculations is Good Friday.
Now back to the titty squish...
And by "titty squish," I mean, the procedure where they squashed my girls to what felt like 1/8 of an inch in density, to the point where I saw stars and thought lightning bolts were about to shoot out of my nipples. Normally I say the squishing isn't as bad as the tugging, and by "tugging," I mean, "a sensation which could only be duplicated if I were suspended, full body weight, by meat hooks piercing my nipples."
I am certain that if men had to endure this torture on their testes, you better-betcher-bippy there would be some other less sadistic way (perchance a lovely ultrasound, MRI, or pectoral CAT scan), which would no doubt be more effective.
So here I am... in agony of a different sort. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. with a full-on menstrual breach, necessitating a garment change (and will require bed linen change). Turned on my most-recent Pema Chodron CD ("Don't Bite The Hook"), and I tried using my back massager on my belly, which helped temporarily, until I stopped. Then I heated my heating pad and popped some Bayer. And now I'm contemplating taking a hot shower, just to exhaust all possible ways I could get the pain to abate.
But much in the way that after I let the four letter expletives fly yesterday and blurted out, post-mammo with tears in my eyes from the pain, "At least I have breasts with which to SENSE this pain," I am now going the existential route again by saying, "At least I have a uterus by which to sense this pain."
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
PS: Did you know
Four Dunkin Donuts glazed munchkins contain 300 calories, YET...
YET, a large (12 ounce) container of Wendy's chili contains 330 calories (not including saltines).
YET, a large (12 ounce) container of Wendy's chili contains 330 calories (not including saltines).
Oy
I didn't do as bad with dinner last night as one might assume, since I did not blog about it. I was just too lazy, not guilt ridden.
Aunt Flow rolled into town today, just in time for my mamogram. This should be fun.
Aunt Flow rolled into town today, just in time for my mamogram. This should be fun.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sleep Study: Results Are In
Just got off the blower w/the ReproEndoGuy, who got the results from my sleep study. I was surprised and impressed that he got the results so soon--I thought it would be another two weeks.
I had 100+ episodes of hypoxia during my sleep; yet despite this, it's not considered severe. "Moderate."
Tomorrow I call to find out how to go about getting my CPAP (sis can get it for me for whatever my insurance costs--thanktheeightpoundbabyjesus for employee discounts).
Will be off tomorrow to tend to the annual "titty squish." Taking the rest of the day off to regroup afterwards.
I had 100+ episodes of hypoxia during my sleep; yet despite this, it's not considered severe. "Moderate."
Tomorrow I call to find out how to go about getting my CPAP (sis can get it for me for whatever my insurance costs--thanktheeightpoundbabyjesus for employee discounts).
Will be off tomorrow to tend to the annual "titty squish." Taking the rest of the day off to regroup afterwards.
1500 Calories a Day: Day Two, The "Mulligan"
[Didn't post yesterday's evening--it went to hell quickly. So for today, I'm utilizing some "golf-speak": MULLIGAN, which is literally a "do-over." I didn't think I'd have problems right from day one, however, I'm not looking at it as a set back--what was I set back from? I just started keeping this food diary. Eventually I'll get used to the fact I have to calculate everything.]
Rise time:
7:05 a.m. (without alarm clock)
Weight:
272
Morning exercise:
None
8:00 a.m. Mood:
Fatigued, yet focused
Breakfast, 510 (estimated):
9:30 Bacon, egg and cheese on whole wheat toast w/a splort of ketchup
(finished consuming roughly 10:15 a.m.)
Apple Juice, 80
Coffee w/H&H, 40
Medications:
Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg
Supplements:
Metamucil drink, 20
Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)
12:24 p.m. Mood:
lert with a sense of improving wellbeing..
Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :
Campbell's Chicken Sausage Gumbo, 280
Jello, 10
Banana, 100 (average)
Anjou pear, 80 (average)
DelMonte Fruit Cup, 25
Coffee w/H&H, 40 (oy!)
6 p.m. Before leaving work...
Supplements:
Metamucil drink, 20
Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
DINNER:
Planning on eating some steak which has been marinating in wasabaki, stir fried with some veggies, red bell pepper and sesame seeds. Will measure and calculate calories before cooking.
DESSERT:
Sugar free pudding.
Strategy for tomorrow:
Plan to graze; pack portable proteins; pack a big salad w/salad "spritzer" and some chunked chicken.
Rise time:
7:05 a.m. (without alarm clock)
Weight:
272
Morning exercise:
None
8:00 a.m. Mood:
Fatigued, yet focused
Breakfast, 510 (estimated):
9:30 Bacon, egg and cheese on whole wheat toast w/a splort of ketchup
(finished consuming roughly 10:15 a.m.)
Apple Juice, 80
Coffee w/H&H, 40
Medications:
Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg
Supplements:
Metamucil drink, 20
Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)
12:24 p.m. Mood:
lert with a sense of improving wellbeing..
Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :
Banana, 100 (average)
Anjou pear, 80 (average)
Coffee w/H&H, 40 (oy!)
6 p.m. Before leaving work...
Supplements:
Metamucil drink, 20
Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
DINNER:
Planning on eating some steak which has been marinating in wasabaki, stir fried with some veggies, red bell pepper and sesame seeds. Will measure and calculate calories before cooking.
DESSERT:
Sugar free pudding.
Strategy for tomorrow:
Plan to graze; pack portable proteins; pack a big salad w/salad "spritzer" and some chunked chicken.
Monday, February 25, 2008
1500 Calories: Day One
Rise time:
7:45 a.m.
Weight:
Forgot to weigh in before breakfast
Morning exercise:
None
8:00 a.m. Mood: Fatigued, yet focused
Breakfast, 280:
Cheerios, 100
Milk, 110
Hard boiled egg, 70
Coffee w/H&H, 40
Medications:
Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg
Supplements:
Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)
11:25 a.m. Mood: Alert.
11:30 a.m. Pear nectar, 6 oz, 70 calories
Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :
Campbells Chicken Sausage Gumbo, 280
Good grief, my first stumble--shrimp lo mein, caloric intake: I wouldn't even venture a guess
Jello, 10
Anjou pear, 80 (average)
DelMonte Fruit Cup, 25 did not eat
Yerba Mate w/H&H, 40 (oy!)
1 packet of oatmeal, 140
Metamucil drink, 20
7:45 a.m.
Weight:
Forgot to weigh in before breakfast
Morning exercise:
None
8:00 a.m. Mood: Fatigued, yet focused
Breakfast, 280:
Cheerios, 100
Milk, 110
Hard boiled egg, 70
Coffee w/H&H, 40
Medications:
Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg
Supplements:
Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)
11:25 a.m. Mood: Alert.
11:30 a.m. Pear nectar, 6 oz, 70 calories
Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :
Good grief, my first stumble--shrimp lo mein, caloric intake: I wouldn't even venture a guess
Jello, 10
Anjou pear, 80 (average)
Yerba Mate w/H&H, 40 (oy!)
1 packet of oatmeal, 140
Metamucil drink, 20
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Regarding That "Pesky" Fifth Stage of Grief
I am not "accepting" it. It being the lapband as my last resort. Getting upset over the post-op diet and regimen was a wake up call for me. Something has to be done. I don't see the doc again until May.
I bought a bunch of those reduced calorie entrees, and plan on bringing them or soup for lunch. Fresh fruit. Cottage cheese. Hell, all of this beats the ever-living-fuck out of no food, or worse, being relegated to types of foodstuffs I find repugnant.
Granted I have a shitload to lose. But I figure 70 should be my end goal at this point. But I'll settle for those first ten pounds.
I'm going to eventually "re-no" my den and turn it into something "else" as I do have an orbital trainer and a recumbent bike here at home.
Perhaps I'm delusional to think I can slay this dragon myself.
Tomorrow a.m., I will start journaling everything. Yep. This means I'll be weighing in every day. I don't give a shit if they (whomever "they" are) say you shouldn't; however, I know myself better than anyone else, and know that facing my gravitational reality head on, and grabbing that bull by the balls is the only way for me to even presume to get a handle on my situation. Hopefully by being obsessive about it, I hope I don't fall into the same patterns I did 25 years ago--but one would presume I'd be older and wiser besides being considerably more corpulent.
I'll be blogging my weight, mood, exercise, and food intake. I don't expect it to be pretty. And perhaps in May, if I've made considerable loss before the doctor's visit, I'll share with him my blog url so he can see what I've been up to.
I'm more upset about the post-op than I am of the surgery itself, and that speaks VOLUMES.
I bought a bunch of those reduced calorie entrees, and plan on bringing them or soup for lunch. Fresh fruit. Cottage cheese. Hell, all of this beats the ever-living-fuck out of no food, or worse, being relegated to types of foodstuffs I find repugnant.
Granted I have a shitload to lose. But I figure 70 should be my end goal at this point. But I'll settle for those first ten pounds.
I'm going to eventually "re-no" my den and turn it into something "else" as I do have an orbital trainer and a recumbent bike here at home.
Perhaps I'm delusional to think I can slay this dragon myself.
Tomorrow a.m., I will start journaling everything. Yep. This means I'll be weighing in every day. I don't give a shit if they (whomever "they" are) say you shouldn't; however, I know myself better than anyone else, and know that facing my gravitational reality head on, and grabbing that bull by the balls is the only way for me to even presume to get a handle on my situation. Hopefully by being obsessive about it, I hope I don't fall into the same patterns I did 25 years ago--but one would presume I'd be older and wiser besides being considerably more corpulent.
I'll be blogging my weight, mood, exercise, and food intake. I don't expect it to be pretty. And perhaps in May, if I've made considerable loss before the doctor's visit, I'll share with him my blog url so he can see what I've been up to.
I'm more upset about the post-op than I am of the surgery itself, and that speaks VOLUMES.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
This Shit Makes Me Angry
So like an idiot, I Googled, "life after lap band," and found a site which had this information:
*I'm sure by "soup" they don't mean wonton or tom yum goong, but some watery disgusting deviation of the "soup" definition. I might as well be consuming a slurry of raw sewage. Yes. I'm serious.
All of this is enough for me to cry out, "What's the point? What am I doing this for?" [See the fourth stage of grief below.]
Seriously. The surgery doesn't scare me half as much as the "after," the "food prison" I'll be in. Pretty much everything that's off limits after the surgery is pretty much my staple foods--then to compound it, no caffeine? No steak? Nuts? Spicy foods (this includes cinnamon). No seriously... please... open up one of my veins right now and let's get this pitifully slow death over with. The suspense and mind-fucking are too much for this fatty to take.
They say there are five stages of grief:
I noticed there are a few books over at Amazon devoted to the topic of life after lap band... perhaps I should get one (one that's written by a doctor), and see what the book says. I'm just sick with this. JUST SICK.
In the meantime? In the meantime... Every meal I have right now? I approach it with the mindset of a criminal on death row, eleventh hour, no possibility of a pardon from the governor.
If you are a regular coffee, tea, or soda drinker you should be aware that no caffeine is permitted for the first three months after surgery. Carbonated beverages; both diet and regular may cause gas, bloating, and an increase in stomach size due to the carbonation and are not recommended at any time for Lap-Band patients.
The second phase of the Lap-Band diet consists of 5 to 6 weeks of a modified full liquid diet; the key component of this phase is consuming two ounces of a protein shake every hour for ten to twelve hours a day with two ounces of other liquids such as soup*, baby food, or sugar-free gelatin three times a day.
During the second six weeks following Lap-Band surgery patients may eat food that is shredded in a food processor prior to eating. The basic foods on the Lap-Band diet include meats or other forms of protein, vegetables, and salads. The Lap-Band diet does not include most bread, potatoes and other starchy vegetables. The length of these phases may be altered according a patient’s personal weight and weight loss goals – my first phase is five weeks, followed by a two week second phase.
*I'm sure by "soup" they don't mean wonton or tom yum goong, but some watery disgusting deviation of the "soup" definition. I might as well be consuming a slurry of raw sewage. Yes. I'm serious.
All of this is enough for me to cry out, "What's the point? What am I doing this for?" [See the fourth stage of grief below.]
Seriously. The surgery doesn't scare me half as much as the "after," the "food prison" I'll be in. Pretty much everything that's off limits after the surgery is pretty much my staple foods--then to compound it, no caffeine? No steak? Nuts? Spicy foods (this includes cinnamon). No seriously... please... open up one of my veins right now and let's get this pitifully slow death over with. The suspense and mind-fucking are too much for this fatty to take.
They say there are five stages of grief:
- Denial: The initial stage: "It can't be happening." [ED: Been in this stage for several years at this point, foolishly trying any drug my doctor has suggested, and even half-hearted attempts at any "diet" after my two year dalliance with Atkins]
- Anger: "Why me? It's not fair." [ED: Check! been there! I'm FURIOUS about the food situation, both RIGHT NOW, and the hypothetical post-lap band surgery! FUCKING FURIOUS I TELL YA!]
- Bargaining: "Just let me live to see my children graduate." [ED: This is currently where I am right now. In the meantime (since I see the doc on May, two months away), I have been considering going on Jenny Craig or doing those dreadful Lean Cuisine entrees, just so I can say I've exhausted everything I could have humanly done.]
- Depression: "I'm so sad, why bother with anything?" [ED: Oh yes. I am here, too. Life isn't worth living if I can't eat my beloved Thai food. Yes. I'm serious.]
- Acceptance: "It's going to be OK."
I noticed there are a few books over at Amazon devoted to the topic of life after lap band... perhaps I should get one (one that's written by a doctor), and see what the book says. I'm just sick with this. JUST SICK.
In the meantime? In the meantime... Every meal I have right now? I approach it with the mindset of a criminal on death row, eleventh hour, no possibility of a pardon from the governor.
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