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