13

Finally, the Dawn

OCTOBER 2008

I’m at the Pumpkin Patch with my four-year-old daughter’s preschool class. Even though we are surrounded by bales of hay, barrels of red apples, and stacks and stacks of bright orange pumpkins, the air is warm on my cheeks and all I can think about is spring. Several months before, after my gastric bypass surgery, I missed the birth of spring; because of the complications, I hardly noticed the pink blooming azaleas or the grass turning from brown straw into a rich field of green. But now, in this moment of my life, it feels like springtime. Hope renewed. A rebirthing, if you will.

Emma has a classmate named Will-Parks, a cute little blond boy she’s known since they were babies. I tell her all the time that Will-Parks’s daddy is a hero—he’s a soldier stationed at Fort Bragg, and we’ve watched him deploy overseas several times over the years. I’ve always admired the way his mother cares for her children while her husband is away, seemingly with such ease. I can’t imagine having that kind of strength. I’ve also enjoyed watching Will-Parks’s dad over the years when he is home, because he is such a loving, doting father. All the kids in Emma’s preschool class love him.

On this day, Will-Parks’s dad approaches me as we wait for the slideshow to begin in the farmhouse. The kids are happily munching on homemade ice cream, and he leans over to get my attention. I smile warmly at him; it has been a while since we’ve seen each other. He’s tentative, which is kind of unusual for him. Finally, he says, “I … I hope it’s okay. Can I say … can I tell you … how great you look?”

If my smile were any bigger, my face would be permanently disfigured.

He’s instantly relieved that I’m not embarrassed or offended, and this makes me admire him even more. It’s scary for a man to say anything even remotely related to weight to a woman; I’ve definitely learned that over the years. He got past that because he thought it was important that I hear what he had to say, and I am so grateful that he did. Women do need to hear compliments, especially from dashing, good-looking soldiers. I needed to hear a wonderfully warm compliment, unsolicited.

Take that, sun god Scott.

I lost one hundred pounds in six months. Just writing that statement is mind-blowing; living it has been an unbelievable whirlwind. I can’t tell you how much I dreamed over the years of losing one hundred pounds, how many different plans and schemes I hatched trying to reach that goal, only to fail time and again. To finally have it happen, to finally be out of the morbidly obese category is something I find difficult to describe. Joy. Relief. Freedom. Those are the words that come to mind.

Anyone who thinks having gastric bypass surgery is taking the easy way out really needs to come and live my life, from the beginning, on March 18, when I was rolled out of the OR in such pain and it took months to recover. I did finally get over the physical pain, and I am making strides in the psychological arena as well. But make no mistake: No part of this has been easy—not even close.

I sometimes wonder if I will ever eat “normally” again. And I guess I should figure out how I define normal; certainly how I ate before the surgery wouldn’t qualify. I guess my question is … will I ever blend in? Will people ever stop taking account of what I’m eating or asking me about what foods I should avoid? Will I ever be able to take a trip again without some elaborate plan to have foods that I can tolerate? Really, I’m dying to know how this will all play out.

For now, I am getting nourishment daily, and that is certainly progress. The crippling nausea is gone, thank goodness, and I have a pretty good idea of what foods agree with me and which ones I should avoid. Despite my best efforts, I still get in too big of a hurry sometimes, and I don’t chew my food thoroughly. When this happens, food gets stuck in my esophagus, and I have to remind myself first of all to stay calm. Usually I then get out my familiar green bowl. It’s become known affectionately in my house as “Mommy’s throw-up bucket.” When my food gets stuck, I have to get it out the old-fashioned way. I have thrown up more in the last year than I have my entire life. It’s such a regular occurrence, my children don’t even notice it anymore. It used to be quite upsetting, and I’ll admit, it still isn’t my favorite thing in the world. But I’ve learned to live with it, and I am convinced it is getting better. My stomach pouch will stretch over time, and as I continue to learn what foods to cut out, I’m sure much progress will be made.

The number one question I get is, “What do you eat?” Indeed, everyone is so curious about me at mealtime, it’s kind of amusing. I know a couple of people who had a gastric bypass who resent this kind of attention. But really, I don’t mind it at all. I understand it, in fact; I’ve always been deeply curious about how all this works. I just worry that I am not a model patient and perhaps not the best example of what to do and what not to do! In any case, protein is the order of the day. Now that I finally have gotten the message that carbs are not my friend, I eat very few of them. It was never my intention to cut out carbs entirely; they just don’t agree with my stomach. So I don’t eat sandwiches or pasta or potatoes. Well, I guess that is not entirely true; I will eat a bite of spaghetti or a french fry or two. But truly, I’ve lost my taste for high-carb foods, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Besides, I’ve eaten enough plates of spaghetti to last me a lifetime!

I have two scrambled eggs every morning, usually with some cheese. For snacks, I eat slices of pepperoni or tablespoons of peanut butter or a handful of nuts. I still enjoy lean red meats, but I have trouble tolerating hamburger, and I still haven’t found any chicken that I enjoy—something about it is too chewy for me. Really, if it weren’t for cheese, I wouldn’t survive!

Of course, the one million dollar question is: What do I drink? Have I fared well with the no-soft-drinks rule? The relief-filled answer is an easy yes. Truly, it was the one thing I was most worried about, and it is actually what I have missed the least. Maybe in that way, the complications after my surgery were a blessing; I was too preoccupied with illness to obsess over my inability to have a Coke. And I found that once I didn’t have them often, I didn’t miss them—not at all. I’ve had conversations with other gastric bypass patients who’ve tried to tell me it would be all right to have a drink every once in a while, but I am not going there. I’ve been through too much to risk it, thank you very much.

In fact during the 2008 Christmas season, I took my daughter to a cookie exchange at a girlfriend’s house. The moms hosting the event thought it would be cute to make Shirley Temples for the little girls to drink. I guess I’m an idiot—I had no idea what was in a Shirley Temple. When they handed me Emma’s pink drink, I sipped some off the top so she wouldn’t spill it all over herself. I immediately tasted the carbonation and almost spit the drink out all over the table! I didn’t realize Shirley Temples are made with Sprite. Truly, it tasted awful, and Michael has said the same. He gave up soft drinks the same time I did, although every once in a while he gets served one by mistake. He says when you’re not used to it, the carbonation is dreadful. I’ll just take his word for it. Other than that one sip, I haven’t had a soda since March 17, 2008, and I don’t plan to ever have one again.

It doesn’t mean I’ve said good-bye to sweet drinks, however. After the surgery, I had a huge problem with dehydration, but water just didn’t do it for me. I needed to find something that I would drink regularly—and I turned at first to my kids’ juice boxes. I loved the sweet taste, and the small amounts were just what I needed. Of course they had too much sugar in them, and I’m sure my surgeon would frown about me drinking them. Again, I don’t claim to be a model patient; I just had to do whatever it took at the time. I did eventually give them up—but for pleasure, I now turn to the wine of the south, sweet tea. It gives me the sweet taste without the carbonation of soda. Yes, it is full of sugar and calories and not the best thing in the world for me. But I like it, and I allow it, and that’s all I’m going to say about it (believe me, I get plenty of grief from Michael).

Something I’ve taken great pleasure in is my absolute indifference to fast food. I used to live in the drive-thru line, and now I couldn’t care less about it. The only reason I ever go at all is if my children want the latest kid’s meal toy; I rarely get anything to eat for myself. I find most of the food too greasy and it upsets my stomach. What a victory this is! Although I must admit that it is not terribly convenient. If I’m out and about and have to find something to eat, it makes things a little trickier. I always have the need to plan in advance, but really, that’s only a small nuisance. The fact that I can pass all those fast-food signs and keep right on driving is thrilling.

Another mild irritation that comes as a result of having a gastric bypass is not being able to drink with my meals. To allow room in my stomach pouch for my food, I have to stop drinking anything thirty minutes before I eat, and I have to wait to have something to drink for at least thirty minutes after I eat. I knew this before the surgery, and I thought of all the changes I would have to make, this would be the least bothersome. But it has actually turned out to be the toughest to get used to. I mean, it’s just natural to want to sip something while you eat, especially when you eat things like cheese and peanut butter! But I’ve really had to train myself not to, and I’m getting there. When I go to restaurants, I purposefully don’t order anything, because even if it’s just water, I will pick it up and drink it out of habit. Drinking while eating makes eating really uncomfortable, so I’m learning to avoid it, albeit reluctantly.

I am so very happy to report that my diabetes has gone away, as has my high blood pressure. I can’t tell you what a tremendous relief this is; being diagnosed with type 2 diabetes after Eli was born really put me over the edge. The thought of being on medication, and possibly on insulin shots, for the rest of my life was unfathomable. Getting rid of those two conditions alone was worth having the surgery, even with all its complications.

I do struggle with vitamin deficiency, as most gastric bypass patients do. The way my body absorbs vitamins from food has been changed forever, and I will always be on supplements. I take multivitamins twice a day, plus a calcium supplement. And after having recent blood work, my surgeon has me on a vitamin D supplement. I hate having to take pills every day, but it’s a small price to pay; I’ve learned not to take good health for granted.

In fact, it was the vitamin deficiency aspect of all of this that led to perhaps one of the worst postsurgery complications, at least for personal reasons.

I lost a lot of hair. Now, it’s well-known that this is a common side effect for gastric bypass patients; after the surgery your body is in such shock that every available vitamin and nutrient goes to support your major organs and body systems, and things such as hair, skin, and nails miss out. It’s not uncommon for gastric bypass patients to go through quite a bit of “shedding”—and doctors advise their patients not to be alarmed, the hair will come back. But if you’ll recall, I’d been going through hair loss for quite some time leading up to the surgery. For years I’d been self-conscious about my protruding scalp, wondering if everyone else noticed that my hair was thinning. I was warned about this side effect before the surgery, but I guess I didn’t seriously contemplate the ramifications. I just wanted the weight off, no matter what it took. But about three months post-op, once the complications were finally behind me and I was starting to live again, I started to lose gobs and gobs of hair. It was frightening. My previous hair loss was way more subtle—a few strands in the shower, on my clothes, and so on. This time fistfuls would drop into my hairbrush every morning. I’d find tangles of hair in the washing machine from my clothes. I was shedding everywhere: on the carpet, in the car, on the plate of food at the dinner table. More than once two-year-old Eli came to me, saying, “Mommy hair in my mouth.” It was humiliating, and it did a real number on my self-confidence.

Had I really come all this way, only to look like a complete freak? Sure, I was losing weight, but how would anyone notice? They’d be too busy staring at my bald scalp! I tried to comb it and style it in a way that hid what was happening, but truly, each day, I was so scared to look in the mirror, afraid to see even more hair gone. I didn’t know what to do.

When I went in for my sixth-month checkup, the hair loss was the only concern I brought up to the doctor. He nodded and said it was quite common, and that it would grow back, perhaps even thicker and fuller—all the things I’d read. Only, I’d suffered hair loss before the surgery—would my situation be different? Did that mean my hair would not come back? The doctor didn’t know—he’d never been asked that question. I was as confused and scared as ever.

I seriously started to think about getting a wig. I was becoming so self-conscious; I didn’t want to leave the house. That was frightening, considering I was just rebounding from the surgery complications and depression. I couldn’t believe I found myself wanting to hide again. Maybe a wig would make me more comfortable; after all, they make really good ones now, in all kinds of styles. They are quite realistic looking. And maybe I wouldn’t have to wear it for long; if what the doctor said was true, my hair would come back. Perhaps a wig was what I needed to get through the interim.

I started researching and found that wigs are very, very expensive. If I wanted one that was going to fool people, and indeed I did, it would cost me at least a thousand dollars. I struggled with this. On the one hand, I thought it would do me a lot of good in terms of self-confidence. But on the other hand, we had a lot of medical bills to pay, plus we weren’t exactly rich to begin with. Could I justify spending so much money on something I was truly hoping was only temporary?

While I was mulling it over, I decided to share what I was going through with some friends. Whenever someone asked how I was doing, or remarked on how great I looked, I thanked them and admitted that my only problem was my hair. Most people seemed concerned, and I explained how the doctor had said it was only temporary. Everywhere I turned, I received kind words and encouragement, and in the end, I decided not to invest in the wig. I figured if I suddenly showed up with a full head of hair, everyone would know it wasn’t real, and that would instantly cause talk and speculation. What was the point? By being open and upfront about the problem, I found myself liberated from being so self-conscious about it. Instead of letting it control me, I took control of it. That felt wonderful.

I am happy to report that my hair is coming back, albeit slowly. I have tiny little hairs standing straight up all over my scalp. Yes, it looks freaky, but I don’t care. I love every single hair, and I gleefully point them out to anyone and everyone who asks how I am doing!

There have been many victories to enjoy so far on this path. The very last week of May, as I was just beginning to come out of the post-op complication fog, we took our kids to the beach for a weekend trip. Normally I’d rejoice in the timing of the excursion; late May is usually too cold to get in any kind of water for very long, and as a fat person, I could easily be excused for not putting on a bathing suit. Even though I’d had gastric bypass surgery and was on my way to a healthier me, I was still quite heavy, and didn’t relish the thought of going half-naked in public. But we were going to a resort with an indoor water park! Hooray! Bathing suit required! Shoot me now, right? Wrong. I planned the trip, on purpose, knowing what was involved. And I embraced it. Well, perhaps embrace is a little strong; it was still quite difficult for me to imagine wearing a bathing suit in front of a lot of people. But something changes when you’re headed down the scale instead of going up. The idea of taking a risk is somehow more tolerable, especially when it pertains to your kids having fun. I bought a Delta Burke bathing suit, in black. It was a size 2X and had a little skirt on it for extra coverage. But by God, it was a bathing suit and I wore it. I swam with my kids, for hours on end, listening to their laughter and glee. Every time I had to get out of the water, I felt as though everyone was staring at me. I fantasized about calling everyone’s attention to announce that, yes, I was heavy, but just so they knew, I was finally doing something about it. I didn’t want everyone to take one look at the miserably fat woman in the bathing suit and feel sorry for me. When I dwelled on stuff like that, I was a little down. But I knew next summer would be different, and the next and the next. And that felt priceless.

Later that summer we actually joined a pool. I had wondered for years how my kids would get the privilege of swimming if I wasn’t able to do it with them, and finally I was not only able but willing. I wore the same 2X bathing suit all summer, even after it was clearly too big for me. I was self-conscious at first, but after a while, I let it go. I was there for my kids to have fun, and I didn’t care what strangers thought about me. I knew I was losing weight and getting healthier every day, and that was truly all that mattered. It was so liberating.

Over all the years I struggled with trying to lose weight, I would fantasize about all the clothes I was going to wear once I was thinner. As I gained weight and slowly grew out of all my thinner clothes, I held on to them like trophies, vowing one day I would wear them again. Old dresses, suits, and even jeans all hung in my closet, waiting to be worn again. Of course when I finally started to really shed the pounds, some sixteen years later, most of the clothes were grossly out of style. Acid-washed jeans, anyone? No, wearing my old clothes, for the most part, was not an option. But I was able to make it through the first several months postsurgery thanks to hand-me-downs from friends who had lost weight. My sister-in-law, Mandy, in particular, saved me thousands of dollars in clothes. She gave me tons of high-quality tops, pants, and dresses that started in size 2X and went down to size 16. For many months after the surgery, I didn’t have to buy anything, and that was a good thing, too. Shopping now intimidated me greatly. I was woefully unprepared to look for clothes when there were lots of options to be had; I was used to having to settle on whatever I could find that would fit me. Suddenly I was faced with having lots and lots of styles and colors to choose from, and I had no idea what was hip and what kinds of clothes were flattering on me. I needed help, fast!

Things only got worse once I sized out of the “today’s woman” category of clothing. The regular-size parts of the department store were so intimidating to me, I didn’t know where to begin. I tried a few times to shop, and I swear I had panic attacks. My mind got swimmy, my heart beat fast, and I had to get the heck out of there. One time I was so scared, I retreated to the big woman’s section and actually convinced myself that some 1X tops still fit me. When I put them on at home, my mom, who was visiting at the time, couldn’t believe her eyes. Why had I bought such big shirts? Funny, to me they hadn’t looked that big in the store, but she was right: They were way too big for me. Such a revelation should have made me happy, and it did, but I was also scared of the unknown. I hadn’t bought regular clothes in more than a decade. I didn’t know what in the world I was doing.

The weight loss was happening so fast, my mind had a hard time keeping up. The scales said one thing, but inside I felt the same. I knew I was thinner, but it was hard for me to believe I had lost so many pounds that I could now wear an extra-large instead of a 2X. To someone who’s never battled a weight problem, this may not seem like much, but trust me, the difference is huge.

I walked around with baggy, ill-fitting clothes for a while. I knew I could do better, but I felt paralyzed. Finally a special occasion approached, and I needed a new outfit. Desperate, I went to a small department store with an even smaller ladies’ department. The bigger woman sizes were smashed in right beside the normal clothes, and before I knew it, I had crossed the line and was looking at tops in 14, 16, and 18. I quickly drew in a breath, waiting for the panic attack to settle in. Surprisingly I remained calm. I looked for something I liked. I found it in a 16. I went to the dressing room. And … it fit! And it looked great. I couldn’t believe it. Up until then, whenever I’d wandered into the regular-size section, I half expected someone to tap me on the shoulder, telling me I didn’t belong. Finally, I knew I did.

I’ve had many people ask me about gastric bypass surgery. So many seem to know someone who they think would benefit from it, and they want to know if I recommend it. This is a tough one for me. On the one hand, I do not regret at all having had the surgery. Even though I had a lot of complications, and it certainly hasn’t been an easy road, I know the path I had been on was one that led to premature death. That may sound overdramatic to some people, but please believe me: I was slowly killing myself with food. And what’s worse, I knew that’s what I was doing and was unable to stop myself. Finally making the decision to have a gastric bypass saved my life—I truly believe that. Was it fun to have the abscess, the collapsed lung, the depression? Of course not. But the way I was going, it wouldn’t have been long before I suffered a stroke or a heart attack. I could have easily dropped dead, leaving a husband and two children behind to mourn what could have been. So yes, I am happy I had gastric bypass surgery and I would do it all over again.

Would I encourage others to do it? No. I just couldn’t, not after what I went through. I endured months of pain and depression. I still don’t know what the future holds in terms of side effects. But at least I know that I made this decision myself; I didn’t let anyone else talk me into it. And that’s what everyone else has to do, too. Before agreeing to have this surgery, you must really understand what it entails—and what could happen. And you have to be willing to live with the results. It takes a lot of research and soul-searching. I am happy to share my story with anyone who wants to listen. But such an important decision has to be made by the individual themselves.

As the weight has come off, I have given much thought to addiction and the ramifications of this hideous disease. For years I felt like a rat trapped in a cage. The harder I tried to get out, the more stuck I became. It occurs to me now that I couldn’t really fix the problem since I didn’t know what it was. Meaning, I bought into what society tells us about weight loss: Put in the hard work and you will see results. When you hit rock bottom, you will find your way back up. How many rock bottoms did I hit over the years? How many nights found me on my knees, begging God for answers? I thought I would find the solution with a new diet plan, a new exercise routine, or a new bottle of pills. I never really understood that the food and the weight gain were only symptoms—they were tools in my arsenal of self-destruction. Now that I’ve had weight-loss surgery, I have taken away my ability to hurt myself with food, and I thank God for that every day. But unfortunately, my desire to hurt myself has not entirely gone away.

At the same time that I was put back into the hospital with complications from the surgery, my mother was diagnosed with colorectal cancer. She kept her diagnosis from me for weeks, worried that I would turn my back on my recovery to focus on her. When she did finally tell me, I was scared to death. But we rallied as a family to see her through the treatment. She had six weeks of radiation and chemo, followed by surgery. After a week in the hospital, she was sent home to recover before another six months of chemotherapy. It was a scary and stressful time, and I stayed with her for her first few days at home. I had to go to the pharmacy to fill her bottle of Percocet. I laughed a little to myself as I purchased the one-hundred-count bottle of painkillers; hadn’t I been frantically searching for these pills just months before? I was so glad they made me so sick, sure that I could have become addicted to them if they didn’t. I gave my mom her medicine and started to cook dinner.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the pills. I remembered how they took away the pain, and not just the physical pain. They helped me to not feel anything: the hurt, the feelings of failure after my surgery went wrong. I was so scared I had made a mistake, that I would never be normal again, and the pills helped me stuff all those problems away, much like food had. Being with my mom, seeing her in pain, and not knowing what the future held for her scared me to death. I’d lost my dad four years before; the thought of my mom dying was too much to bear. My mom had one hundred pills—she wouldn’t notice if I took a couple, right? I just wanted a break, I wanted to feel good for a change.

Once I made the decision to do it, I felt giddy. It reminded me of how I felt once I finally relented and ate my brains out after a day of going back and forth with my demons. Once I was on my way to pick up the food, or in the drive-thru line, I felt relief, like I was getting away from crushing pain and guilt. This was much the same—ever since I’d picked up my mom’s medicine, I wrestled with myself over trying them, just once. I knew it wasn’t right, that I had no business taking those pills. But I finally decided to do it, and I was excited.

I ate first, trying to stave off nausea. I made sure my mom was all settled in for the night. And then I took two pills. I sat on the couch in front of the TV and waited. It was only about fifteen minutes before I was flying higher than a kite. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins, and the rush was terrific. I could almost see myself sitting there with a big, stupid smile on my face, and I was disgusted. What in the world am I doing? I thought to myself. I was the kid who never drank in high school, who never even tried smoking a joint. Now I was taking prescription painkillers recreationally? Just as the doubts started creeping in, the room started to spin a little. The familiar waves of nausea started to hit, and I felt so, so sick. I was hot and sweaty, and my heart was pounding. I lay down under the ceiling fan, trying to get cool, trying to calm down. I wanted to throw up so bad, but this kind of nausea isn’t that kind—you’re stuck at the point of wanting to vomit but not quite being able to. It was torture, and it went on for hours.

I finally passed out on the couch, and when I awoke the next day, I was still reeling. The thought of breakfast turned my stomach, and the room still spun as I made my way to take care of Mom. I felt so completely stupid for what I had done, and also suddenly very sober about the possibilities. What if I wasn’t so sick? What if all I felt after taking that Percocet was the incredible high and that wonderful fog, removing me from reality and all its problems? I could have very easily become addicted to those pills, and I knew it. It scared the crap out of me. Suddenly it all made sense.

Something within me doesn’t sit well with happiness. Things start going well, life is good, and the beast inside rears its ugly head. It used to be a destructive boyfriend. For many, many years, food was its weapon of choice. Now, it was dormant, but its heart was still clinging to life. The beast was looking for another tool to use against me, and I knew I was in trouble.

Thank God painkillers make me too sick to function. But what if something else destructive takes a liking to me? Alcohol, street drugs, gambling, overspending … there are a number of ways to ruin your life, if you’re hell-bent on doing so. And apparently, I was. It scares me to death.

I went to my general practitioner and had an open and honest discussion about antidepressants. I told her I was having trouble dealing with stress and anxiety and felt I needed something to help me relieve the symptoms—something that was sanctioned by a doctor and not illegal or destructive. She asked me several questions about what I’d been feeling and what events led to those feelings. At the end of the talk, we agreed on which medication to try at a low dose. More important, she made me promise that I would not stop taking the meds without first talking with her and that I would be honest about how the pills were helping and how, if at all, they seemed to harm me. For the first time, I had a positive talk about using antidepressants, and I felt good about the possibility of taking something that I was now convinced I needed.

It took a couple of months of tweaking, but I definitely see a difference in how I feel each day and how I cope with everyday life. Is it all picnics and roses? No, and it never will be. But it is hopeful, and I haven’t been able to say that in a really, really long time. It feels good.

For years I fought the suggestion of taking antidepressants, and now I feel silly for doing so. Admitting you need help is not admitting failure; it is actually a step toward success. And that’s how I feel about having had gastric bypass surgery. After hearing my story I’m sure anyone would agree, it wasn’t taking the easy way out, not by any stretch of the imagination. But agreeing to the procedure meant I was finally able to say, “You know what? I can’t do this on my own—I need help.” And taking that step was the bravest thing I could do for myself. I now know that to be true.

Not being under the crushing pressure of addiction is a high all its own. I don’t obsess twenty-four hours a day about what I have eaten or what I will eat. I don’t weigh myself every day; I rarely make it on the scale once a week. I haven’t lost all of the weight I would like to lose, but that’s okay. I know it will happen eventually, and in the meantime, I’m not worried about it. And that is incredibly freeing.

Our society doesn’t take food addiction seriously. People who have never struggled with their weight look at the obese and think, “Why don’t they just stop eating?” If only it were that simple! Trust me, no one chooses to be morbidly obese. I know there are a lot of people out there who sound the battle cry of “Big Is Beautiful.” I’m here to tell them that “Big Is Deadly.” Indeed, I think it is impossible for anyone to be truly happy if he or she is morbidly obese. Just the physical ramifications of carrying around so much weight prevent one from being able to enjoy life fully. Do I think all heavy people are as miserable as I was? Definitely not. Truly, I think so many people handle it way better than I ever did or could have. But if they are trying to fool others into thinking they are happy with being one hundred or more pounds overweight, they are only fooling themselves. And I wish they could live one day in my shoes, to know that it doesn’t have to be that way.

I go to restaurants and don’t worry about being able to fit into the booth. I visit the movie theater and feel comfortable in its seats. I attend preschool functions and am fine sitting in the tiny chairs. I blend into the crowd, and I feel glorious. And sometimes, every once in a while, I even feel a little pretty.

I’m starting to love exercise again, but it took a long time. After the surgery and complications, I was in no mood to do anything physical. My muscles were so weak, I found simply climbing a flight of stairs exhausting. But slowly that changed. I started with ten minutes on the treadmill every day for a week. Then I increased it to fifteen, then twenty. I’m now up to forty-five minutes daily, and I find that on the days I don’t exercise, I miss it. That feeling is so wonderful, to actually crave working out. One day, I vow to start running, like I’ve always dreamed of doing. This is the first time I’ve really thought it was possible.

Like most gastric bypass patients, excess skin is a problem. I find I have extra folds especially around my bra line, my abdomen, and my thighs. It is unsightly; I’m not going to lie. But am I upset enough to do something about it? The jury is still out on that one. My experiences in the hospital have left deep scars, and I’m not talking about the surgeries. Right now I’m still wary of all things medical; indeed, it took me months to agree to simply go have blood drawn for a physical. I never used to be scared of needles or doctors, but I must say I have some real phobias right now. Hopefully time and a little distance will alleviate those fears, and perhaps one day I’ll look into having reconstructive surgery for my skin. But right now I’m just not there yet. And that’s fine with me.

I don’t remember getting below three hundred pounds; it happened when I was still sick and dealing with complications. I remember being vaguely happy about reaching that milestone, but with everything else that was going on, it was sort of anticlimactic. But I had months and months to think about getting below two hundred pounds. It was just another number, but I honestly couldn’t wait for it to happen. As it turned out, I had to wait a long, long time. At first I thought I would easily reach it by Christmas of 2008. I fantasized about the family gathering and my showing up in a fabulous outfit, weighing less than two hundred pounds for the first holiday in more than fifteen years. But as December 25 approached, and I hovered around 214, it began to look like it wasn’t going to happen. I had a brief moment of panic … and I started to plan in a frenzy: If I skipped some meals, cut down to low-fat cheese, amped up my exercise, maybe, possibly, I could … wait. I stopped myself cold. The three seconds that I allowed myself to think that way turned me back into a person I never wanted to be again. Unrealistic plans, desperate attempts at fast weight loss. Those days were behind me. They were just numbers on a scale. Whether I was 214 pounds or 198 pounds on Christmas Day, I was going to look fabulous, and feel even better. Nothing else mattered.

I did get below two hundred pounds, in February 2009, and I did mark the occasion … with a little naked dance in my bathroom, alone. And then I went right on my way. They were just numbers, and I didn’t need a scale to tell me how I felt.

My husband and I went out to celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary, and for once I had unlimited choices in what to wear. I spent the evening not obsessing over everything on my plate. Instead I enjoyed talking with Michael without the distraction of food or self-loathing. Finally I’m able to appreciate all my many blessings: a wonderful marriage, two great, healthy kids, and finally, some happiness. I will never, ever take it for granted again.

I look at the many, many people struggling with the same problems I did for years, and I pray for them. I really want to reach out to those folks, to tell them my story and how it doesn’t have to be this way, but alas, that is not allowed. I can’t approach someone I don’t know and have a conversation with him or her about his or her weight; if that had happened to me, I would have died of embarrassment and humiliation on the spot. And I also don’t think that every overweight person out there is a food addict. Indeed for years I struggled with my weight, but I wasn’t addicted to food; it wasn’t until I began using food as a weapon against myself, getting caught in the cycle of binge and regret, that I truly had a problem. Just because someone is heavy doesn’t mean he or she can’t stop being so on his or her own. But I do know that there are many people out there suffering as I did all those years. They try and do the right thing, but they are stuck—unable to break the cycle. My heart aches for them, and I want them to know they are not alone. And they are not worthless. The medical community has to do a better job of helping people with food addiction. And our society needs to recognize that this is a very serious illness, one that can have deadly consequences. It’s only when we truly understand a problem that we can begin to solve it.

I’ve learned to live my life not for the big, earth-shattering events that I have fantasized about all of my life, but instead for the small victories that occur along my daily path. Like the day, seven months after my gastric bypass surgery, I was able to wear my wedding rings again. They hadn’t fit for years, and I’d longed for the day that I would finally be able to put them back on. Emma, at four-and-a-half-years old, had never seen the rings before; I hadn’t been able to wear the set since way before she was born. “Mommy!” she gasped, grabbing my hand. “You look like a princess!”

I smiled down at her, gazing at my diamonds. And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My daughter thought I looked like a princess. And finally, looking at my reflection and actually liking what I saw, I was beginning to feel like one, too.