Something's Different

It's been almost three months. I'm still reluctant to share my secret.

OK, as long as you promise not to judge me, I'll let you in on it. I had Gastric Bypass surgery in January '10. My finger hovers over the backspace key. If everyone knows, they might disdain me for taking the "easy route". If everyone knows and I fail at this weight loss attempt too, the shame will be unbearable. If everyone knows, they might scrutinize my weight even more; they might wonder why I'm not thin yet. After all, it's been three months already.

My dilemma began about 2 years ago. No, that's not true. My first attempt at weight loss began at the tender age of 8. Since then, I have been systematically destroying my body's natural ability to lose weight with my yo-yo dieting. (Aging doesn't really help either, but I don't know that I'm ready to admit that yet.) You know how that is, right? Unless you happen to be one of the...lucky? disciplined? genetically superior?...15% of Americans with "normal" weight.

Anyway, 2 years ago, after suffering through a year of infertility I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS. The doc told me that losing weight would improve the condition, but that women with PCOS find it almost impossible to lose weight. (Ha! How's that for advice?) I decided to just try to eat healthy; you know, reduce consumption of processed foods, cut out most meats, drink more water, eat more fruits and veggies, yadda yadda. Surprise! It didn't work.

Then my fertility clinic gave me the fatal blow. They told me they could keep injecting me with hormones indefinitely, but that what would really improve my chances of conception was weight loss. By this time, I was frustrated, ashamed, depressed, angry. I gave up on fertility treatments. My weight kept climbing until I was back to the all-time high I had reached during the all-time low point of my life. The weight I had sworn to myself I would never, ever see again.

Desperate for a solution, I attended an informational seminar on Bariatric Surgery. I think that was an emotional low point for me. It felt like admitting defeat. Like admitting to weakness of character. But I kept remembering my grandmother's eulogy, where the presiding minister mentioned her "obvious love of food". I might be able to avoid that if I get help now.

It's been 11.5 weeks since my surgery. I have a stomach pouch that holds 4 fluid oz. of food at a time, and a shortened small intestine that hinders absorption. I also ended up with an ulcer that severely limits protein intake. If I indulge in my drug of choice, sugar, I become violently ill. I'm still struggling emotionally with the realization that I can't eat "normally". At least once a week I experience intense regret that I made this decision. Easy way out? Not by a long shot.

To date, I've lost 60 of the 100 pounds I needed to lose before surgery. Some people are just starting to notice that something is different about me. I get asked if I did something different with my hair. Sure! I put it on a thinner face.

A Book to Make Me Feel Dumb

I was at the library the other day looking for some good reads. The three series I'm reading had to be requested, so I browsed with nothing particular in mind.

What do you look for when you browse books? I think the first thing I look for is a good cover. Horrible, right? "Never judge a book by its cover" and all that jazz. But that's my instinct, so I follow it.

A great thick tome catches my eye. The cover is a dolphin jumping over the eye in the pyramid symbol. OK, good cover, check. Ah, it's a trilogy all bound together: The Illuminatus! Trilogy. I love series! I glance at the review on the cover - "The ultimate conspiracy book...hilariously raunchy...the biggest sci-fi cult novel to come along since Dune." I liked Dune. Well, I liked the TV mini-series, anyway...never read the book(s). I'm not too big on conspiracy, but I like humor and I like raunch (in moderation, who doesn't?). This is it. This is the one.

I got it home and cracked it open with anticipation. It was like jumping into a lunatic's stream of consciousness. I turned back to the front of the book to read more reviews. One said it took 300 pages to begin to enjoy it, another said the reader wouldn't be able to put it down, and even Booklist said it has "all the ingredients". OK, so this was going to be a book to wade through until my powerful intellect could catch up to its smart, important message.

I trudged miserably through 80 pages - 1/10 of the book. I put it down and walked away. My ego made me go back. Surely I could make it through to at least page 301 because that's when it would start to make sense.

I ranted to my husband about the disjointedness of the book. I can't keep characters straight when one sentence is in the "present" and the next is in 1960! And what does the talking dolphin have to do with anything? Anarchists are really right-wing extremists? "Satan" is just one of the masks a being from another dimension wears? Argh!

John is intrigued. But, then again, he is much smarter than I am.

At page 150, I admit defeat. I'm just not smart enough to get a book that "oscillates between a schizoid nightmare and a psychedelic dream"(Booklist). I close the book and stack it with the others to be returned to the library.

The good old ways

I've had lots of quiet time to think since I was laid off 5 weeks ago. I'm bored, my sleep patterns are starting to change, and I watch TV when I should be sleeping. Why even last night, I was awake during the 10 o'clock news! (Yes, I've always preferred mornings.)

A couple of nights ago, after my hubby succumbed to the Sand Man, I lay scrolling through the listing guide trying to find something to watch. It was too late for a movie, and I wanted something that had the potential to lull me, so I quickly passed up all the CSI reruns and movie star bios. John had been watching Monster Quest, so I was distractedly watching the search for Sasquatch as I surfed.

And then I saw it: The Grand Ole Opry sings Gospel. Intrigued, I clicked over and found myself completely enraptured. There was some country music star that I should know but don't, introducing Give Me Jesus. It was the most beautiful rendition of that old country gospel song, without the hated steel guitar or nasal twang. The man simply stood before the microphone and sang to an accompanying master pianist accomplished at emotion-wringing 7th chords. I can't stop hearing it.

I am now quite removed from my childhood religion. I spent many bitter years extracting that dogma from my psyche. But strangely enough, now that I am removed from the religious atmosphere enough to see through it, I miss it. That is, I miss what surrounds that culture. Fellowship, the shared experience of religious ecstasy, the music that convinces the masses to feel the fervor. In other words, it isn't the religiosity that I miss; what I miss is the feeling of community.

Perhaps I feel this way because I live over 700 miles from my childhood home. Perhaps it is my loneliness speaking, this yearning for the familiar. Certainly the weeks of unemployed idleness isn't helping matters, but I am shocked at the longing I felt at hearing that one song. I'm trying to reconcile the years of disdain with this newfound craving. What I wouldn't give to hear a congregation of enthusiastic worshipers singing I'll Fly Away in an emotional frenzy (whether the emotion comes from the words, or merely the beat I won't venture to guess). I think I need more music in my life.