LilySlim - Weight loss

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

The Truth Will Set You Free

So I’ve decided to come clean. I’m going to tell my highest weight. There is a great deal of shame involved in that number, but honestly, obesity, as my surgeon has explained it to me, is caught up in genetics. Diet and exercise do play their part, but at the root of the problem is genetics and we have no control over that, thus less shame.

At my highest weight—and I’ve weighed this on two separate occasions, once in 2005 and again in 2011 after losing nearly 50 pounds and then putting it right back on after I got married—my weight was 351 pounds. Closer to 400 than 300. That is a scary, scary place to be.
This morning, three months and one week post-DS surgery, I weigh 258 pounds. I gasped when I hit 299—I hadn’t been below 300 since 2004—and I gasped when I hit the 250s. I haven’t seen that since my twenties. 

When I got up this morning to get coffee in my nightgown, my mom said, “Wow, you’re really getting skinny.” My husband showed up at my annual MRI yesterday (to check for metastatic cancer in the abdomen. I had ocular melanoma in 2012, which was treated and I am now NED.), and when I walked out, there he was—I hadn’t even told him where it was going to be, he found it himself. (My first thought when I saw him was, “What a cute guy. Oh. I know him. LOL.” He gave me a big hug and said I’m definitely smaller as he could get more of his arms around me.

It’s weird.

For a couple of days there, I was considering that I no longer wanted to lose any more weight—as if I had a choice. LOL (My anatomy would not participate in that idea.) My personality has evolved around being a big woman. I’m tall, 5’10”, and big-boned. That is not a metaphor for fat, I am a large woman. No one fucks with me, or rarely. And I’ve relied on that most of my adult life. Now that I’m getting smaller—same shape, only smaller—I feel a little bit…lost. Sort of like when I got married and changed my name. I felt a little lost, like I wasn’t sure who I was or what my identity was—I was no longer a single, I was half of a couple and of a whole new family. I started overeating shortly after the wedding. It started with a bear claw.

Now when I think of pastries? My first thought is “diarrhea.” If you’re my age, you might remember the old Schick Center for the curing of overeating and alcoholism. Essentially, they made you eat or drink until you hurl, then they would apply electro-shocks to your arms every time you tried to put food in your mouth. Aversion therapy. That’s sort of what this is. If I eat that, how long will I be in the bathroom? And/or how long will I be constipated? And I have, so far, decided it’s not worth it, and I pass. 

My mom had me get her some banana nut muffins from the grocery store (the in-house fresh baked ones), and some cinnamon raisin bagels. I’d like to have one or the other or both. But I do not want to walk down that road just now. Any intestinal distress will be public knowledge (come on, this is a building full of retired or disabled seniors. The grapevine here is quicker than any phone company or email), and part of me is angry at her for leaving them out in plain sight—I don’t know if she’s trying to sabotage me, but considering her history of mental illness and manipulation (bi-polar), I wouldn’t be surprised so I haven’t assumed. She kept offering me cookies for about the first 10 days I was here, and sandwiches, and fruit blah blah blah. I guess she finally got tired of listening to me say “No.” I wouldn’t put it past her. But I will not break. If I’m going to have something inappropriate? It would be a cupcake with lots of frosting or a cheese Danish, and frankly, the GI problems later haven’t made that an attractive option. So I eat lots of what I do like such as ham, sausage, salami, eggs, cheese, and some yogurt. I am not hungry and I get full rather quickly. Dinner tonight was two ham and cream cheese rollups and I felt very full. I’ve also been having iced coffee every day, either purchased or homemade (I’ve got it down, now, heh.), made with Stevia and half-and-half, and my weight loss has picked up since I started doing it. I have no lactose issues.  I’ve vomited three times since surgery, and that was after ingesting too much, the first time too much water. Up it came, but that was the first week after surgery. I’ve since learned when to stop stuffing it in. I can always have more later; it’s not going anywhere.

I’m grateful because I know a lot of people do have vomiting and nausea issues, but I don’t. Amen, I hate to vomit. If I eat protein heavy, I don’t have diarrhea or constipation. I had a piece of wheat toast yesterday with some eggs, cheese, and sausage, and I had a regular bowel movement when I got up this morning. But honestly? I feel like more comes out the other end than I ingest. DSers talk about their poop a lot because it changes so radically after surgery, and it can affect everyday living. Too much? Gotta stay near a bathroom. Hard to do at work or while driving or traveling.  Can also be very painful. The word “gutwrenching” comes to mind. Not enough? Pain, gas, bloating. So it’s something we hyper-focus on. But man, the amount that comes out definitely looks and feels like more than I take in. LOL

I’m feeling good where I am in my eating, my weight loss, and my overall sense of feeling well. I even took myself for a walk just before sunset tonight—it was really nice, felt good, and I did not have any of my constant, 30-years-worth, post-broken-vertebrate standing/walking ever-present pain. Losing nearly 90 pounds (in 3 years, 54 since surgery day, 58 from two days before surgery day), has done wonders for my bones—my joints, my vertebrate. Less weight means less pressure means less pain. Aaah. Walking is a pleasure now. I’m going to do more of it.

I’m so glad, so grateful, that I finally, after ten years, got the surgery that would restore my good health. I’m so thankful and so very glad.

Friday, June 20, 2014


I saw my naked ass this morning, and it's saggy. I was shocked and teared up. My thighs are saggy, too, that's why I turned to look at the backs of my thighs. My upper arms are flappy, and I'm sure, once the fat on my belly starts to go, probably tenanciously hanging on to the last, my tummy will flap down over my public bone.


I just knew, I knew, that I was going to be one of those post-WLS patients who, because of oily skin, was going to escape the flappy, saggy, baggy, wrinkly skin. How vain, shallow, and self-centered of me.


But to see something like that on your body? It's shocking, I mean, I'm only just a little over three months out from surgery. As of today I'm down 51 lbs, 90 pounds from my highest weight in 2011. And already the skin...the skin, my skin, is turning on me like a rabid squirrel.

Let's face it though, it's probably my age. I am 51-years-old. I'm peri-menopausal for christ's sake. Ugh.

It upset me a great deal to see the skin of an 80-year-old woman hanging from my former ass looking back at me in the mirror. Holy shit. I was off-kilter all day and even got into an argument with my mother (who I am staying with to help her out--she just spent two months in a SNF, pronounced "sniff": Skilled Nursing Facility, or nursing home), because I was off my mojo. I couldn't compartmentalize some of my reactions to her behaviors , as usual, and I gave her a butt-chewing that, although she deserved it, was probably more severe than it needed to be. *ahem* I didn't yell or swear, but it wasn't good, either. We made up later.

Anyways...I've lost six pounds this week. I don't know why. I think that's a little high, at least for me it is, I was more a 3-4 pound a week loser. I find that concerning. Of course one of my first thoughts today after seeing all that saggy skin was to head for the nearest donut to try to quit losing weight. *sigh*  "More carbs! I need more carbs!" was the thought running through my head as I drove from west Orange County back to northeast Orange County (I was visiting my cats at my in-laws). I cried a few more times. I wanted to talk to someone about it, but at the moment, I had no one: My mom's caught up in her own health issues; my husband is out of town and frankly, I'd rather he not see my wrinkly ass; I haven't reconnected with friends since I've been down here as my mom is very time-consuming; and I've had limited access to the net. *sigh*

I'm pretty sure I'm extremely stressed and hiding it, even from me, extremely well. It's not good to do that. Our insurance is ending on July 1 and we're trying to decide which ACA insurance we're going to sign up for so I'm sure there will be problems and a gap in coverage (on paper, only; it will eventually "catch up"), or I would be looking for a shrink right now. Because I have no income, I'm probably eligible for all kinds of social services.Hmmm...

But I digress.

I knew the possibility existed that I would lose the weight, lose the diabetes, resolve some other on-going issues with a large weight loss, increase energy and mobility...and trade it for the body of the elephant man. I took the risk anyway because I was just dying by inches. I had a few regrets earlier today, "why did I do this to myself?" but I've wrapped my head around it a little better and I have emotionally accepted, or started accepting, that the tradeoff was still a good one. Even though my new body makes me cry.


"...and miles to go before I sleep..."

Sunday, June 15, 2014

My Surgery Story, Part II

I lived in Pasadena from 1995 to 2001, and I consider it to be my real hometown, particularly since I don't have one. (We moved a lot when I was a kid. Sort of like now as an adult. Ugh.)

Driving through the Rose City's quiet darkened streets at 5:15 am was very nostalgic for me. I was so glad to be there and had been acting like a dog going for a ride with their head out the window, big smile plastered on my face, since Wednesday the 12th when we began our final trek toward surgery.

We arrived at the hospital about 5:20 am, I needed to be checked in by 5:30 am. R dropped me at the door to register and he went to park the car. I got my visitor's pass from the receptionist in the lavish reception area that was covered with pale pink marble--floors, walls, columns--like a hotel really, a very fancy hotel. Huntington Memorial is probably the best hospital on the West Coast.

I started getting antsy waiting for R and thought maybe I would just go check in at the surgery office so I wouldn't be late and risk having my surgery cancelled. I stood up to head for the elevators and saw R coming through the door.

By the time we got to the surgery office on the second floor it was about 5:27 am--I felt we'd cut it a little too close, but we were there.

There was a woman in the waiting room with her husband and what I assumed were her two daughters--they were crying their eyes out. I'm thinking she was having a big surgery for a much worse diagnosis than obesity. Only one person could come back with you so when she was called back there was much hugging, and the two young women were directed to the surgery waiting area.
My mom had stayed at the hotel and R was my companion to the "get-read-for-surgery" room.

A nurse came in and took my vitals and had me strip down and put on a surgical gown. Of course it was too small. She brought me a bariatric gown which was too big. Nothing in-between. I swam in that gown. I put my hair in a ponytail with a band as directed, and had left all my jewelry and earrings--including the two extra studs high up on my left here that I just leave in--in my wallet. I would later forget and not find them for some two weeks. Duh.

Then we sat there and just looked at each other in the quiet room. R asked to see my umarked tummy one last time, we embraced, kissed, said "I love you's" and then the nurse was back with friends, and they started getting everything ready. They also had my labs from the day before. The anesthesiologist came in to talk to me and I told him I was eager to talk to him as I had "bad lungs."  Anesthesia effects me badly. I'd explained my two previous surgeries (I needed a breathing treatment after one, and had stopped breathing during the second which so concerned the anesthesiologist that she'd stayed and they'd kept me two additional hours before discharging me), but this guy didn't seem concerned. "Everyone stops breathing during anesthesia," he said. Well, that was comforting. NOT.

He then proceeded to chew me out about my high blood glucose: 264 is too high. You need to get that under control," he said. "But then, this surgery will take care of that."

And I just want to say here and now NO SHIT, SHERLOCK!!! Why did you think I was having surgery? For the good pain meds. Man that pissed me off.

But then I thought: Do I really want to piss off the guy who's going to be keeping me alive? I kept my mouth shut and just nodded my head.

He poo poo'd all my asthma and previous anesthesia problems and then made a joke that lead me to believe he was gay. I'd once heard a gossipy rumour that all the anesthesiologists in Los Angeles were gay. Well, in this case, it was true. He then proceeded to argue with me about not taking my insulin the night before or that morning AS I HAD BEEN ADVISED BY THE ADMISSIONS NURSE THE PREVIOUS DAY. He wanted to argue that with me some more, I told him to call and talk to her because I was simply following directions: better too high than too low with the risk of coma. (DUH.)
Finally Mr. IKnowEverything left and my surgeon came in just to say hi and ask if I was ready. I was. I wasn't scared at all. I'd had two previous surgeries (broken ankle, eye issue), and I knew it would be okay.

He checked my labs, shook my hand, gave me a big, gorgeous smile, and off he went. Less than 10 minutes later I had a surgical hat on and was being rolled down the hallway to the biggest OR I've ever seen. R and I squeezed hands and had a last look as I rolled away. He headed back to hotel to catch some shuteye and come back after surgery was over and look out for my mom.

Mr. Smartypants, the anesthesiologist, was right there, and he put a mask over my face and said, "I'm going to put you to sleep, now." I nodded my head and said "OK," and was glad because I was starting to get nervous. I was out very quickly, maybe three seconds if that.

The next thing I knew, I was in my room, in a hospital bed that was cranked up about half way, and my mom, wearing a beautiful pink sweater, the light from the east window shining behind her was holding my hand. I mumbled something to her and she told me I was all right and I went back out.

I woke up again another time because two nurses were trying to wrassle me to into an abdominal binder. It hurt. A lot. I made some "ow it hurts noises" and then passed out again. I did this four times, coming fully awake about 4 o'clock. I had compression stockings on my leg that blew up and squeezed my legs, and it felt so good. My understanding was that I was to be gotten up out of bed after surgery to walk around, but no one came in and insisted and I didn't ask. I was doped up most of the day. About 3 o'clock my mom left and wanted to go home so R took her home. I slept on and off, and every once in a while a nurse would come in to do vitals, give me a heparin shot and some insulin. I couldn't convince them to just do the tummy every time and about 2/3rds of the time I got it in the left shoulder. I was getting four shots a day of both, so by the time I was discharged my left shoulder was very sore.

I was up at midnight when my surgeon came by to check on me, looking very dapper in his bow tie and white lab coat. He came to the foot of the bed and said, "Your surgery went perfectly, and your labs are spot-on. Any questions?" I just grinned like a fool and shook my head no. He squezed my foot, told me I was doing great, and departed.

I had two drains, one on the left, one on the right, a catheter, and four inch-long incisions and one between my breasts in the shape of a cross--like a punchcard it was so clean. I still have it. I had (have?) a fatty liver, which I knew from the previous summer's MRI for ocular melanoma so he was ready with another surgeon to help with the lifting of the liver, which covers the stomach. I'm sure the cross-shaped holepunch up high there had something to do with it. I also had square-shaped, symmetrical marks in red, like a rash, that looked like tape. It dawned on me that they'd taped my boobs out of the way for surgery after I was under. I confirmed this with an RN friend. I asked if they laughed during and she said that everyone was very professional in the OR.

I slept most of the night, when nurses weren't coming in to check vitals or stick me with a needle, but I went right back out. The food they brought me--broth, Jell-O, frozen ices (lemon), and tea were ignored by me, although I did drink the juice. A friend brought me tea from the cafeteria a few times. I was still on a saline IV so I wasn't concerned about hydration. The broth looked and smelled disgusting and I didn't touch it, but I choked down a few bites of Jell-O. I didn't eat much the whole time I was in the hospital. It looked and smelled nasty.

R was back around 8 o'clock to check on me and he spent the night in the room in the reclining chair. He didn't sleep well, however.

The next day visitors started showing up, most of them a surprise. It made me feel really good to see some of those faces, though.

Also, the next day after surgery, Saturday, I was gotten out of bed. OMG. It was bad. No doubt about that. Very painful.

To continue.

So Far, So Good

After doing some more reading, I've determined that I'm a middle-of-the-road loser, neither fast nor slow, but somewhere in between.

I'm down two more pounds since my last post for a highest weight loss of 85 lbs and surgery day loss of 47 lbs.

If this stays true to the pattern, I'll gain back 2 - 4 pounds for a few days, then drop down 2 - 4 + extra pounds.

Yesterday to eat I had a 48 g protein shake for breakfast (with my multi, calcim, and biotin ground up in it--it's just water); three ham lunchmeat rollups with about a tablespoon of cream cheese in each one; and for dinner, a egg salad with mayo and a little mustard (from two eggs).  And iced coffee--made at home! Yummy and easy. And two Vitamin Water Zeroes at 20 ounces each. So around 80 ounces of liquid. I can get away with less here because the weather is cooler and I'm not sweating as much. Well, at all, really. In the Central Valley I was consuming between 4 and 5 20-ounce Vitamin Waters plus two protein shakes a day for about 120 ounces of water a day, and I could probably have drank more.

Yesterday I was Jonesing for a bag of crunchy Cheetohs so badly...I was at times angry and then feeling like I needed to cry. And not a single-serving bag either; the big bag, the party size. But I had not one. I figured I'd have orange-dust diarrhea. Pass. But I really wanted them. My mom sent R and I out to the store (well, he came over to pick up the rest of the cat food and litter and take some stuff out of the van for storage), and I bought some wasabi / soy snacking almonds. I used to eat a pack of those a day in college during my first run up to weight loss surgery when I had to lose 10% of my body weight (and I did--in fact, more than 10%). So I had six of those and I felt less miserable about the Cheetohs.

My mom likes cookies. If she offers me one more cookie, one more sandwich, or one more bowl of sherbet, I may punch her in the face. What jury would convict me? LOL  Seriously, she needs to just stop offering me food, but she literally can't remember. "I can't have that."  "Why not?" "Carbohydrates." "Oh."


I'm wearing a blouse today that I've owned for about three years. It said it was my size but wasn't, so it sat in the closet. This is my first time wearing it it's too big. It'll go on eBay I guess, but it's really cute. Navy blue with white birds sitting on a wire all over it. It would look cute with a jeans skirt. It has elastic at the bottom--who thought that was a good idea for plus-sized women? It's NOT, ok?--I would cut that off and hem it and wear it as a regular blouse if I decide to keep it. It's a great beach blouse. A beach I haven't been to once, yet. My mom won't go. *sigh*

So my resolved is re-steeled when I see those pounds drop away. This time is going to be the time of my maximum loss and I need to take advantage of this and not squander it. I have all the time in the world to eat desserts or carbs, but now ain't it. I'm thinking Christmas I'll have a couple of cookies and a slice of pumpkin pie, a small slice with lots of whipped cream, so it's in my repertoire, just down the road. Delayed gratification. That I can do.

I'm really proud of myself for doing such a hard thing--sometimes I have to take it minute by minute, like yesterday and the Cheetoh obsession, but it can be done. Take heart those who are struggling with their own food addictions/obsessions: It can be done.

Maybe I'll have that tattooed on my forehead. LOL

Friday, June 13, 2014

I Was Starting to Panic

Wednesday I weighed myself, and I was the same weight I'd been at my last doctor's appointment last month. Over three weeks ago. WTF?!!

I've been sticking to the high-protein diet, a 48g shake in the am (with all my vitamins ground up in it--multi, biotin, calcium), made with water--I use MRM brand. I get it at the big healthfood store here in the OC. I buy the Whey Isolate in chocolate.

I've been having cheese, soup, or canned chicken salad with mayo for a meal, bu the other day I had the inside of a Del Taco beef and cheese burrito. I met R there. Bad idea.

The gas--the gas that didn't want to come out it's indicated doorway but instead wanted to stay in my abdomen and blow me up like a balloon causing cramps and pain and gurgling. I tossed and turned for hours, with only a few brief "outbursts" to relieve the pain. Thank g*d my mom's bedroom has a door and the TV is in there (constantly tuned to HGTV).

I got about about 4 am and was able to go to the bathroom (BM), went back to bed and finally slept. When I got up again, I went no. 2 again--a lot, I might add. Then that evening, I had a third high-powered bowel movement and felt so much better. OMG. No more Del Taco for me, even just the meat and cheese. This morning I got up, weighed, and I'd lost six pounds. The expression "full of shit" was quite literal in my case. Whew. So back to just regular, boring non-fast-food foods. Wowza. I was starting to think I was one of those people who had fucked up their surgery (my stomach is stretched; my bowels are lengthening; did I really have the surgery? As If I could forget OMG). Just panicking.

My clothes are loose, including a couple of new things, but I still can't get into the new underwear. Of course, I don't know where it is anyway...I still haven't found my makeup. It's probably a melted blob in the bottom of the van. *sigh*

So my latest thing is iced coffee. I LURVE iced coffee made with half-and-half. I had my organic Stevia to it, maybe a dash of dry cinnamon, and I'm good. So far I've had one every day I've been in SoCal. LOL The ones at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf are better than Starbucks. They even have no-sugar-added chocolate syrup for a mocha iced coffee. Very nice. And plenty of fat. Lactose doesn't bother me. I seem to have a bent toward constipation rather than diarrhea. So the less carbs I eat, the less constipation. Sometimes it doesn't matter: I'm just clogged up like a bad drain.

But I FEEEL GREAT. I feel energetic, powerful, free. I can get up off a curb or my mom's lowrider couch much easier than in the past, and I can pop out of a chair and walk for days. Have I started walking? No. Mostly because my mom doesn't like to be alone and I don't like to leave her alone. She fell when I was out doing errands on Monday. Over a cat. To open a window that didn't need opening. I chewed her butt for that because I told her to "stay down while I'm gone, except to go to the bathroom."

Like me after surgery, she's made the assumption that because she was discharged and at home that she is WELL. She is not and neither was I. It's a slow process, healing completely. I'm slowly putting her life back together all while trying to take care of myself. I hope I can be out of there by the end of the month but a lot depends on $$ and her ability to take care of herself. *fingerscrossed*

Monday, June 9, 2014

I Made it Safely to SoCal With Two Cats and a Vanload of my Stuff

The weather is much nicer here--80s versus over 100? I'll take it.

It was a bittersweet and physically and emotionally difficult trip.

My mom is not 100% and has major memory issues. I'm working with all kinds of professionals to get her as well as we can. She can walk and dress herself and use the bathroom, but she's dizzy and unstable. One day at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time.

My eating has been fine, I haven't dug out my scale yet, so I don't know if I'm down any weight but my underwear and spandex-added jean capris are having trouble staying up, so I'm going to say I'm smaller even if my weight isn't down.

I'm heading to the store now for both of us, I'll focus on protein and soups for both of us.

I'm tired, overwhelmed, and could really use a drink or five, but I'm hanging in.

I'll post when I can--no Internet at mom's place.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Foods I No Longer Like

--Onions. I really loved onions, green, white, red, raw, grilled, it didn't matter; I loved onions.

     I cannot tolerate the taste and they give me diarrhea.

--Avocado. This has been ongoing about five years. I don't know what changed, but I cannot tolerate the taste or even the sight of them. They just gross me out.

     *I traded that dislike for a like of cucumbers, which I previously always disliked. Go figure.

--Fast food. Just...ugh. Especially the meat. Bleah.

--Eggs. I don't know what it is, but they taste bad. Too bad, because I've always loved eggs, cooked any old way. *sigh*

And most other foods? Just taste yuck. Maybe I'll take a couple of days off "food" and just do protein shakes. But I do get hungry and my stomach growls. Yes it does.


Sunday, June 1, 2014

More Bellyaching About Food

Written Friday May 30, 2014

So food.
I’m not eating much food. I have two protein shakes a day with 48 grams of protein in each, so I’m meeting my protein requirements and taking all my supplements, although I just discovered I’m taking the wrong kind of iron. Not a bad kind, just not as easily absorbed by the type my surgeon recommends. I wish I’d known it sooner, I wouldn’t have bought the current supplement I have.
Nothing really tastes that great. Maybe for one bite, then it starts tasting metallic and I either spit it out or don’t have any more. I never imagined that I would be spitting out food. Ha ha ha! Things that I liked yesterday, today taste like ass. So weird. And things I used to love, like donuts, I know wouldn’t taste as good as they do in my head and will probably give me near instant diarrhea. Pass! It’s just not worth it.
So I’m learning to listen to my tongue, my mouth, my stomach and stop if something doesn’t taste good, has a weird texture, or I’m full. I stop. I have taken “tastes” of my husband’s food if he’s having something really yummy, and I seem to be satisfied with just a taste (what I can get on the end of a fork, usually a sauce). I’m learning to ignore cravings—they just don’t live up to my brain’s hype.
It’s a weird journey.
Food is becoming less important in my life, but I still have a ways to go as far as wanting something to be entertained—and I believe that’s what I used food for—entertainment. And also during emotional times, although generally if sad and depressed, I would not eat at all. I want every bite to taste as good as that first bite, but it doesn’t, so I’m learning to be happy with that first delicious bite, and then maybe move on to something else on my plate. Anywhere between 5-10 bites of any combination of food, and I’m done. I’ve always been a slow eater, but I’m trying to teach myself to eat even slower. One day at a time.
Fortunately for me my husband still has a relatively high metabolism and will eat anything I can’t or don’t want—he ate my salad and Spanish rice at a Mexican food place we like in town. I had half a cheese enchilada, about five bites of beans, and I was done. And rice plugs me up like a cork. So no rice unless I’m having the runs to counteract it.
I had half of a small apple last weekend and had to make three quick runs to the bathroom within the hour, then it stopped. (the doctor just released me to have small amounts of fruits and vegetables.) I did really well with the green bean chicken from Panda Express (we’re packing our house to move, so eating out more than usual). One helping of that fed me for three meals. And I love their hot and sour soup (2 meals).
This week I’ve lost a pound a day three days in a row. I don’t know why, but I’ll take it.
I still can’t believe I’ve had this surgery and that my diabetes is about 95% resolved without medication. It’s just unreal. On the downside, I’m going to have some flappy skin. I’m not excited at the thought of more painful surgery and anesthesia brain, but we’ll see how bad it is in the rash / pain / itchy department and decide in a few years. There’s no need to think or worry about it now. I already had my day running down the beach in a bikini when I was a young teen—I’m in my fifties now and I wouldn’t do that anyway even if I was built like a starlet. Age with grace, that’s my goal, and age appropriate.
My energy is up—thank goodness—we have a lot to do, and I feel pretty good. Well, except for the fact that I may have an URI. (Upper respiratory infection.) I went to see my regular doctor today for some refills, get my poor re-injured previously broken ankle x-rayed (really hurting), and talk to her about losing my voice yesterday and sounding like James Earl Jones today. She examined me and wasn’t 100% sure whether it was allergies or an URI. She asked if I’d been around anyone sick, I said my mom two weeks ago and who has pneumonia, so she decided to err on the side of caution and prescribed a Z-pack. I took two with dinner per instructions, and I found that I did feel much better later on as I packed up four boxes of stuff in the kitchen when we got home.
I’m starting to feel the way I was hoping I would feel with this surgery—unshitty, energetic, active, and interested in doing things besides sit in a reclining chair. Gawd am I grateful.