Yesterday was my birthday. The day began with dozens of virtual greetings from friends on Facebook, and the girls showering me with presents before everyone headed off to school and work. I actually love that birthdays in our family are largely episodes in practicality: From Molly and the girls I got the wallet I've desperately needed (along with a couple movies I wanted but certainly didn't "need") AND a new Mickey Mouse/baseball antenna ball in honor of my beloved Cardinals' Opening Day. From my mothers I received cash and a gift card. But practicality really won the day when it came to birthday dessert. Instead of birthday cake leftovers remaining (and being eaten) over several days, we dipped bites of banana, strawberries, marshmallow, and pound cake into chocolate fondue. A few bites and I was plenty full, and filled with joy in seeing our girls' happy, messy faces. Here's a clip of Norah with a chocolate-covered marshmallow and the hilarious "Chubby Bunny" routine:
But the real birthday surprise came yesterday before I logged into Facebook or opened presents. Sometime shortly after surgery, I set a series of audacious weight-loss goals of targets I hoped to achieve by my birthday (roughly two months post-op), Annual Conference (four months post-op), and family vacation time (six months post-op). Perhaps calling them goals is a bit of a misnomer; "goals" somehow implies I believe I have full control over the outcome, when in reality there's an awful lot of all the change my body is going through that feels beyond my power. Well, I hopped on the scale Tuesday and I discovered I had met my initial goal! I'm not yet ready to share with the world the specifics, not so much because I'm embarrassed where I started (which, honestly, I am), but because I'm still in-process. Like Kenny Rogers says, you're not supposed to count your money when you're sittin' at the table.... Nevertheless, supposedly I'll lose most of my extra weight within six months of surgery.
Of course, I may have gained it all back today. Today is the first day I have been consistently hungry at predictable times. Unlike too many days in the past few weeks, I ate well (a quarter cup of cereal for breakfast, a few bites of soup for lunch, a smoothie in the afternoon, and an ounce of leftover steak for supper) and kept everything down. Not coincidentally, I've felt more joyous and energetic today since this journey began. I'm hoping that on this, the first day of my 38th year, the proverbial corner has been turned. We shall see. Happy New Year.
Off-the-rack is defined as "clothing made in standard sizes and readily available from merchandise in stock".
I'll be 38 years old in a few days and never have I been an off-the-rack kind of guy. Ever. Rather, I've always been on the low-end of the big-and-tall section, and a shopping experience for me typically involved choosing between the least unpalatable options.
Tonight, I bought off-the-rack. Wow! I found a sale and figured out my size and there were literally dozens of options! Color choices. Plaid, stripes, or solids aplenty. Polo or button-down. I was overwhelmed ... in a good way.
I don't know exactly how much weight I'll lose, and nor do I have a particular goal in sight. I expect eventually my body will settle into a natural weight, and then begins the real challenge to maintain. But while I'm still losing weight, it doesn't make much sense to buy too much of anything -- where I am today may not be where I am tomorrow. I've dabbled a bit in the Goodwill racks but so far have given a whole lot better than I've gotten. As they say, it's a good problem to have ... but make no mistake, it's still a problem.
It's back to the liquid diet again. At least for an indeterminant "few days". That's the plan. At least the plan today. <<insert expletive here>>
This morning I had an esophagogastroduodenoscopy. I prefer to write that simply because I can't pronounce it, and frankly neither could the terrific nurse at the surgery center. But to make the whole consent-signing moment kosher, apparently she had to at least go through the motions. I offered her five bucks to say it a second time, to which she chuckled and reminded me that she was the one with the IV needles. She also gave me the same look my wife often gives me, one that says I'm not as charming as I think I am. So, we'll just call this morning's events an endoscopy, or EGD if you'd prefer.
The procedure was easy and I don't think lasted ten minutes before they started rousing me. My surgeon and I fully expected they'd discover some sort of esophageal stricture that they'd knock out with some dilation. Instead, what they discovered was a more nebulous problem: apparently bile from the small intestine is backing up through the stomach and up the esophagus, caused by the stomach not contracting as it should in digestion. I left with a script for Reglan, which I am to take before each meal and before bedtime, supposedly will facilitate better digestion. In addition to a digestive aid, Reglan is also a treatment for migraines; maybe I'm due for a double benefit. I'll go back to the clinic in six weeks or so to reevaluate, and we'll regroup earlier if need be -- what the docs think today is truly a best guess at the moment.
All in all, I'd call the day frustrating: frustrating that this isn't something that could have been solved while I was under anesthesia ... frustrating that we spent the better part of the afternoon back at the clinic to be only told nothing definitive by the surgeon ... frustrating that the wisest course is to go back onto liquids for several days before slowly reintroducing food once more. The day wasn't a total loss, however, as Molly has the singularly unique ability to make even the crappiest of days a good time -- she has entertained me before by quite literally reading aloud from the phone book and she was a delightful companion today. And, of course, I provided great fodder for her post-anesthesia with my walking and talking like a drunk. She lets me get away with nothing.
I guess it comes as no surprise to say I'd rather just post the good news. And there has been plenty of that. But my intention in blogging has been to document the journey for family and friends, but also for someone who might be on his or her own journey with bariatric surgery. And so, I must be honest.
It's been a tough go of late. I've had two chief complaints -- the first of which being overwhelming fatigue, and which I understand via the excellent clinic nutritionist that is not unusual at this point in the journey. The other complaint has ebbed and flowed -- the general struggle, most days, to keep down what little food has been consumed.
I started struggling with this about the one-month point post-surgery, where the doctor expressed appropriate concern and warned that an endoscopy may be warranted. Perhaps all it took was that gentle threat -- things started getting better. But early last week, the struggles resumed. I spent three days throwing up, and then have had problems intermittently since. My surgery clinic responded very quickly, first sending me to the hospital for an upper-GI, and then a follow-up with the surgeon. While the radiologist determined the test "normal," the surgeon read it and pronounced himself suspicious. His hunch is that my esophagus, post-surgery, is behaving a little like a clogged drain -- there is likely a stricture, one that allows some food to pass through, although not consistently. He is sending me on for an endoscopy, likely involving dilating the esophagus to allow food to pass through. Of all the possible bariatric surgery complications, this is the most common.
So, tomorrow is the day. Molly -- bless her heart -- gets to haul me to the surgery center in the morning where they'll make me snooze and hopefully get to the bottom of whatever is going on. Then we go back and see the surgeon later that afternoon to assess success. I'm hoping by Tuesday I'm a new man, continuing my progression back into normal routines. Stay tuned....
Lots of random thougths cross my mind each day ... usually the thoughts aren't worthy of a blog post in and of themselves. The jury is still out whether they're worthy of a blog post all lumped together, but let's give it a try.
It always catches me off guard when folks ask me how much weight I've lost. I say that because I've not ceased to be humbled by the many expressions of genuine care and interest in my life -- it means more than I can adequately express. However, while I don't mind talking about my weight -- and I say this with all possible due respect -- asking about what size pants I wear is a little odd! :)
A week ago, perhaps in a moment of sheer dilerious longing for spring, I bought a fleece vest. I imagined wearing it on those brisk mornings where an extra layer would be nice, and easy enough to shed in the warmer afternoon. Once upon a time, a 40 degree day would not feel cold to me. Now, I wear the vest indoors all day. It adds a bit of bulk underneath the old winter coat that's far too big, in order to keep the wind from whipping up from underneath. Having been warm-natured my whole life, this sudden change in my internal thermostat may be the oddest discovery to date. I'm grateful for the drawstring of all my way-too-big old flannel pajama pants -- my default wardrobe choice at home.
Ridding my closet of shirts, slacks, and suits that are far too big to ever consider wearing was more difficult than I ever imagined. I'm grateful Molly and my mother-in-law were able to see around a corner I hadn't -- ridding the closets of summerwear, and from a conversation they had my mother-in-law came up with a plan to transform my short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt collection into a quilt. I'm curious what my new style will become this summer -- because unlike a few leftover long-sleeve shirts I found in the back of the closet from years gone by, I don't own a single work-appropriate short-sleeve shirt that fits.
Old patterns are tough to break. My whole life, my stomach has deceived my eyes into eating too-big portions. And now, my eyes deceive my stomach: no matter how small the portion I put on my plate, it's too much. You'd think I'd learn, but each time I make the same mistake. On a related note: I'm ready for some creative farmer to figure out how to market half an egg.
I had surgery six weeks ago. Reality is, I had more energy six days after surgery than I do now. The first week after surgery, I walked 80,000 in six days as part of an employer/health insurance health challenge. That seems insurmountable now. I'm not certain why that is. The nutritionist at the bariatric center says this fatigue isn't unusual, that this is the body's reaction to this "medically-induced starvation". She also says typically surgery patients experience a surge of energy at three months post-op. I'm praying she's right. I can't wait.
As my body adjusts to carrying less weight, regular visits with the chiropractor have been essential. The chiropractor strongly urges me to consider massage -- something I've never pursued mostly because of my self-consciousness caused by several fatty tumor-like deposits on my back that I've had as long as I can remember. After an adjustment a couple weeks ago, he noticed that all the lypomas are gone! Our best guess is this is an added benefit of the liquid diet-purge of fat stored in the liver. Now all I have to do is compete with Molly for the next splurge on a massage!
I continue to progress through the reintroduction of food. This next week is the biggest and most varied week so far -- reintroducing chicken, pasta, tomato sauce, bread, raw veggies, beans, rice, and nuts. It's weird what I've missed food-wise and what I have not. My greatest cravings have consistently been for tortilla chips (and queso dip), blueberry muffins, and cucumber -- not necessarily hoping to remedy this craving in the same sitting. Oh, and popcorn. Good grief, I miss ordinary air-popped popcorn. I get it back in a couple weeks. Can't wait.
Every day it gets better, a little easier, and more familiar. I can't wait for summertime fresh foods and opportunities to be more active. While I have no particular ultimate destination in mind nor a timeline of when I expect to get there, I have reason to hope I will have lost most of my excess weight by the end of the summer. No, this hasn't stopped feeling surreal.
As Eric has been navigating surgery and life-after, I have been on my own weight-loss journey. For the better part of 7 years, I have been, in one way or another, active with Weight Watchers. I have always appreciated their program and how they go about helping people to lose weight. I think their teachings are solid and I appreciate their support practices. I started with WW after the birth of our first daughter, did well on losing weight- never "achieving goal," but happy with a 30 pound loss of maternity weight. Not long after that success, we moved cities and I didn't plug back into WW immediately -- I thought I could do it on my own. THAT was the moment that the the cycle of up and down began. You know the story -- up a few pounds, down one or two. Up 5 more, down 1 or 2. It just continued to add up. After the birth of our second daughter, I rejoined. After TWO YEARS of being on WW consistently (but sometimes more faithfully than others), I have finally reached WW's big goal of "Lifetime" status. To decode that a bit, I have achieved my goal weight, I have maintained it for 6 weeks, and now, I am a lifetime member who gets the perks of WW without having to pay, as long as I don't go over my goal by more than a couple pounds. Built-in accountability comes in the caveat that I need to continue to weigh-in with WW once a month.
This morning, in anticipation of receiving this award, I decided I would celebrate with a guilty pleasure of mine: a blueberry scone from Kaldi's. I LOVE these things. They melt in my mouth and make me want to kiss the baker. But after receiving my new Lifetime status, I was feeling really good about myself and decided I would "choose wisely" and grab a lower-point Subway breakfast sandwich, which I usually do after weigh-ins. Rather than hitting the Subway by WW, I decided to just stop by the one downtown, close to work. This is where my day turns silly -- as in, "where was candid camera in all of this?".
I just happened to get a rock star parking spot at the corner of Cherry and 9th, so I went ahead and parked rather than park at work and walk the couple blocks. On this particular corner, there is a Subway, a Panera, and my beloved Kaldi's. But remember... I said no to the scone. I crossed the street from my car and went to Subway, and they were CLOSED. Apparently, this one doesn’t DO mornings. Rats. So I crossed to the other corner and go to Panera to get an abeit, less-healthy-but-still-better-than-the-scone, bagel and cream cheese. They were OUT of whole grain bagels for the day. At 8:30am. SERIOUSLY?? Forget this! I left Panera and I looked to the other corner. Kaldi’s. The scone. That’s right. THE scone. The very scone I talked myself out of in an effort to be healthy. I walked in, and yes!, they had the desired and much dreamed-about scone… and damn, if it wasn’t still warm. AWESOME. Meant to be? Work of the devil? Who knows. But, WOW... it sure was fine!
I am thrilled to be a Lifetime member of WW, but ever more so that my life, and truly our life as a family, isn't all about what we are allowed or not allowed to eat. It's about how we eat. It's about enjoying the qualities of the food. It's about living with our choices. Eric's freedoms are not as great as mine at the moment, but we look forward to a day when we can both move freely within our comfort-zones of how to truly experience and enjoy food in healthy ways. It IS a life-style. It IS an ongoing challenge. But it is so worth doing.
All that said, I am off to scavenge for those last one or two crumbs that may have escaped from that blessed scone...
I'm a pastor. There are lots of other things I was interested in doing vocationally, and perhaps one or two of those things I might have even done well. But for pretty much all of my adult life, when I look in a mirror I see a pastor looking back. The reality of my life is I work Sundays. It took a while for me to discover that Sunday is not my sabbath. Leading worship is work, and -- for me, at least -- I know that I cannot be authentic in what I preach and teach about all of us needing a worship life if I am not constantly discovering avenues for worship for my own soul's contentment. And so, today my soul is fulfilled. Pastoring a church on a college campus has benefits, including opportunities on Tuesday morning to worship among students and staff in Chapel, which affords me the luxury of worshipping without responsibility.
This morning, we sang a new song, or at least one that was unfamiliar to me. I'm not even sure I caught the title. I'm not even sure I consciously was aware of the verse. But as I sang along with the lyrics on the screen, the chorus began to speak to me. Oh, the way you love me ... Oh, the way you call me ... Oh, the way you save me -- I love you. It has stirred in me since. And the extraordinary chaplain, Lucas, has this wondrous audacity to, of all things, preach from Nehemiah. Who does that?! And he did so extraordinarily well, ending his message with the invitation to ponder, "God, will you supply us what we need?". I have been to worship!
It was four weeks ago today that I had surgery. I don't know how Molly feels, but that seems like an eternity ago. For all the reading and researching I've done, the conversations with others who've been down this path I've had, the conversations with doctors and nutritionists I've been a part of, and the processing with Molly every step of the way, I haven't fully felt prepared at any step of this journey. My journey thus far into bariatric surgery has felt a little like growing in faith or falling in love: eventually it ceases to be an academic exercise and requires a leap. Until I jumped off the cliff six weeks ago and began that kooky liquid diet, I never knew I had this inner strength to do what I am doing. My last few weeks testify that, indeed, God will supply what we need.
This morning I stepped on the scales. I only do this first-thing in the morning, in my bathrobe to ensure I'm weighing while consistently wearing the same thing. While this journey got real when the liquid diet began, I regard that initial consultation with the surgeon in October as the beginning of the journey when they took my weight, body measurements, and had me pose for a polaroid. As of this morning, I've lost 50 pounds, all but a few I've lost in the past six weeks. I'm no different than most bariatric patients in that I've done diet programs before and even experienced modest -- although short-lived -- success. This is the most weight I've ever lost and I now weigh less than I ever have in my adult life.
My faith reminds me constantly that I am blessed. Indeed I am. There is no human way I could have done this on my own. Molly has been my rock. Her support, encouragement, and faith in me has been unwavering even when I have been uncertain. Our girls have typified grace in their own beautiful ways -- with compassion and concen and seemingly no distraction from their normal routines, much to my delight. My calling as husband and daddy is the only thing more important than my calling as pastor -- and I give God thanks that God equips me for my role in each. I simply cannot separate my love of them from my love of God -- the hymn of praise to God I sang this morning is the love song I sing to them: Oh, the way you love me ... Oh, the way you call me ... Oh, the way you save me -- I love you.
