Despite the fact that I step on the scales at least three mornings a week and could see this day slowly creeping toward me, this reality has not yet fully landed upon me. I first met with the surgeon in October 2010, weighing 291.5 pounds. This morning, four months and three weeks post-surgery, this is what the scales say:
For someone prone to verbosity, I don't do speechless well. I don't know what to make of what this feels like. As I've said before, I've been heavy my whole life -- and certainly have not been close to 200 lbs in adulthood. But for the first time in my life, I feel normal. I'm more comfortable in my skin than I've ever been. I find myself bounding far more often than my once-customary saunter. A couple flights of stairs don't wind me. Our four year old fits on my lap in a rocking chair like never before. In just one more week, when the last of the antibiotics for pelvic infection that started this whole thought process run out, the only pills I have to take on a daily basis are bariatric vitamins. Last night, I took the treadmill out for a jog for a few minutes before returning to a brisk walk. And I must admit, I'm pondering my fellow bariatric surgery friend's offer to join him in a "couch-to-5K". I feel like I'm reintroducing myself and family to a future I didn't know possible.
A couple weeks ago, I was at Annual Conference -- the once-a-year gathering of clergy and lay delegates from all United Methodist Churches across the state. Due to geography and that everybody's out doing ministry work in their own place, it's not unusual to go an entire year without seeing most of my clergy colleagues and friends. Honest to goodness, the first day of Conference was a tad unsettling -- more than a few times friends walked by me and didn't speak to me. By day two, I realized what was going on: to some, I wasn't recognizable. Quite literally, reintroductions were in order. As a friend described, Annual Conference was my "coming out party" as it were. I've had similar experiences in the local grocery store, the McDonald's drive-thru (only ordering unsweetened ice tea, I might add), in random encounters at the mall, and even a poignant moment in my church on Sunday when an occasional attender whom I hadn't seen in a while in all seriousness thought we had a new pastor.
If the weight loss ended today, I think I'd be okay with that. And certainly my weight loss has slowed down, as it should. The current challenge is to eat adequately enough (and keep it down, my success rate of which is not yet 100%) to keep the differential between calories consumed and calories burned close to level. My current BMI is about 26, and I'd love to get it below 25 if for no other reason than I will have officially shed the clinical diagnosis of "overweight". But beyond that, a BMI of 25 would mean I would have lost what our oldest child weighs. It's all about perspective, baby.
None of this happens without Molly. I gave her veto rights in October and every single day between then and surgery. She has been unflappable. She's been my biggest support in every way, but perhaps mostly because she's been so willing to fearlessly embrace discovering wherever this new normal would take us. When so much of my life feels like reintroductions are in order, I rejoice that Molly becomes evermore familiar.
