Vertical Gastric Sleeve – Day 52

My last post on this topic was March 1, 2017 – just 1 week before surgery (March 8, 2017). I write today just to touch base. To give myself a marker.

I am very pleased with my progress. Sure, the numbers on the scale are fun but they are just little validations.

I was still a human being when those numbers grew and grew over the years, and I will be that same human being as they diminish. My value won’t change.

One of the greatest heartaches of being obese for a lifetime is the mental anguish. Oh, I can talk for a good bit about the physical anguish. It has been very real and very debilitating. But it’s the mental anguish that I am working to expel, not just for myself but also for others. The guilt. The blame. The limited thinking that defies belief that anything can ever improve. There is a girdle, so to speak, that keeps one bound in repeated behaviors and thought patterns.  A restraint that is difficult to break.

I am chipping away. This surgery has given me the understanding of “full”. This was never really apparent to me before. I’m not alone. I used to chase the elusive “full” and wonder why it escaped me. How do “normal” people know when to stop eating?

Now, I don’t have a choice. I am living with a stomach that quickly lets you know that it is not wise to take another bite.

What the heck? This is a complete mind blower. So I am learning to choose food wisely. I am not eating to a mental state of satisfaction. There is a gap between full and satisfied. I am accepting that gap. Yes, it feels strange.

The challenge these days is to turn from expecting my meals to “satisfy”.  I mean, satisfy what exactly? Beyond a feeling of physical fullness, what else is it that I am expecting food to do for me?  That is the most important question.

90% of the time I am adapting very well. 10% of the time I am momentarily caught in a sense of urgency to “chase the dragon” so to speak. The good news is that I am able to quickly dispel the urge.  I can smile about that.

These are good things. I do not sit in judgment of others and what they eat, why they eat, and what diets they do or do not go on.  My “plate is full” of challenges and changes.  It keeps me busy.

Anyone who has walked with obesity is a brother or sister in many respects. We should be kind and encouraging, as this condition never truly goes away. Weight loss be damned, a return to our former behaviors will get us the same results. It will be the smallest, daily decisions that will determine whether I lose, maintain, or gain. This truth alone must be my mantra.

There will come a day when I stop losing. I may not want to accept that “number” on the scale. But I must reconcile my mind to accept what my body has to offer.  After all, I have always been more than a number!



Fowl Suicide

This winter was our coldest, longest, iciest in my memory. Burrrrr!!

A bright spot came in the form of three fat white chickens. They appeared one day in early December and pecked in our side yard beyond the fence where small patches of earth appeared in occasional melts.  We live in a rural-ish part of town.

The chickens have been a delight to watch. Our dogs have spent nearly 4 months now barking and pouncing and leaping at the “chicken show”.  Sadly, over time only two chickens came back, then one, then a new, dark chicken appeared.

The dark chicken has been the only little visitor of late. She hung around our side yard for days on end with occasional forays into the front yard.

That is until yesterday. Apparently she was depressed, but not too knackered to fly over our fence and into our yard.  My Olive was elated to finally play with her feathered friend.

It did not end well.  I will miss that chicken.

via Daily Prompt:  Knackered


Come-hither signage. Curbed lane approach. Illuminated menu.

Smell of french fries wafts and seduces and begs selection.

Static speaker. Sliding window. Bags and cups and straws.

Trappings of the drive-in.

via Daily Prompt:  Fry

photo by KatKen



She is Him – This Mother’s Child

My third child was born into a female body. She was a girl, a curvy woman, my daughter. Tomboy? Yes, but a girl nonetheless. She was born into a time when women could be more:  More assertive, more physical, more bold. And women could be less: Less feminine. Less dependent. Less docile.  And I thought that was enough.

She was midway into her 20s before she shared with us that she was lesbian. The news was not hard. The few tears shed were those of sadness for any pain she suffered in delaying the news. She met and later married a wonderful young woman who we love as our own. They compliment each other beautifully.

Several months back we learned she is trans gendered.  I won’t lie, the news was hard. Could this be true? Could my daughter actually be a boy? What is the difference between being, say, a “butch lesbian”, and being trans gendered?  Fear gripped my throat. She is my little girl! Can a mother bury her daughter only to give birth to her again as a him? Is it possible to relearn everything you know about a loved one?

The data I read and hear lays flat. I have no feel for what I am taking in.  It is foreign. Cisgender. Binary. Preposition of Choice. They and Them. It is a slow learning curve.

Will this ever become rote?

Note: This post is published with my child’s permission.  Use of strikethrough serves as a “visual aid” in helping me to recognize the frequency that gender preposition is used in my everyday thought and language.

Photo Sony Reproductive System by John Watson