I weighed 380 pounds on the heaviest day I know of. I know of. Why is that phrase significant? Because I didn't own a scale that would weigh me. The only time I knew my weight was when I had to go to a doctor's office, and I avoided doctors at all cost. No one at 380 pounds enjoys going to the doctor (I guess no one enjoys it). Us fat people...we know the lecture. We've heard it over and over and over. Year after year after year. So yes, 380 is the heaviest weight I know of, but it probably wasn't my heaviest.
My lapband changed my life. My lapband probably saved my life.
In January of 2012, I hit my goal weight of 170 pounds. And I even stayed that weight...for about 10 minutes.
As I prepare to end my journey with Dinah (the name I lovingly gave my band), the timing of the conversation I am about to share could not have been intentionally planned to hit a nerve more raw. I know that it is an often accepted perception that weight-loss surgery is a "cheat." I've had the conversation with many people over the last 7 years. And I know even more have had it behind my back. Usually, I am perfectly happy, even excited, to be a part of the discussion. Those who know me know that I absolutely love a good debate. I often disagree with some extremely smart people and we go toe to toe both online and in person, always remaining respectful and above the belt (or at least I hope they feel I do). But not this time. This time, armed with the sad knowledge that I will be losing my band soon, I was less than polite. Less than respectful. And I stand behind the foul language that is to follow. *F bomb warning.
You're joining this in mid-conversation:
Friend: But you have to admit that you took the easy way out.
Me: Of course I admit that. It must have been easier because I tried for years to do it on my own and couldn't. The band made it easier for me for sure.
Friend: So you cheated.
Me: Cheated what? Death? I used a tool that was made available through modern advances. A tool that made a task easier. Do you still cut your grass with a hand-held blade? Or do you use a lawn mower? Did you walk here? Or do you drive a car? Are you opposed to all modern tools? Or just my lapband?
Friend: **blank stare**
Me: Exactly. Then shut the fuck up.
And why was that nerve so raw? Why did those same questions that I have answered I don't know how many dozens of times make me respond so rudely? Because I went into that conversation (which originated as a discussion about Chick-fil-a of all things) burdened with the knowledge that I will soon be losing my band. I will be saying goodbye to Dinah.
You see, I have kept my band empty for the last five years. For the most part, I've had no restriction (other than in the mornings before I drink some fluids). Other than that I can eat normally. Just like anyone without a band.
Over that time, my doctor has urged me several times to remove the band. His reason being that if I am not relying on it for restriction and using it as a weight-loss tool, then it is an unnecessary foreign object and can, if left long term, cause esophageal problems.
My reasons for keeping it?
- My insurance won't cover the removal, so no. Just no. If it's not causing a problem, it's staying in there.
- It's kind of fat girl safety net. I know I can always have it tightened if I get out of control. And Whamo! Presto! Restriction! Back on track!
But now...my band has slipped. Dang. It means I can't eat solid food (for about a week now) until it goes back in place. Here is what the band looks like when all is well:
I'll spare you a second pic, and just say that this IS NOT what mine looks like right now. And food won't pass through. Some liquids will. Yay! Another super thin protein shake! But no food. I continue to eat food. And then throw up said food. But hey...I'm hard headed. And I like food. What can I say?
So the bottom line is that when I go back to the doctor's office next week, I know that he is going to suggest, once again, removal of my band. And this time I am going to hang my head and sadly give in.
And then...
What if I go nuts? What if the old me shows her face? What if I wake up next week and I'm 380 pounds again?
What if...
So many uncertainties.
What if she was right, and I only succeeded because I cheated?
But what if I don't? What if I continue letting Tessa torture me and I meet my goals and then set new goals? What if I continue meal prepping and planning as if I never needed it?
What if I just continue continuing?
I'll miss you Dinah. You helped me change my life. You made me stronger and smarter and healthier, and I'll miss you. But I won't need you. I'll speak of you fondly forever, but I'll never need you again.
