Month: July 2018

I’m alive!

Seems like a strange way to start a blog but I totally stand by the statement. Leading up to the surgery was close to the lead up to Christmas day…until the morning of. I was Queen of Optifast, living La Vida Liquid. I didn’t want to be late so I made my mother get up at 4.30am to drive from Whangaparaoua to Flat bush…we got there at 5.15am and check in wasn’t till 7. Whoops.

So we sat and waited. We googled. Side effects and complications mostly, possibly not a good idea. I started to panic. I panicked, while mum had a coffee. I continued to panic, while mum had a muffin. I panicked more, while mum slept, only pausing to video the funny snoring noises she was making.

By 7am I was out of the car and waiving Mum off as I set out toward the elevator. I was greeted by a lovely nurse and an equally smiley receptionist. I am guessing that I looked like a possum in headlights as the nurse took my arm instead of leading me to the consultation rooms. The panic only deepened. I saw a nurse, then the Anesthetist, Nutritionist, Physiologist and finally my surgeon. By this time the nurse had taken away my phone, my only connection to my partner and kids. So when the surgeon walked in I started to leak from my face. I hoped that her surgery skills were better than her bedside manner, as she was so uncomfortable with my emotion that she was in and out in what seemed like seconds. What did they say? In surgery by 8am? In for 4hrs? I couldn’t remember a single word. Clothes off, hospital gown on, and I am heading to surgery…on shaking legs.

“Climb up on the bed please.” It is so bright, there are so many people in here. My leaking turns to sobs. I start wondering if I can get out of this? Go home, eat a Big Mac and forget this traumatic ordeal. But they are trying to calm me down, have given me a sedative. I am still doubting everything, but in more of an ‘I’m too calm to really give a shit’ kind of way.

And then I am awake.

Is it over? OMG the pain. I swear they have punctured my lung. I would have bet money on it, with all of my medical nothingness. I am wheeled into a room and am reminded of when I had my daughter. But this is nothing like that. I am in agony and there is no squishy deliciousness sleeping in my arm. There is no euphoria of the fairy tale future I have ahead of me. There is only pain and nausea. I won’t go on about it. No one wants to hear about it. I had to look into the face of one of my closest friends, while having a particularly bad episode, and see the fear and helplessness on her face.  But I will say that, on the following day when they removed the drainage tube from my stomach, I realised what had been resting on my lung and preventing painless breathing.

I slept, man did I sleep. Shannon spent a lot of time with me and Mum came, albeit to steel my sickly limelight. My nurse was taking my blood pressure and Mum jumped in with a request, as she wasn’t feeling so flash. Sure enough, my readings are fine and the nurse suggests, firmly, that Mum needs to go to a Dr…soon! Long story slightly shortened, I spent my first night at the apartment alone while Mum had to race to the North Shore hospital with a suspected Heart Attack.

The nausea continued, as did the pain. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the emotion. I could not stop crying. Why did I do this to myself? Did I hate myself this much? Fast forward to day 7, post op, and those doubts are mostly all gone. I have kicked the nausea. The pain is panadol manageable. I am now eating pureed deliciousness and I have lost  6.5kg since surgery. That is 13kg in total. I am still tired and have to rest after any activity, but who cares, I am again feeling positive and looking forward to what is to come.

If I think about it too much, I still feel sad for the little girl in me that has never believed that I was good enough, pretty enough, smart enough or thin enough. I don’t think this surgery has fixed that, but I am proud of how I have gotten through this. I was overwhelmed by the love and cuddles I got from my kids when I finally got home.  And for now, that makes me good enough.

And I’m alive x

19 days of Optifast down and I am sitting here 6.7kg lighter.

I faced this challenge as I face any other, I turned to Dr Google, to see how others felt about their Optifast. Man people can moan. I came across a lot of blogs about how awful it was, disgusting, vile, almost unbearable! I was terrified. I wondered what I had signed up for.

Thankfully, much like the brain tumors that I have often self diagnosed, Dr Google was actually a bit dramatic and actually quite wrong. Optifast was more than palatable and I have barely struggled at all. Aside from the morning tea and subway shouts in the staff room, I have rarely felt sorry for myself or the food that I was unable to enjoy. I was, a few times, reminded of a saying that my mother is fond of, “Food doesn’t taste as good as skinny feels.” I still think that this is a crock of shit, but I needed to find ways to keep myself honest. I sit on 800 calories a day and, although I am fine now, for the first few days I was pretty hungry.

MyFitnessPal has been a lifesaver. Having to account for everything that I put in my mouth has stopped me from making any drastic decisions that could have thrown me off the proverbial wagon. But googling blogs was also super helpful….in a crazy kind of way. Any time I wanted to cheat I would look for bloggers who had talked about cheating and then learn from their mistakes. Or actually if I am honest, I would tell myself that I was better than those cheaters and I would push through my cravings. I am proud to say that I did not cheat. Not even once.

I bought a treadmill, and we lugged it up the stairs to my bedroom. I am so excited about this as I needed a place to hang clothes at the end of the day…only kidding. I have used it multiple times now and am so pleased with my purchase. I particularly love the fact that my Fitbit syncs with MyFitnessPal and it adds calories to my daily quota. I don’t eat these calories, but again, it makes me feel like I am somehow beating my own personal score. I am quite competitive, obviously.

So now comes the weekend, the last hurdle, the final countdown (did you sing it too?). On Monday Mum and I are flying to Auckland and on Tuesday I go under the knife. I have heard horror stories and successes but no one knows which mine will be. I know to stay away from alcohol, as my Dr told me of a patient that formed ulcerations due to his continual consumption of liquor. I know to make sure that they give me anti nausea medication, from my best friend’s mum and her tale of being so sick, and therefore so dehydrated, that the sides of her stomach stuck together. I know to take it easy, when introducing foods to my new stomach, from a success patient who told me that some foods will come straight out without much warning. From either end.

So I am heading for a mix of the known and the unknown, but I go forth in anticipation and not trepidation. I anticipate winning the war I have with my brain and/over my body. I anticipate feeling less pain and more energy. I anticipate having less boob luggage, although I am not looking forward to them turning into used teabag titties. If I win lotto I will get an augmentation, but until then I will roll them up into my much smaller bra and be proud of them and myself.

So world, watch this space!