my "day at the spa"

Call me crazy, but I scheduled all three of the following pre-op appointments for the same morning, December 1:  Upper GI, Nutrition Consult, & Psych Eval

It was almost as good as a day at the spa.

Hey, with two kids ages 2 and under, I was actually looking forward to having an entire morning of peace and quiet.  I got all dolled up with makeup and clean clothes like I was going somewhere special.  I even wore a real bra.  (Which, as a nursing mom, means it had powers to lift & separate).

So anyway.  I did the upper GI thing first.  My surgeon requires it of everyone he operates on.  I have no history of acid reflux or anything.  So other than feeling like a circus whale rolling around on a table, that went fine.  I say "circus" whale because I had to obey commands such as, "Lean towards me," "Roll onto your tummy" and "Stop breathing."  Hmmm.....  Usually they say, "Hold your breath," but noooooo, this doctor preferred the phrase, "Stop breathing."  Okay, dude.  Whatever you say.

Plus, this old guy sounded like Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, except he was croaking, "Drink.  DRINK!  More.  MORE.  Okay, again.  Swallow, swallow.  SWALLOW!"

I am just a real People Lover!  Can you tell?

Next up was the nutrition consult.  That lasted an hour.  My nutritionist (a guy!) spent an hour going over the post-op dietary changes, week by week.  I can't remember which post-op week it is---but whenever you can start eating 1/4C of protein.  I asked, "Are people full?  Are they satisfied off that little?"  He said most are.

Hold on!

....most?  Most?!?  You mean there's a chance I'll be hungry?  Crap!  I don't want to be hungry.  I hate being hungry.

He was encouraging though.  He said that I've done a great job losing weight since August and that he "can tell" I'm going to be "a huge success."  I hope his crystal ball is accurate!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand, then came the Psych Eval.

(Cue ominous music).  Dun dun DUNNNNNN.

I had no idea what to expect.  This is what happened.

I walked in and the lady showed me a picture of herself in a bathing suit before she had gastric bypass and introduced herself.  She asked what led me to my decision of wanting LB.  That's when I fell apart.

First off---I admire anyone who can wear a bathing suit when they are 'morbidly obese'.  That means she endured shopping for it.  And, as a plus-sized girl---that is torture.  Then, she somehow mustered the self-confidence to wear it.  And I have to say, she looked GOOD in it.

[sidebar:  I think it was Sherry who went off on some tangent somewhere regarding torturing terrorists with Neil Diamond music.  I have to agree.  If that's true, no wonder Osama bin Laden is still hiding somewhere.  He might have fallen in The Rabbit Hole of your blog though Sherry.  Have you considered that?  But I just came up with a new method of torture that may or may not violate the Geneva Convention.  Get these terrorists to gain some weight and go bikini shopping!!!  It's genius.  Maybe I'll write Obama and the Department of Defense a letter].

Anyhoo.  Back to the Psych Eval.  After making a joke about my "day at the spa," I answered the shrink's question.  Through tears, I explained how I had sat on the sidelines of Sandcastle (the local water park) while my two year old splashed in the kiddie pool this summer.  How he begged, "Mommy come play with me!"  How I couldn't--- because I refused to wear a bathing suit.  My friends got in the water with their children.  My son was the only one whose mommy wouldn't get in and splash around with him.  It made me feel terrible.  I told her how much I admired her for wearing her bathing suit and for rocking it.  I told her how I was just tired of sitting on the sidelines---and not just at the pool, but how my weight was now preventing me from doing all kinds of things.  I didn't want to teach my boys it was okay to sit off to the side and watch.  I want them to get in there!  I want the same for myself!  I want to feel good about myself again.  And damn, it would be great too, if I could zip up a pair of tall boots again!  

I didn't even tell her the story about my six year old niece, who gave me the unvarnished truth, not once, but twice, and how her little kid voice was the reality check I needed (albeit brutal).

Then I left and prayed that I hadn't flunked the psych eval by crying my eyes out.