#SlimmerSusieSeptember
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Totally me next summer, with rejoicing ankles. (Photo by Rebeca Gonçalves for Pexels.) |
- In first grade, one of my classmates sang the "Fat Albert" theme song at me when I came into the room. I'm not having surgery for him.
- In 2009, someone I love and trusted visited me under the guise of a surprise but really held what I can only call a one-woman fattervention. Our friendship never recovered. I am not having surgery for her.
- In 2014, a doctor refused to treat my hiatal hernia because I was too fat. "Read weight-loss stories on CNN.com and come back when you've lost 60 lbs.," she told me. I am not having surgery for her.
- In 2015, my then-gynecologist told me I had to lose weight and yelled at me when I was naked and vulnerable. She berated me and made me cry. I am not having surgery for her.
- Three years ago, a panhandler in Chicago told me to lose weight when I didn't give him money. I am not having surgery for him.
- In 2019, a crazy customer in a store where I volunteer made a crack about how I shouldn't respect a fellow volunteer's decision because I outweighed her. I am not having surgery for him.
- In 2020, a woman I'd (childishly, I guess) given the finger on the parkway slowed down in the exit lane to run parallel with me just long enough to puff out her cheeks in the universal "you're a fatty" face. I am not having surgery for her.
I'm only having surgery for me.
As someone who entered the world at twice the size of a normal human — and has stayed that way almost all of her life — I'm no stranger to taunts and jokes and even discrimination. Being a fat person isn't always fun. But most of my life I didn't mind. I felt fulfilled and enjoyed pretty decent health. I ran and walked and danced, and I was big but so was the world and I was OK.
Then I kept getting bigger and my world got smaller. No matter what I did, I couldn't drop the pounds. I'd lose 35 to gain back 40. I'd starve and see no results. I'd punish myself at the gym or with a personal trainer only to hurt a knee or twist an ankle. Suddenly the body that had always been fat but healthy stopped being healthy but kept getting fatter.
So I started doing less.
Walking hurt my back so I stopped. I made excuses to coworkers about why I took the elevator. I got sweaty doing the smallest bit of physical labor so I paid my neighbor to mow the lawn and shovel snow. I secured the closest parking spot to my office in case my back hurt or my knees went wonky. I told myself this was fine.
I stopped wanting to go places because I worried about physically fitting into spaces. I avoided restaurants with small booths, or theaters with tiny seats. If I had to travel for work, I'd book a first class seat and pay the difference between it and coach out of my own pocket for the comfort of knowing my ass would fit and I wouldn't ooze over the armrest into someone else's space. I convinced myself that I could live like this.
Meanwhile, my body started betraying me. Arthritis in my feet, knees, ankles and back made almost everything painful and the extra weight didn't help. My sleep apnea, while controlled, required more and more pressure to regulate. Yearly bloodwork turned into quarterly tests to make sure my prediabetes hadn't morphed into the real thing, the Big D. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. My energy — never a quality associated with me in the first place — disappeared. I avoided seeing any new doctor because I couldn't stand another lecture.
Then one night, I realized I didn't have to live like this. I could take action. And that was a revelation.
How it happened isn't super interesting — fat girl has a meltdown, goes to sleep not wanting to live her life with the cards she's been dealt, wakes up to read an article about success rates of bariatric surgery, thinks it's time to take action, makes a call, has a meeting, decides to do it, <big pause for pandemic>, begins long process of insurance approval.
And here we are, less than two months from my surgery date. #SlimmerSusieSeptember
It's scary and I won't hide that I'm incredibly nervous. I'm not really worried about the surgery itself — it has a proven history of success and I'm literally in the best hands in the city. I'm scared about stupid things. What's general anesthesia like? Will they let me keep my glasses on as I go to the OR so the world isn't a scary blur? Will the hospital gown cover my butt when they want me to stand up and walk? What if my legs aren't strong enough to walk as much as they want me to? Will it hurt? How lonely is it to stay in a hospital overnight? Will my dog miss me, or will he forget me as he succumbs to the temptations of table food with my parents?
Life after surgery. Now that terrifies me. The post-op diet at first is standard for stomach or hernia surgery (and I'm getting both at once! BOGO on abdominal procedures for Susie!): clear liquids, then pureed foods. That's about a month. But my new stomach will hold a cup, down from the quart of a normal stomach. Plus they'll move its connection to my small intestine a few millimeters to prevent some calories from absorbing. No more drinking and eating at the same time. No more massive meals. No more pasta or bread or booze or sweets for a pretty long time. Overeating won't make me uncomfortable or bloated, it will make me vomit or have diarrhea. And since I hate vomiting more than I love eating, I must proceed with caution.
I also don't know what to expect from my relationship with food after this. I don't know how to live in a world where people who love me may need to show that love in a way that isn't about eating. And that includes me. How do I treat myself? How do I recover from a bad day? How do I hang out with friends to catch up? How do you navigate a food-centric world when food can't be your center anymore?
Beyond the food thing lies the physical changes that (I hope) will follow. I do not know Slim Susie. She's a stranger to me. The only time I've been "normal" sized was when I was 17, and even then I weighed 150 lbs. and wore a size 12 — humongous compared to my friends and their single-digit sizes. Based on current data, my surgery could result in a loss of 60 to 80 percent of my excess weight, which means I could in theory see that number again.
I think that's crazy.
What is the world like without half of my body? What will hold me down in a windstorm? Will my knees scream hallelujah while my skinny little ankles — never up to the task of supporting this body — weep with relief? Am I letting down the fat-acceptance community by having major surgery to alter my body? Can I have this surgery and still love the old me, the current me, the fat me who cracks jokes and has a great personality because that's the only way I can be seen in a world where the bigger you are, the more invisible you become?
I don't have any answers, but I think I'm finally going to use this blog for its intended purpose: to track my journey. Not enough people talk about bariatric surgery as an option for weight loss because we're so busy attaching shame and moral failing to it instead. That's not how it is, though. Being fat is a metabolic disease wrapped up in genetics and hormones, not Doritos and french fries. Obesity can make us sick or kill us. So for me, the decision to have gastric bypass surgery — to finally try to control my obesity — is the decision to live the rest of my life the biggest way I know how. Just in a smaller body.
Then I kept getting bigger and my world got smaller. No matter what I did, I couldn't drop the pounds. I'd lose 35 to gain back 40. I'd starve and see no results. I'd punish myself at the gym or with a personal trainer only to hurt a knee or twist an ankle. Suddenly the body that had always been fat but healthy stopped being healthy but kept getting fatter.
So I started doing less.
Walking hurt my back so I stopped. I made excuses to coworkers about why I took the elevator. I got sweaty doing the smallest bit of physical labor so I paid my neighbor to mow the lawn and shovel snow. I secured the closest parking spot to my office in case my back hurt or my knees went wonky. I told myself this was fine.
I stopped wanting to go places because I worried about physically fitting into spaces. I avoided restaurants with small booths, or theaters with tiny seats. If I had to travel for work, I'd book a first class seat and pay the difference between it and coach out of my own pocket for the comfort of knowing my ass would fit and I wouldn't ooze over the armrest into someone else's space. I convinced myself that I could live like this.
Meanwhile, my body started betraying me. Arthritis in my feet, knees, ankles and back made almost everything painful and the extra weight didn't help. My sleep apnea, while controlled, required more and more pressure to regulate. Yearly bloodwork turned into quarterly tests to make sure my prediabetes hadn't morphed into the real thing, the Big D. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. My energy — never a quality associated with me in the first place — disappeared. I avoided seeing any new doctor because I couldn't stand another lecture.
Then one night, I realized I didn't have to live like this. I could take action. And that was a revelation.
How it happened isn't super interesting — fat girl has a meltdown, goes to sleep not wanting to live her life with the cards she's been dealt, wakes up to read an article about success rates of bariatric surgery, thinks it's time to take action, makes a call, has a meeting, decides to do it, <big pause for pandemic>, begins long process of insurance approval.
And here we are, less than two months from my surgery date. #SlimmerSusieSeptember
It's scary and I won't hide that I'm incredibly nervous. I'm not really worried about the surgery itself — it has a proven history of success and I'm literally in the best hands in the city. I'm scared about stupid things. What's general anesthesia like? Will they let me keep my glasses on as I go to the OR so the world isn't a scary blur? Will the hospital gown cover my butt when they want me to stand up and walk? What if my legs aren't strong enough to walk as much as they want me to? Will it hurt? How lonely is it to stay in a hospital overnight? Will my dog miss me, or will he forget me as he succumbs to the temptations of table food with my parents?
Life after surgery. Now that terrifies me. The post-op diet at first is standard for stomach or hernia surgery (and I'm getting both at once! BOGO on abdominal procedures for Susie!): clear liquids, then pureed foods. That's about a month. But my new stomach will hold a cup, down from the quart of a normal stomach. Plus they'll move its connection to my small intestine a few millimeters to prevent some calories from absorbing. No more drinking and eating at the same time. No more massive meals. No more pasta or bread or booze or sweets for a pretty long time. Overeating won't make me uncomfortable or bloated, it will make me vomit or have diarrhea. And since I hate vomiting more than I love eating, I must proceed with caution.
I also don't know what to expect from my relationship with food after this. I don't know how to live in a world where people who love me may need to show that love in a way that isn't about eating. And that includes me. How do I treat myself? How do I recover from a bad day? How do I hang out with friends to catch up? How do you navigate a food-centric world when food can't be your center anymore?
Beyond the food thing lies the physical changes that (I hope) will follow. I do not know Slim Susie. She's a stranger to me. The only time I've been "normal" sized was when I was 17, and even then I weighed 150 lbs. and wore a size 12 — humongous compared to my friends and their single-digit sizes. Based on current data, my surgery could result in a loss of 60 to 80 percent of my excess weight, which means I could in theory see that number again.
I think that's crazy.
What is the world like without half of my body? What will hold me down in a windstorm? Will my knees scream hallelujah while my skinny little ankles — never up to the task of supporting this body — weep with relief? Am I letting down the fat-acceptance community by having major surgery to alter my body? Can I have this surgery and still love the old me, the current me, the fat me who cracks jokes and has a great personality because that's the only way I can be seen in a world where the bigger you are, the more invisible you become?
I don't have any answers, but I think I'm finally going to use this blog for its intended purpose: to track my journey. Not enough people talk about bariatric surgery as an option for weight loss because we're so busy attaching shame and moral failing to it instead. That's not how it is, though. Being fat is a metabolic disease wrapped up in genetics and hormones, not Doritos and french fries. Obesity can make us sick or kill us. So for me, the decision to have gastric bypass surgery — to finally try to control my obesity — is the decision to live the rest of my life the biggest way I know how. Just in a smaller body.
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