Surprise #3: Leaves and berries

Cut out 80 percent of your stomach, youre left with 20 percent of what you had.

Even I know that.

I also know that 20 percent of a formerly whole stomach holds about 4 oz. — sometimes 6 oz., spending on the food. Twenty percent of a formerly whole stomach gets full pretty damn fast — much faster than you’d believe. Especially if you eat quickly. And refuse to chew each bite 25 times.

We have already played the “envision eating just half a cup of your Mexican combo” game. Let’s go back there for a moment.

American restaurant dishes typically contain far more food than a healthy, regular-size human ought to eat in one sitting. It’s one of the reasons eating out is such fun. Someone delivers you too much food, which gives you license to eat more than you need because, well, it’s there. And you can.

As I struggled with whether to go through with surgery that would render me unable ever again to eat too much, one of my biggest fears was that I would miss eating more than I should too much to make it worth it.

That hasn’t happened. But it’d be a lie to say that I don’t miss being able to have just one more bite. God, what I wouldn’t give.

These days, it’s a struggle to eat enough in a day to sustain my body and keep me going. I work hard at it, calculating grams of protein and figuring out when to consume how much liquid. I have targets to shoot for every day. I succeed more often than I fail. But I fail more often than I want to.

Much as I’d figure that some infertile couples stop enjoying sex when it becomes the means to an end, eating has lost much of its pleasure for me. I approach it with trepidation, worried that my body will stop accepting food before I’m done giving it what it needs.

Every so often, though, what I’m eating hits a spot so tender that it makes me forget the calculus of it. Those are the times I’d give my right arm for just one more bite.

The things that make me stop and savor aren’t what you might expect. The last one was romaine lettuce with ranch dressing. The time before that, fresh strawberries. It’s not surprising to me, because these are things I’m supposed to save for after I’ve gotten enough protein for the day. Given the difficulty of doing that in half-cup increments, salad and fruit are, for now, treats.

They won’t be forever, certainly. Eventually, I’ll be able to handle a cup of food at a sitting. Until then, I’ll sit here with my chicken breast, or lentils, or cottage cheese. I’ll eat slowly, mindfully, chewing with purpose, praying for space. I’ll listen closely to my stomach, stopping the very moment it tells me I should.

And I’ll dream of the day when my plate is, once again, divided into food groups.

Surprise #2: Weights and measures

My weight has been an issue for someone in my life for as long as I can remember.

First, it was my mother, who put me on my first diet when I was 8. It took seven years of therapy later in life for me to be able to say that I think she meant well. That is to say, she didn’t want me to live a life of loneliness and misery. And as far as she knew — though from what source I can't imagine — if you weren’t skinny, you were bound to be lonely and miserable.

It would be another decade before I started to worry about my weight. In 11th grade, I got stood up for a date. A friend confessed that she'd heard him say he wasn’t sure he wanted to date a “fat chick.” A couple of days later, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time. I was successful in losing weight and with each pound I lost, interest from boys went up. Eventually, I found myself dating a boy who scared the shit out of me — the first Latin stud who ever gave me a second look. That’s when I knew my mother had to be right. Thin equaled happy and loved.

My practice-husband — the bonehead — took worrying about my weight to a whole new level. He worried constantly about what I was wearing and eating, and withheld his affection if he didn’t think I made the grade. I spent three long years second-guessing myself. Despite valiant efforts to be beautiful in his eyes, I put on a bunch of weight during our marriage. Any dime-store psychologist would have seen that coming.

Post-divorce, I no longer needed padding to protect me from him and my weight dropped fast. It was a wild time in my life — one I would neither eighty-six nor repeat. Midway through, I got myself involved with a bad man. He disrespected me. More importantly, I disrespected myself. Eventually, despite more valiant efforts, my weight began to creep up yet again. I fought like hell. It was a losing battle.

After a few years of that, I hit rock bottom, came to my senses and walked into therapy. Seven years later, I emerged having conquered the demons that live on food issues, distorted body image and skinny=love.

Uh, except that, clearly, I haven’t. Because today, I feel guilty. Like a cheater. And a fake.

For eight months before surgery and four weeks afterward, this journey was about curing diabetes. It’s all I thought about. All I cared about. All I needed.

With that goal accomplished, my thoughts have turned to what’s happening to my body: It’s slimming down, without much work.

I’m not counting calories or fat grams or carbs. I’m not having to choose between what tastes good and what’s good for me. I’m not restricting myself or punishing myself or beating myself up when the scale doesn’t move.

For the first time in my life, I’m not dieting and I’m losing weight anyway.

On paper, it sounds lovely, doesn’t? In my head, it’s something different entirely. It’s not fair. It’s not right. It makes a mockery out of everyone who’s ever struggled to lose weight.

Somehow, in those seven years of therapy, I neglected to deal with a misguided belief that weight loss must be an epic struggle between a good person and a bad body in order to be just.

As a result, I’m fighting to hold onto the belief that what I‘ve done, what I’m doing, isn’t a lesser task than, say, if I’d rejoined Weight Watchers and or dialed up Dr. Atkins. It’s a daily struggle for me to believe that my decisions and actions aren’t inferior to those who take on this demon without surgery.

I know there are plenty of people on the planet who believe that what I’ve done is take the easy way out. A dear friend who had a similar surgery — the woman I call my Spirit Guide — has encountered these people in her life more than once.

Another friend of mine has spent the past 45 weeks or so losing 75 pounds. Her discipline and motivation, her drive to succeed, have made her thin and healthy. For that reason, no matter what happens from here, her accomplishment will outpace mine in my head.

Funny thing is, it absolutely does not not outpace Spirit Guide’s accomplishments. In my mind, her surgery is wasn’t a cop out. I’m proud of her for making a tough decision and following through. She’s worked hard to adapt to a dramatic new way of living, and she’s healthier for it.

How many years of therapy do you think it’ll take before I give myself the same credit?

Surprise #1: Getting clubbed

“Is fat really the worst thing a human being can be? Is fat worse than vindictive, jealous, shallow, boring, evil or cruel? Not to me.”
— J.K. Rowling

There’s an old SNL sketch in which Eddie Murphy, who was back as host of his alma mater, went “undercover” as a white man. (Go here if you want to see it.) Eddie’s objective, he told the audience, was to prove or disprove the notion that there are “two Americas, one white and one black.”

After spending some time in makeup, he emerged looking pretty caucasian and awfully nerdy. For the rest of the skit — in a store, on a bus, applying for a loan — “Mr. White” discovers that white people act differently toward one another when black people aren’t around.

It’s a funny sketch. It was written and performed decades ago and holds up today. It’s over the top, sure. Toned down, though, its message is probably not that far-fetched.

In the past two weeks, I’ve had a few of my own “Mr. White” moments. For my purposes, though, let’s call me “Ms. Thinner-than-I-used-to-be.”

My pre-operative weight was high enough that any reasonable person would have thought me obese. These days, while I’m definitely not thin, I don’t look nearly as fat as a I did. I’m wearing regular-size clothes and can pass for fairly healthy.

That seems — for some people, at least — to have qualified me for membership in a new club. For our purposes here, we’ll call it the “Let’s Judge Fat People” club.

(insert “Wayne’s World” squiggles here)

Sitting in a coffee shop, reading “The Hunger Games,” drinking half-caff with half-and-half.

Door opens. In walks a very large woman who looks very unhappy and very uncomfortable. She orders, picks up her drink and looks around for a place to sit. The only open seat would require that she squeeze past several other tables, likely having to ask someone to scoot in a bit.

She ponders it for a moment, then turns and walks out.

As she does, I meet the eye of the woman sitting in the comfortable chair across from mine. After a moment, she says quietly: “I can't imagine being so fat. Put down the coffee drinks and take a walk or something.”

I was horrified. I hope it showed on my face. I didn’t respond, and I don’t know why. Instead, I stared her in the eye for a couple of seconds too long, then turned back to my book. She left several minutes later.

(insert Wayne's World squiggles here)

Walking through a lower-end grocery store to pick up saltines for Urchin and her stomach virus to feed upon.

I come upon an overweight woman slowly pushing a cart filled to the brim with foods I don’t often buy. She’s walking the same direction I am, taking up much of the aisle about 10 feet from the end-cap when a small, angular woman turns into our aisle from the other direction. She appears to be in a hurry and the aisle isn’t comfortably wide enough for her to get through. So she stops and sighs.

As the overweight woman turns into the next aisle and the angular woman walks by, she says under her breath: “Probably shouldn’t be buying all that pizza.”

Again, I didn’t acknowledge. I also didn't stop her in her tracks or punch her in the nose. Again, I don’t know why.

(insert Wayne's World squiggles here)

Getting my nails done by the Russian bombshell who’s done them for years. She’s an extra-small Siberian with a big boobs whom I’d choose in a fight any day.

As I told her about my new non-diabetic label and 30-pound weight loss, I also shared the good news of a woman I met along my journey, who had surgery the day before I did.

She’s 38. She’s diabetic, hypertensive and heart-diseased. She started with 270 pounds to lose. She’s so far lost 55, and over the weekend — for the first time in nearly a decade — she walked from one end of the mall to the other without pain shooting through both knees, ankles and hips. Without getting so winded she couldn’t talk. Without having to stop for rest. It’s an amazing thing.

“You know,” says my nail girl, “if she wanted that so bad, she should have put herself on a diet for a few months and then gotten off her ass and started walking.”

“Um, no,” says I. “Not exactly. Be careful not to assume that every overweight person is lazy and unmotivated. You can’t know what’s going on in their world.”

“I know this: They let themselves get that way,” says nail girl. “I have no sympathy.”

“Um, well,” says I, “I doubt they want your sympathy.”

Silence.

“You know,” says I, “most people would look at me, even now, and say I ought to get off my ass and walk, too. I’m still 55 pounds overweight.”

“You’re different,” says she. “You don’t compare. You were sick and now you’re not. Most fat people are just fat because they eat too much and they eat the wrong kind of food.”

As proof, she offered up a story about the fatties at her gym who take full advantage of the once-a-month pizza party. I sat there wondering whether I really need to have my nails done.

It will surprise no overweight person that some people can be terribly mean. Every one of us has dealt with it in some form or another. What I can’t wrap my head around is the relative abandon with which these meanies seem share it with others.

And my relative inability to call them on it.

I’m not sure what else to say about this new phenomenon, except that I hate it and I’m done listening to it.

Now, wherever did I put my big-girl panties?

Less, loss and what I wore

I can’t believe how hard it’s been to get this stuff out of my head and onto the page. It’s not like I'm writing a thesis on thermodynamics, for God's sake. It’s all about me. And we all know how much I love to write about me.

Even so, dragging it out has been a gargantuan task. Thanks to those of you who candidly told me to quit overthinking and just do it. That, in the end, is why you’re reading this now. It’s jumbled and disjointed and not particularly pithy. But the spigot’s back on and I will endeavor to keep it going. Because there’s a whole bunch to talk about.

Hey. One thing before I jump back in.

This is about to get pretty personal. Please be generous in sharing your thoughts with me and the rest of us here. If something I write strikes a chord with you, or conjures up something you feel or have experienced, please share it in the comments. It’s not easy venturing out onto the skinny branches. If you join me, it won’t be so lonely.

Aight. The two biggest pieces of news:

First, I saw my endocrinologist on Thursday. At five weeks post-op, she reclassified me as a non-diabetic. She even did a happy dance. I haven’t had time since then to process the hugeness of this. Maybe Monday, when I have some time to myself. It will hit me, I’m sure. And when it does, it might just knock me over.

Second, I’ve lost 30 pounds. Yes, it’s a lot. Yes, it happened fast. No, I’m not done. By the time this is over, I can expect to have lost somewhere near 80 pounds. Yes that’s a lot, too. And yes, there will be plenty of me left (thanks for asking). Right now, I feel like a million dollars. Some of that is attributable to the weight loss. Most of it, though, is because I’m not taking those wretched shots anymore. If nothing else ever changes, that alone will have made this worth it.

I went on my first post-op date with my husband a week or so ago. Urchin spent the night at a friend’s house, and Husband and I went out to dinner and to see “Spamalot.” I have to confess, preparing for the evening was almost as awful as it’s been for more than a decade — because I STILL didn’t have a damn thing to wear. I went through everything in my closet, leaving behind a trail of clothes as I stormed around getting more and more irritated. Then I remembered a dress I bought more than 10 years ago because I loved it and would “someday fit into it.” It was crammed in the back of the guest room closet and, ahem, still had the tags on it. It fit beautifully. In fact, it’s the only one in my house that isn’t too big for me. I’m trying hard not to get too wrapped up in the weight loss that comes along with this awesome surgery. It is, however, a delightful side benefit.

I am now eating regular foods in atypical amounts. I’m up to about half a cup of food at a sitting. So, imagine you’re at a Mexican restaurant, where they’ve just delivered your overflowing plate of enchiladas, rice and beans. Now imagine the measuring cup in your kitchen marked “1/2 cup.” Now imagine how much of that plate of food will fit in that measuring cup. I wish I could tell you I’m always content with just that much food. I’m definitely sated every time. But sated isn’t always the same as content. Sometimes I just want to eat more. Sadly, eating more brings untold miseries. So I don’t. And won’t ever. That is my life. And I’m getting used to it.

Last night for dinner, I had about a third of a cup of lentil soup and five croutons. Today for breakfast, I had two fried eggs and a couple of bites of homemade French toast with no syrup. Tonight for dinner, we’ll probably eat out. I’ll order something Husband likes, because he’ll have to eat the leftovers. I’ll probably help out a bit, but for me to eat the rest would take more days than I’m willing to hold on to leftovers. And so it goes. (I’m also supposed to take teeny bites and chew 25 times before I swallow. I defy you to chew any-size bites 25 times. After a few frustrating days of trying to follow this rule, I stopped. These days, I take regular bites, chew as long as there’s food in my mouth and swallow when it makes sense.)

You’re right, by the way, I’m not eating much these days. I average 700-800 calories a day. About 300 of that comes from protein drinks that I’ll depend upon for the rest of my life. Believe it or not, it’s not that bad. Eventually, it will even out. I’ll be able to eat more and my smaller body will need less to maintain itself. Until then, I’ll expend more than I am physically able to take in. That’s what will take off 80ish pounds.

OK… so that’s a start. It feels good to get it out. Call this a Table of Contents for what comes next:

What Urchin knows and what she thinks … So, this girl walks into a group therapy session … What I’ve learned about myself in six weeks away from work … Wow, I definitely wasn’t expecting that … Here’s where a girl needs a little faith … A perfectly executed swan dive into a placid lake? Or, how guilt and fear are keeping me from fulling embracing my brand-new life.

Thank you, friends, for your patience and guidance. You really do rock.

bzh

Changing topics

For today. Here.

Switching lanes

Eight weeks into my pregnancy, a phone call from the doctor’s office made my blood run cold.

“Your blood sugar is very, very high,” said the nurse in her Jamaican accent. “It is very bad for the baby.”

“What does that mean, ‘very bad for the baby?’” I asked.

“It’s very bad,” she answered, providing no other guidance.

It was late Friday afternoon. I had nowhere to turn and she had no other answers. The doctor would be in on Monday. Until then, “take good care of yourself,” she said.

So began the longest weekend of my life. It continued into the longest 16 weeks of my life, during which time we had no idea whether eight weeks of cooking in very high blood sugars had done something terrible to the sweet baby girl growing in my uterus.

When we finally learned that the sugars had simply made her sweeter, the relief caused Husband and me to drop to the curb in the parking lot of the hospital and cry.

Being diagnosed with a disease when you’re pregnant brings a terror you can’t imagine. Knowing that your physical failing could doom another being to a lesser life is a burden I can‘t describe. Seven years later, I can still conjure the feeling in its full glory.

Looking back, though, I realize that while the risk to our daughter definitely wasn’t worth it, being diagnosed while pregnant carries a bit of a silver lining. Learning to manage a disease so that you don’t kill your child makes you learn fast and learn well.

Again, seven years later, the results are manifest. My endocrinologist calls me the kind of patient that would put him out of business. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, so I feel pretty certain he’s not joking.

Truth is, I’ve been a damn good diabetic for all the days of the disease. I’ve taken all of my meds, even when I didn't want to. I've pricked my finger a gazillion times and changed my diet to meet my blood sugar fluctuations. I’ve said no to things I wanted — not every time, but most times. And I’ve recalculated my life to meet the disease head-on.

As I sit here today, two weeks after surgery, it’s beginning to sink in that I won’t have to do that anymore. I’ll have to be a different kind of careful, sure. The kind that every healthy person is.

But I won’t have to turn my family around from our pursuit of a weekend breakfast meal because I forgot to do my shot. Again. And I won’t have to worry whether I have all my meds before I board the plane. And I can let myself think about watching my Urchin live out her dreams.

Awesome as it sounds — don’t get me wrong, it sounds terrifically awesome — it’s going to take some getting used to.

Happy Thursday, friends.

Speeding bullets

So, it’s been too long since I last posted and I can’t really figure out where to start. So, like my friend bzzzzgrrrl, I'll resort to bullet points:

• A morphine pump is a beautiful thing. I’m just sayin’.

• Morphine isn’t nearly as wonderful as the drugs they put in your IV before they wheel you into surgery. I don’t know what those are called and it’s probably best.

• Biggest lesson learned: I would rather be in pain than be vulnerable and flat on my back. Prone and vulnerable, especially in a gown that doesn’t close in the back, is my biggest nightmare.

• My Greek surgeon was assisted by a Russian fellow and an Iranian-born anesthesiologist wearing cowboy boots. I feel like I should have come out of surgery at least bilingual.

• Getting out of a hospital bed and into a hospital bathroom and out of the bathroom and back into bed, attached to an IV stand that plugs into the wall and wearing a gown that doesn’t close in the back, ought to be an Olympic sport.

• I don’t have a wealth of experience, but for my money, I’ll take a male nurse every time.

• Removing 80 percent of your stomach is one cure for hunger pangs.

• There are some seriously tasty protein shakes on the market. And some seriously not. The seriously not will find their way into your life first and cause you to lose hope. Be strong. Tasty’s just around the bend.

• Lortab elixir doesn’t compare to morphine. Which is probably best.

• A surprising number of people like to look at incisions. Lucky for me. I like to show mine off.

• Overdoing it is way easier than it looks.

• The only person who can save me from myself is my mother. How cliché is that?

• True love is sitting across the table from four family members who are eating Five Guys burgers and fries while you drink an Orangeade clear protein shake, and not ripping anyone’s throat out.

• There are few feelings as wonderful as tasting real food for the first time in a month. Even if it’s Greek yogurt. And even if it’s pureed.

• Yes, even Greek yogurt must be pureed.

• A hard-boiled egg pureed with a bit of Ranch dressing is heavenly when you haven’t eaten in a month. And it’s still heaven nearly a week later.

• Recovering from surgery is no excuse not to drop into Williams-Sonoma and pick up a splatter screen on sale.

• Watching my parents drive away after nearly two weeks together made me terribly sad. No one is more surprised by that than I am.

• I never imagined it possible to spend an entire day sleeping, reading and being quiet. Turns out, it’s more than possible. It’s awesome.

• I wonder how much longer I’ll feel that way?

• Finally, the big news: I haven’t had any diabetes meds for more than two weeks. For the past six days, my blood sugars have been normal.

• Translate: It worked, friends. It worked.

Peace and love to you.

Post-op, part 1

Surgery went swimmingly. It took just about an hour from first cut to last suture. They poked six holes in my abdomen — five of them for cameras and delivery of carbon dioxide (to inflate the belly); the sixth, about 15mm wide, through which the doc worked his magic.

The recovery room was hell. Despite three forms of nausea prevention drugs administered in the pre-op room, I came out of surgery ready to puke my guts up. This, of course, would have been a bad, given that I’d already lost 80 percent of them in surgery and the rest were held together with staples. Add to that some pretty serious pain — which likely contributed to the nausea — and I was a hot mess.

The recovery room nurses weren’t very nice. It’ll shock you to learn that I was not very nice right back. At one point, one of them said, “You just had surgery. It’s supposed to hurt.” My response: “Wow. You should pick up some bedside manner next trip to the store.”

It wasn’t long before they released me to my room.

Lesson 1: Don’t get too settled in a place you’re not comfortable and they won’t make you stay.

The next few days are a blur of pain and morphine and staring off into space and very interesting dreams. Oh, and walking. Walking, walking, walking.

In the blur of a hospital stay, few things stand out. One of them a nurse named Craig, a tall, gentle soul with a firm grip on how to get out of the hospital quick. Early the first evening, as I drifted in and out of sleep, he whispered in my ear.

“If you want to go home soon,” he said, “you have to do three things: Master your breathing exercises. Get off the morphine pump. And amaze everyone with how often you’re up walking around.”

Instantly, in my drug-addled haze, I had a goal.

And, here we are.

Today was big.

It was my last day on diabetes medication. At 2:30 this afternoon, I left my endocrinologist’s office with no plan, medicinal or otherwise, for managing diabetes going forward.

No plan because after tomorrow, the expectation is, I’ll no longer be a diabetic. We’ll check back in three months, just to be sure. But based on how my blood sugars have acted during the liquid diet, it looks promising.

And so...

Nothing by mouth after midnight.

A nail appointment at 10 a.m. (Oh, shut up.)

Report to the hospital at 11 a.m.

From there is anyone’s guess. The surgery was scheduled for 3 p.m., but when the nurse called today to move up my report time by 2 hours, she hoped that I could “be flexible.” I told her I could, as long as “be flexible” means “surgery will be done earlier than 3 p.m.”

She laughed, but wouldn’t commit.

I’m nervous. And excited. And so goddamn ready.

Thank you, every one of you, for being so awesome through these horrible two weeks. Knowing you were there made a bit easier being here.

Special love to you, Spirit Guide. Keep the good juju coming, will ya?

Aight, Village. Let’s do this.

See you on the other side.

xoxo.

Feed. Me.

I was right.

The respite was temporary. After a week of fairly easy going — with a business trip thrown in for good measure — the screaming hunger pangs came back in full force yesterday. Also back: hopelessless. I have fewer than 48 hours before this is over and despite serious attempts to talk some sense into myself, I'm fairly certain I’m never going to make it.

I’ve tried for a day or so to find words to describe the empty feeling in my core. I’m typically one who thinks in colors and often they're cliché. Black would seem to make sense here, but it’s not right. The color I'm feeling has more depth than black. More texture. More angst. Which I didn't think possible.

Other charming things:

There’s an awful taste in my mouth that I'm pretty sure everyone can smell. I don’t know what that means, exactly. But I’m pretty sure of it.

I can’t focus my attention. At all. On anything. Driving to church today was nigh on impossible, which is just what you want in a moving vehicle.

Just before “dinner” last night, I lost my ability to cope with even the smallest irritant. Fortunately, I haven’t yet lost my ability to realize that’s where I am, so I haven’t yet followed through on a sincere desire to strangle someone, anyone, to within an inch of her life.

So, it’s 8:02 p.m. the evening before the day before surgery. It sucks. And it’s almost over.

The end.

A word about Paula

I’m not one to cut celebrities much slack when it comes to “I’m too famous, woe is me.”

I’m not famous. I take the bad with the good. Same should go for celebrities. Fame carries a price. Good thing those who have it also have buckets of money to pay the piper.

So why would I care about Paula Deen?

I barely know who she is, frankly. I once watched her make a soufflé on TV and wondered, aloud probably, a) why’d she do that to her hair? b) what kind of spray tan turns you such an awful shade of orange?; and c) why does her “gently fold in the egg whites” look so much better than my “gently fold in the egg whites?”

Oh, and I once thought it might be nice to dine at her restaurant in Savannah. Then I discovered the line was more than two hours long. Fluffy egg whites or not, unless you’re serving solid gold bars iced with platinum, I don’t wait two hours to eat.

That’s what I knew about Paula Deen, until two days ago, when she became the Anti-Christ.

Paula Deen has Type II diabetes. It was diagnosed three years ago. She kept it a secret because, well, that’s her right.

When she made it public, as the spokeswoman for a diabetes drug, she apparently crossed the river Styx and descended into Hades. Now, the world has decided that because Paula Deen writes cookbooks and does cooking shows that contain recipes for foods that any moron knows must be eaten in moderation, her weight, lifestyle and plan for treating her disease are fair game.

And the viciousness has been breathtaking.

She cooks with butter? Serves her right.

She bakes pies? For shame.

She adds bacon to her mashed potatoes? Off with her head!

Worst of all, her diagnosis has somehow made her responsible for the health of anyone who’s ever cooked a Paula Deen recipe. By that reasoning, every winery owner is responsible for alcoholism and every automaker is responsible for car wrecks.

It’s as sickening as it is stupid.

Paula Deen made her bed. She’ll have to live with the consequences of her choices. I suspect she regrets them, like we all do. But she’ll make it work. That’s a choice, too.

In the meantime, let’s put away the pitchforks and torches and take a good hard look at why we take such glee in other people’s misfortune, self-induced or otherwise.

Then repeat after me: There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Two fewer...

Deep breaths.

That’s been my focus since about 12:15 this afternoon, when the surgeon’s office called to share that my surgery date has been moved up.

Two days.

To next Tuesday.

The Tuesday BEFORE next Thursday, the day I’ve been thinking about for a month.

Gulp.

So, I’m breathing…

There are, of course, pros and cons to this news. I will think only of the pros.

Two fewer days of liquid diet hell.

Two fewer days to worry about major surgery.

Two fewer days until I can have real food again.

Two fewer days to wait.

Two fewer days until the rest of my life.

Hunger pangs

Hunger.

It’s not the same as hungry.

Hungry is “Wow, listen to my stomach growl.” It’s “Man, I could eat a horse.” Or “I feel like I could gnaw off my arm.”

Hungry you can make jokes about. Hunger isn’t the least bit funny.

First, let’s be real. I haven’t had solid food in five days and I’ve definitely blown past hungry. But I’ve had three protein shakes a day, lots of fresh vegetables, even warm vegetable soup. I’m miles from hunger.

Still, I can say without any doubt that hunger is an agony none of us can, in our deepest, darkest moments, fathom. Because where I’ve been hanging out has been torture. And I’m not even close.

Hungry is grouchy and surly. It’s shaky and muddled thinking. It’s generally pissed off.

Hunger, I'm certain, is lonely. It’s hopeless. It’s thinking you’ll never be happy again.

Hungry is what Pooh would call a “rumbly in my tumbly.” Hunger is a pain that bites at the very core of your being.

Hungry gets better when something hits your stomach, even if it’s just warm broth. Hunger just gets angrier if what you put in your stomach won’t, in the long run, get you anywhere near sated.

Hungry is to hunger what possession of cannibis is to first-degree murder. It might be a gateway. More likely, it’s a wake-up call.

The first three days of this liquid diet were seriously rough. The third day, in fact, was deep and dark and hard to come back from. I began to question my reason for doing this; to wonder whether it’s really worth it. Intellectually, I know it is. But on the third day without food, I couldn’t see my way through.

Something happened, though, around noon on the fourth day. I seemed to turn a corner. I wasn’t sad anymore. I wasn’t ravenous. And for the first time in days, I could see the sun.

Church had just let out, and I suppose I could say God answered my prayers. More likely, though, it’s the cycle of hunger. When the body realizes that screaming bloody murder isn’t working, it lets up and regroups. The screaming will return at some point, of course. It has to. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct.

I’m hoping to fend it off as long as I can. I have just nine more days of this before surgery removes the glands that regulate “hungry.” After that, I won’t be able to eat as much. And I won’t give a damn.

Lucky me.

Not so much for the millions of people in this world — many, many of them children — who live with the hopeless, boundless pit of hunger day after day after day. Without protein shakes. Or warm soup. Or a corner to turn.

I lived for three days with an agonizing gnawing at my gut that nearly knocked me down. I can‘t imagine doing it for three months. Or three years. Or with three children.

Multiply three by 10 million and you’ll get the number of people on Earth who die from hunger each year. More than 925 million are under- or malnourished. In the United States, the richest country on the planet, 35.5 million people — 12.6 million of them children — skip meals, eat too little or go a whole day without food. One in 8 households is forced to choose between eating and paying for shelter and or medicine.

In a country that spends billions of dollars each year on new ways to kill people; that pays sports figures enough in a season to keep a small town afloat for a decade; that celebrates celebutantes and thugs and DJ Pauly D but not teachers; that wallows in fully 10 times the amount of stuff we need, it’s time we set our priorities straight.

In this day and age, with all of the resources of modern man, no one on this planet — not a parent, not a child — should have to live with hunger.

This pre-operative experience of mine — insignificant as it is in the grand scheme of things — has hit me broadside with a truth that was both foreign and abstract before now. In the words of my dear friend, DB, who has witnessed firsthand what most of us never will, we should be ashamed.

Liquidity

I am no longer full. I am, in fact, the opposite of full. I’m also the opposite of awake, alert and content.

I’ve been two days without solid food. In its place are things with no sugar, no fat, few carbs, relatively few calories and not much taste. Well, unless you count the taste that artificial sweeteners leave behind.

The vanilla protein shakes aren’t bad, which I didn’t expect. The chocolate ones are yucky, which I also didn’t expect. I have an equal number of each — and they each have 30g of protein in them, which is key — so finding something to make the chocolate ones more palatable has been paramount. Spirit Guide to the rescue. Throw in a few ice cubes, she says. I do, and, presto, tastes like a McDonald's chocolate shake!

Not really. But they are much better. Another friend suggested dropping in some banana extract, which totally works. Problem solved.

V8 and Chobani Greek yogurt are awesome. Tonight, warm tomato soup hit the spot. Before I go to bed I’ll have some hot tea and tell myself it's a Mexican combo and a couple of tequila shots. Should work like a charm.

Truth is, I’m hungry and my body is too pissed off to cut me any slack. Hell, wouldn’t you be? We went from all the enchiladas, tikka masala and salted caramel brownies we could handle to liquid cardboard with some raw veggies and non-fat yogurt thrown in for good measure. (Yesterday, I was so hungry after work that I stood over the counter inhaling baby carrots like they were potato chips. How far we’ve fallen.)

And I can’t remember the last time my stomach played such a symphony. The rumbling and gurgling has been so loud that it’s attracting the attention of passersby. Only one of them mentioned it. She’s my kid, so I gave her the stink-eye and the whole thing blew over.

There is, my friends, a silver lining. I haven’t had the wretched medicine in two days, and despite wanting to gnaw off my arm, I feel like a million dollars. After six years, no more nausea. You can’t imagine the joy.

Oh, and I’m two days closer to the rest of my life.

Yay me.

Full disclosure

On this, the night before my life changes forever, it’s probably appropriate that I am full.

I’m full of trepidation.

When I started this process, tomorrow was nine months away — nine months filled with obstacle after obstacle. I didn’t have much time to stop and think about the actual surgery and beyond. I was too busy trying to get here. Now that I’m here, I can’t really think about much else.

I am nervous, of course, despite some suggestion that I shouldn’t be. Because here’s the thing: While this is no big whoop to the surgeon and his nurses and his aides and the hospital people and the support group people and the nutritionist and the exercise physiologist and every other freakin' person I’ve met over the past nine months, it’s a big, ol’, honkin’ whoop to me.

So yes. I’m worried. And I’m OK with that.

I am full of gratitude.

The response to my news — your response — has been overwhelming. The support and love and “yay you!” that I feel from you people has reduced me to tears about 14 times over the past three days. (Of course, I also broke down in the vitamin/protein shake aisle at Target a few days ago, but I swear, the tears I cry for you have much more meaning.)

Since Urchin’s surgery a year-and-a-half ago, I’ve been crystal clear about how seriously amazing you are, Village. Even so, every time you show your strength, it takes my breath away.

So yeah, my cup runneth over.

I’m full of anticipation.

I can’t believe what’s about to happen. Already tomorrow morning, before I drink my first protein shake, I won’t have to inject myself with medicine that makes me slightly sick to my stomach for 12 hours a dose. This evening’s shot was the end of that wretched stuff.

I can’t wait to wake up in recovery and know that I’m on my way. I can’t wait to walk out of the hospital with a hole in my gut and a spring in my step. I can’t wait to watch my numbers drop and my moods even out. I also can’t wait to tuck my shirt into my jeans and my jeans into my boots.

Tomorrow gets me whole bunch of steps closer to all of that, and more.

Wouldn't you be full of anticipation, too?

And finally, my friends, I’m full of food.

I gave myself free rein this week, to eat and drink what I wanted without worrying about calories or carbs. The week has been filled with “last” meals. Last big plate of Mexican. Last Indian buffet. Last Big Mac (oh, shut up). Last Coca-Cola. Last tequila shots. Last Oreos. Last salted caramel brownie.

Of course, these aren’t really “lasts.” They’re more “last, for nows.” Post-surgery, I’ll be able to eat anything I’ve eaten beforehand — first in my dreams, then in teensy-weensy amounts, eventually in small amounts. But never again in the amounts I’ve eaten this week.

Tonight, I am so full of “last” that I’m looking forward to the simplicity of the next two weeks: A protein shake for breakfast, V-8 juice for snack, protein shake for lunch, yogurt for snack, protein shake for dinner, V-8 juice for snack.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

So tomorrow. Tomorrow is big, big, big, my friends.

For the past nine months, I’ve been making my way, slow and steady, to the station. Tomorrow I get on the train.

Something up my sleeve

As many of you know, my pregnancy brought about two significant life changes.

Urchin, who’s now 6, was the biggest, of course. But not by much. In addition to my sweet daughter, I left pregnancy with a life sentence: Type II diabetes.

Because I was diagnosed when I was 8 weeks pregnant and was forced to manage the disease while also growing a healthy a baby, I learned to be a very good diabetic right from the start. By the time I gave birth, my blood sugars were in better control than most non-diabetics. In fact, the last blood test they did during my pregnancy came back so good that the doctor repeated it, to be sure the results weren’t wrong.

For 6 years, I’ve managed the disease almost as well as I did while I was pregnant. That means three shots and 14 pills a day, living with a general feeling of nausea all day, every day, and deep and powerful mood swings that have nearly destroyed the most important relationships in my life. All of them, by the way, required if I don’t want to die an early and painful death.

As I said, it’s a life sentence.

Well, it was anyway, until last April. At a regular appointment with my endocrinologist, I learned about a sweeping new study that confirmed what several other studies have found by mistake: For diabetics like me (those who haven’t had the disease for very long and are in good control of their blood sugars), there is now a cure for the disease.

A seriously invasive, mind-bending, life-altering cure.

So.

You can’t imagine how hard it is for me to write the next few sentences — to describe to you, in plain English, what this cure entails. For some reason, which I suspect I will explore in nauseating detail as this blog progresses, it embarrasses me to tell you that I’m having a form of weight loss surgery that will reduce my life sentence to time served.

Laparoscopic vertical sleeve gastrectomy is a fancy way of saying that a fantastic Greek-born surgeon named Dimitrios Stefanidis will remove 75-80 percent of my stomach, thereby reducing the amount of food storage space and removing several glands that control hunger and other digestive mechanisms.

The biggest deal for diabetics like me is that the simple act of removing the storage part of the stomach and the glands stops the diabetes in its tracks in 97 percent of us.

97 percent.

It will, of course, also bring about significant weight loss. And, yes, I’m thrilled about that, too. Thrilled to pieces, in fact. That said, this is a huge undertaking and commitment that I’m not sure I’d be making if it weren’t for what my darling husband calls a “no-brainer.”

Cures. Diabetes.

This procedure is not reversible. I will never have a full-size stomach — and therefore a full-size meal — again. Period. Paragraph.

It’s a price worth paying. But a price nonetheless.

On Thursday morning, I start a two-week liquid diet, to prepare my body for surgery, which is scheduled for 8 a.m. Jan. 26. I am excited. And terrified. Surgery is a big deal. Waking up to a whole new life is quite another.

I’ve shared this website with only a couple of handfuls of people. If you’re here, it’s because you matter. If you choose to follow along, I’ll welcome your company. If not, no worries. I get it. And thank you still, because you matter.

One more thing: The decision to do this — and the preparation required — was a long and agonizing process for me and my family. Fortunately, I had a Spirit Guide along the way, who may or may not choose to reveal herself. Either way, I want you and her to know that without her bravery and willingness to share her experiences, I'd be up a creek. It’s no exaggeration to say that without her there, I wouldn’t have made it here. There’s no adequate way to say thanks.

So, I’ll be grateful for whatever white light you can spare over the next few weeks. In return, I’ll do my best to keep you posted on my journey to wellness.

All best to you, dear friends. Off we go.