Just waiting, wondering, and worrying. Sigh.
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I was reading something today and realized that at my height and weight and with my BMI over 50 (according to my doctor at last visit), I am in like the highest category of obesity, not just obese or even morbidly obese, but like hideously, horribly, super, chunkzilla, fatso obese, or something like that. It’s amazing I function at all! Thank God for this option (I hope, I hope, I hope!) of surgery. I’m doing my best to keep the lines of communication open with Tom about all aspects of this process and how it may (and already does) affect him. Although typically he tends to be the more open, extraverted, and needy of the two of us, he has been somewhat uncharacteristically quiet in the face of my decision (I think he secretly believes I won’t go through with it), and some attempts I make to engage him in discussion about it fall short of my idea of dialogue. This is a difficult time for me because I don’t want to obsess about myself or this process and especially any worrisome aspects that may be involved, yet I want to ensure that we are a team, he is all right, and our relationship remains strong. It’s a delicate process and I expect it’ll unfold and develop in its own way and time and, with due diligence, we’ll be OK – and he (who does occasionally refer to feeling “a wreck” about it) will also be OK. I hope. I had a wonderful talk with my long-distance brother, Roy, about my plans. A brilliant and knowledgeable man, he was informative and supportive. It’s good to know he is on my side and he’ll be there - especially given our childhood rivalries and the typical distance between us. But, I must recall that in past times of need (e.g., when I had encephalitis) he was very there for me and, hopefully, he’d say vice-versa. I am obsessed with watching “fat shows” on TV. “I Was a 700-Pound Woman!” “The 547-Pound Man” “Fat Grandma” “Too Big Too Bad” “Fatty Fatty Two-by-Four” - the “worse”, the better. Many have gastric bypass surgery - but what’s always lacking in such shows, and even in blogs, is the meat and potatoes (no pun intended). I want journey. I want detail. I want process. I don’t want to just see someone go from blubber to size 2 due to the miracle of surgery (or whatever); I want to know the heart and soul and steps and stages and angst and thought processes … like (I hope) I’m writing here! I hate limbo! I’m still waiting to hear that the Bariatric Center received the finished psychologist report from Dr. Bland (and that I’m not crazy enough to undergo surgery) so I can be scheduled to meet with Dr. C. I broke down and called them myself yesterday, but was told they hadn’t gotten it yet and that it should likely come “any day now.” I wonder if Dr. Bland realizes how important his timeliness is and how much people may pin their hopes on him to answer questions to get them off to a good start of a long process. I know that not only the waiting but the wondering and the anticipating are siphoning off a lot of my energy lately. In supervision yesterday my boss asked if we should begin to plan for my time off. I had already been pondering every aspect of what my absence from work would entail (including whether - and how - to tell my clients and even extended co-workers), and worrying about when things may come together enough so a date can actually be set. In the absence of any real information yet, however, I had nothing new to tell my boss or even to plan ahead for. Sometimes I even wonder if it will really happen - especially given our insurance limbo and uncertainties about the process. At times I find myself upset - no, angry - that any of this must be part of my life and future. What “normal” person has to typically consider, even “look forward to,” gross anatomical mutilation (as my friend Nancy says, changing what’s natural), pain, and scarring for the sake of survival (or so it seems). Although part of me has reconciled this as part of my overall journey, my less-well-developed, more immature side succumbs to internal dialogue about drawing the short straw and the unfairness of it all and feels a victim of genetics, culture, and the food Nazis. Then I vacillate to self-blame and loathing and a mysogynistic view of my obesity as a character flaw deserving of self-flagellation and the punishment of having my stomach “amputated.” A more “gray” view would be welcome here! |
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February 11th, 2009 | 
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