Smoke and Mirrors

As of today the scale reads I am down 29lbs. since my LapBand consultation, and 23lbs since surgery. Those numbers, while not to be taken lightly, are a drop in the bucket to the 71lbs I have remaining until I get to my goal weight.

While I have enjoyed the numbers on the scale going in the downward spiral, my eyes have had a tougher time adjusting to the change. I can see the numbers on the scale, but can't really tell anywhere else. Yes, I realize I can no longer fit into my maternity clothes (insert dance here), and I know I have to keep pulling my pants up when I walk. I am happy to report that I can button up my denim jacket from top to bottom, something I have not done since I have owned it.

A week ago, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and thought, "maybe my clothes are getting a little too big for me." I asked Tim his opinion to which he replied "you look like you are five years old playing in your mother's clothes."

So last week, I did the unthinkable. While taking the kids to see the Easter Bunny and get the cheesey pictures taken, I found the Lane Bryant store.

I went to the rack and pulled two outfits. One in the size I wore prior to surgery (yes, I am going to divulge the size. I am doing this not to put my business out on Front Street as the saying goes, but to reiterate to myself that I am not defined by my clothing size. It does not make me a bad person, a lazy person, or an uneducated person who can't read a food label. It makes me determined never to see the size again.)

I picked up a shirt and a pair of paints size 18/20 as well as a size 16 pants and a 14/16 shirt.

Before I went to the dressing room I asked Tim to be brutally honest because, despite my having two eyes that work relatively well (as long as I have on my glasses) I really could not tell what was too big or not on me. He promised to be honest and off to the dressing I room I went with clothes of varying sizes and Nala jumping up and down behind me.

I tried on the size I had come to know so well.

When I showed Tim he said I looked ridiculous. They were too big.

I tried on the smaller size thinking the entire time there was no way I was going to fit into these clothes without a fight.. The pants fit. I could button the pants and not suck in my tummy to do it. The shirt was not too large, but it wasn't too small. I could lift up my arms and it it didn't raise up to show my tummy.

And even as I knew the sizes I could now wear were smaller than the previous one, I still couldn't really see the difference. I never understood people who said that after they lost weight, they still felt fat. What a crock! I would exclaim judgementally. How do you go from a size 18 to a size 4 and not see the difference?

Now I know.

The sad part is, I have lived in this body for so long, I don't remember what I looked like, or even really felt like when I was thinner. I see pictures of myself when I was in high school and I am amazed. I thought I was so fat back then, and now I would give someone's left arm to look like that.

I realize I can not visualize myself 70lbs. lighter than I am today. To try and do so is daunting to me, overwhelming even, and makes me want to eat. Why? Because those 29lbs. that have since gone by the way side were not comfortable for me, but familiar.

I knew what to expect from my body. I knew what I was going to look like in my jeans and oversized shirt. I knew that I could comfortably be invisible to those around me when I wanted to be.

Now, with my cheek bones beginning to show, the dimple in my chin making a reappearance, and the scale only two pounds away from "Onederland" my constants are becoming not so constant anymore.

As much as I want this new body, both inside and out, I must admit that its scary to me.

I am afraid that somehow, I will not be Mikki anymore. Somehow, people will really see me and actually listen to what I have to say and my weight is no longer something by which I will be judged. The judgement will then be of me. No buffers.

I have encountered this fear before, in varying degrees. Usually, its the fear of failure that keeps me from moving forward. So what makes this time different?

I would like to say I have some brilliant answer to this question, something that will assure me success in my journey. I don't. I can point out how very different my life is now. Since traveling down this road a time or two, I have added a few more titles to my name;wife to Tim, mom to Nala and Max. I have dropped the title of the traditional working woman. During this journey something amazing happened in that the more I gave of Mikki, instead of their being less of me I inexplicably found more.

I have discovered more of who I am and how I choose to define me.

I am reminded of the quote that states "many a false step has been made by standing still." I no longer want to stand still. I feel that I can not make a false step as long as i am moving SOMEWHERE in this journey.

Therefore, I will not be afraid of stepping on the scale and seeing the numbers go down. I will rejoice in every pound lost, every time I can pull on my pants without unbuttoning them. I will do the happy dance when I can twirl around to the music while holding both of my kids little longer each day. I will smile on the outside when I can make it up two flights of steps to see Elmo Live carrying Max and not get winded, and challenge my husband in basketball because I really do think I can beat him.

This journey is one day at a time.

Today, I will not seek the buffer. Today I will believe what I see in the mirror. I will believe the scale is not broken.

Today, I will be fearless. And tomorrow I will be, too.

Until the next time,
Your Recovering Fat Girl

Mikki

Our Amish Weekend and other horrors

Monday morning was a good morning. The sun was shining, Noodle was being a great almost four year old, getting dressed with NO complications and jumping around the house in a good way. Maxwell was talking in the back seat of the car, Steve Harvey played "Just to Be Close to You" as his brown liquor song of the day, and Nala didn't even ask me to turn the radio station as I sang along doing my best Lionel Richie imitation, twang and all.

Yes, it was a good day. A far cry from the weekend.

You see, that past Friday the unthinkable happened. The AC Adapter to our computer died, therefore rendering our computer a useless, non-energized mess. It happened suddenly while I was lurking on the LBT board (Lapbandtalk.com). The screen went darker. I checked to see if it was plugged in and it was. I knew we were in trouble.

I called Tim.

I informed him the cord was in peril. I heard the nervousness in his voice. He stated he would go to the same place he went to the last time this happened. I agreed, hung up the telephone and put the computer away.

Tim came home later than usual as he had gone forging for the precious cord. He comes in to his theme music, Nala cheering "yeah, daddy's home" , Max shrieking showing all of his seven teeth in various stages of growth from his little pink gums and my romantic cry of "did you get it?"

Tim greets Nala with a hug and calls in to me "Nope, I didn't get."

All activity stops in the house. I believe the Backyardigans stopped singing. Max stopped showing his teeth. Nala stopped jumping up and down.

"What do you mean you didn't get it? They didn't have it?"

"I didn't get it on principal."

Funny thing about standing on principal. Not that I haven't done it on occasion but I am reminded of what I once told my mom about standing on principal. Standing
on principal is like standing on Jello. Sure you COULD do it, but its easy to fall off, its messy and whats the point?

I remain calm. "And what principal are we standing on?"

"It was $75.00. I ordered it on line for $39.00. With shipping" he adds as if reading my mind.

Given our finances I realized this was Jello worth squishing.

"Are they smokin'? Well, the other one will be here soon. If you can help me find the black electrical tape, perhaps I can fix it."

We both laugh because we know nothing is ever found in this house. The truth is, I would make a much better housewife if I didn't have kids to take care of, but that's another story all together.

Tim is taking this surprisingly well. He goes as far to say "well, maybe a weekend without the computer is not the worse thing in the world" or something to that effect. I start to check his neck for the tell tale white dot on the back of his neck to see if my husband has been abducted and then replaced by aliens, but I refrain.

So began our journey for a no computer weekend.

It started out well enough. It was Friday night and we decided to grab a bite to eat and Nala asked could we get a movie. We found Scooby Doo and Barney and then realized that downstairs was uninhabitable, thanks to my cat not being able to find the litter box lately. I have to scrub, we can not go down there.

I have a brilliant idea. We don't have to go downstairs, the DVD player is portable! We can just hook it up in our room, climb in the bed and watch a movie. No go. I forgot Tim's television doesn't have room for any cables of any kind.

Visions of my throwing the television down and breaking it in the hopes of getting a new one start to race through my mind. It's already on its way out, and the fact that we can't hook a DVD player to it is making the trip to the door shorter.

Next option. What about Nala's portable DVD player.

"Mommy, it doesn't work, remember. Its on its last leg."
How does my three year old know something is on its last leg I don't know. But she still wants to see Scooby. Tim can't find the Play Station that he unhooked when we were moving furniture.

I put my mommy senses to work and find it. Now we are on our way.

The Play Station has other plans. It won't work. Tim unplugs it and tries again. It comes on but does not recognize Scooby, or any other DVD.

A long sigh and grunt comes from Nala. "I'm frustrated! I want to see Scooby Doo!"

I am proud that she used her words instead of crying and that she told us how she felt. I let her know. She didn't care. She just wanted the brown dog.

"I have an idea" Nala chimes up "We can watch on the computer!!"

I look at Tim, and he at me and I laugh.

"What are we, freakin' Amish! We can't even see a movie!!"

I think he may have started rambling on about not being able to update his fantasy team but I was not listening. I was too busy rolling around on the bed holding my ever shrinking stomach laughing. The tears began to roll mercilessly down my cheeks.

No one else saw the humor in this except Max who took the opportunity to give me open mouth, slobbery kisses and then bite my chin.

Lucky for us Scooby was on the regular channel at 9:00. Noodle watched Scooby and then headed off to bed.

Somehow, for better or for worse, we survived without the computer.

The weekend was good.

Tim and I actually talked. We all played. We slept. We communed. It was beautiful.

I kind of liked being Amish, but I was quickly ready to give it up when our friendly mail man rang the doorbell Monday afternoon with package in hand. I phoned Tim to tell him we had "gotten the goods" I heard the relief in his voice. We are now back on line.
Goodbye, our Amish existences. See you again at the next power outage.

The Message

In the past week I have had three consecutive conversations with my Grandma Ruth. So why is this even remotely significant? Grandmother's talk to their grandchildren all the time. I agree, but you see, Grandma passed away in June of 2005. She has come to me in dreams, but they aren't dreams. They are real conversations.

The first two times she appeared are a bit fuzzy, but the last time we talked it began as the last hospital scene that played out in real life. My sister, my niece and I stood around her bed and struggled to hear her speak. We told her not to talk, but she ignored us because she had something to say.

She told us to be good. To take care of each other and stick together. She told us she was ready to go.

As that scene played out in my dream, she appeared to me the picture of health wearing the blue dress she made to go to my uncle Rusty's wedding. It was a beautiful dress and she was sharp in it. She told me she was well, and that she thought Nala was beautiful, and how very handsome Maxwell was. She asked when were we having another baby and I told her we weren't sure. She laughed and said, "oh you will. You will have a boy."

And then she went on to say again that we had to stick together. I saw images of my dad and uncle, but then that was it. She said goodbye and I woke up.

I told my mom that she visited me. She wasn't surprised, she didn't ask me had I taken some unauthorized medication that morning. I told her all I could remember from our encounters and what did she make of it.

Her explanation was simple. She came to me because my dad and uncle are feuding and have not spoken to each other in over a year. My father told my mother just days before my visits that he had no intentions on going to the family reunion. My mother, frustrated by my dad's stubborness said "I give up. I'm not trying anymore."

I am the most sensitive one, according to my mother, therefore, Grandma came to me.

Once again, why me? Because my dad and his brother can't get along, I have to be haunted?

I think that must have been the point of Grandma's visits because she didn't return last night. But I am left with the message she gave as she lay on her death bed.

I am reminded of how stubborn both my dad and uncle can be. I am reminded of how death can bring about ugliness, how very easy it is to point fingers when feelings are hurt and words are spoken that should not have been.

What I have learned, however, after finding out about Bobby's death is we truly are not promised a tomorrow to make the phone call, to mend that fence, to pour ones heart out.

I don't know if I ever had serious intentions on contacting Bobby, but I must admit I always thought if I ever got around to it, it would always be an option. And now it is not. Like it or not, I regret not having that option.

I would hate for something to happen to either my dad or my uncle and have them live with the heavy burden of regret on their shoulders. It's easy to say you don't care what happens when the other person is breathing. It becomes an altogether different story when one ceases to exist.

It was good to see Grandma again, and I am going to do what she wants me to do. I am going to make sure my dad and uncle know what she wants them to do.

Be good. Take care of each other. Stick together.

Those seem like really simple things to do to me.

Until the next time,
your recovering fat girl

Mikki

The Little Victories...

*warning*
If there happen to be any men reading this, allow me to alert you. I am going to reference my cycle. I know how you all are. Ok, not all of you, I do not want to be unfair and generalize. But I am going to talk about this for a second. You can choose to read on and learn some stuff or say "forget this" and run away now. I won't blame you either way. Thank you.


Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

My menstrual cycle has always been a source of agony, worry, and embarrassment for me. I have never been regular, save my various stints on "the pill"--which by the way is very evil to me.

From the beginning, it stayed on way too long, didn't come on at all ( I never missed it by the way) and caused too much pain for what I considered to be worth it.
One of the most frustrating parts of my reproductive journey was the inconsistency. Very few times in my life did I have the luxury of counting days to when it would come on, and when it did I assure you it was always unannounced, uninvited and most inopportune.

After years of doctors telling me I was just young and eventually my body would regulate itself, and my constantly telling them something really was wrong with me--they figured if it wasn't cancer, then why was I worried I did as much research as I could and found I had "Stein Leventhal disease" or "Polycystic Ovarian Disease."

At the age of 19 I went to my doctor armed with a blurb from a medical book found in Hood's library and said "this is what I have." They looked at me funny and said ok, wrote out another script for birth control pills and sent me on my way.

I waited an additional six years to be diagnosed by an Endocrinologist/Fertility Specialist who realized that PCOS is not only real, but effects a lot more than just your menstrual cycle. It took years for me to find a GYN who specialized in this field and who LISTENED to me. (Thank you Dr. Dellabadia)

There is no cure for PCOS.

In fact, the only way it is controlled is through diet and exercise. Gaining weight makes it worse. Here is the cruel part. It causes you not only to gain weight, but makes it harder to lose it. It is not only a disease that causes irregular periods, but insulin resistance, helps aid in diabetes, heart disease and stroke, and infertility. Not to mention, due to the overdose in male hormones it can cause male patterned baldness and unwanted hair in places where women don't want it !

Therefore, my having PCOS played a major role in my having this surgery. I am deathly afraid of being diabetic. I am afraid of having heart disease. I went through two procedures and two medications to get pregnant with Maxwell. I know my share of heartache from the disease, but I am not complaining.

Despite my struggles with PCOS I really am healthy. And it could be a lot worse!

And now for my little victory. I lost six pounds prior to surgery and my period came on January 1, by itself. It amazingly left as quietly as it popped up. I thought it a fluke, so didn't get too excited. Since having surgery I have had TWO regular cycles 30 days apart.

I am almost normal. I might actually be able to count and know when its supposed to be here. I can MAYBE plan my life around the monthly event.

I am so happy I could scream. And I did when it happened the second time. I actually did a dance. I hope to be doing it again soon.

My scale needs a new battery, so I am not sure the last reading was accurate before it started reading Lo, but if it was I am down 22lbs. I will reveal my weight to the whole blogging world when I lose three more. I figure by then the number will not be so embarrassing. At least not to me.

I have a house waiting to be picked up and sleeping babies, so I had better hop to it.

Until the Next Time
Your Recovering Fat Girl
Mikki