Rusty S.

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October 16, 2007...

That's when I had my Lap-Band surgery.

I was 405 pounds that day. Prior to my pre-surgical "get your lard-soaked liver out of the way so we can work" diet, I was around 425.

I can't say that I was worried about the surgery. I'm not the type to worry about such things. Actually, whether it be from depression or just my own brand of "normal", I pretty much don't worry about anything to do with me. Others? Of course, but rarely me...unless it's going to affect my ability to take care of those I love.

I was more worried about whether the surgery would help me in the ways that I had hoped.

I came out of the surgery fine. I was told that I had the honor of staying the full outpatient time limit due to a nicked artery in my abdominal wall that didn't produce TOO much concern, but was enough to keep an eye on for roughly a day.

Before the surgery, I was told by many people in my chosen hospital's support group (which mixed pre- and post-op patients) to walk as soon and as much as possible. Once I came out of the surgery and the woozy-ness of the anesthesia wore off, I wanted to do just that. Of course, I had to wait for the nurse to come give me my pain medicine (Liquid Rocicet...no thanks. Not a fan of pain meds), had to make sure it wasn't going to knock me on my ass, get some blood drawn, and...finally, I would be allowed to walk to my little fat-coated heart's content.

Well, the pain meds were fine, such as they were. They did the trick without making me more stupid than is natural. Then phlebotomist who was to take my blood shows up...

She was right around 21 or 22 years old, and cute as a button. Dark hair, dark eyes, you know the type. Unfortunately, however, her skill at her chosen profession left a lot to be desired.

I explained to her (as many of you reading here are able to attest to) that my veins were hidden and hard to distinguish in my arm, and offered to let her get the blood draw from the back of my hand (which is the way it had been done at that point for most of my life).

"Nah, I can get it out of your arm," says she.

Let me pause for a moment to say this: I have 14 tattoos and have had, at one point, 42 body piercings. I am not, in any way, squeamish about needles.

On with the story...

So, Li'l Miss Cutebutdumb proceeds to stick my left arm...6 times. Failing there, she moved to my right arm (the one with the IV in it), failing 3 more times. I then offered her my left hand again. She finally acquiesced and proceeded to try one of the big fat juicy veins there. Fail. She stuck me once and missed anything of import. Her second try in my hand netted another goose egg. Third stick and she got...

...a tendon.

I looked at my then-wife and said "do you believe this bitch?". Now, I have a tendency to be blunt to the point of rudeness, but I am NOT disrespectful to people in such a manner, except in extreme cases. I finally told the "phlebotomist" to go get someone who know what she was doing before things got out of hand (okay, so I wasn't that nice about it, but you get the gist).

She shuffled quickly out the door and came back a few moments later with the stereotypical older, (presumably) wiser and more skilled nurse from the floor. I believe she may have actually been a supervisor. Regardless, Nurse Jackie (yes, now that I have seen the show, this woman reminds me of Nurse Jackie) busted out the draw kit, prodded my arm (the one which no one had been able to find a viable vein in nearly 15 years) for about 3 seconds, stuck the needle in, and voila! The vials were filled within seconds. Thanking her, I got my Band-Aid applied, hauled my ass out of the bed, and started walking.

I continued to walk around the nursing pod, and then the entire wing, for the next 4 hours. Then "dinner" came. Broth. Popsicle. Medifast. Mmmmm...Tasted like napalm. I choked it down as much as I could, then I started walking again...till bedtime.

At about 10 pm, I decided to go lie down. I shuffled over to my bed, backed up gingerly to it, and then sat down slowly. Cool. No problem. Then, the process of getting from sitting on the side of the bed to the horizontal position became the task...

"AHHHHH FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Air pocket hit just above my left lung. Felt like I imagine a gunshot victim feels, and then passed just as quickly as it hit. By the time the nurses came rushing in, I was lying comfortably in the bed (well, as comfortably as one can lie in a hospital bed, anyway).

"Are you okay???"

"Yeah, why?"

They shook their heads and walked out the door. I giggled to myself and proceeded to doze off.

At about 11:30 pm, I got a roommate. It seems he had a bout with appendicitis, and had to have it removed. This was not a match made in Heaven by any means.

First off, his orderly crashed into my bed as he was being brought in. Being awakened by a bed on wheels crashing into your bed after having surgery after pain meds wear off is not a pleasant feeling. I got a meek "oh, sorry" from the orderly after he heard my gasp-and-"fuck" which followed the crash.

Once that incident was finished and the roommate was settled into his spot on the other side of the room, one would think it would be back to lala land for me...no.

You see, this guy is apparently a big fan of the Golden Girls...and there happened to be an all-night Golden Girls marathon of some sort on whatever manhater channel was in possession of the rights at the time, and this joker also appeared to have a hearing problem, judging by the volume. Had I been in less pain, "Thank You for Being a Friend" may very well have been accompanied by the gasps of my "roommate" as I choked the life out of him with pure mirth and glee.

I got a measure of revenge, though. When my doctor came in bright and early (with Gomer the Estelle Getty lover sleeping soundly), I was sure to ask my questions in an unnaturally loud manner. He actually had the audacity to ask me to "keep it down". I got louder. :-).

I got to leave at about 9 am the day after surgery, and went home to convalesce for a few days.

As part of my post-operative regimen, I attended 4 biweekly group sessions. I was in lockstep with what I was supposed to be doing, and as a result, I lost over 80 pounds in that first 8 weeks. It was a competition for me. I wanted to see how fast I could make that scale reading drop. In the first 8 months after surgery, I lost 185 pounds (205 lbs from when I started the pre-surgery meal plan). I ate EXACTLY what I was supposed to eat, even extending the "full liquid" part of my post-surgery eating plan for a few more weeks, and the same with the "soft foods".

I was doing great. Then, we got hit with the remnants of Hurricane Ike in 2008. Day after day of near-hurricane-force winds did a lot of damage to my area, although it was minimal on my property. Tree limbs down, a few shingles blown off the roof...that sort of thing.

I went outside to clean up after the worst had passed, and stepped into a mole hole, breaking my ankle. Well, there went my daily walks for the time being.

A month later, I lost my dream job.

On top of all this, there had been ongoing marital problems.

Depression set in, and I went back to old habits, and it took me a very short time to gain over half of my weight back.

I got back up to 360 pounds...and stayed there until February of 2011.

I decided I had had enough. I finally got back on the horse and started watching my caloric intake, never going higher than 1500 calories per day, but usually hovering around 1200. I got my band completely drained to make sure there wasn't any "mushrooming", and continued my eating plan with a near-religious fervor, and the pounds melted away once again. From February 7, 2011 to June 14th, 2011, I had lost about 120 pounds.

Then, along came a trip to Minnesota for a conference for my profession. Eating out for a week sent me spiraling toward old habits again. I hadn't prepared for the trip properly, and when it was over, my eating plan was still in place...but on shaky ground. I had gained almost 10 pounds in a week on the trip, and I wanted to get things back under control.

I went back to my surgeon for my first fill since having my band drained in February. I had 4.5 CCs put in, and went on my way.

While I definitely felt the restriction, my resolve was already broken for that time. I started rationalizing my deviations from my eating plan with "If I do this, then I can have this" mental trades. I let other people talk me into socially eating. I also was on my way to separating from my ex-wife at the time, and eventually started a new relationship. I didn't want to seem rude when visiting with my new (absolutely amazing and gorgeous!!!) girlfriend's parents, so when I was offered food, I ate it without thinking of the consequences. Eventually, I gained a good portion of my weight back...again.

There have been some false starts since my resolve broke down the last time. I dropped about 30 pounds prior to Thanksgiving of 2012, but gained most of that back over the holidays.

As of 30 seconds ago, I weigh exactly 321 1/2 pounds. While it's an improvement over the 425 pounds I started this journey at, I have a lot of work to do, not just on my body, but on my mindset. I have to teach myself that food is not a tool for overcoming depression, it's not a tool for gaining social acceptance. Food is nourishment. Much like the drug addict who must learn to take the medications he or she has to take to stay healthy and active without going overboard and spiraling back into the dregs of his or her habit, I have to learn to treat food as a necessity for nourishment...and quit using it to abuse my body.

I have set a date to start back on my eating plan in earnest. July 1, 2013. On that date, I will be back here, posting my starting weight, and outlining the plan I am going to be following. I already know it by heart. I am using the same concept that I used to quit smoking by setting a "quit date". I'll eat what I want until that date. After that...it's on.

Wish me luck.