This Blog is dedicated to all of the brave souls who bit the bullet, took the plunge, swallowed there pride and fear and made the decision that they wanted to try something admittedly dangerous so they could start living. Living? You say. How can having your stomach cut, sectioned and rerouted to make it smaller be called living? Reinforcement.
But first, let me tell you about myself.
Hi. My name is Patty.
"Hi Patty!"
Hi.
When I was 11 years, hitting puberty and blosoming, something strange and scary happened. I GOT BOOBIES! Big ones! HUGE for an 11 year old. This started getting me a lot of attention... A LOT of attention from grown, perverts who didn't know how to keep there hands to themselves. I started to eat, binge is the correct term actually. I packed on the pounds at a record pace but didn't care because it kept the men folk far away. FAR FAR AWAY. Every year, I grew larger and larger, fatter and fatter. Back then there were plus stores, but very expensive, so I was forced to make do with boys clothes and what my mom would make me. It wasn't until Lane Bryants came along, actually, that I had anything nice to wear. But I digress. Anyway, entering high school, I got the nickname Big Jessie bestowed upon me by the skinniest, scrawniest boy in the class, to the other kids delight and glee. I was picked on, tortured, teased, harassed and made to feel like I was the lowest life form from the 9th to the 12th grade. Well. Actually. I can remember being tortured in Jr. High as well. I even remember her name. Last I saw her, she was working in a sandwich shop, not looking very happy......hahhahahha. Oh well. There I go again. Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Ok. Tortured in school. A few friends that my brother liked to called the Omega Moo's because we were all huge. Molested, Down on myself. Went to college. Lane Bryant opened the doors for me to buy jeans and jackets and I started looking snazzy, because by then I was working little part time jobs and buying my own clothes. Hell I even worked at a couple of Lane Bryant stores in New Orleans, Metaire and Cherry Hill, NJ. Hmm. I should mention that at the age of 7, my father took my brother and left my mother, sister and myself to our own devises. My mother shacked up with some "can't keep there hands to themselves" types before landing my stepfather, who moved us down to New Orleans, LA from Philadelphia, Pa where I was raised an outcast because I talked like a "white gerl". blah blah blah. I did it again, didn't I? You'll have to bear with me, I have a lot to say.
ok.
so.
College. Graduated. Got Bigger and Bigger. Started working, met this guy. Lost my virginity to him. He didn't want anybody to know he boinked a fat black girl so he lied and told everybody he knew that I forced him to have sex. (die bastard die) Shamed, moved back to Philadelphia, where I met my husband. (wouldn't actually call it met. I've know him since I was a kid. He's my brothers best friend and would hang out with him and his 900 sisters every summer when I came up to see my sperm donor, granny and my brother. So. We fell in love. He loved me as I was, I loved him for loving and accepting me. 10 months later, we got married. September 1998. 7 years now. Then, something happened. Hubby liked to bring me home cakes, because I LOVED cakes. Every year, I got fatter and fatter, I ate more and more. I kept going to the doctor for my pains and ills. I hopped from job to job, became sadder and sadder. More and more misery until I ballooned from 250 lbs when we first got married to 330lbs. I couldn't walk for more than 5 minutes without my back and hips hurting. Going up the stairs to our second story apartment was torture. The Cavalier he bought me, I got rid of so he could buy me a van....A BIG van for my FAT ASS. We started having problems because he wanted to go out and I just wanted to stay home and play games on my computer and stuff my face. I wouldn't even get up to get myself my snacks and heavily sugared drinks. I'd call him to get it for me. I was sad and pitiful.
One cold February day, 2001, I got this terrible pain in my belly. I was throwing up and had a high fever. Hubby took me to the hospital. It was my appendix. It burst. I was operated on. In the recovery room, they tried to move me from one bed to another, but because I was so heavy, they dropped me. Jarring my swollen, infection festered body. I cried. All that night. All that week. I wanted nothing more than to get home. I faked being well, acting happy. Hell, I even believed it myself. So they discharged me. But I wasn't well. My wound ulcerated. BAD. I went to another surgeon closer to my house, he was amazed that I living with such a large whole in my stomach. 6 MONTHS. It took six months to heal that wound. My stomach looked like someone stabbed at me then hacked a big piece out. During that time, I sat at home in my recliner, healing, eating, watching t.v. Bariatric Treatment Center. A commercial with a black woman. A before and after shot. A big smile on her face.
Wow.
As soon as I could walk, I made an appointment for my free consultation.
OMG! They hack what? Reroute what? Stomach as small as a golf ball??? NOOOOOOO.
At that point, that was the end of that.
"Forget that, I'll just go on a diet."
And I did. Again. I could make a list as long as my sagging boobs how many diets I've been on. Each one either failing me or me just failing. The best one I did was LA Weightloss, I lost 59 lbs. I joined a gym, I went with my sister and we had fun. It was great. Until the day I got laid off. Depression sunk and and I went back to eating, stuffing myself and abusing myself with food. I was out of work for 6 months. When I finally did get another job, I hated it. I had to walk "gasp". I worked in the city and nothing was close by, including parking for my FAT ASS HAULING VAN. I lasted there for about a year. Then quit. 6 more months of depression, self loathing and abusing with food, I found solace in a forum of friends, wiseasses and fellow sim players. Then had to get off my BIG butt and get a job at the urgings of my husband. So I did. 2004. Another job I hated, doing the same thing I've been doing for the last 10 years. Customer Service. *GAG*
But this company was a little different. They would ask you to go out and make deliveries for them if they were short on drivers. So one day, they send me out. OMG. I had to walk, pick up heavy bags, put them in my car, drive to each location, pick up bags, drop off bags, then take the ones I picked up back to there main office. I was sweating like slave. My back was killing me. My hips burned. I thought I was going to DIE. They had to send someone to help me take the bags from my FAT ASS HAULING VAN into the building. Shamed. I went home that night. Ate a pile of chicken wings, 1/2 a 2 liter bottle of ice tea and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, I called the Bariatric Treatment Center.
The bought me back in for another consultation. They sent me to see a psychologist to make sure I was mentally fit to withstand the surgery. July 2004, I went under the knife. I was terrified. My husband was with me, supporting me and my decision. My mother and sister were not. They told me I was going to die. Or worse, would lose all the weight and become a big slut. (there's a story there, I won't get into that now.) I awoke to my husband standing over me smiling.
"Hey You."
He went into detail as to what happened. A 1 1/2 hour procedure turned into 6 because of adhesions from my appendicitis. I lost a lot of blood and was weak and very tired. My nurse and her aide were a complete ANGEL. I stayed there for 4 days. Urged to walk, get up, moved. Sip liquids. Underwent tests to make sure there were no leaks. A molasses enema to get the bowels moving. I was instructed to cough, and hold my pillow. Made to get out of bed and do laps around the nurses station. Then sent home with my guide book on how to start my new life with my new tiny tummy. Only my family knew. No one at work, I told them I had my gallbladder out, which I did. Just edited the whole Bypass part. (By the way, if any of my current employers happen to come by this: Get over it. I had to do what I had to do to live and not die.)
My mom took care of me. Giving me broth and sugar free jello. I had 4 weeks to go from laying about to walking about. Which I did. I returned to work, didn't feel well. But I did anyways. I started loosing weight. I followed instructions to the core. I never cheated. I was never tempted for fear of ending up on the news as one of THEM that died from the procedure. Used as an example. I started walking. 1/2 mile. 1 mile. 2 miles. Every 3 weeks getting better and better, fitter and fitter. At my 6 week follow up, I weighed in at 270. I'd already lost 60 lbs. I was congratulated then sent on my way.
I've had my bumps in the road dealing with dehydration from not getting enough fluids and dizzy spells.
It's been 6 months today, and I've lost 100 lbs.
*insert applause sign here*
How do I feel?
WHAT DO YOU THINK? I FEEL GREAT!!!!
I walk 5 miles every other day. I have more energy than ever and don't get me started on the sex life!! I went from a size 30/32 to an 18/20. And I'm still going.
"So Patty. Why Blog?"
Why???
TO SHARE! That's why! To encourage. To hop on my newly purchased titanium alloy soap and shout to the world, THERE IS SOMETHING BETTER AND YOU CAN HAVE IT! (god. I sound like a motivational speaker)
In the words of Forrest Gump.
"That's all I've got to say about that."
Welcome and Enjoy.
Patricia D.
Why Bariatric??
About Me
Philadelphia, PA
Location
21.8
BMI
Surgery
07/28/2004
Surgery Date
Oct 28, 2003
Member Since
