Measure Twice, Be Patient

I visited the lymphedema therapist recently and have another appointment this afternoon. The therapist had to call in a professional from Medi to take accurate measurements of my legs to ensure a proper custom fit. T. knows how to accurately measure for their product. I don't think I've ever had compression hose I could wear after my therapist measured. Sad but true. The first pair she measured me for were made (to measure) for a troll with an enormous butt, and I'm much taller than a troll. I don't know if not being accurate at measuring is universal with therapists or accurately measuring limbs afflicted with lymphedema is simply difficult. I imagine a bit of both though depending on the victim patient, it could be very difficult to measure accurately. Having both legs measured is exhausting for both patient and measurer. They place numerous markers and have to measure circumference and length at the various markers, and then remeasure and make notes and you have to stand up and sit dow and turn your legs in funny positions. Invariably the measuring is done incorrectly the first time. Then once consensus is reached on the overall guestimate of measurement, they fill out several forms and send the measurements and forms off to those angry German seamstresses (sewers) I've written about previously. The seamstresses don't do their jobs very well or maybe they perform their jobs very well - it's difficult to figure out what's in their job description by the end product you receive. You might get a pair of compression hose made for a troll with an enormous butt or a variation on that theme because the sewers didn't follow the measurements or the measurements were taken incorrectly. Patients might spend their waking hours hiking up compression hose so they the hose aren't dragging on the ground or pulling the compression hose out of our pinched, camel-toed crotches, turning one camel toe into a herd of camels. Occasionally the inguinal circulation is cut-off completely while standing. We crash to the floor as if we don't have a leg to stand on.

There are humiliating aspects to measuring. You're pant-less, underweared, standing most of the time with chubby legs. Sharpies are used to make designated markers so you get lines drawn on your legs thus making your nightly workout with the June Taylor Dancers suck. One technique that my therapist employs is the use of plastic foot-long ruler which I must hold sticking out of the crotch area like a mini-diving board and I know the ruler serves a purpose of a marker but still a red plastic ruler doesn't exactly offer much reassurance that the final custom fit will be a good one. The diving board idea brings to mind Greg Louganis. I wonder how his health has been?

Just this year my insurance put a cap of $2,000 on durable medical garments which means that I can get one and a half pair of compression hose when four pair are needed per year but then I should remember there are people who have no legs. I can no longer get nighttime garments Reid sleeves or farrow wraps even if those companies continue to come out with better technology. Some of these companies are doing marvelous things with cherry pits to help get rid of fibrosis. My toes are very fibrotic though in the past, the toes were even more fibrotic-er. Toe caps have helped tremendously though I'm not sure that I can afford toe caps without insurance. Progression is slow in ridding my lower body of fibrosis though the fibrosis was just as slow in coming. I have to remember to be patient and be a patient.

Runway Weekend

I just got back into the office after chasing Bella for about a half mile through the forest, down an oak-leaf and redwood duff-covered path slick with rain from a weekend storm. 


That was some storm! I was scared out of my wits and had to pretend I was okay with the thunder and lightning so that Bella would think the sky lighting up like monster's were attacking and the huge rolling, rumbling sound was monster upset stomach noise was just an illusion. I was so frightened that my toes and legs were frozen stiff under the covers. (and it's difficult to get chubby legs frozen stiff!)


Before I crawled under the covers (blankets offer a false sense of security), I packed firewood into the wood-stove and made sure I had extra wood inside the house in case I lived through the storm. I checked on the dogs downstairs and nearly died under a falling tree branch. Thank goodness those dogs couldn't hear me scream the uproar outside once it started. 


I had Bella fooled of my self-assuredness & total undeterred confidence during the storm by giving her a deluxe spa treatment shoulder massage while she lay in my lap half asleep whilst I was shivering under the bed covers in the pitch darkness. I lost electricity around 6:30 pm the first night until the next day around 1 pm. I sat for hours in the light of a 4-D batterie lantern reading a book about nature, wilderness, peace and grief. I know how to live it up. 


The next morning because I was still without electricity, I drove to Scotts Valley for a cup of Peets, meeting my sister for a quick convo. Then I took Bella over to the dog park. The sun was shining intermittently between showers. There weren't a lot of dogs at the park. The humping pug was there though he only humps male dogs which is fine with me. Hump away, weirdo! A french bulldog with really tall legs which I think is not really a french bulldog but a weimaraner that was hit in the face with a shovel, some sort of mixed breed Australian shepherd that looked like he wanted to play, covered in (his own) dog slobber, a few chihuahuas wearing vests (how humiliating) (why not just put your dog in a thong and fish nets so humping pug will avoid you like the plague?) and a huge poodle puddle. Bella spent most of her time running like a nutcase through the mud-puddle which was about corgi-neck high in the deepest part. Bella really stunk afterward though I still love her.

Later on Sunday I was cleaning up around the outside of the house from the storm. Bella came outside on the deck where I was cleaning and grabbed something yellow and wet and slimy and proudly carried it back into the house and left it on the carpet. She had planned, I think, to eat the banana slug though I rescued it. By rescuing, I mean, I flung the shell of a carcass outside using a paper towel.


As I wrote in a previous post, I've been learning about Bella and have learned she is a very anxious dog, and a turdflopper. I'm going to send her to military boarding school dog training school. I've been in contact with the trainer and I'm going to raid my savings account and become homeless to get Bella trained by someone (anyone?). Something has to give and my sanity has given enough (sanity gave years ago). Tentatively dog training/boarding school starts December 13th so I'll have my holidays free. *hint*  Also I need a few sweaters in size large (or a big medium) because I'm too cheap to spend money on clothes. I'm cold. Preferably cashmere, not plaid and not cardigan. If I can't get any new sweaters by begging for them through my blog, I'm going to shop at Goodwill and maybe I'll do some fashion modeling for you since you know we're riding the crest of a fashion run-wave (as exhibited by pic of Hannah) around here. I'm thinking I might find some interesting sweaters at the Goodwill, hoping they aren't sweaters I already gave to the Goodwill as a donation. But then maybe they'll be sweaters I forgot I wore.

If Memory Serves

I recently bought a book which is a follow-up to a book I finished reading last week. The new book is entitled Fierce and it's a memoir. Turns out I already read this book in March of this year. The reason I know that I already read the book is because thankfully I try to list all the books I read on Goodreads.com which I am discovering is a handy tool for the aging populace - I mean if the aging populace can still type with their arthritic hands or use voice recognition software after they find someone to install it for them first.

From now on I'm going to check any books I am considering buying against my list at Goodreads prior to purchase. Though I realize because I buy a lot of books from Amazon, I should check past purchases there also. How come Amazon doesn't warn me ahead of time when I do something stupid? I wonder if when I purchase a duplicate book if they flag it and start poking each other in the ribs and laughing at me? Seriously, that's pretty much what I would do for customer service but I know that Amazon doesn't have time. They'd be on the floor with laughter. I'm sure they employ the use of robot arms pulling books. But a robot should be able to keep even better track of my duplicate purchases. "Hey, doofus, you purchased this book in March 2010, are you sure you want to purchase again?" -- Some little flag for the aging populace would surely come in handy. I'm going to suggest it to them. (So they know I'm old and feeble and they'll put a red check-mark by my name.)

I hope I can remember to keep adding the books I'm reading. I really hope I can continue to use my eyes to see, and my hands to turn pages or press buttons (on the Kindle), and my brain so I can continue to work so I have money with which to purchase duplicate copies of every book I've ever read and then have something to blog about. Because isn't that what life is all about?

Yesterday I found two heads of broccoli in my cupboard and had to toss them. Since my nose quit working a few years ago, I suppose in ideal conditions I might have smelled the broccoli before I saw it. I have no idea how long ago I put broccoli in my cupboard. The heads were nearly brown. I've not quite reached the age or condition where I must use brown broccoli in a soup with some stones I collected in the yard. But gimme a minute.

When I mentioned the book memory thing to my mom she laughed a bit and said, "You caught the disease. She ought to know. She has it. My sister has it. My friend downstairs has it. Kaffy has it. Baglady has it.

I am grateful that I'm aware enough to notice the subtle changes as I age. As long as I am able to laugh at buying duplicate books and chuckle at my saggy neck, I'm okay with aging though I think I'll stop buying broccoli if I can't remember where to stick it.

Pennies from Heaven

Wicked fun!

It was windy 'round the holler over the weekend. Redwood duff piled in heaps, fallen tree branches, pine bows stuck out of the pin-cushioned dirt. Downed patio umbrellas, branches shot out of trees like lightening bolts, stabbing the ground. I ain't exaggeratin.' They don't call them widow-makers for nuthin. Driveways, cars and power-lines suffered an onslaught of foresty-type debris. Debris is what you git when you live in deese woods. Den da wind blew out the 'lectricity of about 100 users. I only know this because I was one of the lucky 100, however, I do not know what possessed me to write like that (must have been that Zeus's Daughter book I recently finished.)


During the night, drugged to a stupor so I could sleep, I found myself waking up to the sound of crashing branches and the steady click-clicking of duff (Duff is the name of a beer brand on The Simpson's) onto the skylight directly above the bed, (who's idea was skylight?) Bella is sedate until she hears a noise, any noise, then she freaks letting her displeasure be known with a quiet little woof sound (say "woof" aloud to yourself. That's how Bella sounds - only make sure you say it over and over and over again with a short little breath in-between each woof. Woof, breath, woof, breath, woof, breath, woof.) Ever since the night the raccoons came into the kitchen and ate her dog food, and she was too frightened to get her puppybutt off the bed to see what was in the kitchen making all that noise, Bella now woofs quietly in the middle of the night when something disturbs her slumber. Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof...


Each day I discover more about Bella. She acts tough though she seems to be afraid of many things. Is that how I am? Is that many of us are? It's sort of a topsy-turvy version of walk softly and carry a big stick. Bella walks with a big stick (metaphorically speaking), but freaks-out about cars, vacuums,  generators, hair dryers, mixers, blenders, coffee makers, vibrators, heating pads, emersion blenders, crockpots, espresso machines, and panini makers (and panini makers are relatively quiet). Bella woofs at anything that operates using electricity or that starts with a motor. I don't think she can see very well either. She behaves at times like she's not getting the whole picture. (But then I do that as well.)  Her (what I perceive as) fear causes her to bark because she doesn't understand that she should STFU. Witnessing this I'm-going-to-behave-assertively-when-I-am-really-scared-out-of-my-wits behavior reminds me of the lone guy standing in front of the tanks in the 1989 Tiananmen Square protest though he was courageous as hell. Bella will stand smack-dab in front of an oncoming car and hopefully when the driver stops, she walks to the drivers side door to see who it is (and then wags her tail because she wuvs that person). Either that or she stands by the side of the road, leashed by my side in frenzied barking because how dare that car drive down the road.


To gain some sanity I resorted to using an aluminum can with pennies inside and as cruel as a shaking penny-can might seem, the can noise jolts Bella enough to get her to stop barking.  Sunday morning while attempting to start the generator with a barking corgi was for crazy-making. Something had to give and it wasn't gonna be me. (for once) I got the penny-can and shook it in Bella's direction, over the roar of the generator. She quit barking and reluctantly walked back into the house.


But what I want to know is why doesn't she bark at the noisy can of pennies?


For some time now I've been going through my belongings to get rid of stuff I don't use. When we were first married, Greg and I received a crocheted bed set from Aunt Cecil. The yarn used was primarily bright orange with multicolored pieces throughout. I think we probably used it the first week. It's really pretty ugly. This set has been taking up space since 1975. A dusty hat Greg wore during chemo that's been smashed under more junk. Lingerie, never worn -- some still with tags, all of it to large for me now. For weeks I've had this huge bag of "good-will" donations resting like a drunk against my living room wall. A week ago Bella decided to tear into the bottom of the bag when I had company over for tea, dragging bras and other pieces of lingerie out, pulling them across the carpet causing me to contemplate my idea of good will.


On Saturday I put Bella in doggie daycare (a blessing from heaven) and spent my day running errands, getting chores done that I can't do unless I hold a broom in one hand and the shake the penny can in the other. (She hates brooms too.) During Bella's absence I put the donation bag into the backseat of the vertical hotrod in case I had some time to go to Goodwill. Sunday after a morning walk where I saw a coyote which thankfully Bella didn't or couldn't see, and a visit with my son Eric to the dog park, I drove my donation carcass down the hill.


The Goodwill drop-off collection center is within Santa Cruz's infamous heroin highway district. In order to pawn my stuff off onto them get to the collection truck, one must drive past my x's house conveniently located near several homeless shelters and feeding kitchens, auto-repair shops, Costco, a neighborhood filled with industries and private schools, several self-storage facilities where it seemed no one ever picks up their stuff because there is a continuous garage sale every weekend, a cement factory, a cement "artist", a gas station and numerous medicinal marijuana outlets that I might use if I ever admit to the pain with which I am truly suffering. haha

Bella & a buddy from the dog park

All I really wanted was the Goodwill to drive to my house and claim what is rightfully theirs to begin with. When I arrived, the attendant was busy talking to someone. Sounded like he was on a conference call or having a full-blown Goodwill meeting in the back of the collection truck. I envisioned coffee and donuts for the goodwillers who worked inside. Funny thing though - this guy was completely alone except for donations. He didn't speak but a few words directly to me though (form, items, name) he was yakitty-yaking the entire time I was emptying my donation drunk out of the car. The Goodwill employee spoke directly to one bag of my (soon to be his) things, exclaiming "And just where did YOU come from?!" as if he were considering asking the old bag out on a date. He must have had a thing for crusty, puppy-slobbered lingerie and dusty chemo hats. He handed me my receipt, all the while talking, looking me in the eye yet saying nothing which reminded me of past relationships. Just a few words to the wise, I guess.

As I drove away from town, I was happy to have one more chore crossed off my list. I needed to get back home to the chaos and high winds in the mountains, the familiar barking of my frightened puppy and the periodic shaking of the dreaded penny-can to find serenity.

Changing Times

I thought we were supposed to fall forward rather than fall back with regard to the time change this past weekend so I woke up around 5 a.m. Sunday morning, switched my clocks forward to 6 am, thinking all the while it's time to get up. Then I went through this conversation in my head about falling forward or springing back or springing forward and falling back. Falling backward must have something to do with aging. I remembered the NPR guy saying we got an extra hour of sleep and I was trying to understand where that extra hour was going to fit in with all my clocks marked at 6 am instead of 5 am. It's kind of amazing how quickly things can go downhill with one person in charge (me, changing my clocks for instance). Then I turned on my cell phone clock (which is really all I use the phone for - to get the correct time) and my cell clock read 4:17 am so my little argument was settled. I'd already lost sleep changing time.

I made my coffee (no sense in being awake that early without a cup of coffee), adding a half scoop of protein powder mixed with soy creamer. When the coffee was prepared, I grabbed a really disgusting biscotti that I'd made the night before. By 'disgusting' I mean not twice-baked or even close to a traditional biscotti texture. More like a really chewy sea sponge (of which I've eaten so many which is why I know the texture). I like something scone-y with my coffee. It's not a habit or ritual though I'm in search of something I can bake that I can add protein powder to that resembles a breakfasty food that's still relatively healthy. 

Then I went back to sleep for an extra hour with Bella laying on my chest. I dreamed I was having heart failure.

Some people have asked me if I have given up on food -- some foods d/won't work any longer -- like the tiny bite of pumpkin ice cream I tried. It was rich and sweet - I had to spit it out. (Blasphemy!) I gave some to the dog instead (so she can have weight problems and become a diabetic). The biscotti was made of pumpkin and had no fat other than the fat inside of two eggs. I got the recipe from foodgawker (one of my fave places to visit online). Since the surgery, my baking skills have plummeted. I can prepare a soup or main dish though prior to surgery I was Bitchin Betty Baker. Since surgery I have failed baking miserably. I'm not all that worried about this loss of baking talent though because I can always buy someone else's biscotti though someone else's biscotti won't have the same ingredients I might want to eat (such as sea sponge mixed with pumpkin). I have to find something else to do that baking supplied -- I mean, other than eating what I baked. I haven't a clue what being able to bake other than to eat the edibles. Though it seems there must be some pleasure derived from the art of baking other than what people think baking does which is to add pounds of chub to your butt and more chin rolls or in some cases keep a person alive. I heard that some of the Donner parties first words when they reached rescuers was the word 'bread.'

I went to dinner with a friend about a week ago. I ordered one small shrimp "crepas" which is basically a shrimp crepe. The crepas arrived at the table covered in a yellowish sauce, about 3.5 inches, (ah, memories of my last relationship). I was able to eat the meal using a few chips as my spoon over the course of a couple of hours along with a watered down margarita. I still enjoy myself because I enjoy the company I'm with along with the novelty of eating dinner out. I enjoy the ambiance - it's a different experience. Before weight loss surgery, I would say that I was treating myself. I'd go out, order a liter of margaritas and drink two of them with a full plate of some sort of grub. In the past the more inebriated I became during dinner, the more food I would shove in. I was unconscious. Then dessert, and I was usually so crocked from the booze that I could eat a bunch of chips (spoons!) with my dessert too. This body part I have for a stomach will not allow that kind of behavior any longer. Plus my brain can't handle the booze obviously if when I drink, I go insane and eat. 

One of the really special things about gastric bypass surgery is that you have a honeymoon period of several months post surgery where you don't care about eating at all. A period of time when you really have to force yourself to eat nutritionally. I just finished reading a book about a woman who had some problems with her surgery and then her first meal was some french fries and some fried pork which when she tried to eat it, but she got sick. You aren't supposed to eat those kinds of foods post-surgery though I'm far enough along my own post surgery that I know I could eat a few fries though eating fries could cost me some hours in the bathroom the next day. Rich foods, greasy foods cause these issues for me. (Thank hay zeus!) I would still call myself a foodie. I'm just not much of a baker any more and that is probably fine. Maybe the baking thing was removed. It's a side effect of the surgery that no one has discovered but me.

Now that the season of eating is upon us -- (Season's Eatings!) this will be my first holiday season without gorging on turkey, gravy and broccoli casserole or even eating more than a bite of pie. White bread dinner rolls - the kind you find the night before Thanksgiving in huge stacks by the store cash register as if those store managers on are on to something and white bread is a real food. Are you kidding me. Stuffing? With stuffing, I could maybe eat two tablespoons which would become my entire meal. I will not be consumed with thinking (I will be consumed with writing about it) how much food I can fit on my plate, what I can bake to contribute, or if I should bring home any leftovers. In fact, I'll be lucky if I am invited to anyone's Thanksgiving dinner at all. I used to warn my son Danny about people who didn't get invited to Thanksgiving dinners. I said, "That's a red flag." I mean, there's a reason certain people don't get invited to Thanksgiving dinner though you don't usually discover that reason until you've invited them because you felt sorry for them because here it was Thanksgiving and they had no place to go. Then they drink their first drink and go out to the deck, pretending to jump off and laugh about it. Then they got stoned and started talking about how when they were at Burning Man, they got run over by a car while they were asleep inside their tent and that is why they have a huge dent in the side of their head and they walk, listing to one side. Finally, they do your dishes so it's almost worth having invited them because they do a pretty good job on the dishes. Still, a red flag. 

Like I've written in past posts, my mind has not caught up with my body. I see people that I haven't seen in awhile and they are shocked (or maybe it is me who's shocked at them) at how "great you look" though when I look down, I still see me. It is the same me that I have been and will be. In the mirror though, I see a more wrinkles (on my face) though that would have happened regardless. At night, saggy butt-skin pools beneath me as I lay me down to sleep. I don't care about a buttpool though. I'd rather have a buttpool than a butt filled with fat. I've experienced one, now I want to experience the other. At least a buttpool is somewhat pliable. A person can move their buttpool around for extra comfort, warmth. Maybe there will come a day when I gather my buttpool about me and stomp off in a huff. Maybe buttpools will become fashionable. One day I'll be in and the next day I'll be out. I've heard people say that they don't want to have weight loss surgery because they are worried about the extra skin though I have not heard those with extra skin (filled with chubbiness) say they are worried about their extra skin filled with chubbiness.  What kind of strange excuse is extra skin when you're over 300 pounds? It's like my mind isn't the only mind that has not caught up with my body.

My brain quickly registers a loss when I'm putting on smaller clothing though that consciousness doesn't last but a moment. If it weren't for my sister insisting I wear smaller pants, and buying me those pants, I'd still be wearing  bigger pants. But with this loss, a new found ease of movement that I don't remember feeling in this lifetime mostly because when I could move back in the days of yore, I was not appreciative, nor was I really conscious about movement. I took the ability to move for granted. The difference between then and now is like being lifted off the ground. It is a sense of freedom that can't really be achieved through smaller pants or a tiny meal (though a tiny meal is pretty cool.) Freedom is less pain in my knees and my hip -- less emotional suffering. The increased mobility I wanted and hoped for through the surgery has occurred (so maybe I wasn't such a bad person in my first life) (and at least I didn't suffer under the wheel of a vehicle at Burning Man in this life, yet). The idea of having increased mobility going forward, of being more physically capable (while still mentally capable - crossed fingers) is a huge blessing, one I hope not to take for granted. Let me move until I fall back. I guess you could say I've reached a bearable lightness of being and I am pretty happy about that.

Bears Repeating

I wanted to pull this "guest" post back here so I don't lose it. It bears repeating especially since I've read two blog posts just this week written by frustrated food addicts who are beating themselves up over addictive behaviors. 


This was a guest post for another blogger originally published on her blog on Oct 28th, 2010. Anne was having surgery and asked her favorite people to write in her absence. I'm proud to be one of her faves.


 I call this post Life is What Happens... after John Lennon's song, Beautiful Boy which has the lyric "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."


***********************************************************
I haven't met Anne though I feel I know her so well from her writing. We've shared similar struggles. She's younger than my twin sons though through reading her blog for the past many years I've discovered our age doesn't change much about our struggle with weight-loss. You can be a chubby 19 year old, a portly 28 year old, a pleasingly plump-ish 35 year old, a fat-ish forty year old, or in my case, a (finally) ex-moderately obese 54 year old since making the decision to have gastric bypass surgery this past June 15th. One thing we all seem to have in common is a struggle with our brain with regard to food.

I can read your mind. I know what you're saying:

• Surgery is the easy way out.
• I would never have *that* surgery.
• I've lost weight before. I can do it again (by myself).
• Surgery is cheating! (judgmental -- aren't we?)
• You can surgically remove the weight but you can't fix the emotional problem of eating. (I agree -- though it's far easier to fight one battle at a time)

I struggled with the scale for years - though really my struggle wasn't with an inanimate object. I lost at least 100 lbs on my own with sensible eating and exercise, self-restraint, belittling, abuse. I have photos to prove weight loss. After my sister had gastric bypass surgery two years ago and I saw what was possible with her loss, I started to consider what might be possible for me with regard to gastric bypass.

I knew as I aged, I'd become less mobile. I was born with  primary bi-lateral lymphedema and excess weight was going to make running, jogging, breathing, bicycling, living, ballet and tap, getting to the fridge, fencing, croquet, buying See's candy, curling and baking cookies, horseback riding more difficult as I aged. Though knowing I could become less mobile still wasn't incentive enough to lose the last 70 lbs I needed to lose. I'm the one who said "70 lbs" while my surgeon said 100 lbs which would take me down to my pre-birth weight of 154 lbs.

The problem is that as we get older and still have the same diet struggle, time's a wastin. All the while - time is flying, the years are melting out from underneath you. You're gonna get older like me, less mobile, less healthy, cancerous, cranky, crabby, pessimistic and pokey. It will take you a month to remember your ATM pin number. Yet you'll still be honking about starting your diet on Monday after you ate that whole pizza and drank 37 beers last Saturday night. When you reach my age, birthdays and holidays are right around the corner. As soon as one holiday ends, you can see the next one looming larger (than the number on your scale). You think you have all the time in the world. hah! Well if so, plan your funeral while you're figuring out which diet you'll try next because one day your diet plan and your funeral will intersect.

I've read weight loss blogs of people who (seem to really) want to lose weight and become healthier. Sometimes they post daily, sometimes a few times a week; chronic strugglers post caloric intakes, exercise schedules, foods consumed, things they learned about their  psyche, struggles and triumphs. Readers rally -- commenting support, cheering one - another on to the winner's circle. I've seen that circle written as 'onederland.' Then the following week these same folks are blogging again, only this time it's about how they drank Manhattans all weekend, ate half a smoked pig, stuffed themselves on chips and dip, ate only 6 happy meals, and finished last night with a whole pie a la mode. Come Monday, they are 10 lbs back up the scale, riding the self-abuse train again. And guess what? Time is beating you to the finish line.

My sister told me "some people aren't willing to give up the food." For some reason that statement stuck in my craw. I wanted to be able to give up the food. Once she said that, I thought about my addiction, my behavior and how (finally) for the sake of mobility and hopefully a longer life, I was willing to give up the food to see what was possible.

As of today, I'm hovering around 70lbs lost so far - since June 15th. I still wear the same clothes I wore when I was heavier (which either says a lot or a little about the clothing I *was* wearing). This sizable weight-loss has come at at time when my clothes may be loose but money is really tight. On one hand I'm waiting for the final (weight-loss) results while holding up my pants with the other. I can't complain because post-surgery I have loads of energy. I look better. I feel better. My hip doesn't hurt. My arthritic knee hurts occasionally (mostly after too much walking). I can move and breathe. I can easily walk up the stairs at work. I was able to give up food long enough to address the issue with weight so now I focus more on eating a nutritionally balanced diet. If I notice myself desiring less-than-optimum nutrition, I ask myself if I am able to only eat a small amount, why would I eat crap? Though I am not perfect. I'm just healthier, thinner, wiser and more wrinkled.

I decided to have gastric bypass surgery so I could spend the time I have left to live more mobile and healthier -- as long as possible. Being healthier helps me deal with emotional baggage because I'm not focused on beating myself up for eating because I didn't start my diet on Monday for the (as Anne would say)  Eleventy-ith time . I'm not blogging about fluctuating weight. I don't want to write about exercise if it's not something I enjoy all that much -- not gonna be doing a triathlon anytime soon and if I decide to do one, I'll announce it on the front page of the NYT because it will *that* newsworthy. Bored and boring.
I wasted a heck of a lot of my life time thinking about being fat, being fat, overeating, eating, drinking, what to drink and making myself feel less-than because I consumed more than. Post surgery I'm focused on aspects of my life that -- pre-surgery, I didn't take the time to notice because I was too busy thinking about what I would eat for my next snack. (Oh, that, and this damn puppy.) But as you write your daily or weekly missive about the next weight-loss steps, the diet you'll start on Monday, remember that the only time life slows down for any of us is when you're waiting in line at the DMV. Other than that, time is jetting by and you're still contemplating your diet. Better to start mulling over potluck options for your funeral. At least you'll be thinking about food.

Update on Lymphedema Diagnosis and Treatment Cost Saving Act - HR 4662

I feel like it's sort of cheating when I take Heather Ferguson's emails and make them into blogs about lymphedema though I have her permission. Plus the post helps get the word out further on HR 4662, the Lymphedema Diagnosis and Treatment Cost Saving Act of 2010. (Seems if this doesn't pass soon, someone will have to change the date on that act to 2011.)


Heather Ferguson writes:

"It is my pleasure to inform you that our bill sponsor, my Congressman, Larry Kissell of North Carolina’s 8th district, has been re-elected! 

I have just returned home from his campaign headquarters where I awaited the results with his staff, a room full of diehard volunteers, a litany of reporters and the Congressman himself.  It was very exciting to be there when the election was called in his favor.

I spent most of the day at the polls handing out campaign literature and talking about our bill.  I even printed copies of one of the early press releases from Kissell’s office that talked about what lymphedema is, the importance of treatment, and how he decided to sponsor what is now HR 4662 after meeting with me, so that I could hand these out too.  I share this because as a result other good things happened today. 

One woman returned to talk to me after I gave her my information and told me she had lymphedema in one leg and her doctor recommended nothing except that she control her salt intake!  Another woman I approached after she had voted and I asked her if she had lymphedema because it was abundantly obvious to me that she did and it was not being treated.  Both were so appreciative of the information I was able to give them and it certainly made me feel good knowing that despite whatever the election outcomes might be I had helped at least these two people today.

But of course through this legislation we will help so, so many more, and it is such a blessing that we are now assured of being able to push on in the next Congress, without skipping a beat!"

Congratulations to Congressman Kissell (D)! Congrats to Heather for her continued hard work.

Read Congressman Kissell's letter to his constituents.

Read more at Lymphedema Treatment Act.

Read more about Heather and her 3 year old son, Dylan who suffers from primary lymphedema (like me) only he has to live his whole life suffering when mine is practically over.

Nacho Poncho

Late Thursday I took Bella to Its beach and let her run off-leash. There were only a few dogs romping in the sun and sand, and one resting Rasta catching rays. The temps were in the 70s. Bella was getting spayed on Friday and I knew this romp would be her last chance for fun in the sun - at least for a couple of weeks. She's now modeling the latest fashion, an ultra fancy (plastic) "Elizabethan" collar. Just in the nick of time, my sister met a man with a very hefty corgi who was cruising for a female corgi with which to mate. The decision to spay Bella could not have come at a better time. Plus, getting to wear the collar for two weeks while under doc's orders no running or jumping for two weeks is all the rage when you're a 6 month old puppy.

On the weekend, Kaffy brought the promised ponchos that she made for Hannah. Even though the ponchos were specifically designed for a 5 year old, I was easily able to slide into one of them because there is only one hole I am slim; the size of a 5 year old obviously. Of course I look stunned stunning in mine, though it's not really my poncho, it's Hannah's.

After our lovely visit, which included my sister and her husband, Kaffy was getting ready to leave when Hannah ran up to her and demanded in a very cute 5 year old way, that Kaffy take back the extra poncho because it was too big for her. I guess Hannah figured if I could fit into it, gah, she'd never be able to wear it. So Kaffy took back the poncho and was going to donate it to a local poncho-wearing charity. Looks like I am S.O.L. I can't even sneak it to a holiday function. I'll be the only poncho-less partier, and Kaffy said that the poncho was making a comeback this year. Mark her word.

I think Hannah thought the poncho that she claimed was too big for her was unfinished because it was made with a different kind of yarn that had these fine little yarns sticking out - you know to a 5 year old, the poncho was kind of messy. Those 5 year olds can be picky -- plus the poncho Hannah kept had balls. And for some reason, everyone wants balls.

Kaffy & Hannah

Sunday I was supposed to meet up with one of the SOS (sisters offering support) through Womencare. We decided to take a raincheck even though it was a beautiful day mostly because my sister gets annoyed at the puppy distraction factor (PDF). This sister  with whom I have offered support has had to sit through a lot of conversations discussing the cuteness of Bella. Bella's not as cute as she once was now that she's spayed, wearing a plastic collar, probably not even very cute to a portly courting corgi (say that 10 times fast). As soon as Bella's recovered though, I'm thinking Kaffy needs to whip up another poncho and get Bella back in favor with fashion.

Extreme humiliation in the dog kingdom