Like Riding a Bike

I am currently sitting on my couch a little hot and sweaty and stinky. That might be TMI, or maybe just a deterrent for any future house guests, but it's true. My heart rate is taking a steady slow down, and not just because I'm watching the Virginia Tech Hokies beat up on Pittsburgh, but because I decided to take most of the third quarter to air up my tires and go for my second real bike ride in about 20 years. 

And It. Was. Great. 

I am the proud owner of a mint green Electra Townie bike that I got for my birthday a few years ago. It was my very first bike to have gears, zero streamers, and a complete lack of cartoons on it. I'll admit to being a little sad about the lack of cartoon characters, but happy that I've reached the maturity level where the streamers had to go. 

The day I picked my bike up from Richardson Bike Mart, I had visions of triathlon training dancing in my head. I just knew this bike would only last a few years because I would spend day after day and night after night just wearing it out. It was time to get to know a good repair shop after the hundreds of miles I'd put on those fancy pants gears! Right after I learned how to use them that is. 

So I unloaded my bike from my Ford Escape so excited to finally put the Sport in Sport Utility Vehicle, and set my new weight loss buddy on my drive way. I sized up my new toy:

Extra wide seat

High handle bars

Step through design

Everything a 435lbs girl could want. 

So step through I did. Very suddenly I  realized I hadn't been physically on a bike since I was about 13 years old, and here I was 17 years later with my visions of Century Rides suddenly shrinking down to, "Do I know how to get out of my drive way?!?" Isn't remembering how to ride a bike supposed to be like, well, riding a bike??? 

Spoiler alert, when you are 435lbs, nothing is like riding a bike. Or, maybe as I learned that night, everything is. 

I did make it out of the drive way that night. I made it down our back alley (about three houses in length), and around the corner to the next street over, and I had to stop. I had gone a sum total of about 50 yards, half a football field, and my quads were on fire. I just physically couldn't push myself any further. My extra wide seat was pushing so hard back agains my pelvis that I was actually in pain, and I had silently walked myself through the signs of cardiac arrest more than once in my five minute ride. 

See, when you're 435lbs, not only are you having to push down through that weight, but every time your legs rise with the peddles, you are also pushing through probably 80lbs of pure gut sitting on your thighs. When you lean forward slightly (even on a high handle bar bike), you have the weight of you back, and the girth of your chest pressing on your lungs making it difficult to breathe deeply enough to control your heart. When you're 435 lbs you worry about how you look sitting on top of a dream that is being crushed with every cycle of your now flattened tires. 

So I got off. I looked at my roommate with shame in my eyes and admitted I just couldn't do it. Erica, being the eternal optimist said, "no, you can do it, we just mark this as your next goal. Next time we make it one more house". 

I politely smiled and nodded and walked my bike home knowing I would not get on my bike again any time soon. 

I had been handed a key to my weight loss prison only to find out that someone had changed the lock. 

My mint green Electra bike collected dust and cobwebs for three years. 

Until a couple of weeks ago. A couple of weeks ago I got this wild idea. It was about 75 degrees outside and everything in my screamed that I needed to be out doors! So I looked Erica in the eyes and said, "I want to try riding my bike again". 

I grabbed a towel in the garage and dusted the neglect off of my dream bike wondering if this time around the story might change. My hope and anxiety rose as we put all 26 pounds per square inch of air in the tires, and lifted the kick stand. I had lost 88lbs, and it was time to try dreaming again. 

I swung my leg around on the bike and sat easily on the saddle. What's funny is it seemed like my bike had shrunk and my seat had grown. It wasn't difficult at all to mount the bike, and the handles seemed perfectly placed to keep me in an upright position. I had asked Erica to jog beside me just incase something happened and I took a tumble. I was still 324lbs and you can do a lot of damage when 324lbs meets concrete. So with every confidence that my friend would be beside me, I pushed off. 

Next thing I know I am 13 years old again soaring through the neighborhood with very little effort! My legs are moving with ease. My lungs are breathing deeply the fresh air, and rather than moaning and groaning, I. Am. Laughing. 

I started riding faster than Erica could run. 

I waived at the people in the neighborhood rather than wishing I could hide from them. 

I'm living my dream. 

I'm normal. 

I went about three quarters of a mile that day because Erica was on foot, and I was taking pity on her. But I could have gone further. My quads still ached, but it was because I had worked them, not because I had abused them. My lungs burned, but only because I started to wonder how fast I could make myself go, not because I was moving at all. 

This morning during the third quarter of the Hokie game I looked at Erica again and said, "I want to ride my bike. This time you ride too. I want to see if I can go a full mile, but I only want to go a mile because I need to have a goal and achieve it, not immediately belittle it". Erica understood my fine line I constantly walk between hope and shame and jumped up to get dressed to accommodate. 

And we rode. 

We went one mile, up hills and down them. I learned the difference between 1st gear (for the steep ones), and 3rd gear for the flat road. But we rode. And I laughed. 

And I began to dream again. 

Happy Birthday to Me

Cats on a Plane

So this week had a few firsts for me: 

I was in St Louis all week for work, and it began to become a town I love. Seriously, there were street dancers at one point. It was like living in a musical, which, I'm not gonna lie, would probably be my version of Heaven. Not that I think St Louis is Heaven, but I'd love to see Chuck Berry there so I could show off all of my cool Richland High School dance moves to Johnny B Goode. Let me tell you. They. Are. Cool. 

So on my way back home I'm at the airport, and I notice that my typical window or aisle seat has somehow become the dreaded middle seat. Even though I have fit better and better in my OWN seat, the thought of inconveniencing two people, rather than just one with my inordinate girth causes a girl to stress just a bit. 

So, I asked if there were any window or aisle seats available and they got me one at the back of the plane. With the equivalent of my Golden Ticket, I trotted off to the gate and waited for my ride home. 

I walked down the aisle of the plane increasingly amazed at the fact that I didn't have to turn sideways like so many times before, and found my seat. Because I had checked my bag, I was one of the first groups to board, so I sat patiently waiting for my partner on this ride to show up. He was apparently in the last group to board because I was there for a while. 

As I waited, I began to fidget with different things on the plane sometimes I swear I have the attention span of a gnat.  Glance through the latest issue of Skymall, check. Play a game of solitaire on my Kindle, check. Stare at every passenger that comes by me in a halfway apologetic look that they may be the unlucky soul seated in 26A, check. Then I did something very different for me. I attempted to put on my seatbelt. Ok, so if you've never been in the 400+ pounds club, one thing you might not realize is that not every seatbelt in the world was made with you in mind. Some cars don't fit, and airplanes NEVER do. But airplanes have something that cars don't (which is awesome), called a seatbelt extension. You know those things they do your safety presentation with? Yeah, they actually let you have one to connect to your existing seatbelt to allow some more room. I've had to use one on every single flight I've ever been on, and I've been on a LOT of flights in my life. Granted the length of the extension keeps getting smaller and smaller over my last few sky taxi rides, but I still need it nonetheless. 

So I'm sitting there waiting for my mystery man or woman to show, and I decide to gauge just how far away I am from the seatbelt fitting this time. That way I know that maybe my next trip out it'll work. Or worst case, when I fly to Ireland in March, it'll fit me just fine. Whatever the case may be. As I'm pulling the strap across my hips, guys, the most insane thing happens. I'm sure with all of this build up you've already guessed. 

It CLICKS!!!!!

Cue Queen's We Are The Champions. I swear streamers fell from the oxygen mask's storage area, and a round of champaign was available for all. 

After receiving congratulations from every passenger on the plane (in my imaginary world of course), I noticed a nice looking fellow walk up and stand beside me as he lifted his bag in the overhead compartment. 

Oh no!! I just buckled my seat belt!!! What if after he sits next to me I'm not able to do it again! This was my first time ever! Go back to the front of the plane!!! I left a nice middle seat open about 15 rows up for you. Don't make me take off my seatbelt, I might not be able to get it back on, an I JUST retired my membership to the seatbelt extension club. 

Dang it. 

So I unclicked my favorite seatbelt on planet earth and stood up so that he could grab his window seat. I gave my apologetic smile as he ambled past me. 

Down my butt went to my new seat of disappointment. Surely my moment of celebration was over. But I was going to give it another shot. I wiggled a bit, sucked in as much air as my lungs could hold, and

IT CLICKED!!!!

Re-cue We Are The Champions only this time with my seat mate joining in with a cigarette lighter app on his iPhone. No sense in going crazy thinking we could have a live flame on the plane. 

Today seatbelt, next flight...tray table!!! Yeah, I gave it a shot, and no, that still doesn't quite go all the way down. But hey! My seatbelt clicked clicked clickitty clicked!! 

84 pounds makes a difference. 

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention? I'VE LOST EIGHTY FOUR POUNDS!! As of this morning I'm 328.0 lbs, for a grand total of eighty four pounds of Kelly gone. 

So back to the flight. As I was sitting  there basking in my skinnyness, the plane began to leap into the sky, and I heard a meowing.

All I could think was "WHO THE HECK DIDN'T TURN OFF THEIR CELL PHONE?!?!" All of my Kenpo lessons started coming to mind as I thought about how I would take down this teeny bopper terrorist with the meowing cat ringtone. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, Kelly Lynch, would have been the hero. I probably need a cape as I already had the theme music from this flight. 

Then I heard the flight attendant come on the speakers: "excuse me ladies and gentlemen, would the owner of the cat currently walking down the aisle of the airplane please retrieve your passenger?"

Every head on the plane suddenly leaned in to see the most adorable white kitten walking lost down the middle aisle of our ride. I'm not sure if she was taking drink orders or not, but I thought to myself, "the only way this flight could possibly get any better was if they handed out winning lotto tickets at the baggage claim back home!!!"  

But I was wrong. As the lady behind me jumped from her seat to grab the cat and wrestle her back into her "carry on" a second (I can't make this up) cat emerged and began the same trek down the aisle of the air plane! He only made it a couple of rows before the guy in front of me caught him and passed him back. 

Seriously. I had lost 84 pounds, fit in a seat belt, AND snuggled an adorable kitty cat on the best flight of my life. 

Welcome Home Me!!

Catching Up

I feel like I've written a thousand blog posts. But I haven't. They've all been in my head. 

So in my head I share with everyone about how I went on an airplane at the end of July for the first time post op, and how I didn't even touch the person next to me. 

Or I just know I wrote about how hard getting back in the gym has been, and how soul crushing it can be to see how much weaker I am. 

In my mind I wrote about taking my nieces to LegoLand, and how I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to ride the ride in there, and even if I could I wouldn't be able to peddle. I was so afraid of being embarrassed in front of them that I was having a mild anxiety attack in line. But then I got on, and I fit. I fit, and I peddled my heart out the entire way. 

I was almost sure I had a blog or two about training for this 5k and how far I had fallen behind. And about the constant battle in my brain between determination and shame. Maybe one day I'll actually learn mercy in the middle. 

But then I logged on just now and saw that none of that was there. It was all just in my mind. And truly, I'm ok with that. 

Except that I'm not. 

Because I think this blog, as silly as I genuinely believe it is, has become something so much more. It's become a place to share my heart. Throw all of those thoughts and feelings into the nebulous web, and you, yes you, actually give a damn. Partially, I think because you just care about me, your friend, your sister, daughter, cousin, co-worker, whatever I am to you, but also because I think that in throwing all of this out there I get to just say "sometimes life is hard", and that's something we can all relate to. 

So, yes, my journey is to lose dang near 300lbs, and maybe you've got 20 to lose, but both are seemingly impossible mountains. Maybe it's not weight at all. Maybe it's getting over fear, or shame, or just knowing that there's a stinking goal in front of you that you want to run through, and reading this blog simply means nothing more than you're not alone. 

But that's saying a whole lot, isn't it? 

You're not alone. 

I'm here. And I'm sorry I haven't taken the time to write more. Please forgive me.

This morning I got an email from a woman who doesn't know how much she has meant to me. Her daughter was my first best friend when my family moved to Fort Worth. Her son one of my brother's best friends and therefore one of my first crushes at the age of 6. She and my mom were best friends, and because of that I got to see a side to my Mom that I grew up idolizing. They were fun together, they sang and laughed, rode horses, and I wanted to be just like them. 

I don't know what happened, other than just life. Time and distance can part the closest of friendships, and I kinda hate that, but I also understand. So this morning when I got an email from her I was instantly excited to see what was going on in this wonderful woman's life. What I read crushed me.

She has cancer. 

It's treatable. But it's cancer. 

She has cancer, and in her email she is encouraging me to keep writing and sharing my journey with her, you, and everybody. Some stupid blog about losing weight, which half of the time I still think I cheated on by having surgery, except that the surgery saved my life. 

But then that's when I realized that this isn't some stupid blog about losing weight. 

It's about hope. 

Hope that death and disease doesn't win out just yet.

Hope that even when it's impossibly hard, there is grace. There is mercy. And there is a new day coming. 

Hope that we can laugh at ourselves. 

Hope that its ok that we cry. 

Hope that even if all we can do is breathe and blink today, that there might be singing and dancing to come. 

So here's to you Jody. Here's to you and all of the Jody's and Kelly's out there. Whether its cancer, or weight, or a struggling marriage, or financial trouble, sick children, or just the fear that you went too far to be forgiven this time. 

Here's to hope. 

And to the One who fulfills it. 

Conflicted Feelings

I met with one of my best friends this morning for coffee. We get together every Friday, and it's seriously one of my favorite moments of the week. I don't know if she knows that or not, but it's true. Typically we meet up at my friend's office at 6am, grab our Bibles, catch up for a bit, share the burdens on our hearts, and then hopefully dive in to the Word together. This morning was no different, except for one thing...I forgot my keys to my friend's office. So instead of a conference room we met at Starbucks. 

When we got our drinks (a grande sugar free hazelnut iced coffee with milk for me, and water for her - my drink was far better, but her's was a lot easier to type out!), we made our way to our chairs. Since it was 6am we had our pick of where we would like to sit, and Ginny headed straight for the big comfy chairs. 

I panicked a little. 

See, I've never been comfortable in the big comfy chairs. When you're 400+ pounds, your hips are too wide for anything to be really comfy. But because these are the "big comfy chairs" you can't really speak up because, hey! These are the big chairs! And did I mention how comfy they are? So you sit, and try not to fidget while your hips begin to bruise. 

I can't tell you how many times in my life I've tried not to fidget while my hips began to bruise. And that sentence alone makes me want to cry. 

So I walked over behind Ginny and took my seat. To my utter astonishment, not only did my hips not come anywhere near the sides of the chairs, I could actually put my arms down between my hips and the chair sides. I couldn't believe it. I fit. 

At one point in the conversation, I leaned forward and put my elbows on my thighs. This sounds pretty banal to put in a blog post, but guys, I've always had too much stomach for my elbows to touch anything let alone my thighs. I've only ever leaned on tables. Now I can lean on me! This is a totally new body position for me. 

Every time I drive a car, my first step is to push the seat all the way back in order to give my stomach and butt enough room to cohabit the front seat. This past week I've been spending my time scooting the seats forward. I get to drive with my whole foot, not my toes. 

I've lost 67 pounds, and while I should be thrilled with all of these changes, and for a moment I am, I can't help but feel like a stranger in my own body. Today it has hit me harder than other days. I keep telling myself "I'm still me. I'm still me. Just a smaller version of me. But I'm still me." Only to look down and see so much less of me than I ever thought possible. And I know I'm going to lose so much more weight. 

I've lost just over 25% of my excess body weight. I've felt ribs coming out, run further than ever before, climbed onto structures I wouldn't have even dared 100 pounds ago, and danced around like an idiot at the computer generated voice telling me I was finally under 350. 

And today I have wanted to cry. 

Before it's always been because I was overwhelmed with joy. And I am. I'm truly shocked and excited about my weight loss. 

But today it's because that little joy stealing voice in my brain whispering that I'm not Kelly Lynch anymore. I'm too small. And too vulnerable to be her. Kelly Lynch is a strong woman who can take on the world and come up smiling through the bruises. But this girl. This girl who used to weigh over 450 pounds, and now weighs 345 pounds. She's not me. She can run, and climb, and sit, and stand, and do all of the things Kelly wished she could do. 

Identity is a tricky thing. My identity has betrayed me. I was always just the fat girl. And don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware that I still have 200 pounds to go, but it's not 300 pounds anymore. I'm 40 pounds away from where I was in high school. I tell people I'm 32 and they don't believe me. I can't fit in most of my clothes, but I'm terrified to give them away. Shopping was always so hard when you are the largest size in the plus sized stores. Now I have no clue what size I am, and I'm afraid of finding out. Because it means I'm not that girl anymore. So who the hell am I? 

I can give you a LOT of very correct answers to that. Remember, I have both a degree in Biblical Studies, and a degree in Psychology. I basically majored in Identity in College. Wanna play theological or psycho-social, I can hang. But that 12 inch dive from my head to my heart is a whole 'nother thing. Going from cognition to knowing is a much longer journey. 

So today I keep just telling myself that I'm still me. I'm just a me that understands the attraction to big comfy chairs now. I'm the me that sits a little closer to the steering wheel. And I'm the me that will continue to look like a homeless person if I don't go shopping soon. But I'm still me. I'm Kelly. And I'm not going anywhere. Even if I feel like I am. 

And I can't tell you how much I need a hug right now. 

From Day 9 to Day 61

I am officially two months in!!!

I started the pre-op diet on April 2nd, and today is June 3rd, so I'm two months and one day in. Which is, let me tell you, plenty of time to see a HUGE difference!

My stomach no longer touches the steering wheel when I'm driving.

I can officially run. I have the stamina of a snail, but I can do it.

Someone went in and stretched out all of my clothes. Seriously. I was wearing a pair of jeans a couple of weekends ago, and walking through Austin when I suddenly realized that the only thing holding my jeans on my body was my shirt that was tapered at the bottom. I probably wouldn't be the first person to drop my pants on 6th Street, but it's a club I never had any intention of joining.

Speaking of Austin...a guy flirted with me. At first I thought he was trying to sell me something, but then I realized that he was really just flirting with me. How did I realize this? My much hotter than me roommate came walking up and he shifted gears to her, and clearly flirted...dang her. But he was flirting with me first!

Did I mention that none of my clothes fit me anymore? Except for the old stuff, which people keep asking me if they are new stuff, and I just keep lying and saying "yes" because it just seems like too much to go into the whole thing. So, yes, this is new. Or at least was new in 2003.

At work my new nicknames have become "Slim" and "Skinny Minnie". I'm fully aware that they are being kind, and that it is also an HR violation to just call me "Hot Stuff", so I'll take it.

I have had zero hip, knee, and ankle pain. Zero.

I also dropped some muscle unfortunately. I think my seven year old niece can probably bench press the same amount as I can right now. BUT, I am now cleared to lift weights, so that will change soon.

Oh, and the diabetes? Completely GONE. Zero insulin, and I've been on a completely open diet for a couple of weeks now. In other words, I can eat a cookie and my blood sugar stays well within range. Did you catch that folks? This is huge for me! No oral meds, no injections, no risks for stroke, or going blind, or any of the other crazy things that commercials freak you out about. If this were my only benefit from surgery, it would be enough.

Oh, and then there's that little thing of

I've Lost 50 Pounds!!!!

That's right...as of today I have lost a Border Collie. Two giant bags of dog food. Ten 5lbs bags of sugar. Five of my new nephew Colin who came in at 9lbs 3 ozs. 

As of 7:30 this morning my body no longer holds any of that. And I'm super excited.

This has not been the easiest journey in the world, but I have zero regrets. My original goal was to lose 100lbs by my birthday in October...if I keep this up, i'll have it by August. 

And I can't wait!!!! 

On April 2nd I weighed 412 pound.

On June 3rd I weighed 362 pounds. 

This is what a 50lbs weight loss journey looks like.

And yes, those two weeks in April/May when my weight kept going up and down ticked me off.

But then the scale moved once again. 

This is probably something I should remember.

Day 9 and Counting

I was really hoping to post a little bit earlier, but honestly tonight is the first night I think I have any kind of focus enough to do so. If I had tried earlier last week, this post would be filled with a bunch of pain killer induced gobbly-gook. Which probably would have been considered my best writing yet, and that, dear friends, would have led to a drug problem for sure. So, to keep myself from competing with stoned Kelly, I waited until stone cold sober Kelly could update you. And here I am! 

Truth is I went off of my pain meds on Wednesday, but then this weird thing happend...I was in pain. So, it took me a couple more days to come on here and write. But I'm getting ahead of myself. For those that want the whole story, here we go:

So this whole ordeal started on Tuesday, April 2nd. I began working with a new Personal Trainer, Jovan, in an attempt to start getting my body built up for surgery. I knew it wouldn't hurt to drop a few pounds, and make sure my heart was healthier than my 6 months of sloth had allowed for pre op (which I still thought would be scheduled for either the end of April or beginning of May). So, I heard there was this guy who did boxing group training and I signed up. We took measurements and weight the first day, and I was shocked to see the number. I knew I was bad, and I knew the insulin was supposed to make it worse, but I didn't know just how bad it had gotten. On April 2nd, 2013 I weighed in at a shocking 412lbs. I cannot believe I just typed that out. I really cannot believe I just typed that out. 

I was angry. I had no idea I had gained so much. I mean, I knew my clothes weren't fitting me right, and I knew, well, I didn't know anything. I just knew I was angry. I also knew I was determined to have this surgery, and I knew even if insurance didn't approve me, I was going to shell out the $12,000 for it. Because I couldn't believe what I had done to my body, and I very greatly believed what my body was going to do to me if I didn't do something to correct it. 

So I was thrilled when our first workout involved banging a speed bag, pounding on a punching bag, and chasing Jovan in a circle trying to hit his target gloves as hard as I could. Every punch landed felt like I was beating that demon inside of me trying to choke me out. Every drop of sweat felt like it was little drops of fat melting away from me. And I'd be damned if I'd let this beat me down. It was time for me to get a win. Time for me to fight back in a way that would work. So I fought. I fought until I was shaking from exhaustion. But I beat the hell out of that speed bag, that punching bag, and got a smile and an arched eyebrown from my new friend Jovan. 

I also dropped 5lbs. 

Friday, April 5th I got a phone call from Andrea at Dr Fox's office (Fox Bariatrics at Medical City in Dallas was the group doing my surgery). I was approved. I burst into tears. I was told, this is your last weekend to enjoy whatever I wanted to eat, and I did. It was open season on gluttony knowing it'd be a while before I enjoyed a big meal again (if ever), so Texas de Brazil got some cash, and I got a belly full of meat! 

I gained 3lbs. 

I know, I know, some say Fogo is a much better restaurant, but honestly, I think the service is better at Texas de Brazil, so I prefer it there. But that's probably not what you were actually thinking. Anyways...

Monday morning April 8th, I started my very low carb South Beach phase 1 diet. And when I say very low carb, I mean less than 20 grams of carbs per day. And South Beach is different from Atkins in that I was not only low carbing it, but also going low cal. There's only so much thinking a person can do on chicken, asparagus, and hubris, but I pushed through as hard as I could. This was just round two, and one thing I had learned through these workouts was to keep pushing, because even if your totally trashed at round two, round three is coming up in just a couple of minutes. 

Sunday April 14th I started a liquids only fast. This was one of the hardest weeks of my life physically, but I knew the truth. If Dr. Fox opened me up, and my liver had lied and said I didn't follow directions (hadn't shrunk), he'd stitch me right back up and send me home. I'd still be that 400 pound girl. And I couldn't do that. So, I bought some Nectar brand protein shakes and swore off chewing for the rest of the week. I made sure to run it by Dr. Fox as some surgeons require their patients to fast for two weeks prior to surgery, but he just required a South Beach diet. I asked him why, and he said, "honestly, it's because most patients don't comply with the fast, so this is easier". 

I didn't want easy. I wanted to live. I wanted to beat out my own body. So I fasted. 

Friday, April 19th 2013, the day of surgery. I weighed in that morning at 390lbs. I had dropped 22lbs off of my 5'4" frame in 17 days. I woke up at 4am like it was Christmas morning. Only instead of excitement, I felt a little terrified. The last surgery I had was to get my tonsils taken out in 1992. I was 12 years old then. Now I was 32 and about to have my stomach sliced open, and 80% of the organ removed through an incision that was about an inch and a half. It seemed too late to turn back, but I was already worried about buyer's remorse. But I showered anyways, got my overnight bag packed, and drove myself and my roommate to the hospital (she had offered to stay with me while I was there, a true true gift of a friend to a scared girl). We got there and not too long after so did my friend Ginny. I cannot say enough how magnificent I think Erica and Ginny are. I could try to tell them both what a gift they have been in my life, but truthfully, I think I would just choke up and run out of words before I could speak. There are so many, so many friends I have that I feel the same way about, but my overwhelming gratitude beats out my tongue each time, and all I can do is choke up, smile, and say thank you. 

So at 6am at Forest Park Hospital in Dallas, Tx, three girls waited in a marvelously decorated room for a little pager to buzz and say it was time to change my life. I went upstairs for lab work, the first of many blood draws they would do that would leave me to this day looking like I went twelve rounds with someone I had royally ticked off. Then I was sent back downstairs to wait. We took the elevator down because at this point I had been so deprived of calories I didn't trust myself on a staircase. The good news is that if I had gone that route and fallen, I was next to a Counselor/Personal Trainer (Erica) who could help me through the embarrassment and pain, and a Physical Therapist (Ginny) who could nurse me back to health. I'm pretty positive I even made that joke when we went for the elevator doors. 

The doors opened, and I received what was probably the kindest surprise of my entire life to that point. I looked up and there was my Mom, and my Uncle Phil. I tried to keep it all together, but I immediately turned into a five year old version of myself inside and all I could think was "My mom is here! My Mom is here! Everything will be ok because my Mom is here!" 

Uncle Phil, if you ever come across this silly little blog, thank you will never convey my heart enough. You brought me my mom. I'm still crying. Thank you. 

We all prayed together in the lobby and my pager went off. It was time to be brought back for pre-op prep. The anesthesiologist talked to be about putting me under and asked if I had any questions. Dr. Fox came by and spoke with me and my friends/family. I got changed into my hospital gown, and an IV was started in my left arm. I was just moments away. Panic was rising in my gut, but all that came out was a whole bunch of "ok"s and "no, I'm good, no questions". 

That is until the cute nurse came in. I'm telling you, if this isn't planned ahead of time, it should be. In walked this, straight from the cover of GQ nurse with some syringes in his chest pocket, smiling and telling me he'd be the one to put me under and that he'd take good care of me. Every hormone in my being answered "Oh! Ok!" before I could give it another second to panic. 

That was the last thing I remember before waking up. And again, hospitals everywhere, this is a GOOD way to get your patients to relax before surgery. Send in the hot men. Send 'em! 

My surgery lasted for an hour and a half or so, and apparently I was in a recovery room for a few hours. Dr. Fox told everyone that my surgery went great and that he was really pleased with the results. I can attest from the five tiny little scars I have on my abdomen that he was a phenomenal surgeon. 

However, post op recovery was anything but bliss for me. 

I woke up from surgery in my room. One minute I'm smiling at Nurse McHotty, and the next second I'm vomiting from my toes. Seriously, I couldn't have been going any harder if my life depended on it. And let me tell you, after major abdominal surgery, This.Ain't.How.You.Want.To.Wake.Up. I felt like everything was ripping apart inside of me, but I couldn't stop. Every single time I woke up I would vomit. I told Erica in casual conversation that I thought I had thrown up nearly 20 times. She looked me dead in the eye and said, "no exaggeration Kell, it was more like 60". Apparently I have issues with Demerol (the pain killer they were giving me). By Saturday afternoon when someone changed me to Lortab, all of the vomiting stopped, and I was finally able to recover. 

They gave me an extra day in the hospital to make up for it. 

I came home Sunday afternoon, and have spent the last week going from a drugged up mess who could barely form sentences and slept all of the time, to the wide eyed, rambling girl, typing out this blog. Not much momentous happened. I gained 7lbs on Friday from all of the gas and fluids they pumped into me at the hospital, bringing me up to 397, I showered once, and then thought about giving it up for the rest of my life (a choice I'm slowly reconsidering as I'm afraid my body has become a bio-hazard). I watched more than my fair share of Netflix and an entire season of The Amazing Race from start to finish. I read countless text messages, emails, listened to voicemails, and comments that I never returned, knowing each one was a balm to my achy heart, and hoping everyone understood that I was so worn out a phone conversation would put me in bed. I cried from gratitude, I cried from fear, and then I cried when my old pants (the ones I could physically pull up, but maybe not without a pair of pliers, or possibly the jaws of life) finally fit me again. 

As of this morning I weighed in a 382.8. 

I've lost 29.2 pounds. 

Only 230 more to go. Who's taking bets on if I get there? I'll tell you this much, after April 2013,

I wouldn't bet against me. 

I'm hungry. But then I'm not, which is really confusing me.

So Sunday at lunch, I had my last meal. Which makes it sound like I'm writing this postmortem, or is it posthumously? I really am not sure, however I'm sure all of my English major friends just scratched their eyes out. Well, heck, if they are reading this blog at all, I'm sure they are saying "thanks for sharing everything online Kell, but for the love of God, PLEASE GET AN EDITOR".

At least that's what I usually think when I hit publish. Boy, I need an editor, lest Mrs Lacroix ever find this blog and chase me down for my horrible gram-mar.

But as I was saying, the last time I ate solid food was Sunday at lunch. So as you can imagine, I am pretty darn hungry. Except then sometimes I'm not. It's really really weird. I was pretty positive I was going to die, and skipping dinner Sunday night I kinda wanted to. But next thing I know, Monday morning came around at 5:30 like it always does, and I was hopping out of bed to hit the gym for another round of pain and bliss (the gym). I was clear headed, energetic (though that faded fast), and ready to go. I definitely DON'T have the stamina that I had even last week, but last week's meals were all protein protein and more protein. This week's meals are protein shakes, protein shakes, and unsweetened tea. Literally.

I laughed when I tracked my 500-ish calorie deficit from my workout on Monday, and the plugged in my 400 calorie shakes and supplements that day and wound up NEGATIVE overall for my calorie allotment. My Fitness Pal quickly reprimanded me, but I just smiled at my phone and passed out.

What's interesting is catching myself at all of the times I'm typically cued for food. Like at noon today when I thought, "oh I should go to lunch soon" and then thought, "wait! Your lunch is right next to you in your blender bottle silly". I literally sat at my desk for a minute wondering what to do with myself. So I just got back to work.

Or on the drive home when I called my roommate to see what the game plan was for dinner, and if I needed to pick something up, only to realize dinner was sitting beside me in my iced tea.

This blog is making me ravenous. But if I give it about 2-3 minutes, I've noticed that feeling goes away totally. So weird.

I keep wondering what next week will be like. Will I be in too much pain to notice anything? Will I be in any pain at all? What will it feel like to get full on liquid? While I'm avoiding hunger most of the time right now, I'm certainly NOT getting full at all. What will it be like to sip my protein shakes and think "I can't possibly take another sip" because I'm full? It still confuses me.

There are so many other intensely personal questions going through my mind still, and a bunch of fears now that this is a reality and not just something I'm working towards. Like:

What's it going to be like to run a 5k instead of walking it?

How much plastic surgery will I need afterwards?

How long before I'm able to eat half normal portions?

What's it going to be like when I start chewing food again in a few weeks?

Will I be pretty?

How fast is this weight going to come off?

How long before I'm not diabetic anymore? (I've already been monitoring this, and just going uber low carb, and then liquids only, my blood sugar has already stabilized!)

What will life be like when I'm shopping in regular sections of stores, not worried about the size of a booth in a restaurant, sitting comfortably in an airplane seat, not worried about the random child's observation of my size, being the bride instead of the bridesmaid, just...living?

There's an awful lot of unknown.

I woke up this morning thinking about Shawshank Redemption. If you haven't seen it, immediately stop reading this and go buy the movie. It's that good. But the reason I was thinking about it is it feels like I've gotten my release papers from the prison of my body. Only I've been there for 32 years, so I'm really not sure what life on the outside will be like. And while that is thrilling, it's also scary.

But it was always time to "get busy living, or get busy dying".

I choose to live.

Having a Liquid Dinner

This meant something else entirely in my college years.

So, popping in for a quick update! I have a day, time, and location for my surgery! This coming Friday 4/19 at 7:30am, I will be sliced and diced at Forest Park Medical Center in Dallas. I've heard it's supposed to be one of the top 20 most beautiful hospitals in the nation, so I will be sliced and diced in style.

My pre-op diet so far has been a low cal, very low carb diet that started back on Monday. Since then, the combo of subsisting on air and attitude and workouts with Mr Jovan Johnson and Miss Erica Rivers has led me to drop 12 and 1/2 pounds already!! I've been strongly debating coming out with the exact numbers, but quite frankly I just still feel a little sad and embarrassed by the number, so for now we just celebrate the number 12 and 1/2.

How many more times can I say the word number? Lord this post should be in the department of redundancy department.

See what I did there? Pure wit even on 20 grams of carbs per day.

So, the great news is that I've finally seemed to break the carb cravings cycle. Well, that was until I started to read the latest copy of Cooking Light Magazine. Then I realized I still shouldn't be allowed within 100 yards of a grocery store just yet. The first couple of days I felt really run down. I mean like come home and head straight to bed kind of run down. That, and I was trying to remove myself from all of the temptation in the kitchen. Truly. This last week was kinda like those final scenes in Ray where he's detoxing from his heroin addiction. But by the grace of God, and one or two late night jam sessions, I made it out.

Now...the whole point of the pre-op diet is to reduce the fat collected in the patient's liver. Gross, right? But fatty livers are hard to move out of the way to get to the actual stomach to perform surgery, so my job is to be as low carb/sugar as possible, and drop as much weight as possible. Some doctors do this by putting their patients on an all liquid diet, others do this by putting them on a South Beach phase 1 diet. My surgeon is the kinder of the two.

But of course I'm not.

So, first week South Beach, and Second week (or 5 days at least) liquids for Kelly!!

Now, I have never fasted, for spiritual reasons or otherwise. So I'm nervous. Like really really nervous. But so far we've made it, and each day the surgery date gets closer. Besides, post op I'll be on all liquids for a couple of weeks anyways. Of course I'll only have 20% of my stomach left which makes it easier to fill, but until then I'll just have to have larger portions of water, broth, protein shakes, crystal light, etc.

I'm saying that, but did I mention how scared I actually am???

So, challenge 1 down, and good to go. Now challenge 2 accepted! Hoping I can lose a few more between now and Friday morning.

Time to get my liver squishy so that the rest of me isn't as much.

Down 8lbs Pre-op

That number seems to haunt me. I don't care though since this time it is about me losing 8lbs instead of gaining them. Still about 17lbs away from where I was in September at the 5k, but well on my way.

TEN DAYS 'til SURGERY!

A Tale of Two Dads

I thought about starting this out as “One was the best of Dads, one was the worst of Dads”, but I thought that might be rude. And verging on plagiarism since I have absolutely zero desire to site my source on a blog. So, Mr. Dickens you get to keep your verbiage, and I will move on. I wanted to update everyone today one some pretty big news in my world. But first, there’s some background info to catch everyone up on:

If you’ve read my previous posts, you know that last year I was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes, and my oh my how I have hated it ever since. I spent a few months working out with a personal trainer and eating a Paleo diet, only to lose about eight pounds. The food was great! The workouts were so awesome, but my body just wouldn’t let go of the fat. It had been holding on for dear life for a while. Losing weight had become harder and harder over the years as my pancreas was apparently slowly sinking away into oblivion and this wretched disease took over. I could do everything “perfectly” and the scale just giggled at me when I stepped on it.

In September of last year all of my fitness efforts were put to the test in the Addison Oktoberfest 5k. I had trained hard, I had eaten clean, my body shape had changed dramatically, I had lost all eight of those pounds, and I was ready. I strapped the number to my shirt, lined up with my friends, and power walked the heck out of that thing. In the end, I had taken 17 minutes off of my last 5k time. SEVENTEEN MINUTES! Some people run an entire 5k in that amount of time. It was spectacular. I collapsed on a bench and grinned from ear to ear (in my heart at least, I’m sure on the outside all I was doing was wheezing and gasping for breath) at what had just happened. I was so hoping to just match my previous performance, but then I beat it by seventeen minutes. Maybe I hadn’t lost a lot of weight, but that sure as heck showed that I had gotten a TON healthier.

That night I received a phone call.

Yep, it was one of those.

My step-father (who from this point on in this blog will be referred to as my Dad, because I don’t like referring to him as my step-dad, but I didn’t want to confuse anyone) had suffered a heart attack and passed away.

He was 53 years old.

He was only 53 years old.

My world crumbled. Mark was the guy, after all, that had taught me how to drive, that took me shopping for my prom dress. He was the man that laughed with me and cried with me through so many different times in the 17 years he had been my dad. He was my Dad. And now he was gone. At 53 years old.

It’s the craziest thing to lose someone. There’s so much emotion, and yet so much that’s just numb. There are a thousand little tasks, and yet nothing you want to do. It’s just a time of insanity. I was desperate to help my mother, and took on a couple of small errands for her. One was to cancel his gym membership. I called up 24 Hour Fitness and explained that Mark Snyder was my Dad, and that he had suddenly passed away last night from a heart attack, so we needed to cancel his membership. The manager was extremely kind, but also in shock when he pulled up his records. He said, “Are you sure this was Mr. Snyder at _______ address?” I confirmed the information, and he said,

“But he comes in here every single day”.  

I burst into tears, so proud of his fight to be healthier, and the manager quickly said he’d take care of everything.

The next weeks and months came and went with very little to show for them. In the midst of my grief I had stopped eating all of my grass fed, organic, grain free, pure health in a box, and had drifted back to old habits of fast food and restaurants for nearly every meal. My work outs ceased all together as the thought of getting out of bed and making it through the day seemed accomplishment enough thankyouverymuch. The eight pounds quickly re-appeared right where I had left them, and brought along their friends, four more pounds, as the scale when from giggling to groaning under my weight once again.

Before I knew it, it was December again. We had already made it through all of the October birthdays, and Thanksgiving as a family, now it was time to face Christmas. I sat alone in my living room one night wrapping presents, and I glanced up at a family portrait I have there. I’ve lost so many friends and family, and every year as the holidays grow closer, the ache in my heart grows a little more tender. All I could think though was how young Mark had been, and how active. He had been working out every single day.

Like me.

Young. Active. Working out and watching my diet. But unable to shed the fat my heart is incased in.

That day I looked at my family photo and thought, “I’m next”. It was clear. It wasn’t something I questioned. I just knew it.

I’m next.

I made a doctor’s appointment that day.  

When I went to the doctor we discussed my options. First, I was put on some oral medication to help control my diabetes, and I was given a referral to a bariatric surgeon to consult on my options. I wasn’t sure if we were going to talk pills, or fasts, or what, but I went to the surgeon’s office the next week and told him all of the issues I had with the gastric bypass surgery and lap band. We talked through them and he put my mind at ease some, but I still wasn’t sold. I didn’t think I could handle the malabsorption issues that the full bypass gives you, and I really didn’t think I was going to handle a band and all of the potential vomiting that goes hand in hand with that one. I felt like there was never going to be an option for me. But then the doctor mentioned the gastric sleeve surgery. I had thought this was nothing more than the band’s big brother, but I was entirely wrong.

With the sleeve surgery (Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy), there isn’t any kind of foreign object put into your body. No worries about a band slipping, or waiting for your fills to be enough, or hopefully not too much. It also doesn’t re-route anything. All of your connections between the stomach and the intestines are exactly as God put them together. What does happen though, is that approximately 80% of your stomach is cut out, stapled off, and removed from your body. Oh, and as an added bonus, the hunger hormone, ghrelin, is mainly produced in the part of the stomach that is removed, so post operatively most patients report not even feeling hungry. Absorption issues? No, because the intestines aren’t bypassed. Malnourishment issues? Well, Kell, that’s really up to you. This surgery controls the quantity of food you can eat, but you control the quality. No hunger? Right. Oh, and because you’re restricted by the size of your tiny baby belly now, some ridiculous percentage of our patients (like 90 something percent) see full reversal in their Type 2 Diabetes.

Wait, what?

Full Reversal.

No insulin. No shots. No blood sugar crashes. No blood sugar spikes. No stabbing my fingers every couple of hours to check my levels. No more diabetes.

And I get to lose weight? Most patients lose between 50-60% of their excess body weight in the first six months.

Sold.

During the month of March, I started back up with the exercise. I bought myself  treadmill and started walking 30 minutes per day. Thanks to my good friend insulin, I gained 12 pounds. So my blood sugar isn’t at a level that will put me in a coma or stroke, but I continue to gain weight and struggle physically, emotionally, spiritually, etc. So for the past several months I have been actively pursuing a vertical sleeve gastrectomy. I knew I was ready for it when I came to the very real point of not caring what everyone else thought about my decision, or being ruled by some kind of people pleasing co-dependency, but rather decided that this was my next step in trying to save my life. I was amazed by the amount of support I’ve received from every single person I’ve opened up to about this.

I was afraid of being shamed. I was afraid of being seen as a failure. I was afraid of looking like a hypocrite. And yet, I was met with family telling me how brave I was, friends cheering with joy, and more than one set of tears in gratitude for God’s common grace in 21^st century USA and medical miracles.

So, blog / Facebook world, I’m opening up about this new phase of my weight loss journey. And I’m thrilled. My surgery is scheduled for April 19^th (next Friday), and I am planning on documenting every single step along the way. I haven’t decided if I’m going to document in blog form, or just good old fashioned journal and pen, but one way or the other, I’m about to lose a LOT of weight, which means gaining a lot of….well….I don’t know. I’ve always been overweight.

But I’m looking forward to find out.