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.