Entomologists and Fried Shrimp

2008 – Palm Springs

I’m asking my wife to buy a gun.  She refuses.  She won't leave me even though I’ve repeatedly asked her to go away.  I’m not trying to be mean, I just want to die as quickly and peacefully as possible.  Every time I start to see the white light and hear dead relatives beckoning me home, she asks, “Brad… are you OK?”  Coming back from the brink, I shake my head and say, “Urrggghhh.” 

I’m hanging on the porch rail outside of the Mikado Japanese Steakhouse.  I’m trying to look inconspicuous as the other diners pass by.  I’m showing an intense interest in the wood rail.  I look like an Entomologist trying to discover a new species of termite.  I’m cold and sweaty and my stomach is trying to crawl out of my abdomen.  I’d go to an emergency room, but that would require me to move my body.  I’d rather die. 

Just an hour before, I was living it up.  The Teppanyaki chef was flinging fried shrimp across the room and I was catching it in my mouth.  I’d move farther and farther away and still catch it.  I don’t mess around when food is flung in my direction.  It was a good meal.  By the end of it, I knew it would be my last moments alive.

I've been allergic to weird stuff in my life: things like latex paint, broccoli, almonds, and… mushrooms.  My death was blamed on the three hundred pounds of mushrooms I ate that night.

I knew I was allergic to mushrooms, but these were tiny mushrooms, very tiny mushrooms.  Eating 1000 of these mushrooms would be equal to one regular store-bought mushroom.  I only ate 800.  Now I realize that it was a plot by the chef to kill me.  I missed one of the flung fried shrimp and it ended up on the floor.  I wasted food.  He was getting his revenge.

A few months ago I ate some soup.  After several bites (or swallows…) I realized it had mushrooms in it.  I stopped eating and called the local funeral home.  After I’d planned my funeral, I realized that I was still alive.  No pain, no hanging on the rails, no begging my wife to leave me alone.  A month or so ago, I ate some almonds.  I’d already performed a tracheotomy on myself so I could breathe when my throat swelled shut.  A while later I called for my wife, “Hey Honey!  Come in here and sew up this hole in my throat.  It turns out I don’t need it!”

I've been eating mushrooms and almonds since without any problems.  I’m going to drink some latex paint later just to check.  I still haven’t eaten broccoli.  I think I’ll keep claiming that allergy.  Why would I want to eat broccoli anyway? 

The allergies disappeared after my surgery.  I asked my surgeon if that was common.  He looked at me like I was violating the 1-year-with-no-alcohol rule.  I guess it isn’t common.  Common or not, I think it is pretty cool.

The weight loss is turning out to be a small part of the benefit of this surgery.  My Diabetes is gone, my sleep apnea is gone, my allergies are gone, and my hair is gone (not the result of surgery, but I thought I’d mention it).  I feel younger than I did 10 years ago.  I can ride a bike again without my dangling gut causing back spasms, although I’ll probably get hit by a car on my first bike ride outside my neighborhood.  

It’s good.  It’s all good.

Bug Splats and Cat Treats

I think the honeymoon is over.  For six wonderful months, I did not crave food.  I guess I still don’t crave food, but put a chocolate cake, zinger, chip, candy bar, milk, coated eyeball in front of me and I want to eat it.  Sorry Nancy, it’s not easy to “just say no.”  The world revolves around chocolate.  I’m going to poke my eyes out.  

I’ve been stuck in the mud for a while.  The weight used to pour off of me.  I’d stand on the scale and watch the numbers turn backward; the excess weight pouring onto the floor and down the drain. Then, I hit 235 pounds.  Hit it with a nice juicy splat like a bug hitting a windshield.  Guts all over the scale.  It took me forever (eternity + one day) to get from 235 to 230.  Now I’m stuck at 230.  The chocolate doesn’t help.  Neither does the Ambien-fueled raids on the pantry at 2 AM. 

Some days I’m at 228.  I think I even tricked the scale into saying 225 one morning.  But, like a homing pigeon, my body always comes back to 230.

Amazingly, I can eat less than one pound of food and gain three pounds overnight.  I think it’s our cats’ fault.  They’re stuffing my mouth with cat treats and saying, “chew on these big-boy and tell me if they taste like treats!!”  We have picky cats.

My body has chosen to lose weight everywhere that I don’t want it to.  It thinks it’s hilarious.  Its constant laughing keeps me awake.  I’ve lost 80 pounds everywhere but my belly.  I’ve lost in my arms and legs and my umm… bottom.  My legs are skinny enough that I can cross them in an effeminate way.  I don’t mean to.  I’m scared about it.  I cross my legs.  Twenty minutes later my legs are crossed like I’m trying to modestly wear a short skirt.  I’ll put them into a manly leg cross.  Twenty minutes later: mini-skirt.  It’s not a good look for a guy.  I don’t know.  Maybe it would look better without the high heels.

Is the great fat shedding of 2011-2012 ended?  I hope not.

Velcro Ribs and Draino

I’m at Beef O’Grady’s.  It’s next to the hotel.  I’m in the mood for ribs.  I really don’t want to drink Draino.

I still can’t eat red meat.  I chew and chew and chew and chew and chew… and chew.  It still has a hard time going down.  I feel like I’m ramming wadding down a musket.  It goes in there pretty far, and then it stops.  I don’t feel like I’m choking.  I can breathe.  When it happens I wish I couldn't.

I was in Boise a few weeks ago.  I ordered a full rack of ribs.  I knew I could only eat one or two ribs.  I wanted to take the rest back to the hotel so I could eat ribs for the rest of my stay.  The ribs arrive.  I start eating one rib.  They’re tender.  I’m chewing like a professional.  I’m chewing to win the championship. 

I finish one-half of one rib.  It tastes good.  It is sitting compactly between my wind pipe and my stomach.  It hurts.  I’m feigning interest in the football game on the big screen.  Ten minutes, twenty minutes, still stuck.  The waitress sees only a half eaten rib.  She stops by, “Is everything OK?”  Me, “I’m fine, I’m just a slow eater.”  I’m a liar too.  I decide that water is good.  I drink a couple of sips.  I sprint to the men’s room!  Where is the !@#$% men’s room?!?!?!  I’m in the stall.  The water is coming back up.  Efficient recycling.  The food is still stuck.  My constant retching reassures the other customers, “Get the ribs… retttccchhhhh… they’re really good retttccchhhhh…”

I give up.  I stumble back to my table.  A half eaten rib and a greenish man bring the waitress over.  Me, “The ribs are great. Can I get a to-go box?” They barely fit in the carton.  I pay and stagger back to my hotel.  Two hours later I drink a quart of Draino.  I don’t mind the lye burns.  I feel better.

I went to bed that night with ribs stuck next to my ribs.  I guess they finally made their way through.  I could eat the next morning.  I ate Pero and Vitamin Water.  I don’t have to chew them as much.

I’ve learned how to be a good vomiter.  I can usually get things cleaned out really quick.  The ribs were tender and tasty and made of Velcro.  Maybe my body wanted me to enjoy the ribs all evening by bringing up small pieces every few minutes.

Police and Thieves and Shoes and Dogs

I think my feet are shrinking.  I know my head has shrunk; I went to a psychiatrist.  Really, my head is smaller.  My eyeglasses fit better.  They don’t squish into the fat along my temples.  My ears are still the same size. 

I own a lot of shoes.  A lot of them are covered with dust on the floor of my closet.  I’d have the maid dust them every day, but I don’t have a maid.  The dust is giving the leather a protective shield.  I started with a good variety of colors, but now all of my shoes are grey.

I sold shoes at ZCMI for a few months.  I learned to appreciate good shoes.  I learned how to spot bad shoes.  I learned to loathe customers.

I worked at the long-gone ZCMI in downtown Salt Lake.  I once chased a woman who tried to use a stolen credit card to buy shoes.  I chased her across the store and out into the street.  I caught her in the crosswalk between ZCMI and Crossroads Mall.  I didn’t touch her, but I did lie to her.  I told her that the police and security were on their way to us.  I told her that there was going to be a big scene right here in the street, or she could follow me back into the store where she could talk to the police in the privacy of the security office.  Amazingly, she believed me.  One swift kick from her and I would have dropped like a bag of cement.  She could have easily gotten away.  

Where is the security office?

I escorted her to the security office but it was vacant.  I called security and I was told that security can’t be bothered right now because they’re trying to catch a customer with a stolen credit card.  Exasperated, I explain that I have the thief and I’m at the security office.  They explain to me that I’m not at the security office and to leave them alone because they have work to do.  Click!  The thief is patiently waiting for me.  My threats are unraveling.  Her shoes have pointed toes.  She’s going to kick me and run.  It’s going to hurt.

After repeated calls where I begged, threatened, and bribed, they finally sent one person from security to find me.  I explained to the security officer that this extremely gullible woman wearing pointed shoes what the thief they were looking for.  The security officer escorted us to the real security office.  At some point, they’d moved the security office to the basement of the building.  It would have been helpful to know that.  When we arrived at the security office there were two policeman, the woman who’d had her card stolen, and about fifty security guards.  The victim was crying and thanked me profusely for catching the thief.  The security guards looked at me like I was an idiot for not divining the location of the new office.

I never touched the thief and I didn’t get kicked, but the police did touch her.  She was handcuffed when I left the security office.

I heard later that the thief had stolen the purse of a Nordstrom’s employee in Crossroads mall.  She’d snuck into the backroom and found where the victim had stored her purse and stole it.  She’d grabbed the cash and cards and threw the purse in a garbage can.  She’d made several purchases at ZCMI before the victim noticed her purse was gone and reported the card stolen.  I saved the victim a lot of heartache.  I saved ZCMI a lot of money.

ZCMI would reward their employees for catching thieves. I think the reward was in the range of $50 to $100 depending on the circumstances.  I assumed I would at least get the minimum reward.  Months went by.  Nothing happened.  At first I was disappointed and then I forgot about it.  One day the newly appointed security manager approached me and handed me an envelope.  I was so excited!  $50!  Woohoo! I opened the envelope and found a twenty dollar bill inside.  Later that day, I stole a pair of shoes.

Anyway….

Whenever I find a good deal on good shoes, I can’t resist.  It’s a compulsion, like squeezing the toothpaste tube from the bottom or living in Utah County and voting straight Republican.

Over the years, I’ve gone from a size 12 shoe to a size 15.  Until recently, I thought my feet were growing.  They were growing, but not the bones.  As my feet got fatter, I had to get bigger shoes. Now I have a lot of size 14 and 15 shoes that, like my old clothes, are loose and floppy.

Speaking of loose and floppy, I thought I had a lot of muscle in my arms and legs.  I knew I had a big belly.  I still have a belly even though I’ve lost seventy-plus pounds.  My arms and legs have extra skin now.  It looks great.  I look like a Shar-Pei.

Eat Less, Travel More

I’m traveling this week.  I’m on a business trip.  This is my first business trip in about six years.  I love an occasional business trip.  It gets me out of the office.  I get to see exotic places.  I’ve been to Israel, India, England, Belgium, France, The Netherlands, and now Boise!  After waiting six years for business travel, my first trip is to Boise!  Boise...  In November...

One of the joys of business travel is the expense account.  I can spend quite a bit on food.  I always eat more and better than I do at home.  I don’t mean healthy better, I mean expensive better.  I have a liberal per-day amount for food.  I usually eat light during the day so I have a lot to spend on dinner.  Years ago on a trip to Boston, I had lobster for lunch and dinner.  Not the same lobster.  I had two completely separate lobsters.  I haven’t eaten a whole lobster since.  The reason I haven’t eaten a whole lobster since? Eye stalks.  Lobster tail is good.  No eye stalks on a lobster tail, unless it’s a Chernobyl lobster.  But they’re rare and expensive.

The eating extravaganza used to start at the airport and end at the airport on the return flight.  After a full day of eating, I’d usually finish it off with two quarts of Ben and Jerry’s.  I’m sure there was a daily slice or two of cheesecake in there as well.

Now things have changed.  Just a little.  When I arrived at the airport, it was time to eat.  I drank a Starbucks herbal tea instead.  When I arrived in Boise, instead of going out for dinner at a nice place, I went to a grocery store and bought some seafood salad, Greek yogurt, and sugar free Vitamin Water.  I had to purchase a plastic silverware assortment for $1.25.  I should have eaten with my hands and wiped them on the sheets. Maybe next trip.

I went to Goodwood with a co-worker last night (for the company, not the food). I ordered a high-protein meal.  Everything they serve is high protein.  When my food arrived, my old travel brain said, “humph… not very much food.”   I was able to gorge myself and eat about one-tenth of the meal.  The only time I’d leave a restaurant with a to-go box was when I was taking a third piece of cheesecake for later.  I took most of my meal back to the hotel last night.

I’m learning that the main reason I loved to travel was for the food.  Eating three meals a day at a restaurant was a thrill for me.  A big thrill.  I loved seeing the sights at some amazing places, but in the back of my mind I was always more excited about where I was going eat my next meal.  If someone said, “We can either see the Eiffel Tower or eat at this French restaurant.”  Of course I’m going to eat at the French restaurant.  I can see pictures of the Eiffel Tower on the internet.  But, if someone said, “We can either see the Eiffel Tower or eat at this Burger King.”  I’d still choose the Burger King.  I’m not stupid.  The best solution would be a compromise, “We can eat, and then get something to go, and then eat again while we’re seeing the Eiffel Tower.”  There’s always a solution.

A trip to Boise a year ago would have been thrilling.  Short flight.  Familiar area.  Recognizable food.   Now it’s all business.   I had Greek yogurt at 6 AM.  It’s afternoon now, and I’m not ready for lunch.  I’ll probably eat the rest of my seafood salad in the hotel room tonight.  I’m allotted $300 for food on this four-day trip.  I’ll end up spending less than $50.

I’m happy about this, right?  I’m happy that I’m losing weight and eating less and feeling better.  Right?  RIGHT???  I wrote about the emotional separation from food a while ago.  I thought I was over it a few days after the surgery.  I guess I’m not.

The business trip thrill is gone.  Eating is eating.  About as thrilling as sleeping, using the restroom, or watching “The View.”  But, I did fit in the airplane seat really well.

Hairy Plodder

I used to have hair.  I used to have hair growing where I wanted it.  Now it only seems to grow on my ears and in my nose.  I’d rather not talk about the huge hairy caterpillars that are my eyebrows.  I used to check the mirror to see if my hair looked good.  Now check the mirror to see if any nose hairs are hanging out.

When my Dr said one of the side effects of surgery is hair loss, I thought, “What hair?”  Does it really matter to me if I have even less hair?

I had good hair.  I thought it was good hair.  In seventh grade I quit going to barber Paul and went to an actual hair stylist.  A woman hair stylist.  I had to make an appointment and everything.  She parted my hair in the middle and feathered it back on both sides.  It was winter and I was wearing a knit cap.  When the stylist was done, I put the cap on so carefully so I wouldn’t mess up my “feathered style.”  I ran to the mirror when I got home.  I carefully removed the cap.  I was so disappointed.  My feathers were flat.

The next morning before school, I figured out how to feather my hair on my own. This was a huge accomplishment for me. I went to school nervous and excited.  I must have checked myself in the mirror a hundred times that day.  I was looking good.  Really good.

I feathered my hair for about four years, and then my favorite rock star of the time parted his hair on the side and grew it really long on top and in back.  So I did too.  Then my rock star started to bleach his hair in front.  So I did too.  I started with ‘Sun-In.’  I wasn’t getting much sun, so I tried peroxide and a blow dryer.  Within a few days, my hair had turned a beautiful golden blonde.  I’m just kidding.  My hair had turned an ugly orange/rust.  It’s the color that says, “I’m too cheap to have this done professionally, so I poured some chemicals on my hair and crossed my fingers.”

I thought I was cool.  I looked kind of like my rock star.  Kind of.  This was the mid-eighties, and the new-wave look was in style.  It was in style in ‘Somewhereville’ where rock stars pose for photographs.  In my small hometown, I fit in like a baby kangaroo in a den of Dingos.

Finally, I’d had enough. I wanted my own style.  Plus, I thought, “I’m going to do some serious damage if I keep putting chemicals on my hair.”  I’d be much better off if I let a cosmetology student do it.  The result was much better.

Toward the end of my senior year, I still had cool hair and it was falling out.  It wasn’t falling out a little bit.  It was coming out in wads. I’d run my fingers through my hair, and it was like I was petting a shedding dog.  I was thinking, “Chemical abuse has killed my hair.”  From now on, no more bleaching.  The only chemicals I’ll use are hair dyes (jet black, black with purple hues, pink, red, pink with red stripes, red with pink stripes, etc).

I returned home from an LDS mission three years after high school.  It’d been at least two years since I’d used chemicals.  I still had some hair on top, but you could see through it.  I was near comb-over land, but not quite there.  One day, my ever helpful mother pulled me aside, and after seeing that we were alone, she said in a nervous but serious tone, “Brad, I need to talk to you about something.”  I was alarmed!  Agggghhhh.  She should have had this talk with me about ten years ago.  Fortunately she didn't give me an anatomy lesson.  But, using the same serious tone, she told me that she was concerned about my hair loss.  She told me that she’d made an appointment with our family Dr to get a prescription for Rogaine.  She handed me some Rogaine coupons. I was wishing she would've given me the “other” talk.

I didn’t go to the Dr.  I didn’t use Rogaine.  I’m a disappointment to my mother.  Actually I bought a toupee.  Actually, I’m kidding.

I've kept my hair stubble-short for several years now.  I’m old and lazy and having really short hair is a convenience. Plus, I was really starting to do the comb-over.  I swear I wasn’t doing it intentionally, but I’d go to a stylist, and they’d cut it to “minimize my bald spot.”  I’d look face-on in the mirror and I’d think, “Yeah!  I’m looking great. I’m not losing that much hair.”  Then I’d see a photo of the top of my head – I belong to the head-down-photo cult – and I’d cringe.  The bald spot wasn’t minimized.  It was huge!  Worse, there were four or five wispy hairs stretched across the vast open area. So, I started buzzing my head. 

Sometimes the stubble will grow out a bit between haircuts.  I can usually get about six-weeks growth before I start to look funny… well… funnier.  Shortly after surgery I got a fresh haircut.  Afterwards, one thing led to another (I was lazy) and I let it grow longer than normal.  This is usually fine other than it takes a minute to get the comb-over just right.  But, this time my hair was thinning.  The Dr was right.  But, weirdly enough, it was only thinning in certain spots on my head.  I’d try to get a spot to perk up and it was too thin.  Another spot was normal.  Another spot seemed coarse. One spot it was sticking straight out.  I looked like I’d spent two-weeks in Chernobyl (a great place, I gave it a glowing review).  I’d wear hats.  It is hard to look dignified in a suit and a trucker hat, but I think I pulled it off.

Gratefully a neighbor sacrificed her evening at home to give me a haircut. 

The Dr said the stress on the body after surgery can cause hair loss or thinning.  I really don’t mind.  I found the toupee on a shelf in the garage.

How it is, so far...

First of all, thanks.  So many people have made nice comments about this blog.  People have also said, “You’re looking good.”  Whenever I hear this, I spin around to see who’s behind me.  There is no way someone is saying that to me.  It is kind of like when a teenager calls me sir or mister.  I think they must be talking about my Dad.  But, people actually are complementing me over my weight loss.  I really appreciate it.  I’m flattered and embarrassed at the same time.

People ask me if it has been hard or if I throw-up a lot or if the ‘dumping syndrome’ is getting me down.  Some ask if I’d do it again.

Has it been hard?  No.  It’s been easier than any other diet I’ve tried.  I don’t get hungry.  I don’t crave food.  Certain foods taste better than others, and I prefer to eat certain foods, but I don’t crave them.  This is pretty remarkable considering I’d fill my car floor with drool while waiting in the drive through for my Whopper (with cheese, no tomato).  I do feel empty from time to time, but usually some liquids or a little food will take care of it.  My only indulgence is Greek Yogurt with Honey.  It’s doctor approved so I’m going with it.

Has it been hard?  Yes.  The first six weeks were difficult.  I felt very weak.  The weight was dropping off, but I didn’t have the energy to enjoy it.  I had to stick to very soft foods.  Any meat (beef, chicken, pork, even fish), no matter how thoroughly I’d chew it, would get stuck in my throat.  You know the painful feeling you get when you take too big of a swallow?  That’s how it feels; only it’s persistent.  Sometimes it would pass into my pouch, other times it would come back up.  I’d do a sort of semi-vomit (delightful, huh?), and up would come the meat.

Do I throw-up a lot?  Compared to getting the flu once in a while, I throw-up a lot.  It is a weird experience.  I get all the classic symptoms of having to throw up (watery mouth, a need to heave on a new carpet, wedding dress, polished floor, etc.), but sometimes it is just a throat clearing experience.  It isn’t that painful.  And the results are certainly less painful than having food stuck in your throat.   I had the full blown flu-type vomiting this past weekend.  I’d just eaten some food, and five milliseconds later I had my head in the kitchen sink (It was urgent, and I couldn’t find a wedding dress).  I knew there was food in the pouch, but my body did the standard vomit contractions.  Nothing came out of the pouch.  It was the driest of dry heaves.  It went on and on and on.  My son didn’t know what was going on.  He thought I was grunting to a song on my iPod.

Dumping Syndrome happens to me from time to time, but I really haven’t had major problems with it.  I try to be really careful with the types and quantities of food that I eat.  The biggest “dumping” trigger seems to be when I drink Pero with Sweet ‘N Low.  Does anyone remember Postum?  I loved Postum.  I was heartbroken when Kraft Foods discontinued it.  I guess the Utah market wasn’t enough to sustain the brand.  So, now I drink Pero as a Postum replacement. This is pretty funny considering Pero is marketed as a Coffee replacement.  If you add enough sweetener and creamer, Pero is drinkable.  Sometimes when I drink Pero, it triggers the dumping part of the ‘Dumping Syndrome.”   If you know what I mean.

Would I do it again?  Yes.  The positives outweigh the negatives.  I no longer have type-two diabetes.  I no longer have sleep apnea.  I’ve lost sixty pounds.  I’ve gone from 3x shirts to XL shirts.  I’ve gone from a forty-six inch waist to a thirty-eight.  I’ve gone from a quadruple to a triple chin.  I’ve re-grown hair (unfortunately it is in my nose, eyebrows, and ears).

I think I’m through with the worst of it.  The hospital stay was pretty miserable.  The psychological break with my comfort foods (all foods) was difficult, but I got over it after two weeks of non-stop crying.  The overall physical weakness was hard.  I’d get winded on short walks.  Climbing stairs felt like climbing Everest without oxygen.

Now I feel pretty good.  I’m used to the foods I can eat.  I don’t eat to fill emotional needs or out of boredom.  I’m gaining strength.  Sometimes I really feel like I’ve cheated the system.  Diets are supposed to be a struggle, a sacrifice.  Other than the first few weeks of adjustment, I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing anything. 

The doctor says that I’ll lose all of my excess body weight.  He also showed me statistics of how many people keep the weight off long term.  Statistically, I’ll gain some of the weight back.  But, I hope to beat the stats and keep the new me around for a while.