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.  

My knees ache and I know why. I need a bigger car.

I bought a Ford Focus in 2003.  It was a great deal, and it has been a great car.  My son drives it now.  He wishes it was a Chevy Camaro.  When I turned the car over to him, I thought he’d be thrilled.  He told me the other day that it is a ‘good’ car, but he hates the body style and is a little embarrassed to drive it.  The ignorance of a parent.

The Focus was fun to drive, got decent mileage, and had fog lights.  You can’t get any cooler than fog lights.  As I grew bigger and bigger I noticed I liked the Focus less and less.  It came to the point that even the fog lights couldn’t make me happy. 

In a previous life, I would go to the convenience store every morning for a few gallons of diet cola and a donut or two.  I’d pull up in my Ford Focus and see my reflection in the window; a two-pound marshmallow in a one-pound bag.  The seat had worn flat; the driver’s side suspension was sagging.  My body filled half of the car.  The seat was still comfortable.  The leg room was great.  I was having a problem with the width room.  The space between the door and the center console had shrunk. 

When I would sit, I couldn’t comfortably cross my legs.  I couldn’t comfortably keep my knees less than three feet apart.  I looked like I was preparing to give birth to a cow.  A full-grown cow.  Oh, I know it is sexy to sit all spread out, and it is all the rage at state dinners, meeting with the Queen, etc.  But, I really didn’t like to sit with my legs splayed.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s all the mooing.

So, to fix my sprawled leg problem, I went shopping for a new car.  My only criterion was seating comfort.  That’s what I told each salesperson.

I was shopping for a new Honda.  I was sitting in a new Accord.  I liked the car, but my left knee was smashed up against door.  The center console was digging in to my right knee.  There’s forty yards of open space between my knees.  I asked the salesperson if he likes beef.

It’s no on the Honda.  Also, no on the Ford Mustang.  During my non-cow-bearing years, I’d rented a Mustang on a business trip and really liked it.  I’d test driven one a year or two after the rental and almost bought it.  At that time, my wife said no.  She went on and on about the fact that we have three kids and the back seat of the Mustang only had two seatbelts.  I really didn’t see a problem, but the law is the law.  This time around, I thought I’d try out the Mustang again.  I did.  Stripped bare and two tubes of multi-purpose grease later, I'd slid into the driver's seat and was ready for the test drive.  It was a little embarrassing driving a car naked.  I did have soft skin for a few weeks.

I searched off and on for several weeks to find a new car.  I’d call dealerships and ask them about leg room.  They’d all reply, “This here car has the best leg room of any car in its class.”  Each dealer was ready to outdo the other.  I think they were up to eight feet of leg room when I finally quit calling.

I finally settled on a Nissan Altima.  I wanted a Maxima, but it only had 7 ½ feet of leg room.  When I first sat in the Altima, I knew it was the car for me because my knees didn’t hit the console or the door.  I could comfortably give birth to twin cows while driving I-15 during rush hour.  I didn’t care if the car was built with cardboard and had a two hamster engine (one for forward, one for reverse).  This car fit me.  I could sprawl to splitting and still be comfortable.

I bought the Altima almost two years ago.

The other night I was sitting on the living room floor cross legged.  I wasn’t doing Yoga.  I was playing some mind-numbing game on my Android Pad.  The game was so completely mind-numbing that I didn’t even realize I was sitting cross legged.  When I realized what I was doing, I took deep cleansing breaths and began to meditate.

I'm amazed.  I can sit cross legged.  I can put my leg on my knee (not the same leg).  I can sit comfortably with eight inches of space between my knees (I just measured).  I don’t have to sit like I’m giving birth to someone’s yearly supply of beef.  Now I can sit like I’m birthing a smaller mammal, like a badger.

Eating In My Sleep

I'm on my back on the kitchen floor.  I’m asking my wife if I need to go to the hospital.  She says no.  I ask her again.  She says no, again.  My big toe on my right foot looks really bad.  Like I’d stuck my bare foot under the lawn mower or tried to kick an angry badger. 

I take Ambien.  It’s for insomnia.  The coolest part about Ambien is when you don’t take it; you get to stay up all night.  If I have to work all night, I don’t take Ambien.  It’s better than an energy drink, or having the neighbor’s house burn down.  New slogan, “On those nights you just don’t want to sleep, forget your Ambien.”

I went with my son on a Boy Scout overnighter.  At eleven PM, I realized I’d forgotten my Ambien.  I was about eight miles from home.  I didn’t want to bother driving home and driving back again.  Plus I was worried that the campground gate might be closed, or I’d have to deal with angry campground hosts.  To become a campground host you have to have a degree in hostility with a minor in aggression.  I wanted to be a campground host, but I made the mistake of majoring in hospitality.  After graduation, the Forest Service turned me down.  I ended up working in a hospital.

Spending the night in a tent with a thirteen year-old boy can be a lot of fun.  The fun part is when you fall asleep right after crawling in your sleeping bag and sleep the whole night.  That way you’re only conscious of what you’re doing for about ten minutes.  I was able to enjoy the whole ninety seven hours.  I went to bed at eleven, and crawled out of the tent three years later at five AM.  Really, my son isn’t bad to share a tent with.  There were minimal strange odors.  Kids don’t really mean what they say when they talk in their sleep, right?  Just to be safe, I slept with a hatchet for a few weeks.

I was determined to get off Ambien when I went in for surgery, so I didn't ask for it in the hospital.  I was loaded up on Morphine for my first twenty four hours.  I didn’t sleep.  The next day I was loaded up on liquid Lortab, I didn’t sleep.  I didn’t sleep for four days.  I could get close to sleep.  We could almost hold hands, and then sleep, being the jerk that it is, would run away laughing.  So, back to the Ambien.  I’m not proud of it.  Don’t judge me.

Before surgery, I was told that my metabolism would change and that change would be a contributing factor in curing type II diabetes.  I didn’t realize how the metabolism change would affect me in other ways.

I’m just plugging along, taking my Ambien at bedtime, and sleeping.  One night I take an Ambien.  I don’t fall asleep for a few minutes, so I get up to get a drink.  It’s all a blur from there.  I fell off a stool.  My toe gets shredded so bad that the only hope is amputation.  My wife is trying to stop me from ripping off my toenail and (what I thought was) dead skin.  I vaguely remember hydrogen peroxide and bandages.

The next morning I'm limping around, hurting.  I’m ready to eat some leftover sirloin tips for breakfast.  I open the fridge, and they’re mostly gone.  I’m angry.  “Who ate my food?  Was it one of the kids?”  My son walks in and says, “You ate your food.  I came upstairs last night and you were sitting there eating them.  You told me about how you’d hurt your toe and then you visited with me for about twenty minutes.”

I'm wondering how I fit several sirloin tips inside of me?  Maybe I stuffed them in my cheeks and chewed on them through the night. And, what did I say to my son?

The next night, I take my Ambien, and wander out to the kitchen to eat a few beans from a can of pork and beans.  The next morning, I awake with this vague feeling that my wife was mad at me last night.  I think she even yelled at me.  Later that day, my wife tells me that the night before, I’d eaten the entire can of pork and beans.  When she caught me, she yelled at me and took the bowl away.  Our first fight.

A few months ago, I could put away a plate of sirloin tips and a can of pork and beans and still have room for cheesecake.  Now, my pouch (stomach) will hold about three air molecules.  How I packed away so much food without heaving is still a mystery.

And, I still don't know how I messed up my toe.  Maybe it was a badger.  Maybe he wanted my sirloin.  I don't know.

My wife and I have worked out a system.   I only take an Ambien when I’m in bed.  Right after I take it, she bolts me down with metal straps.  Then she locks all the doors and sets the motion alarm.  I guess it keeps me safe. It is inconvenient. I’m grateful for bedpans.

Seriously, I’ve cut back to a half dose of Ambien.  My wife gets very nervous if I get out of bed for any reason.  After waking up in St George a couple of times, she’s taken away the car keys.

The Last Emotional Connection

Vietnam Wall - Washington DC

November 2003

I’m wearing the pants I wore on a trip to Washington DC back in 2003. At least I think they’re the same pants.  They look the same as what's in the photo. I’m going to say they are.  I wore them on a trip to DC with my younger brother. He was interviewing for medical school. I was there to annoy him and split the costs. He’s now a PharmD, and I’m still annoying.

It was on that trip that we crashed the rental car. We needed a rental car so we could pay the $10/day fee to let it sit in the hotel garage while we used the subway. Driving in thick traffic from the Baltimore airport to our luxurious Day’s Inn near Embassy Circle, a Pakistani man turned right into our lane and our car. We were very lucky. We were lucky we weren’t hurt, which is pretty hard to do when you’re hit in the fender by a car going ½ mile per hour. We were also lucky because the man didn’t speak English, didn’t have a driver’s license, and the car he was driving was borrowed from a friend. I'm fairly certain he didn't have insurance either. Somehow we managed to exchange information. I notified the rental car company. When we drove the car back to the rental lot at the end of our trip, the lot attendant told us we shouldn’t have bothered reporting it. He said, “It’s barely noticeable,” as he smeared some dirt over the dent. I appreciated his dedication to customer service.  A month or so later the rental car company called to tell me that I wasn’t liable for the accident. Accident? What accident?

I’m sorry to reminisce over old clothes again. I really don’t have this emotional co-dependency with clothing. My wife left several boxes and bags of my old clothes on the porch for the Multiple Sclerosis Society to pick up this morning. It really didn't bother me.  It only took my son, my wife, and the two drivers of the MS truck to pry me free of a box of old clothes. I was sobbing and screaming, “How can you do this to me?!?!” My son went inside the house; my wife followed and shut the door behind her. The MS drivers hopped in their truck and left me sitting there, alone, without my memories. Does anyone know what happens to clothes collected by the MS Soceity?

I’m down to my last pair of saved jeans. The Washington DC jeans. The ones I’m wearing today. I guess I’ll have to start hitting the thrift stores again.

No You're Not, You're Fat!

WARNING: This blog post is full of whining, self-loathing, and self-justification, as well as my opinion on breast implants. Also, I frequently use the words, “Skinny,” and “Fat.” Read at your own risk.

A couple of years ago, I was teaching a bunch of eight year-olds in church. I was joking with them about how I am such a skinny, fit person. One kid looked at me through squinted eyes, and said, “No you’re not. You’re fat!!” The brutal honesty of a child.

A neighbor stopped by one day to borrow something. I was riding our exercise bike. I stopped my workout and answered the door. I apologized for being sweaty and explained that I was in the middle of riding. He looked me up and down and said, “You need to keep riding.”

A while ago, my office was about as far as it could be from the printer. I was printing a lot of documents, and I was making routine trips to the printer. I told my manager that I was getting a lot of exercise going back and forth. He mumbled under his breath, “Yeah, you NEED the exercise.”

I ran into an old friend that I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. After exchanging pleasantries, he said, “You really need to do something… You’re huge!”

I have empathy for anyone who’s struggled with their weight. I’m not talking about the people who can exercise an extra minute a day to burn off those few pounds they gained over Christmas. I love you people, but you make me sick. It isn’t fair. It really isn’t. For those of you who say, “But life isn’t fair!” I say, “SHUT UP!” Life is never unfair in ways that I want it. For example, life should be unfair to celebrities, and Engineers should be Rock Stars. I should be able to demonstrate a simple asynchronous transfer protocol on stage and people should pay $200 per person to see it. I’m married, so I’d prefer if you women don’t throw underwear.

I look at photos of me when I was younger, really younger. My kindergarten photo shows this skinny kid. By my fifth grade photo, I look chubby. I slid in and out of chubby until I was twenty-nine. Then, I plunged head-first into the chubby barrel. I think it was bigger than a barrel, maybe an Olympic sized swimming pool. Through my twenties, I worked at a warehouse. I was lifting and running and eating and my body seemed to like it. I was able to maintain a reasonable weight. During the summer before my senior year in college, I got an engineering internship. It was the best thing for my career, and the worst thing for my body. I kept eating just like I did when I was running and lifting, but now I was sitting, and sitting. My weight skyrocketed over the summer. When I returned to school in the fall, my friends asked me if I’d swallowed a horse. I told them that I’d eaten it a bite at a time.

The next thing I know, it is fifteen years later, and I’m one hundred pounds heavier.

I know how I look. I know that I’m in bad shape. I know that I have diabetes and sleep apnea and high triglycerides and borderline high cholesterol. I know that I’d rather sit or lie down rather than go for a walk or play with my kids. I know that I hate going out in public because of what people think. OK, not so much what they think, but what they’ll say or how they’ll treat me. I’m not Brad. I’m not a human being. I’m the fat guy, or the very fat guy.

People will say, “What are you worried about? Nobody cares. No one notices.” Let me laugh a deep sarcastic laugh. Now I’m laughing a little more. Still laughing. Laughing. OK, I’m done. Admit it, we all do it. We judge people on their appearance. It’s wrong. We know it’s wrong. But we still do it.

I think self-esteem can be compartmentalized. I feel secure and self-assured in all aspects of my life except my appearance. I know that I can’t be myself without scaring people. I don’t have to dress up for Halloween. I open the door, and the kiddies scream and run away. I guess it doesn’t help that I’m dressed like an authentic Sumo.

I think of myself as jolly. I like to laugh. I like to make (what I think are) humorous comments about every-day situations. I’m easy-going and for the most part outgoing. I try to be the guy that introduces himself first. I worked in retail for several years, and I know how people can be rude to a waitress or a cashier or sales associate. I know that I hated being treated like that, so unless retail help is blatantly combative, I really try to be friendly to them. I generally leave good tips.

I've found that people don’t want a middle-aged fat man to be friendly with them. They want the fat man to be quiet. They want the fat man to stay out of their store. They don’t want to see the fat man. They want the fat man to stay home and order everything, including toothpaste, online. That’s why the UPS driver drops the package on the doorstep, rings the bell, and sprints to his truck. Oh, he’ll tell you it’s to keep on a tight schedule. But, I know it’s so he doesn’t run the risk of having a fat man open the door

There’s a big philosophical divide between the fats and skinnys. The skinnys think, “Why don’t you just lose weight. Go on a diet and exercise.” The fats are thinking, “Why don’t you just shut up and let me enjoy this cheesecake!”

When I attended my first seminar at RMAP, they talked about the contributing factors to overall body weight. Diet and exercise (or the lack thereof) is only one contributing factor to obesity. There are other factors such as genetics, body type, and hormone production. They’re finding that obese people produce more “hunger” hormones. Obese people are literally fighting against their body. Not only to lose weight, but to even maintain their current weight. Eventually the body wins.

People will say, “If you’re really committed and if you really want to make a change, you can do it.” I agree. I was completely committed to several diets. I swore several blood oaths that this time; I would stick to a diet and exercise and get back in shape. So, why did I end up at 304.7 pounds before I let a doctor cut up my organs?

I relate it to being shot with an arrow, in the leg, in the middle of the wilderness. It hurts. It really, really hurts. And I can see the arrow and I think if I pull it out I will feel better. People are telling me just leave it alone and they’ll get me out of this wilderness and to a doctor. So, I know I’ll be better off waiting for the doctor to treat me, but when I look at the arrow I think, if I pull it out now I’ll be able to relieve a lot of pain.

Diet and exercise are like waiting to see the Doctor, and food is like the arrow in your leg. You can always see food. You see it on TV, on billboards, when the good-hearted office worker brings in donuts, or when you stand at the front counter of the Burger King.  You want to pull the arrow out to relieve the pain.  You want to eat food because a diet means physical and emotional pain.  Eventually the emotional cravings and the physical hunger are so painful that you want to pull the arrow out. Pull it out RIGHT NOW! Finally you pull out the arrow, and you eat it (it tastes like chicken)!

There’s an article in the Saturday, March 13, 2010 St. Petersburg Times that states, “The latest obesity statistics tell us that more than 64 percent of Americans are overweight or obese. It's also still true that 90 percent of dieting attempts fail.” The author of the article goes on to give dieting tips. The article also gives information on how to purchase the author’s book. I’m sure she wrote the dieting article out of the goodness of her heart.

So, I’m fat. I'm a fataholic. I'm a recovering fataholic. Even though I've lost about fifty pounds, my body will always want to be fat.  It is my lifelong struggle.  In some ways I feel like I cheated by having bariatric surgery. I really thought this until I received the second catheter. It hasn’t been easy with the surgery. But, the emotional food cravings and the physical hunger aren’t there. I can easily control what I eat without feeling like I’m a cat desperately clinging to the greased wall of food cravings, holding on by sheer will. The difficulty is chewing each micro-morsel of food four-hundred times. It is very painful when I don’t and food gets stuck in my throat. I’m supposed to drink sixty-four ounces of water per day. It’s hard to drink that much when every swallow is a tiny sip. Too much water going down in one swallow is very painful too. There are times that I feel weak. There are times that I feel like I have a low-grade flu.

I had the surgery to help my health, to feel better, and, let’s be honest, to look better. I used to think it was silly when women would have cosmetic surgery. Now I fully understand why they do. We have a desire to look good to others. We have that emotional desire, even when we can't physically meet it.

Khaki Slacks and Near Death Experiences

In case you forgot, I'm cleaning out my closet.

I've come across some khaki slacks that have been on a hanger for so long that there’s a horizontal perma-crease on the legs.  I bought these at a mall in Herzliya, Israel.  I flew to Israel in January, 2001 to teach a week-long engineering course.  Due to the Palestinian conflict, The US State Department had issued a travel restriction warning informing US citizens that it wasn’t safe to travel to, or within, Israel.  There were two problems with the warning.  One, I’d never been to Israel and I really, really wanted to go, and two, they were paying me a lot of money to teach the course.  Funny what we’ll do for money.  I’d never prostitute myself.  That would be wrong.  But, pay me enough and I’ll eat a bag of live rattlesnakes.  I wouldn’t eat the rattles, of course.

After delays and bad weather and missed planes, I arrive in Tel-Aviv thirty six hours later.  My bags arrived in Newark, NJ the day before.   I won’t give the name of the airline that lost my luggage, I have a bunch of frequent flier miles.  I’d hate to see them mysteriously disappear.  I'll call the airline by it's code name: "Atled."  They‘re the ones who lost my bags.  But they blame it on "Ecnarf Ria."  Because "Ecnarf Ria" was the airline that flew me from Paris to Tel-Aviv.  I’ve been to Paris a few times, each time it’s been a sprint though Charles de Gaulle airport to catch my connecting flight.  The French tourist industry should create a travel brochure that says, “While in Paris, be sure to visit the Louvre, and don’t forget to see the lovely concourses of Charles de Gaulle airport.”  Ahh, Paris.  I’ll never forget the 15 minutes we had together.

I have no clothes.  OK, I'm wearing clothes.  I'm not naked.  I wonder if people would have noticed if I was.  I do have all of my course materials because I packed them in my carry-on.  I remember hearing my wife say, “At least pack some underwear in your carry-on.” Silly wife. Of course I'm not going to pack underwear in my carry-on. My wife is right, as always. I always appreciate her helpful instructions several hours after I've disregarded them.  I'm sure I'll find some clothes in Israel.  I'm fairly certain that I'm not going to find my preferred underwear.

I finally make it to the hotel.  While I was patiently waiting at the lost luggage stand watching Israelis cut in front of me, my ride to hotel gave up and left.  So, I took a cab.  It cost $50.  I gave the driver a $10 tip.  I wanted to show my appreciation for the ear bleedingly loud, profanity laced hip-hop music that he played for the 40 minute trip. 

My company put me up at the Dan Accadia. It’s a nice hotel right on the Mediterranean. Too bad it is January.  I had some nice lonely walks on the beach.  I was informed later that an upstanding married person such as me wouldn’t want to be at the beach during summertime.  I guess there’s a one one-hundredth clothing to skin ratio.  Too bad I missed out. It's for the best though. Knowing me, my eyeballs would have exploded.

I get settled in my room and call the front desk.  I explain that the airlines have lost my luggage.  I ask if I may have a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some deodorant.  Immediately, there’s a knock on my door.  I open the door.  There’s a bellman.  He sees me and blurts out, “Oh!  You’re very big!”  I'm always flattered by such compliments.  The bellman hands me a small toiletries kit, a Dan Accadia t-shirt, and a three-pack of men’s thong underwear. I thank him.  But, I’m a terrible tourist.  I forget to give him a tip. There’s one pair of underwear missing from the three-pack. Maybe the bellman is wearing them.  Maybe it was a hint. I don’t want to know.  The t-shirt is a medium.  There's no deodorant in the toiletries kits.  There is a toothbrush.  First I use it on my teeth, then on my underarms.  Now I'll have that freshly brushed smell all day.

I’m at the company ready to teach.  The secretary gives me a promotional sweatshirt.  It's the biggest sweatshirt they have.  It barely fits, but at least it doesn’t stink.  I normally wear slacks and a dress shirt when I teach.  I’m wearing jeans and the sweatshirt.  I keep pulling it down so I don’t expose my bellybutton.  That evening the secretary calls a cab for me.  While I'm waiting, she tries to teach me some Hebrew.  She's trying to teach me how to tell the cab driver to take me to the local shopping mall.  Apparently I'm not a good student.  She finally gives up and writes it down and tells me to hand it to the cab driver. 

I arrive at the mall.  There are barriers about fifty feet from the mall entrance to keep terrorists from driving bomb-laden vehicles into the mall.  I get out of the cab and walk to the entrance.  Right inside the door is a guard with bomb detector.  He thoroughly examines my backpack.  This is pretty standard wherever I go. With all of the changes we’ve had to go through since 9-11, I don’t think we’re even close to the security measures the Israelis have to take to protect themselves.

I manage to find a pair of slacks.  The pair of slacks!  I find a shirt as well.  The slacks are too long.  Some very kind older women help me out.  There's a problem.  They speak very little English; I can’t even say “shopping mall” in Hebrew.  I speak VERY LOUD to them in English.  Of course, this is how to communicate when you’re in a foreign country.  My LOUD English doesn’t work.  What is wrong with these people?  

Seriously, I didn’t speak loud.  I didn’t want to attract terrorists.  “Hey, there’s a loud American!  If we blow him up, we get 100 points, plus the dinette set and 72 virgins.”

With the ladies' incredible patience and the use of some hand gestures I figure out that they're offering to hem my pants.  I'm grateful right up to the point that they start to measure my inseam.  I somehow communicate that I need socks.  They send me to women’s lingerie.  I find socks that fit, but they’re pink.  I stand in line with twenty women.  I didn’t think that Israel is a segregated country, but some of the stares make me wonder.

I find a Wallgreen’s-like drug store in the mall.  I find some deodorant.  From the selection, I’m guessing deodorant isn’t kosher.  I don’t know.  I’m just grateful to find some.  There is a young man at the check-out.  I ask him to call a cab for me.  I pay and leave the mall.

Just a note here about languages in Israel:  From my observation, everyone speaks Hebrew.  Since Israel is a homeland for Jews across the world, most of the citizens also speak the language of their country of birth.  And, most of the citizens under thirty speak English fluently.  I'm over thirty.  I speak broken English.

It is dark outside now.  I see a cab pull up to the side of the mall barrier.  I hop in.  The driver is an older man. I tell him, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel, Herzliya Beach, please.”  He turns and looks at me and in broken English says, “Where you want to go?”  I say, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel, Herzliya Beach.”  The driver gets on his radio, says something in Hebrew, then turns to me again and says, “Where?”  I’m starting to get a little nervous.  I’m pretty sure the cab drivers in Israel aren't homicidal, but they don’t look safe.  In a panicked voice, I say, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel!!!  Herzliya Beach!!!”   The driver starts to slowly drive down a dirt road next to the mall. I know he's going to take my money and kill me, or kill me and then take my money.  Either way, I’m dead.  I should have listened to the State Department’s warning.  Worst of all, when they find my dead body, they'll see I'm wearing dirty underwear.

Suddenly the driver hits the breaks.  Here it is. The end. I’m done.  The driver taps his fist to his head and says, “Ahhh, Dan Accadia (A-Kaw-Dee-Uh)… Dan Accadia (A-Kaw-Dee-Uh).  He makes a U-turn and drives me right to my hotel.  First I kiss the hotel sidewalk, and then I kiss the cab driver.  I’m alive!!  The fare was $5.  I give him a $50 tip and thank him profusely for not killing me.  It would have been a shame to die over saying “Kay” when I should have said “Kaw.”

A week later, I’ve finished the class.  I’m trying to fly home from Ben Gurion airport in Tel-Aviv.  The nice security people are carrying machine guns and watching me out of the corners of their eyes.  Now I have a small bag (containing my new clothes and pink socks) and my carry on.  I’m trying to be friendly.  I’m saying, “I’m certainly no terrorist.  No sir, not me.”  It doesn’t work.  I get selected for the special screening.  They’re polite, but they put my luggage through an x-ray machine.  Then they put me through an x-ray machine.  Then they interrogate me with rubber hoses in a room with strange stains on the walls and carpet.  I confess to everything, including the JFK assassination.

Seriously, they x-ray my luggage.  Then they test everything for explosives.  They put security tape on my luggage and send me to my departing gate.  They really are very polite.

Even though some of them looked scary, all of the Jewish people I got to know were very friendly.  I have nothing bad to say about their country or the culture.  It was an amazing experience.  It seems that the majority of the population aren’t what they call, "Religious Jews.”  Out of eight students, I had one religious Jew.  He wore a Yarmulke (I expected everyone to wear a Yarmulke.  I only saw a few).  We talked religion, and found that (other than the belief in Jesus Christ) our religious beliefs were remarkably similar.  On the last day of class, he took me to a legitimate kosher restaurant.  The food was good.  It was like Grandma’s Sunday dinner.  Very filling.  Great comfort food.

I’m home now.  I call "Atled." They tell me my luggage is in Tel-Aviv.  It arrived the day before I left for home.  I’m talking LOUD in English so they understand that I’m not happy.  They pass me off to "Ecnarf Ria."  They finally agree to pay for my clothing and related expenses.  They inform me that they don’t do this for everyone.  I'm honored!  I feel very lucky.  How many of their customers are fortunate enough to be delivered to Tel-Aviv and have their luggage delivered to Newark. 

It is funny how a pair of slacks can bring back such vivid memories.

PS.  I washed my underwear in the hotel sink.  I dried them with the hotel blow-dryer. I never tried the thong underwear.  However, I know they were black and they were too small to be used even as polishing rags.  By the way, the socks weren't pink.

Thrift Stores and Walk-In Closets

It was five weeks ago today that I had surgery.  I’ve lost close to 45 pounds.  I’ve gone from a 44 waist and 3x shirts to about a 40 waist and 2x and XL shirts.  I’m noticing that my face looks skinnier.  My belly looks flatter, and I can actually see my wrists and ankles.  My wrists and ankles looked like the joints on the Michelin Man.  It seems like my waist isn't shrinking in proportion to rest of my body.  The belly is just tricking me by looking flatter.  It’s like I’ve gone from fluffy to flat pancakes.  It's still the same size around.

So, with the shrinkage, I decided to clean out my clothes closet.  It was about time, I guess.  My wife and I share a walk-in closet.  We share it in the sense that we don’t share it.  She uses the space she needs.  I get what’s left over.  I don’t mind.  My wife has a lot of clothes.  She rotates through them with the same frequency as Hailey’s Comet. 

I have my share of unworn clothes too.  They’re all sitting at the far end of the clothes rod gathering dust.  There seems to be a story attached to each article.  To get rid of them would be like throwing out family photos.  They remind me of some pleasant and not-so-pleasant memories.

Other than my underwear and socks, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t wearing at least one thrift-store item.  I love thrift stores.  I like to buy gently used items.  Some the items are used so gently that the jeans only have one hole in the knee.  I treasure the shirts that are missing buttons, or have a completely unrelated button as a replacement.  It’s like the previous owner didn’t even try.  All the buttons are off-white except one. It is right in the middle and it is twice as big and is jeweled with rhinestone, silver, gold, and turquoise accents. I leave it on.  No one will notice.

Under a pile of something resembling a knot of t-shirts and sweat pants, I see a pair of jeans that I purchased at a thrift store in Jackson, WY while we were on vacation in the Grand Tetons.  I think they fit me for one millisecond after I bought them.  I think I outgrew them walking to the car.  Now, I try them on.  Yeah!  They fit again.  They remind of the trip to the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone that we took about five years ago.  We camped in the Tetons for a few days and then moved on to West Yellowstone.  The highlight of the trip was visiting the Grizzly and Wolf Discovery Center.  There we were able to experience Grizzlies and Wolves in their natural habitat, if their natural habitat is a fenced off enclosure in West Yellowstone.  We also got to see them forage for food in nature, if nature hides dead salmon in tree trunks, under logs, and behind boulders.  The most exciting part was when we visited the garbage can area.  On display are garbage cans that are supposed to be bear-proof.  To test the can’s worthiness, people put food in the garbage cans and throw them in with the bears (the garbage can, not the people).  There were several designs on display.  If I remember, most of them failed miserably.  Bear claws shred plastic.  I learned that.  I’m glad I saw this display before I started marketing my plastic bear-proof suit (two Hefty bags and a pair of moon boots).  I think they should take the garbage can’s designer, smear him with bacon grease, and put him in the can.  I would have paid double to see that (which would have been about $150 for two adults and three kids). 

I’m throwing out 3x shirts.  I’m throwing them right out of the closet and onto the bathroom floor.  You have to walk through the bathroom to get to the walk in closet, which is great for getting dressed right out of the shower, but a little inconvenient when you need a pair of socks and someone is ‘reading a book’ in the bathroom, if you get my drift.

Now I come across a really cool Hawaiian shirt that I bought at a very tidy thrift store in Manzanita, OR.  We stayed on the beach in near Manzanita for ten days.  It was the trip of a lifetime.  The thrift store was called The Hope Chest, and I was feeling pretty hopeful when I bought the shirt.  It is a 3x. It didn’t fit.  It was too small. I bought it anyway.  It’s hung in my closet for a year and a half.  I try it on now.  It still doesn't fit.  It is too big.  I’m disappointed.  I run out and buy a cheesecake.  I'll eat it all just so I can fit in this shirt again. It doesn’t help.  I figure if I really work at it, I could eat a cheesecake in three weeks.  Three weeks is too long.  I expect to be done cleaning before then.  I sadly add my Hawaiian shirt to the pile.   

More bad fitting clothes and worse stories to come...

Doctor M Has Got To Be Full Of It!

I was diagnosed with type-two diabetes probably three years after I actually caught it.  I guess you don't catch diabetes.  It's one of those nasty diseases that creep up on you. When it gets you, it's time to take things a little more seriously.  Or, you can do what I did. Ignore it and keep taking more medicine.  Life's great until they amputate a leg or a foot or a toe.  I guess losing a toe is a small price to pay. But, I never get off easy.  They'd end up amputating right below my head.

My family doctor is also my second cousin once removed or my first cousin twice removed or she used to be my cousin but a long court case ended up having me removed.  I can’t remember.  I do know two things, first, she’s younger than me, and second, she’s my mother’s first cousin.   Does this happen anywhere else but Utah?  My grandmother’s brother is having children after my grandmother's daughter already has three?

My point is: my family doctor is a relative.  I’m going to call her doctor M.  M and I grew up camping together; she with her parents and siblings, me with my grandparents.  After medical school she settled into a practice in Pleasant Grove.  When we moved to Pleasant Grove a few years ago, I looked her up.  She agreed to be our family doctor, but made it clear that even if she’s the last doctor on earth, she will never, ever give me a full physical exam!  This is wonderful news.  Because of my doctor, I haven’t had a physical in years.

Doctor M knows our family history, she knows about the drunken parties, the arson, the bank robberies, the illegitimate children…  She also knows our medical history, including the history of my brother that’s now my sister.  Worst of all, she knows that we have a history of diabetes. 

I started seeing M as a doctor about seven years ago.  I’d come in with the sniffles, or a sore throat, or the occasional catheter.  Every time I’d come in, she’d say, “We need to check you for diabetes!”  She’d say it urgently, like it was a big deal or something.  She always wanted to know if I was fasting.  Why would I fast to go see the doctor?  I don’t know… the things they teach in medical school...  Anyway, I’d always say, “No, I ate three donuts an hour ago.” 

This went on for a few years, I’d visit, she’d get all up in arms about diabetes, I tell her how I enjoyed the pre-appointment donuts and how I was planning on eating a few more after I left her office.  Then, one day she caught me off guard.  I wasn’t planning for it.  It was an early appointment.  She asked if I was fasting.  Before I could get out the donut story, she asked, “When was the last time you ate?”  I don’t know what I was thinking, but I told her the truth, “Ummm… probably around midnight.”  She was excited.  Then she told me why.  She said that I need to be without food for at least eight hours so they can test my “fasting” glucose levels. Apparently this test shows if you're diabetic.  Just like that.

She sent me over to the lab; they stole several vials of my blood.  One diabetes test requires them to take four hundred and fifty vials of my blood?  I check the phlebotomist’s reflection in the mirror.  I used to be able to watch them draw my blood, but my wife must be slipping whimpify flakes into my Wheaties.  I have to turn my head.  I whimper like a small child when I feel the prick of the needle. 

It’s about a week later.  I’m happily minding my own business insulting people on internet forums when the phone rings.  I never answer the phone.  Not because I’m lazy (HA! I’m lazy), but because the phone is never, ever for me.  The phone is for me.  It is doctor M.  She says she has bad news.  I have type-two diabetes.  I have to start on an oral medication called Metformin.  Plus I have to start eating better and exercising more.  Also, she said something about my blood having the consistency of brown gravy, and my triglycerides being the highest she's seen in her medical career. Whatever.

You know by now that I can enthusiastically dive into any new diet with vigor right up until the cheesecake arrives.  I can say no to every other vice except food.  To put it another way, I didn’t take care of myself.  The Metformin worked well controlling my blood glucose, but I had to keep increasing the dose.  After a couple of years, I was at the maximum allowable dose.  The next step was either an expensive pill or to begin insulin injections.  The injections are easy; I just pinch up a small piece of fat on my belly, stick in a needle, and push the plunger.  No big deal.  So, I had a choice.  I could sell my children into slavery, or take insulin injections.  I really do miss my kids.  Sometimes.

I’ve drawn up insulin in a syringe.  I’ve pinched up several pounds of fat (there are no small pieces of fat on me).  I am sitting.  I want to be closer to the floor when I faint.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  I take a deep breath.  I screw up my courage.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  Finally, I plunge the syringe into my belly.  I plunged the syringe in my belly about the same way I enter a cold swimming pool, one micrometer at a time.  It didn't hurt, at least not too much.  It was no big deal.  This is going to be easy.  The next time I give myself a shot, I hit a nerve.  My eyeballs explode.

When I started to consider gastric bypass surgery, doctor M told me that it would cure my diabetes in just a few days.  When I talked about gastric bypass surgery with another doctor, he said the effectiveness of bypass surgery curing type-two diabetes is remarkable.  I told myself, these doctors are full of it!!!  I can see the type-two diabetes going away months after the surgery when I've lost a lot of weight, but within days of the surgery?  No way.

When I attended the orientation at RMAP, they said that in most cases, type-two diabetes is cured within a few weeks if not few days.  I’m still thinking, no way, but I've heard it enough now that I’m getting excited thinking about not having to take Metformin and give myself shots and check my blood glucose and check my feet for sores and watch for numbness in the lower extremities and hit nerves in my belly and get new eyeballs.

They did not give me Metformin during the two days in the hospital.  They gave me small doses of fast acting insulin around mealtimes.  Very small doses.  The doctor sent me home with instructions to not take Metformin ever again.  He told me to reduce my insulin dose to one-fifth of normal.  Two days after being home, I was getting very low blood sugar due to too much insulin.  I reduced the dose to one-tenth of normal; I still had low blood sugar.  I quit insulin.  I checked my blood glucose.  It is normal.  I check it later, it is normal.  No oral medication, no insulin, normal blood sugar?   I start to think my glucometer is broken.  I check it again.  My fingers are starting to look like I've been playing ‘toss the porcupine.’  My blood glucose level is still normal.  I check my blood regularly over the next few days.  I can't believe it.  I've been cured. 

Surgery on Monday, diabetes free by Friday.  Just a few days.  Huh?  I guess they were right.


PS. As far as I know, my brother is still my brother.  I haven't seem him for a while though. Hopefully he doesn't send me a photo of himself in a nice red dress... or a bikini. Especially a bikini.  Just the thought of that makes me envision Mrs. Sasquatch at the pool.  Sorry.

Give me a plate of Refried Beans, hold the Dr. Pepper.

Late August - Early September 2011

I was learning how to enjoy, and chew, beef broth.  I was even getting a wild urge to try chicken broth.  I never had the urge to chew on pork broth.  I don’t know if they make pork broth.  For some reason pork broth just sounds wrong.  I don’t know why.  What if they made bacon broth?  If so, I would still be on a liquid diet.

I’m taking the giant leap to solid foods.  When I say solid foods, I mean foods that are more solid than broth.   I think pasty foods would be a more appropriate description.  The big treat for me is eating refried beans.  I love refried beans with some marinated chicken and sour cream with cheese and salsa all wrapped up in a nice flour tortilla with some Mexican rice.   Only I can’t have rice or tortillas because they have too many carbs.  I can have salsa and cheese and sour cream, but the goal is to get as much protein as possible into a ¼ cup serving.

Let me just pause right here and talk about my post-surgery, post-broth-and-Jello diet.  Now that my stomach has been turned into a pouch (like a kangaroo but with fewer offspring), it has the volume of a chicken egg (about ¼ cup).  The point of the surgery is to eat less and to get my body to burn fat.  My ¼ cup meals need to be high protein, low fat, and no carbs.  This will cause my body to use the stored fat and convert it to sugars to power my body and my brain.  Since my brain has been off the grid for several years, I’m only burning fat to power my body, and something is wrong, because this body is seriously underpowered.  I get winded watching other people run.

Also, the pouch isn’t good for storing water.  It’s good for passing water right on through to my small intestine.  So, I’m supposed to drink several gallons of water every day.  My water requirements are so high, I just get into the bathtub, fill ‘er up, and use a straw.  I’m both clean and hydrated, although the diarrhea is a mystery.  Maybe I need to switch from Dial to Irish Spring.

Seriously, I need to drink 64 ounces of water daily.  I am not to drink 30 minutes before and after meals.  No washing down the food.  Even the opening into my stomach is smaller, which means I have to take very small bites of food.  I’m supposed to chew the electron-sized bites into the consistency of yogurt.  Sometime I forget and the food either gets stuck, or I bring it all back up.  I’m not sure which is most uncomfortable.  Either way, my body is training me to slow down and chew my food thoroughly.  All this chewing will have my molars ground to nubs within 6 months.

I'm used to drinking all the time.  I was drinking –seriously –about 200 ounces of diet cola every day.  I know how to drink.  Oh, also, there’s no coffee, tea, tobacco, alcoholic or carbonated beverages allowed after this surgery.  Tea and Coffee, no problem.  Tobacco… well, I’ve been trying to quit wearing tobacco leaves on my head for years.  The surgery forced me to break that bad habit.  Alcohol?  Let’s just say that 30 years ago when I woke up with my head in someone's toilet and couldn’t account for the previous 6 hours, it cured me of the desire to ever drink again.  Even if I wasn’t living my religion, I don’t think alcohol and I would be very good friends.  But, the carbonated drinks?  Wow!  I had to undergo a 4-week weaning from diet Dr. Pepper and Coke Zero.  When I finally got down to one 12-ounce can per day, I stopped.   The withdrawal headaches weren’t that bad, if you enjoy sticking your head in a vise and having a sadistic neighbor crank it down.  But, less than a week after I quit, I was free of the headaches.  I’ve had migraine headaches for the past several years.  I thought they were a result of an old neck injury.  I haven’t had a migraine since quitting the diet cola.  But, I’m not perfect.  I saw a Coke Zero in a vending machine last week and I had to turn away and sing my favorite hymn.

Sorry, I intended this post to be about my giant leap from liquid food to pasty food. 

Anyway I’ve started on more solid foods.  For breakfast I’m eating cottage cheese.  I’ve never really known where cottage cheese comes from.  I try not to think about it because it tastes much better than broth and Jello.  For lunch and dinner I’m eating refried beans.  It is like a ¼ cup serving of heaven.  I really do love refried beans. 

Back Home, Eating Well

August 24 - 28

We're finally driving home. I keep looking back to see if the nurse is waving a catheter out her car window while chasing us.  I'm so glad to be out of there.  I hope I'm never in need of "medical care" again in my life.

I already feel thinner.  But, not a good thin.  I feel the thin that I feel when I've eaten a 2-week old Whopper and spend the next four days on my knees in the bathroom.

Apparently, the surgical suite is right next to the highway.  I know I've been run over by a truck. I keep lifting up my shirt to look for tire tracks.  The Dr swears I haven't been run over.  He says it is normal to feel this way.  Normal or not, I feel flatter.

My trusty 'Bass Pro Shop' t-shirt has blood stains on it.  I'm looking good.  Looking rugged.  I try to talk my wife into stopping somewhere nice.  She's in league with the nurse and the Dr.  She drives me straight home and puts me to bed.

My surgical tape (or 'steri-strips' as they're called) is not doing its job.  I'm bleeding out from behind the strips.  I put band-aids over the strips, then I put gauze over the band-aids, then I duct tape a medium sized rabbit over the gauze.  It is a good look for me.  Plus all the fur keeps my belly warm.  But, it's like putting scotch tape on the end of a fire hose; I'm still bleeding through to my prized t-shirt and onto the bed sheets, the blankets, the ceiling, and the neighbors roof.  My wife says I look like I've survived a knife fight.  I think she's right, except for the part about surviving.

Since I've been home, I've had nothing but the best beef.  It is so good, I eat it for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner.  Plus, I get to eat some great dessert.  I never thought I could chew beef broth, but I think it is just a natural reaction to the rich beefy flavor.  I sip a microliter of beef broth.  Chew it carefully.  Swallow.  I can enjoy my meals for up to twenty minutes this way.  I used to eat a rack of ribs, two cobs of corn, mashed potatoes, and a large piece of cheesecake.  I'd marinate it all with Diet Coke.  Now my meal consists of one ounce (THAT'S RIGHT, ONE OUNCE!!!) of beef broth and one ounce of sugar free Jello.

The amazing thing is, my body is full on this amount of food, but my brain isn't.  I'm lying in bed with my brain, and it is saying, "You idiot!!!  You could have eaten a whole cheesecake every night!!  What is wrong with you?  Why didn't you eat TWO Whoppers with cheese (no tomato) for every meal???  You had the opportunity to really enjoy food and you blew it!!!  You could have bathed every night in a chocolate-caramel malt while eating a whole un-sliced pizza!!  I'm so angry at you!!! Forget what the Dr said, go eat something good, RIGHT NOW! Auuuggggghhhhh!!!"

My brain is mean. It makes me cry.  The folks at RMAP told me there would be an emotional 'separation' from food during the first few weeks.  They didn't tell me my brain would try to kill me.

According to our $8 Wal-Mart bathroom scale (I will not spend more than $8 on something that has brought me nothing but bad news for the past 30 years) I weigh roughly 305 pounds.  When I get home from surgery I'm down to 293.  This is a big deal; not that I've lost 12 pounds, but that the bathroom scale will actually tell me my weight. For the past year or two when I've stepped on the scale it just gives me a big frowny face (it's a digital scale).  When I stepped on it recently, It showed a huge man on a donkey with splayed legs.  The donkey has steam coming out its ears and has 'Xs' over it's eyes.  I'm not sure what that means, but I get the impression that it's not good.  Maybe it is a built in motivational technique.  Maybe some of the old ladies from Weight Watchers sneaked in to the factory and made some 'changes.'  I guess I payed $8 to be insulted, which is still cheaper and better than several movies I've seen this year.

I really did lose about 12 pounds in the hospital. But, I think I should have lost more.  It felt like I sweated out at least 20 pounds getting the catheters.

A Big Thanks

Although at one point I fantasized about taking them out (not to dinner), I really want to thank my surgeon, Dr McKinlay at RMAP, and my nurse, Dori at St. Marks Hospital.

Dori now knows me inside and out.  She said if we ever run into each other at the store, we'll either ignore each other, or talk about baseball.  Either way, I'll be wearing a cup.

These folks really did give me top notch care.  Although I went through some miserable experiences, I never doubted their abilities to take care of me.

Thanks Doc.

Thanks Dori.

I've Had The Blessing, Now Pull The Drain

The Hospital Stay Part 3 - August 24, 2011

My dignity is gone, and so are my teeth. I completely lost my dignity during the catheterization yesterday. I lost my teeth while gnawing through the metal bed rails while getting the second catheter. I thought the first one hurt, but no, it was a just a little introductory pain. I think the nurse could have used a power drill with a large bit and not inflicted more pain this time around.

I'm not happy. I'm mad. Mad at myself for choosing this, mad at the nurse for doing her job, mad at the bed for being uncomfortable, mad at the walls because they're ugly, mad at the door because it's latch is loud, mad at the lights, mad at the ceiling, the carpet, the window, mad, mad, mad!

I'm lying there in my four-star bed and my in-laws and their neighbor walk in. My father-in-law says he's there to give me a priesthood blessing. I'm too mad to feel anything spiritual. But I don't tell him this. My father-in-law and his neighbor give me a blessing. I'm grateful for it, but I'm in such a foul mood that I really don't have much faith that it will help. My in-laws and their neighbor wish me the best and leave.

My nurse tells me if I'm really good, I can get the catheter out at 6 AM. It is 9 PM and 6 AM is about three months away. It's going to be another long night. I'm watching some program about alien invasions and viruses. I can't sleep, but I can't seem to keep my attention fully on the TV program. I do remember at one point people would start shaking all over and then their eyes would explode. I'm praying my whole body explodes. Maybe I should watch an infomercial instead.

The nurse comes in at 4 AM. She tells me that my urine looks great, like a fine white wine. I've never tasted white wine, but if it tastes like urine I don't see why people make such a fuss over it. I can actually feel my bladder working again, so I beg the nurse to take out the catheter. It's two hours early, but there's no one there to catch us. She agrees! I'm free once again, although she does say something about going and burning and blood, but I don't care. Now I'm going every five minutes. Not because I have to, but because I'm like a kid with a new toy.

I can call it coincidence, or normal recovery from anesthesia, or luck, or whatever. But, I think it was the priesthood blessing that got things working right. I appreciate my wife for calling her father. I appreciate my father-in-law rounding up another priesthood holder and giving me a blessing. I'm fortunate to be surrounded by such good people.

I'm finally asleep. It's been a long time since sleeping. Someone is poking me in the back. LEAVE ME ALONE!!! It's morning now. 7 AM. My surgeon is here, he poked me awake. He's apologizing for the bladder troubles. He says, "Sometimes it just has a hard time waking up..." I think every Dr should experience the same pain as their patient, so I jump out of bed and tackle him to the ground!! I yell, "NURSE! BRING THE CATHETER!!!" The nurse doesn't cooperate. I learn whose side she's really on. The Dr remains unharmed.

The Dr says I can go home around noon. I ask if I can go home RIGHT NOW?!?! He says, "OK, you can have an early checkout, but we don't want you to feel like we're kicking you out." Kicking me out? Oh man! I'm so excited to get home. I’ll be ready to go in five minutes. These nurses and aides know me a little too intimately now. I want to get as far away from them as possible.

My wife arrives and I'm ready to go, more than ready to go. The nurse is off talking to someone about TV studios in the other room. I need to nurse to take out my IV, my drain, and my incision staples. He's still goofing off. Now I'm bouncing on the bed and screaming, "LET ME GO!!" Finally he comes in. First he pulls out the staples. They look like wide office staples. It doesn't hurt, or maybe it does but my threshold for pain is a hundred times higher. Now comes the best part of the whole hospital stay. He's removing the drain. He unpicks the stitches around the drain incision. He disconnects the plastic toy hand grenade. He says, "Take a deep breath." I take a deep breath. He quickly pulls a thousand yards of plastic tubing out of my abdomen. I don't scream, I just start twitching and shaking violently. My eyeballs explode.

Actually, He pulls out about one foot of surgical tubing. It was one of the weirdest things I've ever felt. I imagined I was undergoing a medieval execution. I was being disemboweled before being drawn and quartered.

He puts surgical tape over my incisions and gives me instructions to leave them alone and they'll come off "naturally" in about three weeks. They'll end up coming off much, much sooner.

Now I’m in a wheelchair, the nurse’s aide is pushing me toward the elevator. She's an average-sized woman. I'm still a pretty big boy. I know I can walk, but it's "policy" to be wheeled to the car. I feel a little embarrassed. I wish I was still wearing my bloody hospital gown. Then I’d look like I deserve a ride in a wheelchair. Instead, I’m wearing a ‘Bass Pro-Shop’ t-shirt, shorts, and sandals. I look homeless. I’ve felt homeless for a couple of days.

Now I’m in the car and we’re headed home.

I get to go home today... maybe

The Hospital Stay Part 2 - August 23, 2011

I’m still catheterized.  My nurse is impressed with my urine production.  I guess she has to be a fan of something.  I’d think she’d be more impressed with figure skating, or wrestling, or even NASCAR.  From the way she comes in and checks on it, you’d think I was producing gold.

They brought me breakfast this morning.  I don’t know why people complain about hospital food, my breakfast was awesome!  They gave me an ounce of beef broth and one ounce of sugar free Jello.  To make it even better, it wasn’t called Jello, it was called gelatin surprise or something similar.  My biggest surprise is that it didn’t have shredded carrots.

Yesterday, my wife brought me my laptop, my iPod, my cell phone, a big screen HD TV, a Dolby surround sound home theater, and 120 blu-ray discs.  All of the stuff just sits there unused.  All I can do is nothing.  I just lay there like a slug.  I leave a trail of slime whenever I move.

Actually, I’ve been able to get up, drag my IV stand around, and do a few laps around the nurses’ station.  My hospital gown is blood stained.  My wife wants me to change into a clean gown, but I think the blood looks pretty cool.  If anyone asks, I put on my most serious expression and tell them the blood is from gunshot wounds.  Then I tell them about the miracle surgery and how the Doctor saved my life.  This story seems to cheer them up.

Speaking of cheering up, the Doctor said I can be released at 6 PM today.  I’m really looking forward to getting the staples out of my incisions, and the drain out of my side.  The drain is more uncomfortable than the catheter (which is saying a lot).

Just before lunchtime, the nurse comes in removes my catheter.  Ahhhhhh sweet relief.  At this point, I don’t care about the humiliation, I’m just glad to be free.  No more collection bag by the side of my bed.  I feel bad for the nurse though.  Either she’s going to have to catheterize someone else or pick up a new hobby. 

My lunch was terrific; the chefs in the hospital kitchen really went overboard to please me.  This time they give me an ounce of beef broth and one ounce of different colored Jello… um… gelatin surprise.

Shortly after lunch, the nurse walks in and takes away my Morphine.  Just like that.  Morphine was such a good friend.  I knew how to push its button; it knew how to relieve my pain.  Parting is such sweet sorrow.  But, I think it for the best.  A co-dependent relationship developing and I’m just not at a point in my life where I want that.  The nurse is going to start giving me liquid Lortab.  One dose of liquid Lortab is essentially a meal for me.  I like it though; it gives me an excuse to skip dinner (an ounce of beef broth and an ounce of gelatin surprise).

At this point, I don’t care what they do.  I’m going home in a few hours.  Then I’ll sleep for three days in my own comfortable bed.  There’s just a minor problem… I still can’t go.  Since they removed the catheter, I still haven’t been able to go on my own.  I’m not concerned; my total fluid intake for the day so far is two ounces of broth.  How could I go?  There’s nothing in there.

My wife is here to take me home!  She’s rounding up the nurse to do what he needs to do so I can be released.  Stupid nurse.  He insists that I NEED to “go” before I can go.  I can’t go, I’m empty, right?  No, I’m not empty because I’VE HAD THE STUPID IV DRIPPING FLUID INTO MY BODY ALL DAY!

I’m in the bathroom begging my bladder to please wake up.  I feel like I’m in a movie where the main character has died, and I’m holding him saying, “Please, please wake up.  Please.”  My bladder is being a jerk!  Finally from just the pressure of an extremely full bladder I’m able to get out about three drops.  And that’s it.  It won’t work, I can’t make it work, which means that I can’t go home and I’m going to be stuck in the hospital forever living off of beef broth and gelatin and I’m going to get so sick of it all that I’m going to start raiding the other patients rooms and possibly have to turn to cannibalism to survive!!!

I’m pretty depressed because cannibalism really isn’t my thing.  It may work for others, but I’ve never really been able to get into it.  But, I soon realize I had life pretty good.  In walks the nurse, she’s got a package in her hand.  Inside the package is……….. Auuuuuggggghhhhhhh!!! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!  

The nurse is here to give me another catheter.