In a mere 24 days I go under the knife for weight reduction surgery. Now, some of you may know of it and for others it’s news, but for me it has been a long road uphill to get there. Bariatric surgery and in particular the one I’ve chosen – the Roux-en-Y procedure – is fraught with a certain mystery and a certain sense of foreboding. But I’ve done all that I can do to prepare and, for the most part, I am ready. I have been considering it as an option for the last five years.
That, however, does not make it less scary. Anytime you submit to the scalpel of a surgeon it’s a big deal, but this for me is a really big deal. Six incisions, all kinds of tubes sticking out of you… and they prod and poke and snip and burn your guts. The leave a tiny remnant of your stomach referred to as a pouch. Your original stomach is for all intents and purposes a bag whose only function is producing acids and bile – and inserting those acids way down yonder in your intestinal tract in previously unknown territory. Yipes.
Some people have questioned my sanity in doing such a thing. For a while, I thought they were right, and I should take heed. But time progressed and my stomach seemed to expand with each passing month. I wasn’t sure what to do, Now, some people believe it’s a matter of will. If that was the case, I would have been modeling underwear long ago. And some people thing it’s a matter of laziness, but I don’t think that’s it.
I think it’s a matter of facing the fact that, at the matured and slightly pungent age of fifty-(almost)-eight, one cannot expect to be thin unless, of course, you drew that card in the lottery of life. I didn’t. And that’s a fact. Who knew that in all of this twisted universe that there was such a thing as a disordered metabolism? Not me. Not to mention my ignorance on a key and very important fact: this whole mess was caused by stress. Stress! Who the hell knew that would be a factor to determine my waist size?
It was stress that brought about most of the unfortunate changes in my life or rather my lack of ability to deal with it that caused the untimely demise of my circumference. Wish I had realized that fact a little sooner, I could have taken a pilgrimage to India and lived as an ascetic holy man living on grass instead of five years of complaining, seven years of therapy and a mountain of stretched underwear.
All that stress caused so many negatives that there was for me only one real positive course of action: do the right thing. The thing best for your body, The thing best for your mental health.
Balance the physical and the mental.
So here it comes. I’m a peace with my decision, yes, but the hard-won path is still before me. Bariatric surgery is a tool, not the end result, but the means to get there. It is a paradigm shift in the way I view myself and my relationship with food. It is, as I expect, a shock to the system and as such, I’m all for it.
Of course I’m scared, who wouldn’t be? But I’m excited too, excited that I won’t be hungry all the time, that I’ll be satisfied with being on a better footing when it comes to eating. If it doesn’t work it sure won’t be because I didn’t do my best. But I’m going to make it work so that when it comes down to it, I’ve done the right thing for myself.