"Would I Do It Again?"

According to my doctor, my surgeon, and my physical therapists, my "job" for the last twelve weeks has been all about recuperating from a full knee replacement surgery.  It's been a blur of painkillers, physical therapy and doctor appointments, and a constantly revolving schedule of exercises alternated with icing and elevating my leg.  I have had to relearn how to flex and straighten my knee, something which sounds easy unless you are the one doing the learning.

The bend in my knee a week after surgery was at 60 degrees with the therapist pushing my leg into the bend.  Ideally, getting a bend of 120-130 degrees was the goal.  On the other hand, I was minus 15 degrees from a totally straight leg, meaning my leg needed some hard lessons in straightening until it reached 0 degrees.

I am happy to say I have finally reached a constant 120 degree bend on my own (with a 125 degree bend if my PT adds some weight to it).  I have also reached zero degrees when straightening my leg,  I have come a long way, but not without the usual struggles and painstaking hard work.

I was very afraid before surgery that I would fail in my endeavor to regain full use of my leg.  I know me, and I know that I am entirely capable of shirking my duties if it involves pain.  It's called "waiting for magic to happen" and I wouldn't be honest if I didn't share with you how often I have found myself praying for magic to surround me and take my pain away.  It is so very much easier to close my eyes and pretend that something is not happening and wait for that something to change without my lifting a finger to help it along.  This strategy has worked just often enough to make it worthwhile to try again the next time I am in a difficult situation.

Fortunately, the other side of me is a hard worker that won't allow myself to fail.  I don't enjoy failure and I loathe myself when I allow failure to win over triumph.  I like to think of myself as a strong, independent person, who can face any wild beast with one cocked eyebrow and a glint of steel in my eye.  When I have had my fill of failing because magic once again did not appear to save my loathsome self, I usually drag out my shield and sword and commence kicking some ass.

Sure enough, both things happened.  The constant screeching pain whipped me into a pile of sludge that hoped I could survive this trauma without creating more agony.  I didn't want to do the exercises that everyone said I had to do, in order to be able to walk with dignity and without pain in my future.  I didn't even want to consider the consequences of ignoring the essential work of healing from major surgery.  I just wanted it to all go away magically... I even hoped that I would heal and mend and just get up and easily walk without pain one day without any effort on my part to ensure the success of my healing.

What created the change, where I began taking control of my healing, was my partner, Patty, insisting that she had faith that I would get through this, because she knew what a hard worker I am.  This and the fear of failure pushed me into doing the extremely tough work I needed to succeed.  The exercises were brutal and the pain was ever constant for the first five weeks and it certainly did not help that my remaining original knee was still bone on bone and continued to cause the excruciating pain I had become used to for the last ten years, or so.

Regardless, I donned my armor and picked up my sword and shield and I did those exercises over and over again, according to the instructions of my physical therapists and with the help of my sister, Lynnette (who lent me some courage, as well.)  I walked with a walker and I bent and straightened my new knee until progress was not only noted by my physical therapists and my family, but hope for my future walking ability had become a reality, rather than a magical dream.

Would I do it again??  Would I voluntarily allow my absolutely incredible surgeon and his quick witted assistant to surgically cut my leg open and remove my entire damaged knee joint and then hammer in a brand new titanium knee joint?  Would I face the agony of recovery again?

You bet I would!!!

Now, if you asked me that question during the first three weeks of recovery, my answer might have been a loud and resounding NO!  I was fuzzy with painkillers taken every four hours on the dot and I hadn't yet put together the final puzzle pieces that would change my answer.  In fact, it took me some weeks to put together the fact that the incredible pain I experienced when walking was doubled or tripled... maybe, quadrupled by the fact that I was trying to walk with one knee still bone on bone, while the other was traumatized by major surgery.  That, in itself, is what changed my answer.

I expect my next knee replacement surgery and recovery to be far easier than the first.  I will have my new left knee, strong and stable, to help guide me through the process.  I will have my memories of what it took to struggle through the first recovery.  I will have my trusty sword, newly sharpened, to take on those wild beasts, while my shield will be shined and buffed with the success of my previous battles.

And, I will have my partner encouraging me with her knowledge of who I am; I will have my sister, willing and able to coax me out of bed to do my exercises and walk, walk, walk, while lifting my spirits with jello; I will have both Patty and Lynnette toting my Cryo-Cuff machine back and forth, filling it with ice, and tenderly wrapping my swollen knee, while propping pillows under my leg for elevation; and I will have the incredible support of all of my family and friends, who love me and wish only the best for my future.

"Those Were The Days, My Friends!"

The last couple of months have been extraordinary for me and my family.  First, I became a great-grandmother for the first time ever.  Brooklyn is her name and she is full of sunshine.  Her mama and daddy are totally in love with their little girl, and I am filled with hope and excitement for this family's future.  Having myself come from a dysfunctional family, it is definitely good to see active parenting and the joy in their eyes when they look at this precious girl.

Second, I have started a new soon-to-be non-profit organization called The Reuben Project.  Our mission is to organize knitters, crocheters, folks who sew, and crafters with the objective being to bring new, handcrafted, warm and colorful hats and scarves to the citizens who live without the safety of a house on the streets of my city.  We believe that the giving of handmade gifts to folks who have so little will help nourish the souls of recipient and crafter alike.  This has taken a great deal of my time and The Reuben Project is still in its infancy, but it is rewarding work.**

Third, and definitely not last, I have finally reached my goal BMI for my knee replacement surgery.  My surgeon advised me that he would perform the surgery as soon as my BMI was 40.0 AND as of today, it is!  I am still obese, but I am overjoyed to tell you folks that I have now lost a total of 97 lbs.  It has not been all fun and games by any means, and I am sure that the next 83 or so pounds will not come off any easier than the last 97, but I am only 3 lbs away from hitting that magic number of 100 lbs lost.  Unbelievable.

With surgery set just 9 days away on February 15th, the abstract "someday I will be able to walk" is becoming real, along with the anticipatory panic of "I can't believe I am going to allow a man with a knife near my body."  This journey I am on is all based on trust and hopeful optimism.  I trust that I am capable of losing weight; I trust that I will be able to recuperate well through rigorous physical therapy and activity; I even trust that my surgeon is not just any man with a knife, but a skilled doctor who works exclusively with knees and has many years of applied service in the operating room.  I am hopeful that everything I am trusting will come to fruition and I will someday soon be able to take a walk around the block without hobbling in constant painful agony.

I have always said that one of the key reasons for writing this blog is to leave a memory of my journey in written words, so that I cannot forget or ignore my past.  When an abscessed tooth has you writhing in agony, that is all you can think about.  It expands its fierce hold on your mind and fills you with terror that is crippling.  But after you have visited the dentist and had the infected tooth treated with antibiotics, extraction, or crowning, you are eased into a different kind of pain that is easier to handle.  You are no longer obsessed with excruciating agony, but are instead transported to a hope-filled world of knowing it will soon be over.  Later, when you have recuperated and no longer have any pain in your mouth, you quickly forget the actual agony you just went through... it becomes intellectual, rather than visceral, and life is then worthwhile once again.

 

I am hoping that this analogy can be applied to my journey to knee replacement therapy, and that soon this constant sharp pain in my knees with be a distant memory of my past.  However, I do not ever wish to lose sight of what I have gone through to get to that place, because it is in forgetting that I become vulnerable to redoing my past mistakes.  Therefore, I need to put into words what happens when I ignore my body's needs and give in to ridiculous thinking, or as some call it, magical thinking.  

An excellent example of my ridiculous thinking would be thus:  "One Snickers a day won't hurt... it will help me forget about cigarettes."  Believe it or not, this was my mantra when I quite smoking in 1994.  I took myself straight to Costco (a big box warehouse style store) and purchased a large box of Snickers candy bars... a box that contained 48 full size bars that were only 250 calories each.  I managed to gain 90+ lbs that first year of abstaining from cigarettes.  "Why?" you ask.  Because it simply didn't stop there... one Snickers a day to stave off nicotine cravings became two, then three a day.  And, candy once again found its way into my daily diet and soon became an obsession with horrifying consequences.  Before I knew it, I was suddenly 316 lbs and could barely move at all, without huffing and puffing, and mouth breathing whenever I was forced to walk.  The pain in my knees had begun, but was not as great then, probably because I still had some cartilage, but movement was definitely a luxury.  My ridiculous, magical thinking had led me into a dangerous thicket of brambles and I was lost, unable to move without being pricked and stabbed with the sharp thorns of my faulty thinking.

There is so much I need to remember and never lose sight of.  So much that I have already begun to forget while losing this 97 lbs.  While it is important to keep a visceral image of the pain I experienced throughout this journey, it may be more important to remember that sugar and salt are my enemies when they are used without compulsion.  It doesn't take much before I am sniffing the ground to hunt down every bit of sugar and salt that I can find and indulge my taste buds with.  

Just a few months ago, I had some very yummy, luxurious, expensive caramels as a tasty treat.  Needless to say, I was soon hooked on caramels and the way they melt in your mouth with that lovely combination of sugar and salt.  I bought package after package of this particular brand of caramels and indulged more and more each day until I was needing to purchase two-three bags per week.  Because these caramels were exquisite, they were priced higher than the ordinary Kraft caramel variety, which is mostly sugar combined with a bare taste of caramel.  I knew my family couldn't bear the expense of the higher priced caramels when purchased in a large quantity, so what do you think I did?  Did I quit eating them?  Did I pare down to a reasonable number of caramels?  Certainly not.  I am nothing if not compulsive and extreme in my behavior towards food, snacks, and addictive substances. I started buying Kraft caramels.  With Kraft, I was able to up my intake of the caramels AND spend less, because they were on sale during the holidays.  At first it did not show on the scale, but by the time I was eating a third of a bag of Kraft caramels a day, my weight was already going up, and I was seriously scared that it was not just my usual water weight fluctuation.  

So the question is, how many times do I have to walk the same path, with the same results, before I figure out that path is full of shame and dangerous to my life?  Unfortunately, I suspect that I will be vulnerable to ridiculous thinking all of my life.  If one is good, two or three have to be better, right?  I am an addict and I will always be vulnerable to substance abuse.  I cannot escape that truth, but I do not have to let it take me for a ride.  It is my responsibility to concentrate and focus my energy on those things that allow me to feel good about myself.  And, as one of my tools, this blog gives me immediate access and allows me to relive these rocky days in my journey, before I am left with only an intellectual memory of my days as someone without hope of escaping the constant daily severe agony of barely walking, while hiding the shame .

**Currently, The Reuben Project can be found on Facebook under the same name, or click The Reuben Project link listed under Working for Equality and Social Justice on the right hand side of my blog.  We are always in need of supplies and materials.  If you are interested in supporting our work, you may contact me on The Reuben Project Facebook page, or visit the medusaCreations shop on Etsy, where 20% of all net profits are donated to the project.  

The Reuben Project:    https://www.facebook.com/groups/932844190131890/  

medusaCreations Shop:  https://www.etsy.com/shop/medusaCreations?ref=hdr_shop_menu

"Saboteurs are Poisonous!"

"It makes your butt look too fat!"  So said the best friend of a lovely voluptuous bride-to-be on the TV show, "Say Yes to the Dress".  The woman in the bridal gown, who had once been a pageant queen, turned pale, just a shade lighter than death.  She had been very excited about this particular gown, even commenting to the bridal consultant how well it shaped her derriere.  Beyond devastated, she silently walked back to the dressing room.

Over the next few episodes, mothers and sisters and aunts and fathers and brothers, not to mention fiances and best friends, of the brides-to-be continued to rail at what they considered to be flaws in their beloveds body.  "Your belly is huge in that dress!"  "It makes you look fat!"  "It doesn't make you look thin enough!"

What on earth would possess anyone to make such judgemental, sizest comments?  Why do we, the people who are closest to someone, feel the need to point out what we consider to be their worst features?  Just what gives us the right to cloak our judgements in statements pretending to include the obese person?  "You don't want to look like you're fat."  Really?  How do you know what I want to look like?  "You're an obese woman.  You need to figure out how to hide it."  I don't think so, friend.  Why would I waste my time on such a futile project.

I don't care if folks have opinions about my weight.  I don't care if those opinions differ from mine.  And, I certainly don't mind discussing obesity with others.  What I do mind is the constant barrage of criticism and advice that comes from well-meaning friends and family members.

"Have you thought about losing weight?"  What am I supposed to say to that question? "No, frankly, I didn't know I could lose weight.  Thank you for suggesting it."

This sort of question does not truly include me in the topic of my weight loss.  It is a presumptuous query meant to say I think you should lose weight.  I think you are too obese and I don't understand why you don't do something about it.  It focuses on your opinion of my weight and sends the signal that losing weight is the most important thing to do.  It does not share your anxiety over my weight or your fear of what my obesity might do to me.  

Now that is a conversation worth having.  My weight might worry you; it might give you nightmares of disease and early death; and if that is the case, you are welcome to discuss it with me in a loving, non-judgemental manner.  I will listen to your concerns and I may sympathize with you; but I will not allow you to make me feel as if my obesity is ugly, or disgusting, or something I should hide.

I think another important question to look at is, why does fat allow you to intrude on my personal life?  Would you intrude on the weight of my thinner sisters?  "Angie, I really think you should plump up.  You have no cushion in your butt."  Would you accompany your sister or best friend to a bridal gown consultation and reject dress after dress because it showed off her curves perfectly?  Of course not.  And, why is that?  This is the question everyone should ask themselves.  Why is it okay for a woman who weighs 125 lbs to look sexy and radiant, while a woman who weighs 275 lbs needs to be embarrassed and find a way to hide her curves?

If I want to walk up the aisle with the person of my dreams, I should be allowed to do so without fear of recrimination from the people I am closest to.  My wedding day should not be sabotaged by my well meaning friends and family, regardless of my affection for them.

My weight is not open for discussion with saboteurs.

"Why Are People So Rude to Slow Moving Turtles?"

I was born with one leg shorter than the other.  It was not very noticeable when I was younger, but as I began to age beyond the magical years of my twenties and thirties, the hitch in my step became a little more prominent to those who might happen to watch me walk.  My partner in life swears that there has always been a hitch to my walk, but I never really noticed it for what it was.  Frankly, while I was cursing my short legs for not moving as rapidly as the rest of humanity, my left leg was actually lagging behind, while my right leg took on most of the movement burden.

So when did I finally notice the difference between the height of my legs?  It was long after my obesity had become morbid and the taking of a deep breath was a luxury.  It was after my knees had become more than a minor irritation, as the arthritis began wearing away the cartilage from my joints in earnest.  It was even after I had become dependent on using a cane to help carry me from one place to another.

I was 316 lbs with a decided limp that I thought was due to the fact that I relied on a cane.  It was not until after I began to lose a substantial amount of weight for the umpteenth time in my life, that I truly took stock of the length of my left leg as opposed to my right.  As I increased my activity... no, let's be honest... as I added a previously non-existent level of activity into my life, I began to notice that the limp did not go away, and within ten years, I had concluded that my right leg was definitely longer than my left. 

Those of you who are markedly more perceptive than I, might ask, "What does this have to do with anything?  Why should I care about the difference in the length of your legs and how it causes a limp that you were too ignorant to notice for a substantial part of your life?  And, more to the point, will there be a test, because I dozed off at least two paragraphs ago?"

I would probably be smart to promise you cookies, if only you will stay and listen for just awhile longer, because there are probably half a dozen paths I could take from this point in my post and more than half a dozen reasons to even share these thoughts with you at all.

Let's talk about how it feels to be considered an obstacle to be gotten around at the quickest pace.  Everyone is in a huge hurry these days; racing their cars to reach their destination in the least amount of time; donning streamlined gear before mounting their bikes to take this ride at the fastest speed ever; hurrying to get around the slow moving person with a cane, or a wheelchair, or simply short legs, one of which is shorter than the other.

I want you to actually consider that person for just a moment.  In your rush to get to your destination by the quickest route, have you ever noticed why that turtle-person is in your way?  Have you ever thought that perhaps this particular obstacle might need more consideration than you are providing as you cut directly in front of them?

Speaking from experience, walking is a necessity that is more grueling than fun.  And, stopping abruptly causes extra pain and stress in my joints.  So, while you are getting from point A to point Z, with as few steps as possible, this slow moving turtle is mindfully concentrating on placing one foot in front of the next with the least amount of pain.  When you come from behind and skirt around me with less than two feet of space between us, I have to put on my brakes, and frankly, the clutch in this old car is useless.  As I stumble abruptly to a halt, my knees squeal with the cry of a grinding clutch gone bad. Meanwhile, you are propelling your Ferrari forward to your destination at a pace I can only dream of.

I tell you this story in this particular manner, not because I think that you are in any way complicit in this type of scenario, but because I am hoping to make an impact upon those of you who are idling your cars nearby, while this sort of thing happens.  Trust me, this scenario happens countless times each day, and while my speeding nemesis probably does not spare a second thought beyond her gratitude at winning our race, I think about it often.  

I think about it in many different ways, and from a lot of different perspectives.  Sometimes, I attribute the rashness of the action to a need to be first at everything, regardless of the consequences.  Sometimes, I am loath to admit,  I think people are just plain rude and do not truly care what happens to another as a result of their actions.  And, certainly, I have surmised that there is evil intent on the part of the people who race around me.  But mostly?  Mostly, I believe that people are so intent to hurry through life that it has become an automatic need to rush everywhere we go, and in our rush, we have a need to be first in line. 

Please don't think that we don't notice the huge rush most people accelerate into as soon as they notice that we turtle people might possibly get in their way.  And, please, don't think that we are not subject to the same human thoughts and urges that create a need to be first through the door.

Just like when I am driving on the freeway, and I see a slower moving vehicle in my lane in front of me, and I signal to make the pass before I can be slowed down.  I push the gas pedal harder, revving my engine to speed up my pass, before the person in the other car can notice my intent.  Though my countenance remains nonchalant, he usually does notice, and with a studied complacence, he will almost always attempt to rev his engine even higher than mine, so that, as we race each other down the highway, intent only on being first in line, the original objective is now missing.  There is no longer a slow moving vehicle ahead of me... simply put, there is only my adrenaline-laced need to be first. 

It would appear that I am truly no different than the woman speeding down the hall to cut in front of me before my slow moving limp causes her to slow down.  Her walk is as swift as a red Ferrari, while mine is a stuttering 1968 yellow Volkswagen Bug.  Maybe my question should really be, why am I upset by her passing me?  Is it truly just because it caused me some difficulty, or am I harboring some inkling of irritation that her walking vehicle is faster than mine?

"Have You Met Holly McFatso??"

The United States of America has some of the highest obesity rates in the world.  This is probably not news to most of you, given the numerous news programs devoted to this very issue.  As well as exploring the rise of obesity in this nation, much has been said about the probable causes, medical risks and costs, and the prevention of the disease.  I am sorta thinking that the average American citizen has at least a glimmer of knowledge regarding the epidemic proportions of obesity in this country, so I will keep the statistics on the lighter side.

More than one-third of U.S. adults are obese, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).  That is a whopping 34.9% or 78.6 million people over the age of 19 years.  The statistics for our children and adolescents between the ages of 2-19 years have, for the most part, remained stable for the last ten years.  However, the CDC places their percentage at a disturbing 17%, which is approximately 12.7 million young people affected by obesity.

My question is, with so many overweight Americans wandering around, what is up with the hostility and sheer hatred evidenced by many people towards the obese?  Social media is an especially fertile ground for bullies... not that everyone is a bully. Let's just say that anonymity is precious to the dark side of humanity.

I recently read a comment on Facebook that was posted in response to an obese woman's challenge that we consider the ramifications of racism.  Actually, the fact that this person was obese was inconsequential to what she had to say.  Yet, the response posted by one hate filled individual was, "Eat another cheeseburger, you piece of s**t."  Interestingly, while searching Facebook for that particular post again, I typed "eat another cheeseburger" into the search box.  What came up was an astounding collection of photos and videos featuring obese people, both famous and non, each of which had the same refrain posted as a response to their obesity.  "Eat another cheeseburger..."  The charming epithet that followed was interchangeably, "fat boy", "bitch", "you fat prick", "you fat grease pit", "you waste of space", "you nasty pig", etc, etc...

Seriously??  Did I miss the meeting where we all learned to use name calling as a response to anything we don't like?  Was there a memo directing folks to characterize obesity as a hideous state of otherness?  Has the standard for respectful interaction among our species been lowered while my back was turned?  Forgive me if I protest too loudly!

Not that any of this nastiness and name calling is new.  We just have a world wide forum now to express our prejudice against not only the obese, but anyone who makes us in the least bit uncomfortable.  Want a rational discussion of racism?  No, we would rather point our fingers at your fat ass and laugh at how disgusting you look.  Want to rally over a woman's right to choose what happens to her body?  I am pretty sure we can come up with a photo of a woman with triple double chins holding a pro-choice placard to take a potshot at.  "Apparently, her choice is to eat another cheeseburger to keep her body in terrific shape!"  Do you have something to say about the considerable issues facing our LGBTQ youth?  It doesn't matter... especially if you are fat.  It appears that some people might think that being fat is a choice made by masochists who love to be ridiculed until it hurts.

When I was growing up, my last name was McFadzen...  I will take a moment for that information to sink into your fertile brains.  So what was I called by the brilliant minds of my classmates and neighbor kids?...  You guessed it...  "Hey, whatcha eating, McFatso?" "You look like you ate a whole cow, Fatty McFatson!"  "Hey, look at McFatty, she's got sticky fingers. Was that candy bar good, Miss Piggy?"

I was not even close to being fat when this started in elementary school, but what does that matter?  Equating another person with obesity has always been a favorite way to crush an opponent with shame.  What I was is a breeding ground for a lifetime of obesity. I was led to believe that I was, in fact, fat.  By the time I reached puberty, it was easy to convince me, since I was an adolescent and growing in places that had once been painfully thin.  I had already been trained to believe that I was fat.  And, by my mid-teens, I was definitely "overweight" by medical standards.  The medical charts declared that a girl of my height should weigh 102-118 lbs.  At 140 lbs, I was definitely overweight.  By the time I reached my mid-twenties, I was rocking 200+ lbs.  I was obese.

At least half of my life has been lived as an obese person, while the remaining years might as well have been spent as obese.  I never quite believed that I was a "normal size" person, even after losing 90 lbs in my late twenties.  Though I suddenly had a waist and my clothing was much smaller in size, I had plateaued and never reached that ideal skinny mini size of the medical charts.  At 135 lbs, I still believed that I was fat, and therefore, undesirable.  

And, worse than that, the insidious hatred of fat people was a part of me.  I knew it was wrong, I knew it was part and parcel of my own dislike for myself, I knew that I had to crush it before it crushed me; but still, the evil thoughts were there.  I didn't voice them, at least out loud... that's how wrong I instinctively knew it was to judge a person for their size.  But, walking behind a 400+ lb person slowly riding on an electric scooter in the grocery store would bring the nasty words up in my mind... "fat lazy pig." The interesting thing was that the "fat pig" comment was always accompanied by other degrading words... stupid, lazy, ugly, dumb, creepy... as if being fat automatically made you stupid and lazy, etc.  I am not proud of this part of my history.  It took years of self examination and therapy to rid myself of the instinct to equate fat with laziness.  It also took a vast amount of time to truly look at myself as worthy of respect regardless of my size.

This world has so many conversations to have; conversations about the insidious instincts we have learned regarding those folks who are different than us in one way or another.  Conversations that will allow each of us to live free of hate... our own self hate and our hatred of others.  Some of these conversations are already happening and, because of the willingness so many have displayed to see another person's experiences as valid, we are allowing ourselves to see that we are all different in so many ways.  If we allow the voices outside of ourselves to overrule the voices in our heads, we will learn to live free of the hatred of differences and begin to see the beauty of "otherness".

Let's join the conversations being had all over the world, and if we see a conversation that has not actually begun, let's be courageous and start that topic ourselves.  Violence is perpetrated out of hatred and lack of understanding that differences are not threatening to our own set of values.  The murder and suicide of people affected by hatred is monumental.  Racism allows people to murder others by virtue of their ethnicity and skin color alone.  The danger to black and brown skinned individuals does not stop with white supremacy groups; there should be constant vigilance from all directions, including our police officers, who have shot and killed close to 200 people of minority status this year.  Transgender violence is on the rise with 20 trans murders reported in 2015.  Eighteen of these victims were women of color and seven of the deaths occurred in the last month alone.  At least 41% of transgender people report having attempted suicide at some point in their life.

Joining the all inclusive conversations regarding racism, homophobia, transphobia and transgender violence, sex trafficking, mental illness, senior discrimination, bullying and suicide, differently-abled individuals, child rape and molestation, domestic violence, and obesity, just to name a few, is truly a matter of life and death for many of our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, neighbors and acquaintances.  We have a responsibility to be aware and informed about hatred, regardless of its source.

"Against All Odds"

I had the pleasure of staffing an information booth at the PDX City Parks 5K Run at Gabriel Park in Portland, OR this last weekend.  And, I do mean it was a pleasure.  This was a great place to be reminded of who I am and why I have the goals I do.

First, let me say that I am in awe of folks who dare to participate in life at this level.  Other than running as a child, I have never had an urge to use running as a sport for the sake of just that... running.  When I was a child, I loved running bases and I adored playing Hide and Go Seek, Tag, and other playground games; and of course, as I got older, there was the Catch the Toddler game that every parent has been forced to play.  You know the one... as they dash for streets and ponds and other hideous life defying challenges, you run as fast as you can to try to catch them.  Not nearly as fun as Tag, but it does get your heart pumping at cardio level.

The folks who attended the 5K Run at Gabriel Park all had one thing in common... they wanted to be there, they wanted to run, and they wanted to cross the finish line.  I did not spot a single person there that day who looked as if they had been forced to attend the event; instead they appeared cheerful and ready.

The other thing I noticed was the variety of shapes and sizes and age groups present.  From children to adults, there were tall people and short people; small people and large people; thin people and obese people.  There were young folks and old folks, and given that the entry fee was a mere $5 bucks, I would imagine that the income levels were just as diverse, because it was affordable.

The courage on display, while not flaunted, was, nevertheless, remarkable.  I could barely walk while weighing 316 lbs, yet, here were, not one or two, but, many obese people, elderly people, and unfit people.  There were people of varying abilities throughout the spectrum of human experience.  It certainly fortified my trust and belief in the "against all odds" paradigm.

Extreme acts of courage run rampant throughout our society, yet we often do not stop and observe the immense spirit it sometimes takes to just be who we are.  Take Caitlyn Jenner, who recently was the recipient of the prestigious Arthur Ashe Courage award at this year's ESPY (Excellence in Sports Performance Yearly) ceremony.  This award is intended to honor "people whose contributions transcend sports through courageous action."  ESPN released a statement last month, saying, "This year, we are proud to honor Caitlyn Jenner embracing her identity and doing so in a public way to help move forward a constructive dialogue about progress and acceptance."  

FYI, in case my readers live inside a rolled up sock without access to gossip or news from the outside world, Caitlyn Jenner was once Bruce Jenner, the former Olympic Champion track and field athlete.  She is a lovely woman, who has not only won the Olympic Gold Medal (the highest award given to athlete's for their prowess on the field), but has now also been honored with the highest sports award for courage.  

To me, the fact that Caitlyn Jenner has fully shared herself with the world, despite criticism and controversy, is a stunning act of courage.  She has given yet another strong voice to the transgender community, opening another opportunity for understanding and the elimination of discrimination.  I will always love her for that.  

Yet, for her, the act of speaking publicly while reading from a teleprompter at the ESPY awards took a dual amount of courage; one, because of her fear around her childhood dyslexia, and two, because she is not yet happy with the pitch of her voice and she wanted people to hear what she had to say, rather than observing the pitch of her voice.  Our own inner demons are probably the worst, most poisonous voices we will ever hear.

Like Caitlyn, the obese men and women who showed up to run at the 5K event, regardless of what others might think of them; regardless of what they might look like in others eyes; and regardless of the pain they might feel in their joints, both before and after the event; these people are my heroes.  They are willing to cut through their own fears to live life to its fullest, and by doing so, they both impress and enable each of us to do the same.

  

"The Dreaded Plateau"

It's July 9th and this is the week I am supposed to schedule my knee surgery.  I have not done so yet, and I won't be able to do so anytime soon, simply because I am on a freaking plateau.  I haven't lost one pound for over a month now, which means that I have not come any closer to attaining my doctor's goal for me, which is a BMI of 40.0.  In fact, if truth be told, I have gained 10 lbs since March 24th, which has me at a BMI of 44.6.  Ouch!  (Remember that yo-yo thing we talked about last week?)  

So right now, I am 30 lbs away from my goal.  I've been trying to convince myself that it is all water weight.  My legs are certainly swollen, and have been for most of this last month.  I have also had an excessive amount of pain in my knees while walking... standing, sitting, sleeping,  Both are telltale signs that I am holding excess fluid in my body.  It is also true that I have been somewhat lax about taking my diuretic medication on a daily basis.  Given my history of long, drawn out plateaus, with a sudden drop in weight of 5-20 lbs inside a week's time, my story to myself might even be true.

But what if it's not!  What if I have truly gained this entire 10 lbs, thereby destroying the painstaking work I put into losing that 10 lbs in the first place?  What's going to prevent me from gaining the entire 85 lbs that I have lost so far?  And, more to the point, what will prevent me from gaining another 85 lbs beyond that?

I forget the terror of being unable to draw a deep breath... the pain of attempting to stand and the agony of walking even one step away from my chair.  It is all too easy to forget what life used to be like before the changes that I made to make myself more comfortable in my body.

I spent years weighing 225 lbs.  Regardless of how much weight I lost, I always returned to the 225 lb mark.  That is until I quit smoking and found myself eating my way up to 316 lbs within a year's time.  What is interesting to me is that I actually lost 85 lbs in my twenties... I went from 225 lbs to 140 lbs... and I kept that extra weight off for a number of years.  However, when I did gain weight again, I managed to return to the original 225 lbs, and then gained yet another 85 lbs for good measure.  Imagine!  I actually doubled the 85 lbs I had originally lost, and found a new high weight to settle into.

Sound familiar?  I took off 85 lbs a few years ago, and then gained 45 of them back.  Fortunately, I came to my senses before reaching 280 lbs.  But here I am, having taken off that same 45 lbs (returning to a total of 85 lbs lost) and what is happening?  Again, I ask, what will prevent me from gaining double what I have currently lost (170 lbs), and finding yet another new weight high to settle into???

I am hoping that the answer is myself, even though it hasn't felt like it lately.  I managed to lose the rhythm of my hope, excitement, and yearning for my new knees.  I forgot what it felt like before I lost 85 lbs... I forgot that my new knees are dependent upon a goal weight and BMI... I even forgot how easy it is to regain weight after losing it.

I haven't stopped myself from consuming more sodium than is healthy.  Nor have I followed my weight loss plan... I haven't written in my journal; I haven't posted to my blog; I haven't kept track of my food intake or my portions or the types of foods I am consuming.   Basically, I have not been doing anything to prevent holding the water or gaining weight.  I have not been accountable to myself or anyone else in any way, shape, or form.

So now what?  How do I get back on track?  Believe it or not, my swollen fluid filled legs are a painful reminder of what lies ahead if I totally lose control.  They are my first step in remembering what I do not want to return to.  Memory is the key, I think.  I need to remind myself of why I am on this weight loss journey.

This blog is one of my memory tools... I remember through writing about being obese.   Writing centers me and gives me a sense of purpose that I can translate into losing weight and becoming fit.  So let me be accountable to both you and me.  I will post my thoughts to this blog on a more regular basis.  Hopefully, I will pick up the rhythm of hope, excitement and yearning in the process.

"Once a Yo-Yo... Always a Yo-Yo!"

Wow... My last post was on April 1st of this year. What is that? 94 days ago???  Basically, three months since my last communication. Way too long. It appears that I have let far too many things allow me to neglect the very essence of me... my one true passion... which is writing, and most especially, writing for you!

So without further ado...

So, let's talk about yo-yos. 

You mean the little round toy on a string that Tommy Smothers, the Yo-Yo Man, swings and gyrates and manipulates to perfection? That wonderful spinning toy of tricks where you can learn to Walk the Dog or Rock the Baby or go Around the World? First invented in China... no, Greece... no, the Philippines... suffice it to say that the yo-yo has been around for a very long time, much longer than the Pedro Flores version of the 1920's, which was later purchased by Donald F. Duncan.

No, not that yo-yo, sillies. I am talking about that annoying up and down weight loss/weight gain so many of us experience throughout our lives. Some say, once a yo-yo, always a yo-yo. Sounds pretty defeatist, but there is a certain amount of truth to that statement.  Anyone who has yo-yo'd their way up and down the scales knows that the inevitability of gaining and losing weight is certainly a reality for some of us unfortunate souls. This is not to say that we are defeated before we have even started.

Call it genetics, call it environment, call it loss of self control, or hell, call it bad luck! The truth is, obesity simply happens for a myriad of reasons. I accept that I am an obese woman, with a body shape similar to my mother and grandmother and even some aunts, nieces and cousins. That speaks to both genetics and environment. 

But what about self control? I am a person with an addictive personality, who has a passion for anything that can feed her wild compulsions, thereby, giving her a reason to get up everyday. There was a time that I drank alcohol, until the blackouts took away the pain and isolation I lived within... Hello, my name is Holly and I'm an alcoholic.

Likewise, in my youth, a little drug called speed had a magical touch for making me feel alive inside my body. For twenty years, I smoked anywhere from 2-3 packs of cigarettes a day. Frankly, some of my best writing happened while I was stoned, one way or another... Hello, my name is Holly and I'm a drug addict.

I love the taste of food. I love the rich nuance of flavors and I love the aromatic sensibilities. If this was the extent of my love for food, I would be called a gourmet, a connoisseur of fine food... Hello, my name is Holly and I'm a compulsive overeater.

For many years, I lived my life replacing one addiction with another... alcohol, drugs, food, caffeine... let's not even get me started on my collection of office, art and craft supplies. Some of these addictions have been conquered to the extent that I accepted that I was powerless and worked to relieve myself of their insidious grip on my life. More importantly, I have spent countless hours in therapy and meditation and reading and writing and journaling to discover that my addictions are a melding of my mind and body, attempting to create a safe space for me to fit into. The pain and isolation of repeated abuse teaches many of us to expect nothing from life, and for me, to search diligently for a way to not exist.

So what were we talking about? Ahhh, yes, self control, or the lack thereof. There is a widespread opinion within the addiction communities that we addicts have no self-control. I agree, and yet, I disagree. I have not had a drink in the last 33 years; my addiction to illegal drugs was broken within a year or two of that; it has been 22 years since I smoked a cigarette; and my love affair with caffeine crashed to a halt sometime in the last decade.

I have great self-control once I admit I am powerless over an aspect of my life that is leading me into suicidal defeat AND make a decision to make the changes necessary to respect and love myself enough to don the armor of courage and do battle with my addiction of the moment. Don't I? This is where I disagree with the assumption that we recovering addicts lack self-control. 

Didn't I say I both agree and disagree? Well, yes, I believe I did. My agreement lies in the endless ways I am able to exchange one addiction for another; given that I have never been actually totally free of addiction and compulsion, I would venture to say that my image of my own self-control might be skewed.

What does this have to do with being a yo-yo, endlessly bouncing up and down the weight scale? You tell me. I think the answer is as individual as we all are. For me, my addiction to food allows me to be a yo-yo. We all have to eat to survive, so it is impossible to mark our calendars with the date we last took a bite of food, in the same way as we can with our last drink or cigarette. Conquering a food addiction seems to be a never ending task that works one day and not another day.

Personally, I choose to refrain from the use of the word, never! I will never go back... I will never be fat again... I will never eat anything unhealthy, ever, ever, never! To do so would make me a liar, over and over and over again. I prefer to allow myself the courtesy of one day at a time. Today, I will not take a drink. Today, I will not smoke a cigarette. Today, I will eat like a sensible person.

Yes, I am an alcoholic, a drug addict, a compulsive overeater, and a dog-gone yo-yo, but I believe in choice. We always have a choice to make sense of our lives and defeat our demons. Don't get me wrong. I need to remind myself often of this ability to choose, but the choice is always there.

"Pain Relief is a Mighty Incentive!"

I am someone who needs to weigh herself everyday.  Yes, I know the weight loss experts advice is to weigh in moderation; no more than once a week.  However, the experts one size fits all approach does not work for a person who has considerable water weight issues.  I can actually gain 20 lbs in 10 days, only to have it disappear just as quickly.  Because of this, my doctor prescribes a water loss medication that attempts to rectify the problem.

Every time I have attempted the once a week weigh in, I have been sadly disappointed.  So often, the scale paired with my water weight issue does not show me an accurate weight.  Sadly, it is not very encouraging to have your weight remain the same after a week of pinching points or counting calories... or, worse yet, go up after working all week for the reward of marking off pounds lost.  The scale becomes a symbol of everything you are not doing right, and try as you might, it is impossible to keep telling yourself that the weight loss is there, when the scale says no.

"Measure yourself, sweetie.  You lost inches."  A familiar refrain and one that is not without truth.  The scale is not and cannot be the only instrument that measures our success when attempting to lose weight.  Taking measurements at regular intervals can be a great success tool, just as feeling the fit of your ever expanding pants gives immense satisfaction.

The truth is that motivation is a little thin in times of immeasurable chasms.  The valley of obesity is not for the faint of heart, and yet... there we are.  Lost and alone in a wilderness of fat that seems to be larger and stronger than we can ever be.  It takes a mountain of courage to take that first step towards weight loss and fitness.  It also takes unending bravery to continue down the path, through the highs and lows, over the plateaus, and into the darkest forests of savage loneliness.  For, in truth, we are alone on this journey.  We must face the terror of the voices in our own brains, constantly voicing concern over our choices.

"Didn't you eat a rather large portion of baked ham yesterday?  How do you expect to lose weight when you are constantly make poor choices?" That is the voice I call my Vindictive Mother.  She is never content to just urge me to look at my choices; she has to make sure that I know what a failure I am being.  Then there is my Chicken Soup Mother.  "You might as well have a piece of pie, dear.  You deserve a little something special after such a bad week."  The Chicken Soup Mother is always there to urge a splurge, regardless of whether one is warranted or not.

My Defeatist Mother can't help but clarify how far away my goals are and just how often I have failed to reach my goals.  "You aren't going to show any weight loss this week anyway.  I don't think you are really trying."  The Defeatist Mother knows how many times you have walked this path and failed to reach your end goal.  She also knows how often you have reached that goal, only to turn around and gain your weight back, plus some.  And, she keeps those failures ever present in the back of my mind.

How many of you have named the voices in your head?  That's the first step to defeating their evil intent to destroy your success.  I have found that the best way to do battle with these voices is to armour myself with support.  Find as many kind and gentle voices as I can, people who are seriously happy and excited by my journey.  I have to reach out and open up to others about what I am doing.  Give them an opportunity to celebrate my weight loss and offer their support.  Without a doubt, if you are willing to be open and honest about your journey, the respect and happiness you meet will filter into your own being, replacing the strident voices of defeat. 

It is imperative that I follow this path of weight loss and fitness, because I have absolutely no cartilage in my knees.  I am in a state of endless and agonizing pain, where standing for any length of time past thirty seconds is beyond uncomfortable; where walking creates a grinding of bones in my knee cap and a shifting creak as the bones slip and slide against each other; and where sitting is my best option for pain relief, but even then, finding a comfortable way to ease my knees can be impossible.

I tell you all this, not for sympathy, but to explain why this journey is so important to me.  My knee doctor tells me that he would be willing to replace my knees, but not until I reach a BMI of 40%.  For me, that is somewhere in the range of 210-220 lbs.  That is a mere 17-27 lbs for me to drop off of this obese body to get to surgery.  

Considering that I have already lost 79 total pounds from my top high of 316 lbs, shouldn't this be a walk in the park to get to the goal weight?  Probably not.  Every single pound that I am able to drop represents a gritty battle against my aging metabolism, my water weight issues, and my own history of yo-yoing up and down the weight loss graph.  That doesn't mean that I won't get there, and soon, because I am determined to change these tiring, arthritic knees.  I want to walk, and dance, and play with my dog; I want to chase my grandchildren, and bicycle the Spring Water Corridor, and not give a thought to whether I can push past the pain of standing up.

My goal is to have my left knee replaced this coming September.  My hope is that I won't waver as I get closer to the surgery.

"Breathing isn't All it's Cracked Up to Be!"

Being fat can be a bit claustrophobic.  At my top weight of 316 lbs, I was rendered to a state of near inactivity.  I would get up in the morning, take a shower, and go to work, where I would basically sit at a desk all day.  A few short walks to the bathroom or break room or another office was my form of exercise.  Then, arriving home again, I would fall into my recliner and move very little for the rest of the day.  That's not to say that I didn't do anything at all... there were household errands, chauffeuring of the children in my life, and periodic moments of spontaneity. 

Unbeknownst to me at the time, my weight had reduced me to a slow chugging machine that huffed and puffed and creaked and groaned.  My parts were failing and I had one foot in the junkyard.  I have always been listed as an anatomical donor on my driver's license and I truly wanted to have my body used for the best purposes possible after my death.  However, I am pretty certain at this point, that my parts would have been useless, even at a pick and pull yard.

As I slumped in my chair and avoided getting to my feet, two things were happening.  I felt like I could not breathe when I was moving.  My throat would tighten up and my airway would choke out the breathing process.  My breathing had become very shallow and pushing more air in my lungs felt like I was being choked.  The second thing that was happening to me was the inability to walk without a great deal of pain in my knees.

I couldn't tell anyone, even my partner of twenty years at the time.  I didn't want to draw attention to myself, even though a withdrawal from household chores was probably a pretty good signal that something was wrong.  My partner would tell me that I should get up and move around, go outside, take a walk... anything to get me out of that damn recliner.  I was full of excuses.  ""Not right now. I am tired," I'd say, and I was.  Weary with inactivity and hiding the reasons why.

There are a multitude of reasons for this decline in my life.  I remember being a strong and active person in my younger years.  I carried my three year old niece on my shoulders for long walks across town to visit the library.  I hoisted 50 lb bags of this and that, carried large sheets of plywood, and moved heavy set pieces at my local community theater.  I didn't shirk when it came to loading and unloading a truck of furniture on moving day.  And, all of this activity happened at various weights between 125-210 lbs.

The first reason I would recount is that I quit smoking cigarettes after a 20 year habit of 2-3 packs a day.  Within less than a year, I gained 75 lbs by replacing the nicotine with eating candy.  When I first made the decision to allow myself one Snickers bar a day, I was proud of myself.  I was making a decisive choice to allow myself room to escape the deadliest habit in my life.  By the time I reached 225 lbs, I was not so happy with the choice, but... *shrug* what could I do?

The second thing that happened is the death of my mother in 2003.  Glioblastoma... a deadly and incurable brain tumor was the cause.  My mom had survived two other bouts of cancer in her life, breast cancer and uterine cancer.  Both times she recovered and went on to live for many years without recurrence.  I was wounded beyond belief by the brain tumor that took her out of my life. 

And that is when the serious out of control eating became insurmountable.  My days were dark and I barely put one foot in front of another, just managing to work and avoid as much personal contact as possible.  I don't know exactly how long it took, but I swiftly managed to gain another 91 lbs within a two year span of time.  Bags of potato chips, candy bars, pasta and potatoes in heaping portions, fast food... By the time I opened my eyes again to let some of the world back into my hurting heart, I was 316 lbs and utterly in despair of changing.

It was the loss of my job that started my recovery, in a way.  While I was devastated by losing contact with the outside world, I was also motivated to make some changes in my life.  This did not happen overnight, of course, but I will cut out the messy parts of a dark depression that only allowed me to stare blankly at my living room walls for hours at a time.

We can talk about my journey into sanity later.  Right now, I just want to reach out and let my readers know that I know.  Your pain is my pain.  Your loss is my loss.  We are in this life together and it is important that we support each other, regardless of conventions.  We need to see each other as real human beings who are constantly being motivated by pain and loss and injustice, as well as love and kindness and compassion.  The next time an extra large someone rolls past us on an electric scooter in the grocery store, lets remember only one thing.  Today this person needs the electric scooter and not our judgement.