Clicker!

Since I went on and on about Clicker in my last post, I thought I'd give you some more details about him. I should also probably mention that he doesn't read my blog, so I have free reign to write whatever I'd like about him. Sweet!

So, Clicker and I met off a website around April 2010 (we think - the exact date is a little fuzzy). I was attracted to his intelligence, confidence, and sweetness. He was a bit awkward in our initial phone calls, but he volunteered to drive down to meet me from Huntsville, TX. We got along great and started dating seriously after our second or third date. I had to get used to the fact that he was 2 1/2 years younger than me and he had to get used to the idea of dating a single Mom.

I think he met Zac fairly early on in our relationship. He was....how can I say this politely? A bit standoffish with Zac. He didn't want Zac getting too close to him and he didn't want to get too close to Zac. He thought the best way to avoid this was to not make any direct eye contact or indirect touching with Zac. Zac didn't care. Zac is a little like a cat. The more you try and avoid him the more he will put his butt in your face and swirl around your leg while you are trying to walk. If I don't tell you soon, remind me to tell you the story of Zac meeting the guy that helped me get my current job (and is now my parents' broker).

Anyways, back to Clicker. He knows more about cars, guns, computers, and video games than anyone I know. That doesn't sound like it would be attractive to me, but damn, being able to change my fuel pump over one hot, summer weekend is sexier than shit, even if he made me sit out there and randomly hand him tools. I'm fine with the guns as long as I don't see them and occasionally I like to quiz him during movies to tell me the manufacturer and caliber of the gun on the screen. I think he and I would make a kick ass team at Trivial Pursuit. Although he's a gun advocate, he's a liberal Democratic from a liberal family. He named himself Clicker from his time as a photojournalist with three newspapers. He takes amazing photos, which I'll post a couple of.

Basically, he's a great friend. We've been dating for about nine months and he's gotten much closer to Zac. He let Zac sit on his lap as he showed Zac how to play a car racing game on PS3. It was very sweet. Zac waits to pounce (I mean hug) him as he walks through the door and Clicker reads to him at night before I tuck Zac into bed.

Here's one of the first pictures he showed me on the website where we met:
(d'oh! No more pics of Clicker. Want to guess who asked me to take them down?)

And here are some that he took. These pictures are going to serve as my "before surgery" pictures. Clicker went with me on Zac's first day of school in August 2010 and photographed the whole drop-off:

Walking my buddy to the car. His backpack is almost as big as he is.

I'm pretty much in love with Zac's face in this picture.

That's my boy. God I love this kid and the man that took the picture.

Pre-Op Madness

I'm not sure if the word madness in the blog title refers to how disorganized the hospital was today or how I reacted to the constant waiting and general confusion. Turns out that after years of not being hormonal, I'm suddenly working like clockwork, once a month. It sucks, mostly because I can never remember how much time has elapsed between visits.

Well, it turns out that about four weeks have elapsed since my last hormonal roller coaster. I didn't realize that, of course, while I was waiting in three different waiting rooms at the fancy-schmancy hospital where I'm getting my surgery. Clicker, my boyfriend that I blogged about back in April, went with me, much to his dismay. The day started off with us arriving late to my first appointment to get an echo cardiogram and EKG. The primary reason I asked Clicker to go with me to my appointments was to help me get through the cardio tests. The last time I got an EKG, I started freaking out as soon as I laid on the hard table and the technician placed the sensors on my body. My heart rate was over 100 and I was told that I had tachycardia (Aunt Jen said that they were overreacting since a pulse rate of 100 is borderline). The technician told me to focus on calming down and left the room for a while. I meditated and got my pulse down to 80, right until the technician walked back in and my heart rate shot up to 100.

Today was a bit different, although even with Clicker there, my heart rate was still 94. We both got a great view of my heart during the echo, which was cool in its own right. Went then went one floor up, checked in with another receptionist and then waited for another 30 minutes. I was taken back alone to get an abdominal ultrasound (which involved a lot taking deep breaths and holding it, which gave me hiccups. After more undressing and putting on the world's smallest gowns, I waited in a private lounge for another 30 minutes and had a chest x-ray. Then I went back to the lounge, waited another 15 minutes, and got an upper GI exam complete with barium. The funniest part of that exam was drinking the barium, then being reclined completely on my back and being told to roll over in a complete circle. The doc said he wanted to coat my stomach. The only problem was that the examination machine was hanging just two feet from my body, so turning over and over was a bit difficult.

Almost an hour-and-a-half later, I reunite with Clicker and go up to the 22nd floor for "labs". At least that is what I was told I was getting. I was ushered into a hallway with chairs and told to wait there. I waited another 30 minutes and finally started complaining loud enough that called me back. Apparently, I was in the outpatient, walk-in clinic. Clicker and I went back to a room and waited. Then we waited some more. Finally, a nurse came in and told me that I was getting a pre-surgical evaluation by her. She got my vital signs (again) and told me to pee in a cup. While I was gone, one of her patients fell in the parking garage and had to be escorted to the ER. Clicker and I waited some more. She came back, I signed five consent forms and she said....wait for it....to wait some more. I had been fasting since midnight and had a headache. Apparently, I also had PMS. This is a combination leading to disaster. Add in over five pre-surgical procedures and five hours of wait time and I'm ready to kill someone.

Finally, I convince a woman to take my blood, although she doesn't know why she's doing it or how many vials of blood she needs to take. I get a call from the doctor's coordinator saying that I need to be medically cleared for surgery. I stared at the phone. What the hell had I been doing for the past six hours, if not getting medically cleared for surgery?

I don't understand. I'm confused and frustrated. This hospital is supposed to have a world-renowned bariatric center. All I got today was shuffled around and told they didn't have my orders for the test.

This sucks. It is most definitely, NOT the easy way out.

Conversations with My Unreasonable Expectations: Part 1

Me, sometime this summer: “Why hello there Size 8 pants! Gosh, I don’t think we’ve ever been acquainted. I’ve heard a lot about you, though, and I gotta tell you, I wasn’t sure we would even get to meet after my surgery”


Size 8 pants: “Thanks, thanks. Really, I’m a very humble number in the vast sea of department store sizes. Do you notice that you never see me while shopping? That’s because I’m so rare. I’m really like a unique snowflake when you think about it.”

Me: “Hmm…you are pants, yet you are a snowflake. That’s so deep. Please tell me more.”

Size 8 pants: “I’m brilliant and will make you brilliant by proximity to my greatness. My cousins and I can make your ass look fantastic in a pair of jeans”

Me: “Wait. I thought you were humble. I was really shooting for a size that I wouldn’t automatically make women hate me. I really only picked you because you are half of a size 16 and designers don’t make a size 9 for women”

Size 8 pants: “Well, you would know more about me if you hadn’t just skipped over me in puberty and went straight into a size 12”

Me: “*gasping* Who told you that? I think I was maybe a size 8 for a month in the 8th grade. That was a very formidable month in my development. “

Size 8 pants: “Was that before or after you got your stretch marks?”

Me: “Bitch!”

Size 8 pants: “Hate the game, not the playa:”

Me: “What does that even mean? You’re a pair of pants! The only thing you are playing with is a wedgie. You know, some people think big asses are hot. I’m told that I have meat on my bones. Size 10 complimented me just last month on it.”

Size 8 pants: “Girrrrrl, there is always a size 10 around when you need them. They are mutton chop while I am a prime rib. You have to specially request me.”

Me: “That doesn’t give you the right to insult me”

Size 8 pants: “Yes it does. Just ask all the other size 8 women. Most of them are wearing pants that are too tight because the size 8s won’t come off.”

Me: “Why did I want to do this again? *shaking my head*”

*********
Yes, in my mind, a pair of size 8s would totally talk trash about larger sizes, including her generously proportioned size 16 and 18 counterparts. I suppose that I could imagine that I would actually be more loving and kind to my smaller self, but I’m having surgery, not a complete personality dissection.

In my mind, size 8 pants would always be bitchy. My favorite part about this unreasonable expectation is that underwear are called pants in England, which gives the conversation a whole other twist. Wedgie indeed

I Heart My New Job

I just past the three-month mark at my new job in late January. Basically, all I’ve done in the past three months is read, attend lectures and presentations, attend more presentations, wonder why all variable annuity wholesales seem to be talking in code and wonder if they make sense to each other, take a licensing exam (which I passed!), and read some more. That being said, I’m in love with the freedom and benefits of my new job. It also doesn’t hurt that I’m interested in personal finance and have been exposed to many of the concepts I’m learning through my MBA course.

 

In random order, here are some of the things I heart about my new job:

•  Learning all sorts of things about the financial industry through reading The Wall Street Journal and study materials for my licensing exams. The financial nugget I learned today is regarding IRS taxation. The IRS loves symmetry. For example, you have to wait 9 months after conception of a child to claim the child as a dependent on your tax returns. Basically, anyone inutero is considered property of Mom (or more accurately, part of Mom) according to the IRS. On the other end of the life spectrum, you have 9 months after the date of someone’s death to pay their estate taxes. Estates are only taxed on property or assets AFTER your funeral costs, debt obligations, and marital and charitable deductions. Provided you aren’t married, this gives your beneficiaries a really good excuse to throw you a $20,000 funeral and spring for the mahogany casket to avoid some tax liabilities. Just saying. Your funeral could be the best party that anyone has ever thrown for you. You also might make that case for the day of your birth. There is some symmetry here.

• I work in a suburb now, so I can go to the mall or shopping centers during lunch and never worry about parking. This is such a dramatic change from my working career on the East side of Houston, where even policemen patrol in pairs. I went shoe shopping at lunch today after receiving my first, full child support payment since August (and yes, I realize that makes all payers of child support – FOBs – want to hit someone. I can almost hear the single, divorced Dads screaming: “Child support is to benefit a CHIILD!” Yeah, well I’ve benefited a child for the past six years with little help, so maybe cut me some slack). I went and got my foot measured at the store that Erika, the other female broker in my office, recommended. I am a perfect 8 ½ wide. The salesman went into the back and come out with no less than 7 pairs of shoes for me to try on. I chose a sleek, fitted pair of heels that don’t make me want to hurt someone. All that I was back to my office in under an hour.

• Bariatric over rider on company health insurance. Seriously. Can I get a Amen? Cash rates for lap band run anywhere from $9,900 (not including lab fees for pre-surgical testing) to over $18,000. I have to pay my deductible and up to the annual maximum of co-insurance. Let’s just keep this between us, but I have something/someone called a bariatric care consultant because I work for such a large company. 

• I can also go and get a massage and go to the chiropractor at lunch.

• My commute is 15-minutes when I hit the traffic lights. It’s about 10-12 minutes when the lights are green. That’s added an hour and a half onto my day that I’m not spending commuting.

• Getting paid to read and take tests for three months.

• Free food at lunch twice a week and most afternoon presentations. Occasional free alcohol at happy hours that are sponsored by wholesalers.

If there is some line between grateful and bragging, I hope I've managed to stay on the grateful side. Of course there are negatives, but I'm looking on the positive side.

 

 

Fat Shoes

I haven't been shy about admitting that I reached my heaviest weight while going through the process of qualifying for surgery. What I never could have imagined was that my fat knows no boundaries. When I was pregnant and my ankels swelled up to the size of my knees, I thought it was some freak pregnancy-related mishap caused by all the hormones in my body. Turns out that I'm an idiot:

It's being fat that causes fat ankles.

On the end of my fat ankles are sausage-like feet. I had wide feet before the massive weight gain, but now I have something else entirely. I'm not even sure they make shoes for feet like mine, unless they are custom-made by short, festive little men in Italy (note to self: look into custom-made shoes). So, I'm in a bit of pickle when it comes to footwear. At my new job, all the women wear high-heels. The other female broker in the office only comes to work in heels higher than 3". I'm much more of a flats kind of gal, but I'm trying to embrace the power suit. No power suit is suitably impressive with a pair of sensible flats on a woman. It kind of looks like your legs got cut off at the shin, which is rather disturbing because I've never worn heels every day.

I have one pair of official, work-endorsed pair of  black high heel shoes. They're size 9 and still don't fit. I can actually feel my toes going numb in them. Then the pain starts. By the end of the day, I'm hobbling along in my shiny black shoes. Sure, my feet might look respectable, but the nasty thoughts that I'm thinking in my head at these blasted pair of shoes are anything but.

Now I'm torn. I know that my feet will decrease in size (maybe) when I lose weight. I also know that I'm getting my surgery in a month and it's realistic to think that my feet won't immediately get smaller. I'm not even sure that I'll get immediately smaller, let alone the potential consequences to my feet. I just don't want to spend money on good shoes that won't fit me for very long. But then I remember that I can't even wear uncomfortable shoes for a full day, let alone an entire month.

I think I just talked myself into some quality shoe shopping time. I'm glad we had this talk.   

Food Cravings

As the prospect of the two-week liquid diet comes closer and closer and my surgery date is around the corner, I feel like I'm in my third trimester. For the first two trimesters, you know that labor is coming, but you can't imagine what it will be like. You know, at least theoretically, you are going to have a baby soon, but actually holding the baby in your arms seems fanciful and unrealistic. Suddenly, you are two weeks from your due date and holding newborn clothing and freaking out, occasionally stopping to stare at babies in the mall. That's where I am right now. I'm overly conscious of every piece of food that I stare at, every aroma, every texture, and beautiful, beautiful piece of food.

Take last night for instance. I guess I should clarify for one moment before moving forward. Just because I'm conscious of what I'm eating, doesn't mean that I'm eating healthy. In fact, the opposite is true. It's a well-understood fact in the gastric bypass community that almost everyone gains weight while waiting for their surgery. How could you not knowing that you face almost six weeks of liquids? The first protein shake is D-Day. To cram as many metaphors as I can into one, small blog post, I'm T-13 days to drinking only liquids. You better damn believe that I'm eating all the food that I can possibly imagine.

That is all just a long way of trying to explain why I got home last night and ordered a Papa John's Hawaiian pizza. Then sat on my couch and talked to Zac, who was drawing pictures. I flipped on the tv and found myself watching every food commercial with intense interest. A Sargento cheese commercial came on, the one where some invisible hand is slicing through huge blocks of cheese and I knew, right then and there, I had to have some cheese. This is the sick part - I had already ordered the pizza. That commercial broke me. I went to the fridge and found my own large block of cheese and shared it with Zac....while waiting for pizza.

"Hello, my name is B, and I'm a food addict."

Less of Me

If we are friends on Facebook (and if we’re not, why aren’t we friends yet?) then you know that I’ve been alluding to a “surgery” that I’m having. Not many people are stoked when insurance companies approve them for surgery, but I had been waiting for a year to receive the phone call that I got on Monday with the good news. I’m having lap band surgery on February 24th to lose weight, lower my cholesterol (total cholesterol: 317!!), and high blood pressure (regularly 140/100). I’ve decided to chronicle my process through the surgery to let my friends and family know: 1) I haven’t completely lost my mind and 2) maybe encourage some people along the way to take measures to take care of their health.

First, let me start with the naysayers. Yeah, you over there. And you. And the person that I’m related to that I will not name in this blog. You all have expressed concern that I’m “taking the easy way out” and even before I’ve started the process, have tried to convince me that I’m going to fail. The conversation that I have with them goes something along these lines:

Naysayer: “Have you even TRIED to lose weight?” (like the thought hadn’t occurred to me yet)

Me: “I’ve tried everything I can think of. In order to medically qualify for gastric surgery on insurance you have to demonstrate obesity for over two years. Some insurance companies require a weight history going back five years."

Naysayer: “I get that you haven’t been successful at losing weight, but why give up now? Losing weight is hard! Think of how much pride you’ll have in yourself when you lose weight through diet and exercise”

Me: “...I plan to lose weight through diet and exercise”

Naysayer: “No, you plan to have an invasive surgery that has potentially long-term side effects that haven’t been fully studied so you can fit into society’s image of ‘thin’”

Me: “The surgery is an out-patient procedure done laproscopically. Lap bands can be removed at any time, for any reason. I don’t want to be skinny. I just want to fit into the medical profession’s idea of “healthy” and it’s pretty obvious that I can’t change your mind about surgery, so I’m just going to step out of this conversation now. M’kay?”

If I don’t end the conversation, it can go on for hours. I never really realized what a red-hot issue bariatric surgery was before I started down the path. For those of you that might think that surgery is the “easy” way to become skinny, let’s just review what I had to do to get my insurance company to approve the surgery, shall we? I started in December 2009, with a visit to my PCP. She referred me to a bariatric surgeon because of my weight and persistent co-morbidities. After that, I:

1) Attend eda three-hour educational seminar about the impacts of gastric bypass surgery and the pre-and-post surgery requirements

2) Talked to my shrink and therapist about what impacts, both positive and negative, the surgery could have on me.

3) Met with the bariatric surgeon for the first time to discuss the kind of surgery that would be most appropriate for me (lap band).

4) Went through a two-hour psychological test of endurance that included a 350-question personality test and hour long interview with a psychologist to assess suitability of the surgery for me. Was told that I have to get a note from previously mentioned shrink and therapist.

5) Went back to shrink and therapist. Asked them for letter of approval from. Felt like I was in the sixth grade. Called them three weeks later and asked, “No really. I’m serious this time. Can you pleeeease write the letter?”

6) Went to six months of nutritional counseling where my nutrition guru convinced me that if I didn’t lose SOME weight that I wouldn’t be approved for surgery because I couldn’t demonstrate the ability for short-term behavioral change. Considered finding a new nutritionist. Kept a food journal for six months and try to follow the American Diabetic Association diet which involves limiting carbs, fats, and meat. Contemplated just giving up food all together. Lost four pounds, then gained nine. Then gained some more when I found a new job.

7) Was informed that my surgeon switched hospitals. Went through a painful process of getting my records, individually, transferred one-by-one to the new hospital. Hit my head on my desk several times a day each time the new hospital either didn’t receive my record or lost it

8) Made an appointment with a new PCP to get a formal letter of medical necessity. Had my cholesterol and blood pressure checked to confirm co-morbidities. Found out that my cholesterol could take now a small ox.

9) Called the new hospital almost every day for a month, trying to get all my records in one place for submission to my insurance company.

10) Waited for two weeks for my insurance company to approve the surgery

AND…I finally got the good news on January 24, 2011. I’m tired from just writing about it. For anyone who says to me, “Couldn’t you just have spent all the energy losing weight?” I’d like to point to #6 on the list and tell you to suck it.

On deck for tomorrow, more procedures, tests, and protein shakes…