A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF A SLEEVER. Today I write my last Sunday post after almost 15 months of blogging about my journey. We just spent Christmas week in Switzerland and despite eating lots of sweets and more cheese and potatoes than I care to admit I lost weight during the holidays. So I am at the lowest weight in my adult life as I write my last weekly post and that feels great.
I started writing this blog a few weeks before my surgery in late October 2011. I was like a car careening out of control—my hip hurt, my feet hurt, my knee went out on me, I had high cholesterol and borderline high blood pressure, my clothes didn’t fit, and I felt like crap.
Worse yet, I was in Europe and even though I looked and looked, there were no other fat, limping people to be found anywhere.
OK, that wasn’t the worst part. The careening car crashed into a wall when my thin, healthy husband of 20 years found the courage to tell me how much he hated the way I looked and he just couldn’t live this way anymore. It wasn’t a gentle suggestion for me to lose a few pounds, it was an explosion of emotions on both sides for what seemed like an eternity. We had rarely talked about my weight issues even though they kept getting worse every year; outside of a few comments with my friends about dieting, I just never talked in any depth to anyone about it because I felt like such a failure. So this was an entirely new ball game without any rules to guide us.
So let me recap: 15 months ago I couldn’t walk, I had some serious health risks, I was on medication, nothing looked good on me, I had a sad case of low self-esteem and a very unhappy husband. Oh, I forgot to mention that I also had taken a bad fall on my bike and I got a really shitty haircut just to keep things really interesting. I was so far into denial about my weight I even thought about leaving my husband because then I wouldn’t have do anything about my weight or face another failed attempt at dieting. After throwing myself one big pity-party and assessing my options, I decided it was time to look into weight loss surgery. For me, it was really the only option—I was 58 years old and after trying every diet on the planet since I was 15 I knew dieting was not going be a solution that would work; at least I knew it wouldn’t work for me. I didn’t know if surgery would, either, but it seemed promising and my husband was willing to help me figure it out.