BODY: Last August, while on a business trip to as Vegas, I met a wonderful man who invited me to dinner at a Japanese restaurant. I ate my soup and salad, which filled me up so much that I could only manage one bite of my hibachi steak. My date commented, "You're not eating enough," but I didn't explain why. How could I tell him that I had once been so overweight that I needed surgery to make my stomach smaller?
I've been embarrassed about my body as long as I can remember, beginning with my early onset of puberty. I started my period in the fourth grade; two years later, at age eleven, I was wearing a C-cup bra. I was more curvaceous than heavy, but I felt fat when I compared my body to my friends' gangly ones. In junior high, I made excuses to get out of gym because I didn't want the other girls to see me in the shower. Of course, not exercising only made things worse. In high school, I was outwardly confident though inside I was desperately selfconscious about my size--at five five, I weighed 200 pounds.
My whole family was so passionate about food that we would literally plan our vacations around the restaurants we wanted to visit. But there was always an underlying sense of guilt along with our elaborate meals, because all of us were trying to watch our weight. My parents and three sisters never needed to lose more than twenty pounds, but my weight kept ratcheting up--I would gain ten pounds, lose five, then gain ten more. My eating patterns were erratic; I either had whatever I wanted--like two candy bars as a snack--or, ashamed of my lack of control, tried not to eat at all.
I joined Weight Watchers when I was twelve--that was the first of a long series of diets I tried and failed at, including a hospital-supervised liquid diet. I went to meetings of Overeaters Anonymous, but I wasn't a binge eater, so I couldn't relate to the women Who confessed to polishing off a gallon of ice cream in one sitting. Ironically, my father is a hypnotherapist, but not even his hypnosis helped me. "You must not want it enough, or you'd be able to lose weight," my father would say. (I couldn't imagine wanting anything more. My parents used to conduct weight-loss seminars at our home; I'd stay in my room so their clients wouldn't see me.
My mother bought me clothes a size too small, hoping it would motivate me to lose weight. Instead, the closetful of outfits I couldn't wear only served as a reminder of what I couldn't accomplish.
By the time I graduated from college in 1985, I weighed more than 250 pounds and had given up all hope of ever being thin. Instead, I tried to concentrate on feeling good about myself in spite of my size. After all, thinness wouldn't solve all my problems. Still, I couldn't deny that it hurt when strangers stared and relatives told me, "You would be so beautiful if you lost weight." Plus, my body was beginning to pay the price of obesity. I had high blood pressure and a hiatal hernia that made my stomach acidic. My hip joints and lower back ached, and it was an effort for me to walk up a flight of stairs. But I was so discouraged and tired of dieting that I didn't have the energy to do it anymore.
In 1991, when I was twenty-eight, my family doctor told me that with my weight and my family history of heart disease and diabetes, I was destined for serious health problems. Because diets had failed for me, he said my best option might be to undergo a gastric bypass--surgery to reduce the capacity of my stomach. I was shocked: Surgery seemed like such a drastic solution. Then again, I knew my problem was pretty drastic, too.
With trepidation, I went to Salt Lake City (not far from my home in Park City, Utah) for a consultation with Gerald Goodman, M.D., a specialist in gastric bypass. Dr. Goodman explained that he would divide my stomach into two compartments just below the esophagus. The lower pouch would be sealed off, while the upper one would be reattached to a portion of the small intestine and then to the lower intestine. As opposed to the normal two-quart food capacity, my new stomach would hold between five and ten ounces (about the size of a child's portion). The operation, he said, is about as safe as a cesarean section; apart from the risks that accompany any major surgery (like blood clots), the potential complications would include injury to the spleen during surgery, postoperative perforation of the stomach and development of a peptic ulcer.
The drawback: I had to be prepared to change pared to change my eating patterns for life. My meals would consist mainly of tiny portions of protein and vegetables. Overeating would make me nauseated. I'd have to avoid pasta, rice and other carbohydrates for the first few months, because my body would need as much protein as possible during this period of rapid weight loss. I'd be permanently giving up sugary and fatty foods, which could cause nausea and diarrhea in my new, sensitive stomach. But my biggest sacrifice would be my daily diet sodas, because carbonated alcohol and certain drugs can harm the stomach lining. Could I really be satisfied with eating so little and saying good-bye to so many of the foods I loved?
"This isn't a magic formula," Dr. Goodman warned. He added that I shouldn't hope to "get skinny" but instead work toward getting healthy through diet and exercise and staying within 30 percent of my ideal body weight. I was impressed by the statistics: He had performed nearly four thousand surgeries in his career; his patients averaged a weight loss of 100 pounds in the first year after surgery--and kept it off.
I spoke to some of the patients in Dr. Goodman's group practice, including a registered nurse who had lost 70 pounds after surgery and now felt better than she'd ever dreamed possible. Maybe it would be worth all the sacrifices if it meant I'd be healthy and active. My family enthusiastically approved my decision.
My problem was that I couldn't afford the operation's $ 12,000 price tag. My insurance company repeatedly denied me coverage, and I hadn't yet built up enough of a credit history to qualify for an unsecured loan. In the meantime, I fell back into my pattern of dieting, eating and gaining weight, peaking at 280 pounds. It wasn't until 1993, when I got a different insurance carrier through a new job, that I finally got coverage. Seven months later, I was able to schedule the surgery at last.
My mother was at my side as I waited to be taken into the operating room. I was so joyful that tears ran down my face, which alarmed my mother. "Are you scared?" she asked. "Not at all. I'm just happy,' I said. Then she began crying, too.
For the first day or so after the operation, I was uncomfortable and just wanted to sleep. But despite the pain, I felt at peace, optimistic about my future and determined to make this surgery a success. I left the hospital after five days, and my mother took care of me at home during my first four weeks' recuperation. (It would take up to three months to completely resume all activities.
The biggest adjustment, naturally, was my new food plan. At first, I could eat only a quarter cup of food at a time, taking small bites and chewing ten times to break down the food enough to go through my stomach. I also began my lifetime regimen of drinking two quarts of water a day to avoid dehydration and taking a calcium-and-iron-fortified multivitamin to make up for nutrients lost. My willpower and diminished appetite helped me to avoid temptation.
One thing worried me, though: When I ate, I didn't feel full, but I wasn't still hungry, either. I called the nurse who'd had the bypass. She asked, "Do you feel satisfied?" I said yes. "That's what being full feels like," she replied. This was a revelation--all my life, I'd associated being full with feeling stuffed sick. Now I understood what it was to have a normal relationship with food.
In the first eight weeks after the surgery, I lost 44 pounds. My joy at my success and the praise I got made my new strict diet easier to follow. I couldn't wait to weigh myself every day, and I felt almost self-righteous when I saw the huge portions my family ate at dinner.
Then one night I had a dream in which I binged on soda and chocolate cupcakes, hating myself and thinking, Now everyone will know I'm a complete failure! When I woke, my pillow was wet with tears. I'd always been ashamed of my weight, but I'd never realized that I secretly considered myself a failure as a person because of it.
Over time, I felt physically and emotionally healthier. My energy increased my self- confidence blossomed, my back and joint pain disappeared and my blood pressure dropped to normal. I lost weight so quickly that' I needed a smaller size every month. In high school, I couldn't even fit into a men's waist size 38 jeans. The day I could get into a women's size 14 pair of jeans, I started crying in the dressing room. After so many years of shopping at stores for large women, being able to go to Banana Republic, Ann Taylor and The Limited and buy clothes that fit was like discovering a new world.
Now, nineteen months after my surgery, I weigh 150 pounds--130 pounds less than when I began--and wear a size 12. I'd like to lose another fifteen pounds, though I won't be discouraged if I don't. Sometimes when I see an obese person, I panic at the thought that I could look that way again. I'm slowly overcoming these feelings, and I'm proud of the person I've become.
An average dinner for me today is a chicken breast and half of a baked potato. Of course, old habits die hard. In stressful moments, I crave chocolate, and at birthday parties I inevitably try to eat a few bites of cake, which leaves me feeling ill afterward. (And I do feel a pang of longing every time I hear a soda can being opened.) But food isn't a priority for me anymore.
I'm still seeing the man I met in Las Vegas. At first I was afraid to tell him about my past for fear that he wouldn't love me. When I finally told him the truth, he said, "I'd love you no matter what size you were." But for a long time, I was reluctant to show him my old photos.
Though I believe that I'm a good person no matter what my weight is, I'm happier in ways I never anticipated and still extremely grateful for the way my life has unfolded--and, yes, for the wonderful way I look and feel today.
What do you think.
Would you have corrective surgery if you were obese? Could you live with the sacrifices? Let us know--send your opinions to Box WT, Ladies' Home Jornal, 125 Park Ave., New York, NY 10017, or E-mail us at: LHJ@nyc.mdp.com
