Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

The first person to ever mention weight-loss surgery to me was an endocrinologist. She was a lovely Jewish woman from New York and there we sat, staring at each other over my naked body, discussing my diagnosis of PCOS. 25 minutes earlier, instead of perusing the sticky gossip magazines, I had mentally calculated her age from the certificates and awards hanging in the waiting room. It was 1999 and she was easily in her 70’s. I remember thinking, “As a woman, in her time, she probably really had to fight for her education, training, and successes.” I admired it. Here was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to work toward it.

Maybe that’s why I found her words so jarring.

I was 24 years old and weighed 350-something pounds. I was a mountain of a person and, probably, an ideal candidate for the procedure. Yet, I knew nothing of the surgery, except that it felt like the Ugly But Easy Way Out. The shock of her words drove me to my first significant attempt at weight loss and I vowed that I would never — never — take such a dramatic step for what felt like sheer vanity.

I can’t explain, really, why so few people mentioned the surgery to me in the ensuing years. It wasn’t that I weighed any less — but I had become so hypersensitive about any mention of my weight that doctors and loved-ones alike simply tiptoed around the subject. From time to time, a general practitioner would say something about “drastic measures” or about needing a “major change” but that was it, until about 3 months ago.

My weight had again ballooned to over 350 pounds. Dr. M. (who is not my doctor but my dear friend and ex-coworker, a psychiatrist and a delight) had deigned to express concern over my weight a year earlier. He has dealt in recent years with his aging mother whose weight has placed such pressure on her knees and joints that she has been immobilized. I considered his words, once I was able to get over the shock of their sting. I was forced to acknowledge that my 170 extra pounds (yes, the equivalent of another reasonably-healthy person of my height) amounted to more than just an issue of vanity.

A few weeks ago, during her annual visit to his home, Dr. M.’s mother took a fall in the bathroom and broke her ankle. The days which followed were filled with what Dr. M. called “indignities” and I watched as my dear friend tried to spare her from the embarrassment of three ambulances responding simply for manpower to transfer her to a gurney, from “extra-wide” wheelchairs and complicated pulley systems designed to do what her body long ago gave up doing — hefting her obesity onto its feet. In an emotional and sweet discussion, Dr. M. pleaded with me to consider weight-loss surgery. It was a very different doctor conversation than I had had almost 10 years ago. It was not sterile or clinical. It was emotional and caring and gentle.

For the first time in my life, I did something other than dismiss it with a wave of my hand. I actually (dare I say?) considered it. I spent the next few days reading everything I could about RNY and Lap-Band and bypass and recovery. The influx of information gave me a very different view on the surgery than simply being an Ugly But Easy Way Out. In fact, it seemed really difficult and I quickly developed a new respect for the people who had successfully lost their weight this way. I found the courage to discuss it with my boyfriend and my parents. I contacted my insurance company to explore coverage and learned about my company’s policies for time off.

And then I stepped on a scale and found that I no longer weighed 350-plus pounds as I had only a few months ago.

This slowed my panicked, fluttery investigation and I struck up a bargain with myself: I have committed to 6 months of very serious effort toward traditional weight loss. I would re-join Weight Watchers and make good use of the support, shopping around for a meeting leader I could stand and couching my frustrations about corporate America and the Business of Bodies. I would set aside my complaints about needing a dog walker and a gym membership and instead use my savings to purchase a treadmill. I would commit myself to journaling and meditating and actually set goals. Then and only then — if this six months was not enough to bring me past the 300-pound mark — I would allow myself to consider alternative methods.

The fact is that there is NO EASY WAY OUT from my current situation. It will take work and restriction and exercise either way if the ultimate objective is to lose approximately half of my body weight.