17 years ago, my parents and I made a decision that changed my life. At the time, we couldn’t begin to fathom how much. At 16, I had roux en y gastric bypass surgery. Bariatric surgery. Weight loss surgery.
One hazy May morning in 2002, parts of my young body were permanently rearranged. The date is not clear, I had a panic attack on the operating table on the scheduled date. They had to postpone the surgery. Luckily, my parents were patient, understanding, and gainfully employed.
I do not regret having bariatric surgery. Nor do I have any contempt for my parents. They sincerely believed without “the surgery” (as it’s known in my family), I would not be here today. Whether this is true can never genuinely be known.
I’ve been one of the lucky ones. Many have complications, needing feeding tubes or even dying. Still more were promised a long term weight loss solution, only to regain much or more weight. Others were promised deliverance from “fat illnesses” such as high blood pressure, CPAP, challenging to find veins. They later realize these things aren’t as weight-dependent as some medical professions would like us to believe.
This journey has primarily been a solitary walk. My friends and family have been there to support me. However, I never found myself in a support group, a team, working towards the same goal. As a teenage bariatric patient, there were few my age. Being in a group of adults was awkward and unfamiliar. Without major complications and expected results, I hummed along through college as an “acceptably fat” young woman.
As an adult, far past the honeymoon phase, I attempted joining my local bariatric support group. There I listened to tales of bariatric kryptonite, aka Starbucks drinks; the hushed confessions of weights hidden in underwear or binges to “make weight” to qualify for the surgery. I spoke out. Candidly. After a few weeks, I was asked not to return. It was likely for the best for everyone.
It was a shock to see patients that I didn’t consider very overweight having the surgery. My introduction to bariatric surgery was that it would prevent my early demise. Becoming thin was never my goal. Hearing stories about those who gained weight, stuffed weights to qualify, I judged. I was asked not to return.
In hindsight, I do regret being so judgemental. Compassion and understanding of those people’s mental anguish and their eating disorder is a kinder approach. Like many of you, I’m still learning and growing.
In online support groups, I vent out loud to my screen or my journal rather than seem unhelpful. I try to keep the gems, discard the rest, but there’s still a lot of unhealthy thinking and behaviors. It wasn’t right for my health, and I saw others being hurt. For most people, losing 50,60,100,150lbs and no longer needing insulin, a CPAP, etc. would rightly be a crowning achievement. Unfortunately, as a bariatric patient, sometimes you still feel like a failure.
After bariatric surgery, it’s challenging to feel that you belong.
Exclaim about your weight loss? You took the “easy way out” or “you’re still fat.” Body positive and loving yourself? Is that even possible after you turned your insides around to lose weight? Sometimes, I feel like a fraud around fat positive folk.
Still being obese, I get a lot of unsolicited weight loss advice. Albeit much of it stops when I mention I lost 150lbs, some will press on “how much more are you going to lose?” More? How much can a body take? Personally, I’ve met my goal for the surgery: no more sleeping with an oxygen mask, no diabetes, good blood pressure, cholesterol. Also, I can shop for clothes in stores where I live.
These days I’m more focused on being kind to my body. For me that means getting my protein in, staying hydrated, and not eating things that make me sick. Which might be different from what makes you ill.
My goal is to continue being a successful bariatric patient and offering an honest view on life on the other side.
Oh, and taking my vitamins every day for the rest of my life.
(they’re not kidding about that one.)