Today marks 349 days until I turn 40. The big four-oh. Wow. And here I have a toddler and a preschooler, and I'm so exhausted most days I fall asleep putting them to bed. When my daughter enters middle school, I will be 47. When my son starts high school, I will be 52. When my daughter goes to college, I will be 54. And if she gets married at 25, I will be 61. SIXTY ONE people. Hopefully I will have my first grandchild before 70.
And that's all if I make it that long. And at this rate, it's highly unlikely. Why?
I'm fat.
WAY fat.
Oh sure, there are people fatter than me. I get that. But I'm uncomfortably fat. I AM NOT COMFORTABLE WITH HOW FAT I AM.
I can't help but laugh when people say, "But you've got big bones." What? No I don't. I know some people might, but honey, my frame is TINY. I know this because I once was thin. VERY THIN. And not even uncomfortably thin, just appropriately thin.
I felt good at 114 lbs. I was 18, I had lost most of my baby fat. I'd never been really overweight in high school, but I had big boobs so I dressed in baggy clothes most of the time. I had lost about 15 pounds, by taking up a lovely new habit - smoking. I hit my perfect weight, I felt. I was confident, wore a bikini, had a miniskirt in a size 4, wore fuck me boots and was pretty sure I was the hottest girl in the room everywhere I went.
Got engaged at 19. It didn't go well. That's good, because it was a lousy fit. But I had a hard time coping. At the time, I thought I was fine. I wasn't. I started eating and drinking, a lot. Still kept smoking.
At 21, I'd gained a few pounds, but still felt okay at 125. After a series of bad ideas, I met a boy who seemed like he was maybe a good idea. We spent a lot of time together, partied a bit, ate a lot of food.
At 130, I noticed back fat and was horrified, spending a full forty minutes in the department store dressing room with it's three way mirror, looking at it. I remember trying to zip up a pair of size 9 jeans that day and having muffin top. I cried in the dressing room, wanting to gouge out that back fat, scrape out my stomach. I was 22.
I went home and ate a box of mac n cheese and smoked about thirty cigarettes.
The scale has climbed and climbed ever since. 140, 150. I got married at 155. Was so embarrassed by my weight and my size 11 jeans. I worked at a bar, and started drinking in earnest. Quit after six months, and quit smoking at the same time, and shot up to 160. I started a new job at 165. I felt terrible, but I had quit smoking, and blamed the weight gain on that. I began working a lot of hours.
A LOT of hours. I was good at my job, it was totally stressful, but the praise junkie in me loved the release at the end of a project. It was so stressful though, I actually developed a fascia disorder in my muscles from the tension and lack of exercise that landed me in the emergency room twice with a prescription for Flexeril. So I found another job just like it that paid more. Took it, weighing 175. Working, working, endless hours. Decided to get a trainer to get rid of the weight. Four weeks in, lifting 60 pounds, myofascial pain came back in full force, landed me in ER again. Flexiril was back on the menu, as was a year and a half of three times a week physical therapy. But I did it.
Ended physical therapy weighing 180.
Got pregnant at 185. I was 34. Delivered my beautiful, healthy daughter, S, at 215. Got my weight back down to 190, then got pregnant again 13 months later. And that's where the real problems began.
I delivered a healthy baby boy, L, at about 220. He was fine, he was healthy, he was gorgeous, he was 36 weeks and 6 days, practically full term.
He got sick three weeks later while we were out of town visiting my parents. Really, really sick, I held him for three days straight in the hospital near their home, and a nurse convinced me to set him down. Ten minutes later, his lungs just gave out, They sent me to the comfort room and asked if we wanted a priest.
He was resuscitated. He was intubated, unconscious. He swelled from the meds. He was on Fentanyl, Atavan. He had a PICC line, It failed. He stopped breathing again. And again, And again. Even on the breathing tube, they had to bag him. He turned blue. He was resuscitated. He had a bleed in a his brain and had to have a blood transfusion. His temperature dropped to 96. He had daily x-rays to see which lung was collapsed that day. He had breathing treatments and therapies that involved shaking his chest terribly and beating on his back. His IV line clogged and his hand swelled like a balloon. They couldn't get an IV even in his head. His fucking ventilator did the terrible beeping melody we called the mexican hat dance all the time - which meant something was wrong, with his pressure, or his tracheal tube. God just thinking of that song makes my skin crawl. He was bagged so many times I lost count. And then once he was off the breathing tube, after 17 days, and just on oxygen, he was so addicted to the opiates that his withdrawal nearly killed him again, and we had to stay and stay and stay while they weaned him slowly.
We were there for two months, he and I. I slept on the couch in his room. My husband and daughter went back to Chicago, and I stayed. And stayed. I had to. I watched as other kids in the ICU came and went, some going home, but many dying.
An 8 year old boy who choked on a bouncy ball lingered for several hours after going off life support and his grandfather was so angry he just wouldn't die. A teenage couple who had a car crash had an entire football team weeping in the waiting room. A grieving mother gave me her daughter's coloring books since her kid was never going to wake up. A little boy going thru chemo had no one but a nurse to hold his hand as he threw up all night long. A tiny baby girl never had one visitor the whole time we were there. And next door, an ECMO pumped for a small girl who was so fragile they had to do her heart surgery in her ICU room.
I hated that place so much. But I stayed.
Randomly, my relationship with my parents completely disintegrated during this. They didn't know how to deal with it all, I suppose, so they shut down. I guess.
I lost all the baby weight those two months. Worst diet ever. But my son lived. He had a heart attack and became addicted to methadone, but he lived. We came home on withdrawal medication, and he screamed for HOURS. But we got to go home, he lived. So it was okay.
My maternity leave was up a week after we got home from Peoria. I went back to working 50+ hours a week, just like that.
And then my mom was diagnosed with brain cancer four weeks after we came home.
She didn't live.
Fast forward to today. My son is a mostly happy boy, who is freaking adorable and sweet. But he bears scars. He does have mild brain damage, and cerebral palsy. He has sensory issues. He has apraxia, and has difficulty speaking and communicating. He aspirates and has to have liquids thickened. He has asthma, and takes medication every day, and we have to be vigilant when he has a cold. He's had two surgeries, countless xrays - so much so that he can't be exposed to radiation unless it's completely necessary. He has been having therapy three times per week since he was six months old, and it's helped immensely. He just started saying two and three word phrases, a total breakthrough - but we can't always tell what he is saying, He'll be three in March. But he can run.
My daughter has scars too. She saw me only sporadically for two months when she was 20 months old. Weekends only, and then usually at the hospital or the Family House run by the hospital. She is four years old and still wants to be close to me all the time. Physically close.
My relationship with my husband has scars. I resented that he couldn't stay, that now I resent that he's never as well educated as I think he should be on our son's issues or doctors appointments or therapies.
I have scars too. I know this. And I think my weight is the most visible of them. Last I checked, I was at 220. Pretty sure I am at 230 now. It's unreal. I don't recognize myself in photos. And I feel tired, and stiff, and cranky. I've been punishing myself in a way. Not dealing with my feelings.
So that's how I got to where I am. Hell of an intro, right? I mean how long is this thing anyway? But this isn't for you, Dear Reader, it's for me. To keep me on track. To remind me why. Why I want to get healthy, be fit, be fab. For my kids. I'm not going to be here for them if I don't. My teeny tiny heart can only support this giant massive fatness for so long, before it will give out just like my son's lungs did two years ago. I need to release myself from this prison I have created, built of macaroni and big macs and mashed potatoes and ice cream. Ugh.
