One Year Post-Op—Happy Sleevaversary to Me!

One year ago, I underwent surgery, a vertical sleeve gastrectomy, to save my life.

Right before taking off my glasses and getting wheeled in,
continuing the family tradition of a goofy pre-op shot.

First meal of broth and jello the next day. Still goofy post-op.

To mark the occasion, this morning I got up and headed to the lab to get my one-year fasting blood tests, stopped at the store on the way back to pick up some double-protein milk to make myself a cappuccino, then came home and took a nice, hot shower, with salt scrub and lovely scented lotions and potions.

I was in the shower at the hotel last year when I got the call that my surgery time had been moved up; Mike answered it, then we hustled to put on all our winter duds to race out to the hospital. Showering this morning was a lot more relaxing, and since we are now in Florida, I could just slip into a sundress when I was done. What a difference a year makes.

Left: Pre-surgery, December 16, 2014
Right: Post-surgery, December 16, 2015

The one year date is a big deal, as the majority of the benefits of bariatric surgery are reaped in the first 12 months—after that, post-op patients basically become average joe dieters, along with the rest of the world, struggling with the same potential pitfalls and sidetracks.

In short, today marks another transition, one that I have felt coming for awhile. On the anniversary of surgery, or my sleevaversary, as I'm calling it, I'm reflecting on what I have learned in this very powerful, life-affirming year. Here's what I now know for sure:

• This is the second-best decision I have ever made in my life. My top three are now:

1. Marrying the right person
2. Saving my life with bariatric surgery
3. Studying abroad for a year in France

(I know, I know, everyone is going to ask, "Isn't becoming a parent in the top three?" It used to be solidly in spot #3, for sure. When I really think about the decisions I have made that have shaped who I am, and how well I take care of myself, the vertical sleeve has to be #2, without question, knocking parenting out of the trifecta.)

• Obesity is a disease, or part of a matrix of related conditions/diseases. Surgery helps address these, but it isn't the whole answer.
  
  I've always suspected that my incredible ability to gain...and gain...and gain...(it's a super-power, truly) has been part of a larger pathology of which I had some, but not entire, control. If this year has taught me anything, it is that I will be managing this disease state my entire life, regardless of how heavy I may be.
  
  Case in point, unlike a huge number of bariatric surgery patients, I didn't eliminate any medications this year, I actually added one. If you lose as much weight as I did, exercise regularly, and eat small portions of healthy food, but your blood pressure is still borderline high, you have to face the fact that there are genetics at play that require medication as a part of your disease plan. All these things—obesity, BP, blood sugar—are enmeshed, and I can't pretend that I don't have the predisposition to these problems just because I am thinner than I was last year.
  
  I also have not stopped using my CPAP machine, although I do sleep even better now that I am lighter. Again, this is morphology at play: a strong, genetic disposition for a small, narrow nasal passage means that, even if I become Twiggy, I'm pretty certain I'll be wearing that sassy mask to bed forever. (This helps me get out of camping, which is a bonus.)
• I have done my very best, and at the same time, I could have done better.
  
  On this day, I can honestly say that I am proud of myself for being brave, for taking the (calculated) risk, and for persevering through physical pain and practical challenges throughout this year. I have worked incredibly hard. Moment to moment, I have done the best that I can.
  
  At the same time, I could have done better. My activity level could definitely be higher, and I could streamline my diet a little more. I probably could have maximized my weight loss a bit more with added attention to protein and water intake—I spent a lot of time trying to cram both of these in, but even so, it was a constant challenge. I also may have benefited from journaling my food intake, although that is a slippery slope for me, one that pre-op counselors warned me might be ill-advised if I wasn't able to be kind and gentle with myself.
  
  For anyone who sees me now, who knew me then, it is hard to believe that I could have had a better outcome. I am a little behind the average weight loss for someone my size, however, and have been in a stall, bouncing up and down five pounds, for months. I can both accept that I have accomplished great things and acknowledge that I missed some opportunities.

• I can still do better, and I will.
  
  Sure, the magic of the first year post-op may be over, with my tiny healing stomach and gut flora that supports burning fat like an engine with no hunger pangs, but that doesn't mean this is done for me. My body has leveled out at around my lowest weight as an adult, that of a 16/18 plus-sized twenty-something, my weight when I got married at 25. I can feel my body saying, "Okay, this is great! Let's hang out here forever, or maybe even gain a few pounds." If I stayed here forever, I would still be the happiest with my body I have ever been in my life; that said, I'm going to challenge myself to continually add activity and healthy nutrition to my routine. I am going to remind myself when I don't make good choices that new good choices are always available. I'm going to remember that I can love myself fully exactly where I am, while still making changes that can improve my life.
  
  This process will never end, no matter how I look, no matter how much I weigh.

• One great change can get so many other great changes going.
  
  I preach this to my clients—my whole masters thesis centered around this idea, for goodness sake—but experiencing this firsthand in such a grand scale this year has been revelatory and belief-affirming. My sense of self-efficacy—the belief that I am capable—is through the roof, and with each little hurdle jumped I know I can meet more challenges head on.
  
  It is not the least bit surprising to me that this was the year we finally picked our new home, packed up and moved, and started planting down new roots. The momentum of my surgery catapulted the whole family forward in a positive direction, and it solidified the way we work together to help each other achieve goals.

•  I feel joy so often now, it makes me tear up.
  
  What can I say? The physical heaviness that I carried was a prison. I have broken out of jail, and it feels so good, I can't even describe it.
  
  This strange thing has happened since my surgery—when I see or hear beautiful things (e.g., a rainbow, a colorful light display, a great piece of music)—I start to cry tears of joy. Without all that weight, everything glorious is so much more palpable.

• My neck is my bellwether.
  
  At my heaviest—shoot, at 40 pounds under my heaviest, for that matter—the weight on my neck felt like it was strangling me. When I went to sleep, I would force myself to pull sheets up under the skin and fat on my neck so that I could feel something cool there, as lying back with that weight on my windpipe made me feel like I might die at any moment.
  
  One of the first places I lost weight was in my neck, and it has become the symbol, to me, of my escape from death. I figuratively stuck my neck out to have this surgery and do the work that comes with it, and I can now literally stick my neck out and feel like a brand new person. I find myself touching my neck, often, still not believing it belongs to me. 

• I am afraid.
  
  What, on earth, will happen if I gain this weight back? Not everything has gone to plan this year, and like I said, I can already feel old disease patterns creeping in, making the things I try to do to help myself be healthy seem ineffectual. I can't imagine the pain of gain. I can't envision the psychological and physical ramifications of gaining back the weight without my anxiety and fear rushing in and shortening my breathe.
  
  Part of what I must do, now, is face this potential reality. It happens to a lot of people. People who become as heavy as I was are not working with a body type that likes to stay trim and healthy. I must fight for it, I must work to keep myself well, and I must also deal with that fear, so that it doesn't start running the show behind the scenes, sabotaging me.

• I am still a plus-sized woman, and I may always be.
  
  Secretly, even though I did this to save my life, I dreamed that, by this time, I would be able to walk into any store and purchase clothing. While I can now buy some shirts in an XL or XXL in a "normal" store, by waist/hips are solidly in the 16/18 range. It didn't happen.
  
  I'm not giving up, but I've also realized something fundamentally true (see next point):
  
• I love my body, if it didn't change an inch, I'd feel fantastic going out looking this way.
  
  The fact that I can't easily buy clothes in a "normal" store cannot change that feeling. In fact, it makes me want to say this: "Stores, YOU ARE LAME. It is ridiculous that I can't get pants in the misses section of a department store. Shame on you. You are the ones who suck, not me."

• Everything feels better now. EVERYTHING.
  
  This includes, but is not limited to:
  
1. Hugging people
2. Walking
3. Standing
4. Breathing
5. Sitting (and not worrying about fitting in chairs)
6. Driving
7. Wearing jewelry
8. Wearing clothes
9. Moving in anyway whatsoever
10. Holding still

• I'm not exaggerating about how much better JUST BEING now feels.
  
  I cannot believe I lived in so much pain for so long, and all I ever felt about it was guilt and belief that I deserved it because it was all my fault I was so heavy. As I have described to so many people this year, I spent most of my life trying to do the things that are necessary to lose weight, and then maintain a healthy weight, I just didn't see any real success.
  
  It wasn't all my fault (see my second point, above, about this being a disease), and I am so grateful that there was a surgery available that helped to catalyze my efforts and make me healthier, stronger, and happier. I didn't even realize how much pain I was in until it was eliminated. I feel very lucky to feel this good after so many years of work.

• Now comes the hard part (but they've all been hard parts.)
  
  Accepting that I was ill was hard. Researching the surgery was hard. Adopting the pre-op diet was hard. Traveling to get the surgery done was hard. Recovering was hard. Changing my lifestyle was hard. Dealing with this current stall is hard. And now that I am one year out, and just another heavy person using regular dieting techniques to lose weight, it's going to be hard. Around every turn in this journey, I can hear that voice saying, "Now comes the hard part, Kori."
  
  The fact that this is hard no longer has anything to do with anything. It's all hard. Real life stuff is HARD. We've all got our troubles. I don't win an award because I lost weight that many people never even gain. I'm just so grateful that this was more effective than any other difficult attempt at weight loss in my past. This is my hard. I'm on it. I accept it. I own it.

• I was never alone.
  
  Here's where I get all weepy-eyed and sniffly. This year taught me that being vulnerable—opening yourself up to ask for help, and to tell people that you need love/support/prayers/assistance/good thoughts/listening ears/cheerleading/hugs—is the most powerful thing you can do. I have never, ever felt more connected to others as I have this year, and I can honestly say that I felt the support of all of you who love and care for me buoy me up so many times when I thought I might go under. I mean this in the most literal way possible—I felt the energy, the good intentions, the love and prayers, and they carried me further than I could have ever gone without all of you.
  
  I am forever grateful.

For those who want my one-year stats, here they are:

Pre-op jeans on my post-op body.
(Special thanks to Carrie,
who suggested I keep a pair of my old jeans for comparison.)

Total weight loss (including pre-op diet): 112.2 pounds

Weight loss since surgery: 91.2 pounds (roughly 10-15 pounds heavier than my doctor's projection, but not too shabby)

Sizes lost: 3 (plus sizes have wider weight ranges, and drop much slower than regular sizes, I have learned)

Speck-Tacular—Don't Miss It!

This post is sponsored by Speck Products, who provided me with some lovely Speck cases to try out and write about here on the blog. All opinions presented here are my own, or those of my family members who have sampled the Speck cases along with me.

It's that time of year, friends, when technology gifts abound, and/or hearts may be broken because new technology gifts aren't in the cards. Either way, you can find something fabu at Speck, either to wrap up that new tablet you got for Hanukkah, or to spice up that old phone you just pray will make it until you are eligible for an upgrade in the spring. 

Right now, Speck is running their Holiday Speck-Tacular, with all items on their site 30% off. Plus, if you order by tomorrow, December 16th, you have guaranteed shipping in time for Christmas. I'm always jolly when I don't have to worry about gifts arriving in time.

My family and I received the following items this week, and gave ourselves some early Christmas presents—I know, I know, we should wait for Christmas, but I had to review them here, didn't I?

For my birthday last month, I was lucky enough to receive a new iPad Air, replacing the slowly churning "old-timey" (by Apple standards) iPad 2 that served as my main work tablet. With my sassy new orange StyleFolio, I can keep that new iPad protected until it, too, becomes as slow-moving as a glacier. I picked orange, because I'm a coral/orange kind of gal, but there are wide variety of colors and styles available.

The kiddo had worn out her Speck case after two years, but she's all of ten, and I can hardly believe her original case lasted that long given that iPad Mini's extremely careful treatment general abuse. She was excited for a more grown-up floral case for the iPad Mini she earned for Christmas two years ago by doing homework and chores, and immediately commented on how cool the clasp is. She also likes how she can set it up at almost any angle for viewing/typing.

As for my hubby, he was desperate for a new phone case. He has used several Speck cases in the past, and has determined through experience that he prefers those that don't have a hard cover over the screen. No matter what he does to keep them clean, he always manages to get dust/lint in at least one corner of the case, blocking off his screen in that area. With his last case, he couldn't adequately see how much charge he had on his phone, as what looked like a layer of sand (denim lint) covered the top right-hand corner. I picked a blue non-hard cover version for him to try, and we will be purchasing some screen films to keep his screen scratch-free. He was pleased immediately after putting the new case on, exclaiming, "Look, my phone has 72% charge!" It's a brand new world of knowing when his phone is going to die, and plugging it in time, thanks to Speck.

Nothing lasts forever, of course, but expensive technology is something you'd like to last as long as possible. Speck cases are available for many makes and models (we are a Mac family, but Android-lovers can be Specked out, too), and give you a stylish way to keep your tech safe. Check them out!

Anything But Fearless

Have you seen the movie, Inside Out, yet?

It is a terrific movie—genius, actually—about the way our emotions interact, and how each emotion is valid and necessary in its own role. More specifically, it is about a family of three—mother, father, and school-aged daughter—moving across country, and the daughter having what is tantamount to an emotional breakdown, as she tries to stay joyful when she is actually feeling anything but.

You can imagine how frightening this movie was for my husband and me, as we watched it on opening weekend, just days away from <<gulp>> moving our school-aged daughter across the country.** Fear, one of the five emotions highlighted in the film, along with Joy, Sadness, Disgust and Anger, was swimming all around me, and this acute potential scenario of pain and struggle was hard to swallow. Fear was popping up nightly in my vivid dreams, daily in my endless lists of "things to do/pack/think about/discuss," and physically in the tightness in my chest when I imagined our short-term future.

In the movie, of course, as voiced by Bill Hader, Fear is hilarious. Worry lists, anxious movements, and frenetic screams make his character a much-needed relief from the (sometimes dark) plot. Check him out:

Today, four days post-moving truck arrival, buried by boxes but starting to enjoy our new home, I can think about this movie with a little bit more perspective, and a lot less fear and anxiety. We made it to the other side, with a toe dipped in the water of our new normal, and we are all doing okay. We love Florida. It is a good choice. This transition is nowhere near over, and there will be many more moments of sadness, anxiety, grief, and frustration ahead, punctuating this honeymoon period with our new home. We have a lot of hope, though, because even in the stress of unpacking, living out of suitcases, and paying big bucks for home repairs, we have all been having a lot of fun.

For EJ, a good chunk of that fun has been a drama camp she has been attending this week, for which we will go and see her performance in a few hours. As I was driving on the (now familiar, previously foreign) route home from drop-off this morning, I started to think about how fearless our kid is. Aside from her anxiety about loud noises, for which we got some excellent professional help, I have always described her as fearless about everything: entering new situations, trying new things, being in front of people, etc. Even as I discussed her noise anxiety here on the blog, I called her fearless (topic sentence, third paragraph.)

It struck me this morning, however, how dangerous that description really is, or at least how dangerous the expectation of "always being fearless" could become if she internalizes that label, especially as she approaches adolescence. Thank you, Inside Out. 

Every significantly wonderful, life-changing, soul-expanding, perspective-enlarging experience I have had in my life has come with a healthy dose of fear. I have never been unafraid in those moments; sometimes, my fear has almost gotten the best of me. Had I believed that being fearless was key, I would likely have pushed away these experiences to rid myself of the feeling, and in return, I would have denied myself:

1. Every single performing arts moment of my childhood through adulthood, through which I have learned how to play and to think, how to relate to emotions with empathy, how to express myself creatively, and in the process, how to make and maintain life-long friendships.
2. My trip to France in high school at age sixteen—a trip in which our plane got turned around halfway across the ocean for suspicious reasons, and after a long lockdown at JFK, finally flew to Paris—a trip that ignited my love of France and helped me become dedicated to being a fluent French speaker.
3. My college education, away from home, at University of Wisconsin-Madison, which shaped me in more ways than I can count.
4. My junior year abroad in France, a year that I almost chickened-out of completely the night before our plane left, as I weighed my giant green suitcases over and over trying to make everything fit within the baggage weight restrictions, and obsessed over everything I would miss in Madison (e.g., friends, clubs, classes) if I left. I have said this before and I will say it again: aside from choosing the right person to marry, choosing to go abroad and live in Aix-en-Provence for a year was the single best decision I have ever made for myself, it was so profound in its impact on my life.
5. My life in Washington, DC, packing my 1988 Honda Accord and driving out there after college, taking a job at a big firm, persevering as I struggled to assimilate to professional life, coping with missing family and friends, surviving on a $25K starting salary. Learning to love a place, build a life in that place, and create the family/friends/structure I needed to make any location truly a home, was the gift that DC gave me.
6. Marrying my husband. Was I scared to get married? I didn't think I was, right until one week AFTER I got married and we were on our honeymoon. As I stared at a complimentary bottle of champagne for "Mr. and Mrs. Lusignan," all I could think was, "What have I done?" He sent me to spa and bought me flowers, I calmed down, and the rest is history. 
7. Moving to Chicago for graduate school for Mike. Chicago was wonderful, and Chicago was hard. School took longer than we expected, and we had to take out student loans. Our fourth-story walk-up was difficult in the ice and snow. Nothing really turned out as we had planned, except that, in the end, he got his PhD. That said, moving to Chicago meant living closer to family, making an amazing network of friends in our neighborhood of Hyde Park as well as through my masters program at Northwestern University, living a truly urban (walkable) lifestyle for a season, and confirming that we DO NOT want to live in the Midwestern climate forever.
8. Giving birth. I wasn't afraid to be a parent, and I wasn't afraid to go into labor, initially. When the labor took some frightening, exhausting turns, however, I was more afraid—actually, more physically terrified for my life, to be exact—than I had ever been, or have ever been since then. The lesson: the human body can (and will) withstand almost anything. Case in point, see item #9.
9. Saving my life with a vertical-sleeve gastrectomy. Because this was elective, and because it was expensive, and because there was so much shame around how "I really should be able to be a healthy weight without surgery" rolling around in my head, the fear I had going into this surgery was immense. What if I were the one person in thousands who died on the table? What if I had complications that made it hard for me to ever eat again, or be nutritionally sound? What would happen to my family if this all became a tragedy? Getting ready to go to the hospital that morning and putting myself in the hands of the care team was overwhelmingly scary. I remember doing breathing exercises in the shower, then hearing my husband pick up a call from the hospital saying that I could come in early, and being so grateful that I wouldn't have to sit in that terror any longer. Now, at seven months out and 107 pounds lost, it all seems obvious that it was the right choice; I remember that fear, though.
10. Moving to Florida. Taking a risk on a new life, trying to shape our future in a new way, and launching into a new community with the hope that we will make friends, find our place, and grow some roots.

Ten is such a nice number for a list, but I must add one more thing, one that encompasses everything: fear helps me ask for help. In every big moment listed above, as well as the million other moments of fear and anxiety I have felt throughout my lifetime, I had people in my life who helped me to face the fear, chose courage, and cope with the stress. These folks reminded me that if things didn't work out, I could always make a new choice. They patiently sat with me as I tried to answer the question, "What's the worst that could happen?" even as my responses became outlandish and hyperbolic, and lovingly tried to convince me that a) those probably wouldn't happen and b) even if they did, I could—and would—handle them. Fear has made me seek out new techniques from others—breathing, meditation, exercise—so that even when I am alone, I can be okay. At its best Fear keeps me safe, and connects me to others in a web of support. We all experience fear—there's no getting out of it—and we all need help feeling our way through it. Acknowledging fear doesn't mean you lack courage, it means that you may be at the precipice of making a courageous choice.

As the audience learns from the story of Inside Out, no good comes from an externally-imposed emotional expectation, even when it comes from a kind moment of praise or gratitude. Feeling what you feel, and knowing you can express your feelings honestly, is vital to sanity. I want my daughter to know that fear is normal, healthy, and not insurmountable. Being fearless, as much as that is praised as an attribute in today's world, especially for a young girl, is an unrealistic expectation. My hope for her is that she may embrace the feeling, breathe, ask for help, and make choices based not simply on that one emotion, but on the sum total of what she knows, with the support of those around her to buoy her up when the tide comes in. That is my hope for all of us.

**Our child was in no way traumatized by this movie. She thought it was funny, and would help her with her move. So far, so good.

(Special shout-out to the folks at #BlogHer15 today: attending the conference last year was one of the key steps in my choice to reclaim my life and have weight-loss surgery. It also connected me with terrific new friends. Hope to see you again next year!)

Sweet Sixteen, Five Months

With inch-by-inch of circumference eliminated, I'm five months out of surgery. 91.9 pounds down, with many more left to go. Feeling great and grateful.

Flying to the Summit

In the world of weight loss, particularly in the world of online weight-loss support among peers, there is much talk about NSVs, or non-scale victories. NSVs are the things you cling to when the scale just isn't moving, successes like, "My jeans are too loose," or "An old friend didn't recognize me at the grocery store." You would imagine that bariatric surgery patients, like myself, wouldn't need to focus on these, as our excess weight would simply pour off continually, without fail, due to our minuscule dietary intake. That isn't the norm, however. For me, while the overall trajectory has been weight loss, I have had weeks at a time when the scale does not budge. This morning, for instance, I lost a couple of pounds for the first time in at least two weeks. I wasn't slacking off while the scale stayed still; nothing I did this week with my diet and exercise is any different than anything I did the week before, or the week before that. During those lulls at the scales, NSVs have become an important focus.

I've written before about how my life felt restricted before my vertical sleeve gastrectomy—not only did I know that obesity would kill me, it was physically and psychologically hurting me every day. While I still am overweight, and have a long way to go, taking 85 pounds off of my frame has had a tremendously positive influence on my overall well-being. NSVs for me include, but are not limited to:

1. Not constantly worrying about fitting in seats at restaurants, theaters, etc., making me reluctant to go out and enjoy life
2. Not waking up in the morning with back/knee/ankle/arm/neck pain
3. Not being restricted to my orthopedic mattress (which is now in storage with the rest of our stuff, pending our upcoming move) because sleeping on anything else caused agonizing back pain by 3:00 a.m.
4. Not panicking when I have to shop because I am inching out of the highest sizes typically sold, even in plus-size shops
5. Fitting comfortably in a queen-size bed with my husband (who lifts weights, and is very broad in the shoulders—only one of us can take up extra space if we are going to sleep peacefully!)
6. Not wondering if the first thing people think when they see me is, "Wow, she has gotten bigger."

At Christmas, my husband capitalized on the first NSV mentioned above, giving me tickets to see Carousel this spring as my present. To quote him, when he gave me the present, "I know you love the theater, and have avoided going to see shows for a long time because you aren't comfortable in the seats. I thought that, by April when the show is on, you would be able to go and fit in a seat without worry." Two weeks ago, we went to see the show at the Chicago Lyric Opera, and it was fantastic. I was so giddy when I sat down and fit beautifully in the seat, I actually started to cry. We took a selfie to commemorate the moment.

I am grateful for all the weight-loss wins that led up to that moment, and tomorrow, I am excited that I will catapult over another previous hurdle, in what will likely the be the pièce de résistance of NSVs. Tomorrow, I am flying, alone, to the Mom 2.0 Summit.

I cannot recall a time in the last decade when I have flown alone. Once EJ was born, and my weight started to really pile on, I just didn't feel safe flying on my own, sitting next to strangers, worried about spilling out into their space, not being able to put my arm rest or tray table down all the way, and asking for a seat belt extender. Then, in 2010, there was the whole Kevin Smith/Southwest debacle, in which he was escorted off the plane because he was too big for his seat. I mean, if a famous movie director could be told he was too fat to fly, I was certainly not going to get any special treatment. I love Southwest, and continued to fly it when traveling with my daughter and husband, borrowing space from my child within our family row. In my mind, though, in 2010, a door slammed shut for me: as long as I was obese, I could not fly on my own.

It was convenient that, during this time, our family was grad-school poor. It was easy to justify not spending money to attend conferences, visit friends, or to pursue work possibilities on our own travel dime. Heck, we didn't have money for essentials, why on earth would I book unnecessary flights?

For someone like me, who loves to travel, loves to meet new people, loves to explore the world, swallowing the reality that I could not go where I wanted to go (and do what I wanted to do, Mama Cass-style) was too painful to think about. I didn't face it, fully. I imagined travel for another time and place in my life, unsure of when that would (or could) happen.

Tomorrow, it is happening. I am flying to Phoenix. Alone. To a conference that is suited just for me, to meet new friends and learn new things. To feel the sunshine, and go swimming in fancy hotel pools in my plus-size bathing suit. To visit with family I love. To test out the new freedom that comes with being in a body that, while still heavy, is reasonably proportioned and not extraordinarily difficult to haul around.

I have to give a shout-out here to my friend, Kate, whom I met last year at another blogging conference—one in which I flew out with my entire family, and attended with a close friend—for tipping me off about the sold-out Mom 2.0 Summit, and helping me to get in touch with another blogger who was hoping to transfer her ticket and hotel reservation because she could no longer attend. Having someone cheer me on through the process made me feel like I could actually do this. 

The conference's opening party theme, "Rise of the Phoenix," is not just a metaphor for me; I feel like I have been through a fire, and am reemerging, ready to fly again. To my fellow passengers tomorrow, please excuse the inevitable tears of joy at take-off. To my fellow conference attendees, get ready to meet the most grateful participant at a blogging conference you have met in years.

Sweet Sixteen, Four Months

December 16th—April 16th

Over 82 pounds down, fresh from a walk to pick the kiddo up from school, in a shirt she picked out for me two sizes smaller than what I wore the day of surgery. "Believe in your selfie," indeed. If I had not have believed in that gal taking the selfie on December 16th, I would be here right now.

As always, thanks to everyone for the outpouring of love, encouragement, and support. I still have a long way to go, and I'm very grateful to be doing it with all this great company.

Sweet Sixteen, Three Months

December 16th—March 16th

Seventy pounds down, feeling healthier, walking further, eating lighter, drinking sippier (I know, it isn't a word, but it should be), and generally being Kori a lot more happily.