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.

Sweet Sixteen, Two Months

December 16th—January 16th—February 16th

Or, for full photo comparison, from surgery day to today:

I purchased the pants I'm wearing in today's photo last week while on vacation, one size lower than those I wore on my surgery date. They didn't quite fit when I bought them, but they were such a steal, and the pants I was wearing at the time were becoming so loose, I had to get them. Today, they fit just fine. Nutty. 56.4 pounds lost. I'm still hippy, but hey, you can't have everything. 

Today's non-selfie photo credit goes to the kiddo. 

Surgery Recap Series, Post #2—Getting There, Getting It Done

(This post is the second in a series about my vertical sleeve gastrectomy, performed on December 16th, 2014. To find out about my pre-op physician selection, you can read my first post here.)

My first in-person consultation with my physician was on the Monday before Thanksgiving. At that time, I was weighed, measured and photographed, and I must admit that I felt a bit like I was being prepared for showing at the county fair. My physician asked me if I was at my highest weight, and although I had measured three pounds down from my very highest, I said yes, speaking generally. He told me that that is a red flag, and he would expect me to have lost weight before I came in for surgery, three weeks later. If I came back the same weight, or heavier, he would not perform surgery at that time.

I immediately regretted not replying, "Oh, no, I was three pounds heavier earlier this month!" If you want to scare a fat person, tell them that they have a limited amount of time in which they must prove they have lost weight. My brain was screaming, "If I thought I could lose weight, I wouldn't be here!" 

I didn't worry about starting my pre-op, liver-shrinking diet until two weeks before my surgery, as recommended, which allowed me to eat normally on Thanksgiving later that week. Did I eat as much as I might have if didn't know I had to lose weight by the 16th? Nope. I was moderate in my choices, and gained no holiday pounds, thankfully.

There is talk among the bariatric surgery community about "food funerals," opportunities to really eat those foods that you absolutely adore, but are terrible for you, before you may be unable to eat them again. I held no funerals. I didn't feel compelled. It wasn't an act of heroism, it was primarily a laser focus on my goal of being surgery ready by my surgery date.

In the end, I needn't have worried about the doctor's warning. Once provided with the nutritionist's recommendations for a pre-op diet, created specifically to shrink a pre-fatty liver (which, as an obese person, I was already the proud owner of), I found that the pounds started to fall off. The first two days were tortuous: no sugar, no carbs, and no caffeine, all at once. I called the nutritionist in desperation, I was so hungry. She told me to go ahead and add a lot more lean carbohydrates and good fats. By day four, I had figured out a decent protein shake recipe, and was cruising along.

In fact, about a week before the surgery, I started to have doubts about even moving forward with the operation. If I could lose weight so quickly, why would I get cut open?

It was at this point I had a lot of tears, doubt, and self-examination. I began to remember that I have lost weight quickly like this many, many times before. In the end, I always ended up gaining the weight back, plus more. I sought reassurance from family, friends, and other gastric sleeve patients I had met online. I told myself, "If you show up that day, and it doesn't feel right, you don't have to have surgery," all while continuing to prepare.

Thankfully, I was soon in the thick of our daughter's Nutcracker ballet performances—getting her ready, doing her super-sticky-will-not-fall bun several times a day, and volunteering in the front of house during performances we did not attend. It was exactly as I hoped: between being busy, hosting relatives coming into town to see EJ perform, and getting repeatedly covered in hair gel, I didn't have a moment to worry about the upcoming surgery. I mean, look at this kid—how could you worry about anything when you get to watch this kid dance, right?

On the evening of Sunday the 14th, two days before surgery, I started to make piles of everything we needed to take with us to Michigan. A Magic Bullet blender, protein powder, sugar-free jellos and puddings, homemade broth frozen into ice cubes, the Aeropress coffee maker and Colectivo coffee (decaf for me, regular for Mike), GasX strips and Milk of Magnesia, bottles of grape-flavored Isopure clear liquid, and comfy pajamas and slippers for lounging around were all sorted, and various coolers and ice packs were set up for early morning packing.

My folks had agreed to come with us for the surgery, which was a huge blessing. After I was discharged, they would return to Chicago with the kiddo, get her to school and activities, etc., then bring her (and our dog) up to their place in Wisconsin for a fun weekend with family, while I recuperated in Michigan with Mike, waiting for my one-week post-op appointment. It made our daughter very relieved to know that she could be at the hospital to visit me, and it made me very relieved to know my parents would be there for support.

Early on Monday the 15th, we were all packed in two cars and heading out. Mike and I stopped for gas, while my folks went through the adjacent McDonald's drive through to get everyone but me some breakfast. As it was the day before surgery, I was on clear liquids, only, so I had a bottle of water and a bottle of Isopure for the road. EJ decided to go with her grandparents (smart kid), so I drove Mike and I there, knowing I wouldn't be able to drive for several weeks after surgery. We listened to an audiobook, chatted, and generally had a relaxing time. Once in Michigan, we checked into our Residence Inn, loaded up our mini-kitchen, then headed right to my pre-op appointment with Dr. Pleatman.

Fancy, right?

Because I had come earlier, I did not need to attend nutritional or informational sessions with the staff, which were being held for other surgical patients that week. Mike met my doctor, though, and we discussed my concern about having the smallest recommended bougie (size 32) used for my surgery.

In a gastric sleeve, a tube called a bougie (bougie means candle in French, to give you a visual) is placed down your throat and positioned in your stomach, making a guide for the staple line that removes your excess stomach. Dr. Pleatman favors the the smallest bougie recommended, a 32, in his procedures. I was worried about that, though, as I have had years of GERD, and a smaller-sized stomach is indicated in increased post-op acid reflux. Mike and I had read research stating that bougie size did not matter for long-term weight loss outcomes (comparing 32 to 40, and 32 to 36), but using smaller bougies could increase patient discomfort and short-term complications.

After our appointment, I left, having agreed to the 32, but once in the car, I started crying. Even though the difference between a 32 and a 36 is only a matter of millimeters, I didn't want the smallest pouch. My doctor, who I trusted, felt it was best, based on his patient outcomes, but I just couldn't feel good about it. Mike and I drove to a nearby soup restaurant, where they painstakingly attempted to strain out all bits of vegetables from a broth for me, and I started to obsess about this issue. This was the absolute, most difficult moment for me in the pre-op process, and it was less than 24 hours before surgery. If I didn't trust my surgeon, I wouldn't have picked him; at the same, time my gut (metaphorically and physically) couldn't get on board.

God bless my husband, who said, "Let's go back to the office right now," as soon as we finished lunch. We did. We asked to see the surgeon again, and even before I reiterated my concerns, he volunteered something like, "Why don't I just use a 36 bougie. It's fine. It's your stomach, you need to be happy with this."

At that moment, I was completely relieved, and completely ready for surgery. I'm sure you could see the stress lift off my face. I knew I was doing the right thing, and had picked the right doctor.

We went back to the hotel, where we rejoined my folks and kid. There was swimming in the pool, talking to friends on the phone wishing me well, and Christmas manicures for my mom and daughter with the new Jamberry nails I had purchased. Yes, I gave out manicures the night before surgery, and it was terrific! The family time was perfect, and it kept my mind off feeling hungry.

I then did the (gross, unfortunate, necessary) Milk of Magnesia pre-surgery prep, let that do its work, and headed to bed. Before falling asleep, I had a mental conversation with my grandparents, who are deceased. Granddaddy was a doctor, and Grammy was a doctor's wife (so practically a doctor, as we all were repeatedly told.) I asked that, if they could come around tomorrow, be in the room with me, be with the doctors and nurses caring for me, I would really appreciate it.

I woke up feeling calm and happy. My original surgery time was scheduled for mid-afternoon, but I had learned the day before at my appointment that it had been moved up, and I should plan to arrive at the hospital around 11:30 a.m. I had a lazy morning, not eating or drinking anything as requested, just hanging out with Mike and monitoring the comings and goings of our kiddo with my folks in the room across the hall.  I took a photo of myself in my pajamas, for a last "before" picture.

I got into the shower around 9:30 a.m., and it was at this time that we got the call that surgeries were running ahead of schedule, and I could arrive as soon as possible. With hair still wet, I kissed and hugged EJ and my dad goodbye, then Mom, Mike and I headed to the hospital.

What happened next is a little bit of magic, if you ask me. As we walked to the surgical wing, Mom and I noticed the name of the unit I would be on: Gustafson. Gustafson was my Grammy's maiden name. I had come all this way, picking this surgeon and hospital from options all over North America, and this is where I had ended up, in Grammy's wing. To me, this was just one more little confirmation that I was in the right place doing the right thing, although others might call it simply coincidence. I knew Grammy and Granddaddy were watching out for me. We stopped to take a picture on the way to check-in to honor the moment.

Registration didn't take long, and before I knew it, I was in a gown being prepped. At this point, we realized that, in our haste to leave the hotel, I had forgotten my CPAP machine. Mike had to run back to get it—the hotel wasn't that far away, but I was worried he wouldn't make it in time for me to see him before getting wheeled back. That was my only worry before surgery, and it was a good distraction from any pre-op nervousness that could have formed. My surgeon came in to see me, and confirmed that he was using a 36 bougie. I thanked him. My nurses were terrific—the lady who weighed me said, "I know, this is everyone's least favorite part," but I was actually thrilled to see my before number right before surgery. As it turned out, I was 23 pounds down from my highest weight, 20 since starting the pre-op diet. Both nurses cheered with me, then a PA came in, heard my news from the nurses, and got on board with the encouragement. My IV was started, after I explained that the IV I had in my hand for Ellerie's birth had become swollen and painful, the nurse said, "I hate putting them in the hand, for that exact reason," then nearly painlessly put one into my forearm.

Mike and Mom came back about ten minutes before I was wheeled into surgery, with plenty of time for us to share hugs, and for them to be there when the anesthesiologist walked me through what she would be doing to keep me asleep and comfortable. They also took a goofy pre-surgery photo for me—specifically requested by EJ—a tradition of ours starting back to when my dad had surgery a few years ago, and he posed in a silly way right before his anesthesia kicked in.

Dad and Mom are better at it, as you can see here, but I did my best.

Once wheeled back, I don't remember much. I remember seeing the surgical lights, which looked like a giant, glowing lotus flower. I also remember the nurses bragging about my progress to the surgical crew. According to Mike and Mom, a nurse came out 30 minutes later to tell them the surgery was going well, and a little after the hour mark, my surgeon came out and showed them my inflated, removed stomach (a test that shows that there are no leaks internally, which both of my anatomy-geek relatives loved), as well as the bougie he used. He also told them that I had done a great job shrinking up my liver on the pre-op diet, making the surgery easier to perform, as it was quite small.

For my part, my first thoughts and feelings when awaking from surgery weren't quite as rosy. I had just been cut open, of course, so that is pretty reasonable. Want to hear more about it? Stay tuned for the final installment of my surgery re-cap, coming soon.