Thursday 16th August 2012
I’ve decided that babies get a raw deal. I deduce this from having lived like a giant baby myself for the past 12 days (13 if we count the time of writing). I have been fed, albeit by choice and myself, a variety of increasingly dull tasting liquids and tomorrow I begin to wean myself. Its mushy food time!
I have dedicated much of the past week to planning, fantasising and imagining my glorious mushy foods menu. I have filled my virtual cupboards with virtual foods, all of which match the “can be mashed with the back of fork criteria”. I have invaded Martin’s dinner plate to the point of annoyance – he apparently doesn’t give a rats ass whether his potatoes meet the mushy criteria, and is dead certain his steak doesn’t so can I please give up trying!
In desperation, and the promise of an uninterrupted plate of food, Martin trundles off to Asda in Hereford with me (we are back in the caravan having spent a weekend at home), to scour the shelves for mushy delights. I am totally crestfallen! 30 minutes of searching and a small pack of creamed root vegetables and a weight watchers cottage pie lie lonely in the trolley. Fear has driven me to systematically declare everything else “too high in sugar”, “too high in carbs”, “too low in protein”, “likely to stick in my pouch” or “not likely to mush enough”. All of this has been ascertained in the presence of other shoppers, many of whom on seeing me peering at calorific and nutritional content smile sympathetically as though they acknowledge my need to do so.
Heartily fed up by this stage Martin disappears to purchase dinner for Ky (our youngest) and himself. Of all the things he could get, of all the foods in Asda, of all the other choices available, he comes back with what can only be described as a death wish purchase – a steamy, hot, roast chicken. Bugger the fact that his brave wife has undergone surgery, bugger the fact she hasn’t chewed for weeks and bugger the fact she still has shoulder pain and is trying bravely to get past jelly. Bugger all of that……..she really will not mind roving round Asda, looking for stuff to mush with the “better than Gucci, better than a date with Beckham” smell of roast chicken wafting beneath her nose. He is genuinely puzzled by my filthy look, so I take me and my band down aisle 9 and purchase a litre of low fat custard in which I fully intend to drown my small pouch sorrows.
Shoulder pain has continued to taunt me, and taint what has been a pretty good journey so far. A second call to Dolan Park resulted in the suggestion that I go and see my GP. Cheers THG - £5k of my own money and now I need to spend more taxpayers’ pounds on follow-up. I am left wondering why if they are concerned enough to suggest GP referral are they not calling me in to see me. Anyhow, 36 hours later (a miracle in term of GP appointments – used the potential pulmonary embolism card to deter receptionist from insisting I see a locum in September) and I am sitting in front of a lovely new young GP (all of about 25 I reckon). Very young GP appeared excited to hear I’d had a gastric band, asked me what type and when told admitted she knew zip about them. As a hypochondriac this instilled immediate fear, only strengthened by her insistence to examine my tummy and for me to tell her when it hurt. For me the most comforting part was when I told her not to worry as she re-examined site of port for a third time, explaining to her what it was. She looked relieved, said my BP & SATs were fine, suggested paracetamol and to keep an eye on it. Pleased someone was relieved, even though it wasn’t me, I left to fend off rolling wind for the 7th day in a row and seek advice from more relevant quarters via my WLS friends.
Decided I needed to bolster flagging spirits so spent some time with Google, entering every gastric band success story search term I could think of. I love looking at the before and after shots, and reading how as weight diminishes everything returns, from an ability to disco dance to a raging libido. [I have mentioned both to Martin who looked simultaneously quizzical and somewhat afraid].
The problem I have with the success stories is that they are alien to me; they are akin to reading stories about folk who win the lottery. They are fantasies much dreamed of but to whom the reality is owned always by someone else. As much as I embarked on this journey to succeed, Mr Doubt still sits on my shoulder, whispering gently “really? You think that will be you? Really?”, and no matter how many times I rally my “I will not be a duckling forever, I will be a swan” call there is some small part of me that believes it cannot be mine.
Anyway, enough morosity for this post ………. I need to kick my own ass (if only my calf would allow it), shore up my dietary defences, get creative with the mushiness and enter my weaning phase. Just think, within two weeks I will be on solids …….. I might even tell Martin I can shower myself without assistance at that point (joke!)… See you soon.
