My Weight Loss Surgery Journey - Part 1 - "So, What's It Like To Weigh 500 Pounds Anyway?"

Me On The Right With My Two Friends, Liz Nutton and Donna Poulin Presenting A Check To The Muscular Dystrophy Association. We Raised Money By Doing Three Dances With Me As The DJ Way Back In The Mid-Eighties. I was At About 375 lbs In This Picture. The Worst Was Yet To Come.

The anniversary of my weight loss surgery is coming up again. This year marks my tenth year anniversary. It’s hard to believe because the time has gone by so quickly and so much has happened. I wrote this a little while after I got the surgery but I never did much with it until now.

Now that I have my own blog, I thought I would share it with 27 loyal readers. I hope you like it.

I began the journey into my new life by being pretty useless. When I say that, people tend to get very angry with me because they think I am putting myself down. But those who have been through this journey, know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m just stating facts.

Please keep in mind that I was 500 hundred pounds. I will forgive you if you take a moment to put your eyes back in your head. In the meantime, I will say that that was a pretty good size if I do say so myself. I like to think that it took a lot of work to get there, but it really didn’t. Not unless you call driving to the Chinese food take-out hard. I will try to describe what it was like to be that heavy.

Because I weighed that much, there was hardly anything I could do without a great deal of effort. I couldn’t stand up for more than half a minute. To walk from one room to another, I had to stop at least once. My back hurt constantly and I was always out of breath because by the way, I also smoked about two packs aday. Other than that, I was fine.

When we moved into our house back in 1990, my wife and I agreed there would be no smoking in the house. That was easy for her to say because she had already quit. If I wanted to have a smoke, I would go down to the basement or out on the deck. Before you start pumping your fist in the air, shouting “Well, it was your house too!” keep in mind that I smoked just about everywhere else we went especially when we went on vacation and she never complained. So it was a fair deal.

Going down the stairs was relatively easy simply because weight rolls downhill faster. But, coming back up was another matter. There is an area above the stairs that has a shelf where I put my keys, wallet etc. Back then; it also became my leaning post.

Just walking up that short flight (five steps) would leave me breathless and I would have to stop to try to compose myself. When I caught my breath, I would stumble on over to my recliner.

If I wanted to do something around the house that involved multiple tasks, I would try to figure out how to do them all in one shot. For instance, let’s say I tried to clear off the table after dinner. I would look at the table and say ‘Okay, if I take all the stuff that needs to go in the refrigerator and possibly carry the plates as well, I won’t have to go back and forth three times.” Either way, it would take me about 15 minutes to do it. I became very adept at multi tasking.

Because our bed had wooden slats beneath the mattresses, like most normal beds, I could not lay on it because when I did. the slats would collapse. Neither my wife nor I thought that dealing with that every night would be that amusing, so I decided to sleep on a futon we had in our living room. Since it was extremely difficult to fold up every morning, we never did and it laid flat 24/7. This caused us to lose space in half the room.

I got used to it’s hardness after a while but because but I also had sleep apnea, a sleep disorder which is just another delightful by-product of being very overweight, I would wake up literally every two hours. Even if I slept for longer than that, I would still wake up exhausted. It was like I never slept at all because I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Even though I was laying down, because I was so big, my weight constricted my air passages.

A lot of times, I slept in in my recliner either on purpose or because I passed out there. Most times, if I sat in my recliner (or anywhere else for that matter) to watch TV or something, I would immediately fall asleep. And would be a deep, deep sleep. Normally, when a normal person starts to nod off, he can feel himself getting drowsy and finally passing out.

But, with this, it was like flicking a light switch, it was that instant. Also, because of the sleep apnea (and rotten sinuses) I snored like a jet engine. I was definitely a window rattler.

My wife couldn’t enjoy watching TV with me sawing wood like that and although she never really said anything, I could tell that she was angry or frustrated. I can’t blame her. Many times, I found her in the living room watching the TV or trying to read in there because I sounded like a buzz saw.

I did get a better sleep there than on the futon, but the problem with it was that my legs would swell to the size of caveman’s clubs. They would swell so much that I couldn’t put on my shoes because they didn’t fit. They were loafers; by the way because I couldn’t bend down to tie regular shoes. If I was lying down, they weren’t too bad. (Who am I kidding? They just a centimeter smaller.) But, if I sat for any length of time, it was worse. Patti would call my feet ‘pillow feet.’

On the days when I managed to go to work, to walk from my car to my desk, which is a distance of about fifty or sixty yards, became an effort of epic proportions. I got a company handicapped sticker using my back as an excuse, from work so I could be closer to the building. But I would still have to stop at least four times. God forbid if I forgot my ID badge in the car! I used to check for it constantly because one of my worst nightmares would be to haveto walk back to my car to retrieve it.

Next to the entrance, there was a little stockade fence that I would sit and rest on. How that thing held me up is a true testament to the wonders of Mother Nature. Who knew wood could be that strong? So I would sit there vainly pretending that I was having one last cigarette before going in. In reality, I was sitting there so I could catch my breath, praying that my back would stop hurting. Then the trek to my desk would begin.

Realize now that my desk was only about a hundred feet from the back door but I managed to find everything there was to lean on. I would stop at the postage vending machine. I would lean on the wall moldings because I could put my arm on it as well as resting on the wagons sitting in the hall waiting to be taken out to the loading dock.

I then would reach my desk and lean against the filing cabinet to catch my breath. To go to the cafeteria, which was the same distance, but further away, was unthinkable. But, it didn’t stop me from asking someone to get me something while they were going there. I really couldn’t do it on my own.

I was living in a constant state of denial. I would bitch constantly about how much my back hurt. I deluded myself into thinking it was because my father also had very bad back problems and I had just inherited it which actually turned out to be partially true. But carrying around five hundred pounds certainly didn’t help it. The difference was that he is a walking stick and I wasn’t. The only things I inherited from him besides that was allergies, rotten sinuses and a very strange sense of humor.

I really knew knew inside what the problem was. Deep down in the little nooks and crannies of my mind, there was that little voice constantly saying ‘You know what it is fender head. I wonder of there are any more potato chips left?’

Aiding in my delusion, my doctor at the time suggested I have some sort of an ultrasound test on my legs to find out why they were so swollen all the time. That test was lot of laughs. The procedure involves sticking these long needles into the affected area, namely my calves, and then sending a little shock though them. I swear I still have a twitch from it.

On top of that, the guy who administered it looked like he just crawled out of Frankenstein laboratory and he seemed to really enjoy his work just a little too much. I swear to God I thought I heard him giggling at one point. I kind of got the feeling that he secluded himself in his basement a lot, late at night, doing God knows what to small animals.

One day, I went to my doctor’s office yet again, complaining about my legs, back and just about everything else. I sat in his office extremely frustrated and said that I didn’t think anything is working, all the while wondering what I was going to have for lunch.

He tried to weigh me but his regular office scale didn’t go high enough, which is something I could have told him. He then tried having me straddle two regular scales, side by side, with one foot on each one to see if he could get a reading, but it didn’t work. He measured my legs and kind of pondered the problem. It was probably right then and there when he decided to stop feeding my delusions. Finally, he said, “I’ll be right back” and disappeared.

He came back with a scale. Only this time, it was a heavy duty one, not the little puny ones you see in any drug store. He told me to get on it.

Inside, I was having a not-so-mild panic attack because I knew I was finally going to have to face the problem head on. When you weigh that much, most people honestly have no idea exactly how much they weigh. Oh they have some faint notion (or fear) as to how much, but they really don’t know. Most of the time, if I had to make a choice of gouging my own eyes out and getting on a scale, the eyes would have lost.

I could have either got on it or turned around and hobbled on back to my car. But I thought, it’s now or never. I stepped on it and not only did I see what I really weighed, but it was about fifty pounds more than I thought. It was around 495 pounds.

I immediately broke down and cried. I felt like I the biggest failure in the world. How could I have done this to myself? He left me alone for a minute or so because he it was obvious that I was upset. When he came back, he just looked at me for a second as if saying, “Now you know what’s wrong.”

He told about a drug called Meridia that I could try and he gave me a prescription. He also told me about a doctor who did gastric bypass surgery and gave me his name and number. I asked if he thought the surgery would be the way to go and he just nodded as if to say, “Well, what the hell do you think?!” I asked him to let me try the Meridia first before I make any rash decision. I knew the Meridia wouldn’t work but inside, I was scared out of my mind. An emotional wreck.

I came home and told wife and what the doctor said. I didn’t tell her how upset I was, but she knew. In spite of my sometime outgoing personality, I also have a very quiet side. When I have something very important on my mind, I am not very talkative and I just kind of sat there contemplating my life.

I told her about the surgery but it was sort of dropped, or so I thought. I tried the Meridia and it did nothing. Probably because of my mental state. I just wasn’t ready for yet another in a long line of weight loss products.

After a day or so, we did start talking about the surgery and how it might help. The thought of it scared the daylights out of me because I never have had a broken bone or anything and I certainly have never had surgery. However, I also knew that for me, it was my only chance.

My wife is not the type of woman who will constantly nag at me and I thank God for that. But, she also knows when I don’t want to deal with something, I will put it off forever. Years before this, when I was putting off making a doctor’s appointment for a checkup I needed to have for insurance, she knew exactly what I was doing. I was putting off the appointment because overweight people and doctors are natural enemies. I will never forget the time I went to an emergency room with what turned out to be pneumonia and the doctor said to me “You know, if you weren’t so big, you would be having this problem.” For pneumonia!

Instead of bugging me about it, she came into the living room while I was watching TV and said, “What are you doing on the seventeenth?” I said, “I don’t know.” She said “Well, you better keep it open because you have to see the doctor. I just made an appointment for you.”

Somebody else probably would have gotten angry, but I just had to sit there and laugh to myself because I knew she was right. If it weren’t done for me, it would not have happened. I didn’t want to deal with it and thought if I ignored it long enough, it would just go away.

She did not nag me about it, but it was constantly in the back of my mind. Could this be the answer? Well, maybe. But as every overweight person knows, I was just afraid to raise my hopes up that high. I would think that either it or I would just fail again and I would be right back where I started. So waht would be the point?Did I have the strength to deal with it both mentally and physically again? I wasn’t so sure.

She would ask me if I called the surgeon at least to talk about it and I would say no, I haven’t gotten around to it. I would tell he I was busy and forgot, like I had such vast social life. Whenever I came upstairs and complaining that I was out of breath, she would gently ask me again. Whenever I complained about my back hurting, she would ask me again. Not angry, mind you, just asking.

Next; The Decision Is Made

My Weight Loss Surgery Journey - Part 2 - The Decision Is Made

My Pre-Surgery Mug Shots. I Was At My Worst In These Pictures. Notice The Futon In The Picture To The Right. That Served As My Bed. On The Right, I Am Doing A Pretty Good Alfred Hitchcock Impression.

The anniversary of my weight loss surgery is coming up again. This year marks my tenth year anniversary. It’s hard to believe because the time has gone by so quickly and so much has happened. I wrote this a little while after I got the surgery but I never did much with it until now.

Now that I have my own blog, I thought I would share it with 27 loyal readers. I hope you like it.

I believe God talks to us every day in some way or another. I honestly don’t think he does so by shooting down bolts of lightning from the heavens, or by setting the back yard bushes on fire. I really don’t think even he is that dramatic. However he does talk to us in ways we can’t even realize and if we’re lucky, we notice.

Right before I finally called the surgeon, a whole bunch of little things happened that caught my attention. They convinced me that this was the way to go.

I was reading the newspaper on my break at work and I saw an article about singer Carnie Wilson. At this point, she recently had this done and the article was commenting on how well she was doing. The difference in her was dramatic. I always thought she was very pretty anyway but now, she was gorgeous. More importantly, she looked very happy. She was becoming the poster child for weight loss surgery and even had her operation broadcast on the internet.

That same day, I also got a call from an acquaintance at work who had this done. The call was about a problem he was having with his computer and he was calling me because I worked on the computer help desk at the time. He was the first person I ever knew personally who had this done.

I had heard of the procedure before but because of him, I finally learned some of the details. Before this call, I met him one day in a local convenience store while I was getting my daily newspaper and a cup of coffee. I hadn’t seen him at work in a while an I was amazed at how different he looked. He had lost all kinds of weight. I told him he looked great and asked if he was feeling okay. I was hoping he lost weight on his own and not because of sickness. He then started to tell me about his weight loss surgery and how great he felt. We talked about it at length, said out goodbyes and that was it.

I saw him around work all the time and there were times when he would be walking to towards me and I really would not recognize him. While I really was very happy for him, at the same time, I have to admit I was also very jealous and envious. When he would say how much his life had changed, in one way, it ticked me off because it was just one more example of how somebody was beating this damned problem and I wasn’t.

When I talked to him on the phone that day, I naturally asked him how he was doing. He said just great. He was down about 180 pounds and was looking forward to losing more. I asked if he had a minute, so I could pick his brain on the subject. I asked questions about the procedure and so on but what really sold me was when I asked him if he would do it again if he had to. When he said would in a heartbeat, it sounded like I was getting the go ahead from someone who knew what he was talking about. I got the assurance that it would be all right. I made the call to the surgeon that very minute.

When I went to visit my surgeon, I asked my wife to come along. Naturally, I wanted her for moral support but maybe she would think ask a question that I wouldn’t have. I wanted to get as much information about this as I could.

At the time, his office was near Fenway Park in Boston. We parked in the garage but we didn’t know where is office was, so we had to walk and kind of got lost. By the time we reached the correct elevator, I was puffing like a train, having to stop every ten feet or so. We got to the office and were escorted into a room.

The surgeon came in and introduced himself. He asked how much I weighed and I told him. He asked if I had any reservations and I said yes. He could see that I was still a little hesitant, so he said wanted to make a list of all the weight loss programs I had been on in my life, no matter how small or trivial. I was actually amazed, and at the asme time, very dismayed, at how long the list was. It went on and on until I had about thirty different programs on it. It dawned on me how much money I had spent over the years. Of course, every one of them had some degree of success but every one of them had also failed.

All through the conversation, he was acting like having this operation was a forgone conclusion. With me being in the sorry state I was in, that was definitely true. There were no discussions about other options, which kind of surprised me. That notion struck me later on. It never ceases to amaze me how strong denial can be. Although I knew how badly off I was, I still thought there would still be other options.

He then told my insurance would cover everything and most likely, a tummy tuck later on. I have to say this really surprised me because I thought the insurance company would have considered an elective surgery and deny it. They have since become much more stringent but back then, it was very simple. So, after hearing that, there really was no excuse now.

I thought I would have to wait a very long time for the surgery date, but his office called the next week and was told me the date had been set. It was to be August 21, 2000. It was now April so I had all that time to embark on the biggest emotional roller coaster ride of my life. This was the very first time that it really sunk in. This really was going to happen.

The surgeon told me that he had certain requirements of all his patients. I had to see his nutritionist so I could learn how to eat all over again. It would be up to her to tell us what to expect when your stomach is the size of a golf ball. What to eat, what not to eat. I also had to try to lose some weight before the surgery.

Of course, the natural reaction to hearing this was “If I could do that, what the hell do I need you for?” What the hell was this guy thinking?

He stated that there are two reasons why I needed to lose some weight before hand. It proves to him that you are truly committed to making this huge lifestyle change and I wasn’t just screwing around. This was going to change everything not only physically but mentally as well. Most of us have no idea what it’s like to be thin and we had to get used to it. I also had to see a psychiatrist just for that very reason.

You would be very surprised at how many people don’t understand that. He had to feel that you were ready for it mentally because otherwise, he was just wasting his time. The reason he would be wasting his time was because if you’re not very careful, the weight will be gained back.

It also made his life easier in the operating room. Without going into gory details, think about what it’s like to have to move around all of that fatty skin?

I also had to see a psychiatrist to determine if I was somewhat sane, a question that has baffled experts for years.

The psychiatrist asked the usual questions about why I wanted this done and did I think that I was ready for a totally new lifestyle. I said yes to everything because at that point I really was. The only other alternative was death and I found no humor in that option at all. After a very good discussion, she agreed that I was ready. That was one hurdle out of the way and after that, I still saw her on a regular basis. She put me on an anti-depressant which is something I should have done years ago because it keeps me on even keel.

I would also have to attend at least three support meetings.

The support meetings were held twice a month. My wife came with me to all of them.They were held at the hospital where the operation was going to be. Unfortunately, the entrance to the hall required us walking up a long flight of stairs. Either that or we could use an equally long ramp on the other side.

When I used to see things like this, I would go into a slow panic. Just the thought of trying to climb that ramp (the stairs were out of the question) was upsetting. No matter where I went, I would scope what I had to do to get inside. A lot of times, if I could not get a space close to the entrance, I would seriously consider just turning around and going home. In fact, a lot of times, I did just that rather than having to deal with it. If I didn’t find either a handicapped space or something just as close, that would be it.

I parked the car as close as I could and started my climb up the mountain. Every step was an effort. Lifting my legs was difficult because each one felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. A small landing was reached after about halfway up the ramp and it was there that I would rest and do the rest of it.

Once I got to the entrance I’d have to rest again so I leaned against the stand up ashtray outside the door. Naturally, I would light up a cigarette, trying to catch my breath.

The meetings would end with a question and answer period with the nutritionist and the surgeon. There was a pretty good turnout, so the questions come fast and furious. There was really a mixed bag of patients. Some were pre-ops, like myself. Others had already had the operation either very recently or were a couple of years out.

The pre-ops asked the most questions. In spite of my sometimes outgoing personality, I’m not one to talk in front of a crowd so I just sat there and listened. As I said, I wanted to get as much information as possible.

Some of the post-ops also got up to talk and share the experience. One lady started talking about how she has felt so great since the operation and how much she has lost. As I was listening to her I could feel myself starting to well up and cry. A flood of emotions just enveloped me and it wouldn’t stop.

My wife looked over and asked me what was wrong. I told her for the first time in my life, after a lifelong struggle, I could finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. Would the days of being ostracized and made fun of because of my weight, really be over? Could I really just enjoy life without carrying this burden around every day really be coming true? That was the very first time that it struck me that it was possible and I just couldn’t believe it.

The one fear that everyone has about this surgery, whether they say it or not, is that it is going to fail somehow like all of the other diets we have tried. Overweight people lose and gain and lose and gain, throughout their lives. You hear jokes like “I have gained and lost four thousand pounds since I was a kid.” The thing is that it’s probably very true.

That’s one of the reasons our self-esteem is usually very low and why most of us are depressed. We constantly feel, and are meant to feel, like failures.

Even when we have lost the weight, there is a nagging fear that it won’t last. As a result of this, even though we know that this will be permanent thing, in the back of our minds, we have that dread.

That’s why I was crying. It was right then and there that I decided the best thing I could do was to take the optimistic point of view. I had to believe that this was going to change my life forever, for the good. It is a miracle, but it’s also just a tool. People reading this who have had this done will agree when I say, the doctor fixed us physically but he didn’t fix us mentally. That part was entirely up to me. I had to change the way I thought about food and just about everything else. It was a very foreboding thought.

After leaving the meeting, it was the best I have felt in ages, mentally that is. Now all I had to do was wait.

Next; The Big Day

My Weight Loss Surgery Journey - Part 3, The Big Day

Right After Surgery In Intensive Care. In The Middle, I Have Won The Battle Of Oxygen Mask! On The Right, Me After About Five Months Or So.

The anniversary of my weight loss surgery is coming up again. This year marks my tenth year anniversary. It’s hard to believe because the time has gone by so quickly and so much has happened. I wrote this a little while after I got the surgery but I never did much with it until now.

Now that I have my own blog, I thought I would share it with 27 loyal readers. I hope you like it.

The Big Day

So here I am, sitting in the hospital, waiting to be rolled down to the operating room or as they say in medical lingo, the OR. It’s amazing what you can learn in the hospital. The attendants will be here in about five minutes and now is the time to decide if I really want to go through with this or not. Yeah, like I have a big choice.

So, I decided to weigh (excuse the pun) the options. On the one hand, I most definitely will feel better once I lose some of this weight. Right now, I can’t do anything except watch TV and even that is a struggle because I can’t stay awake. My wife has to do everything. Most husband would say that wasn’t such a bad thing, but I did. Yard work comes to mind immediately. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I don’t like seeing my wife pushing a lawn mower around the yard.

Speaking of sleeping, I tend to nod off in mid-sentence while talking to other people which annoys the hell out them. I can’t wear any decent clothes and I live in sweat pants.

On the other hand, they are going to cut me open like a haddock on a South Boston fishing dock. When they do, I really hope they up. It’s like I always say, “If you are going to cut someone open, you better do it right.”

I’ve never had an operation before in my life. I did lose a fingernail when I was a kid and I found no humor in it at all. No broken bones and I still had my tonsils. I have been pretty lucky in that regard.

However, since I have a pretty active imagination, the thought of what is about to happen to me is more than just a little frightening. I’m so afraid that when they do open me up, they will find something they didn’t want to find, like maybe another face staring back at them or something equally just as horrible. Then they will close me back up again because there is no hope.

I’m also very afraid that they will find something very serious like cancer. This happened to my Grandfather when I was just a child and it has haunted me ever since.

I told this to the doctor and he gave me that look that says ‘Jesus, relax will you? What the hell is wrong with you?” He reassured me that it probably won’t happen, especially the part about the face staring back at him. But notice he said ‘probably’ not ‘never.’ He also said that if he did see a face, nobody would know because he would running through the corridors screaming like Fay Wray in “King Kong.”

But, I still think that I have done everything you can do to abuse this old body of mine over the years. I smoked cigarettes like every one of them was going to be the last one before they shoot me. I over ate in mass quantities. Quantities that would make the circus fat lady blush.

The only exercise I got was stumbling to the bathroom, lighting cigarettes and pressing keys on my computer keyboard. I never walked and drove everywhere. I thought drive-up windows were a truly a gift from heaven.

As with most of my family, I also drank to excess many, many times. Plus, I wasn’t the type of drinker who would sit back in my study, sipping on a fine 50-year-old brandy while listening to Beethoven. I was the type who would chug a pitcher of Sangria just for laughs. I was like the late comedian, Chris Farley

Hell, I even did light drugs in my wanton youth. Why are you surprised? I was a child of the 60’s after all. I just did pot though. And unlike Bill Clinton, I inhaled, deeply. The only reason I never tried cocaine was because I thought I would like it, become addicted and then not be able to afford it. That was how my luck runs. It was very expensive in those days. I never tried heroin because the thought of giving myself a needle was impossible to comprehend. I’m sure though, that if someone did it for me, I probably would have given it a try.

And then where would I be? An overweight, drunk smoker, chewing on a piece of pizza with a needle in my arm and a rolled up dollar bill up my nose. Not a pretty sight by any means.

So now, my body has decided to turn against me and I can’t really say that I blame it. You can only abuse something for so long. After all, even a puppy will turn into a raging demon if you smack it enough times. Something I don’t recommend by the way.

I thought to myself I could get off the bed right now and make my escape, even though I could be caught in about three seconds by somebody who has prosthetics on his legs.

I could just refuse the thing altogether and be even a bigger miserable pain in the ass than I already was, but that’s probably not going to happen either. Let’s see, my choices are, get the thing done and feel better or leave here and sit in my futon vegetating all day. Some choice.

All I have thought about, up until this point was that I wanted this surgery so bad, I could taste it. I set this up with the surgeon in April of 2000. Now, here it is, August and it’s time to take the big ride. The time passed slower than a snail crawling uphill, but, at the same time, it sped by faster than that same snail falling off a cliff. Very, very fast.

The worst part of all this was the waiting. When I have a big event happening, I am the type who wants it done right away. If I have to wait, and have too much time to think, well, that’s never a good thing. For better or worse, let’s just get it done.

The emotional roller coaster of all this has been both astounding and aggravating at the same time. High one day and low the next. I was a manic-depressive patient waiting to happen. Over all, I have been just a complete nutcase about the whole thing.

The thing that surprises me though is now that the time is here; I have become remarkably calm and accepting of the whole process even though I was debating with myself about just canceling it. It’s almost like accepting possible death but at the same time, fighting it by getting the operation. I’ve got to do it or die; there are no two ways of looking at it. I already had congestive heart failure in May and I sure as hell don’t want to go through that again. I may be stupid but I can take a hint, you know?

All of a sudden, the attendants are there to take me away. They have no expression on their faces so they are giving me no clues. They’re trained that way at attendant’s school. We just kind of stare at each other in an uneasy silence. It’s like I was walking the last mile and they just got the rope ready. A momentary feeling of fright goes through me and I am shaking as I get on the gurney.

I felt like saying something to my wife like like “I hope you miss me Lefty. You can have my harmonica. Tell mother I love her.” Instead I kiss her, tell her I love her and say goodbye. Very dramatic.

I get on the gurney as best as I can because I can’t lie on my back. Because of my size, I can’t breathe when I lay flat, which reminds me yet again that I was making the right decision. The attendants help me up and I am fine or as fine as I am going to be.

Then we are on our way. As I am being carted away, all I can do is look up and I see the ceiling tiles whizzing past me. I think to myself how cool it would be if this were really an episode of “ER” instead of real life. I fully expect to see Noah Wiley or George Clooney, or better yet, Juliana Marguiles, looking down at me telling me that everything is going to be fine while they keeping yelling things like “Stat!” and “Get two pints of plasma ready!” Meanwhile the other doctors are taking care of sixteen crash victims who were just rushed in.

Finally, we arrive at the waiting area outside of the operating room and I am still scared. In fact, I’m borderline crying like a little girl. The nurse reassures me that I am okay and that I am in good hands which is what they always say to try to avoid a lawsuit. In my mind, I’m thinking that those same good hands are going to be inside of me very soon and what a wonderful visual that is.

The gas doctor introduces himself and seems like a likable enough guy. In fact he comes across like a grandfather who’s about to give me a Lifesaver and a pat on the head. That puts me at ease to a degree. Since I have to wait there for a minute and really have nothing better to do, I look around for a bit.

I look over and there is my surgeon. He always reminded of Rob Schneider from “Saturday Night Live.” who did a character that worked in the copy room of his company. When people would come in to make copies, he would say things like “Bob-o. Boborino. Make-in cop-ays.” I’m thinking, “Great, the copy guy is going to operate on me.”

He’s standing there with his green surgeon’s outfit, looking like he knows what he’s doing. He is also sipping a cup of coffee very casually leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for a bus or something. To be honest, he actually looks kind of bored.

I’m thinking to myself that if he is this casual, then what the am I getting all excited over? He’s done this a hundred times before and even though I like to think I’m unique, I’m really not. To him, he has seen the inner workings of more people than you can shake a stick at. You seen one, you’ve seen them all.

He comes over to me and asks how I was doing. I felt like saying “Well, not bad for somebody who is the verge of being opened with a Black and Decker.” Instead I told him I was doing okay. He smiles at this and tells me not to worry and that it will be over before I know it.

I could take this two ways but figured I would adopt the optimistic point of view. I decided to just try and relax and let them do their business because they all looked like they knew what they were doing.

The nurse put something in my IV and the gas doctor checks it as well. I start to feel woozy and light headed which actually feels pretty good. I haven’t felt this good since the seventies. In fact, if I had a lava lamp and some Pink Floyd music, I would be golden.

My wife starts laughing at this because she is getting her revenge on me. She has had two surgeries. I always told her the best part of waiting with her was watching her get stupid from the drugs. She was always quite funny and would just ramble on and on. Now she is watching me and enjoying every minute of it.

Before they started to wheel me into the OR, they give me a mesh stocking cap to wear. In my drug-induced haze, I thought it looked rather stylish instead of making me look like a lunch lady. I teased my wife that I have one and she doesn’t saying stuff like “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” She gives me a look saying “Yeah, whatever you say, idiot” and just nods her head.

We arrive in the operating room, which kind of freaks me out because I really thought I would be knocked out by now. The reason I’m still with it somewhat is because I have to move onto the operating table from the gurney. They couldn’t very well lift me unless they had a motor block crane, so I have to give them a hand. I accomplished that with relative ease considering that I was so big and that the room was spinning.

Lying on my back, I can see all the lights and other neat stuff that they are going to use. It really does look like it does on TV. They take my arms and place them on boards so I look like I’m trying to fly. I thought I looked like a prisoner right before they give him a lethal injection. I see the gas doctor’s hand coming toward my neck. He starts fiddling around with the IV and before I know it, I’m off to Never-Never Land and that was end of that.

I have often wondered if they played music like the do on TV during the operation. If they did, I wonder what kind? In some ways I hope it was Chuck Berry or somebody just as good because I love the oldies. I also wonder if I said anything when I was knocked out that I could be convicted for at a later date. I remember a friend of mine telling me about when she was coming out of it after her operation, she started swearing like a truck driver for no reason. I start to wonder if the same thing will happen to me.

I woke up after what seemed to me was only five minutes. In reality it was three hours later. Of course I’m still very out of it. I am the recovery room and I have my eyes closed. I did try to open them, but everything was blurry and spinning, so why bother? Do you think it was because of all the drugs? Because I do.

I can hear the nurse telling me that everything went well and to not get excited because I have a tube down my throat. I thought I already had that figured out but it was nice to hear anyway. I would have hated to think that there was a snake or something in there. She sounds like she’s in the other room and I’m wondering why doesn’t she just doesn’t come over and tell me instead of shouting?

I can also hear the surgeon telling me in the background that it went smooth and that I am going to be okay. In his case, it sounds like he’s mumbling and I wish he would speak up, or at least come into this room. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out why the nurse is yelling and what I did to piss her off. Then the doctor started yelling and the nurse started mumbling. Why are they screwing around with me? Why can’t they just stand here and talk like normal human beings?

Even though she kept fading in and out, to me, the nurse’s voice sounded like an angel with a Boston accent. This immediately calms me down because I knew I got through it and I relaxed for the first time all day.

The tube doesn’t really bother me but in a bit, it felt like it was getting ready to set off my gag reflex in my throat. It feels like I am going to throw up and I try to tell her that. Wouldn’t that be something? To go through all of this and then die on your own vomit. I couldn’t even die without embarrassing myself.

I obviously can’t talk and I am trying to tell her through some convoluted hand gestures what’s wrong. I think I’m making plenty of sense, but God knows what the hell I looked like in my drugged out state.

She thinks it’s bothering me so she starts to hit me with questions. We start to play a cross between twenty questions and charades and I am getting ticked off because she doesn’t understand me and she doesn’t understand me because I’ve got a god-damned tube in my throat!

After about a minute of this song and dance, she finally gets it. I can hear the surgeon tell her to take it out, before I have a panic attack. And it should be okay.

When they did, I tried to say thank you but I had a voice that sounded like sandpaper rubbing on a blackboard. Like I just smoked a carton of cigarettes and then went to a football game and screamed my lungs out. I tell her what I was trying to say and she told me not to sweat it. I say thank you and immediately fall back to sleep. Great company huh?

I wake up again later, only this time I am in the intensive care unit. I know this because my wife was there and she told me. Also the surgeon said they would put me in there for the first night just to monitor me.

I knew it was standard standard procedure but it seemed like every monitoring machine in the hospital was being used just on me. In reality, it was probably only two or three, tops. Believe it or not, the beeping and other sounds are kind of reassuring. Just as long as I don’t hear one long droning noise, I will be fine. Although if there really was one long droning noise, I wouldn’t be alive to hear it anyway, so why bother thinking about it?

This really was the best and most relaxing sleep I have had in years. Probably because my mind wasn’t racing for a change and I just allowed myself to rest. Like I had a big choice.

I looked up to see my wife standing near my bed. That was the most reassuring sight of all. I say hello to her in my stupor and she says hi back. She says everything went fine and there were no problems. I said thanks and drifted off again.

Because I had sleep apnea, they had an oxygen mask on me but it was so damned hot in the room, at least to me, it was irritating my nose. So, I decided that it would feel and most likely look much better if it was over my eyes instead of my nose. Therefore, I decided to move it.

My wife tried to tell me that it would probably work a whole lot better if I kept it over my nose but I wouldn’t have it. In my delirium, I start arguing the point and kept moving it back over my eye. This happened at least three or four times.

I had asked her ahead of time to take pictures of me while I was in the hospital so I could have before and after shots. After trying to convince me that she was right about the mask issue, she decided to take a shot of me, right then and there so she could rag me about it later

I vaguely remember a flash going off as I was falling back to sleep. Apparently her and the nurse had quite a good laugh over this. As you can see by looking at the picture above, it really is quite funny. I also apparently asked of three questions repeatedly. Did she call my boss? Did she call my father? Did she have her hair done? It is amazing what morphine will do for you.

It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years. I ended up losing 250 pounds. I have since gained back about 50 of those pounds but I still can say that I have lost 200 pounds! It’s something I am very proud of and as everybody I have ever talked to about this operation would say, I would do it again in a heartbeat. It saved my life and it really was the best thing to ever happen to me.